The Leak that Launched a Thousand Complaints

Speaking of laundry, doing mine on Sunday, I found several stains on my white t-shirt. I couldn’t scrub them out so I rubbed in detergent and left the shirt on the floor to try and life the stain a bit. Leaving this shirt to be washed last, I begun to hang my wet laundry on chairs just outside of my bathroom. By the time I had finished, I noticed that my permanently dirt-covered floor and wet white t-shirt had combined into an uncleanable mess. I tried not to see it as losing a shirt so much as gaining a cleaning rag.

A mite upset, I went outside to hang my laundry. A woman earnestly speaking to me in Khmer soon approached. I smiled politely, appreciating the advice she was trying to give me on how to hang my laundry, but due to incomprehension responded with “Kn’yon meun yeung dtay,” meaning, “I don’t understand.” My neighbour overheard our discussion and explained that there was a problem. The two of them entered my flat and walked straight to the far end.

Pointing to a wet patch on the floor under the chairs where I had left my wet clothes, my neighbour explained that this woman lives downstairs from me and was being dribbled upon by my laundry water. I apologised profusely. I slapped my forehead repeatedly to mime my foolishness for those who didn’t understand English. I promised it would not happen again. Both woman and neighbour continued to talk. I wondered what was still unresolved. I apologised again. That had no effect. Eventually, my neighbour told me that it was no problem. We all went outside. I continued to hang my laundry on the clothesline. Another neighbour approached me pointing to the laundry and speaking in rapid Khmer. Again I smiled awkwardly and responded with: “Kn’yon meun yeung dtay.” My neighbour overheard again. He explained that she wanted to know if I was married. It seems the only possible excuse for my ineptitude would be if I simply didn’t have a woman to do these things for me, silly man that I am. “Baat, dtay. Kn’yon meun gaa dtay,” “No, I’m not married,” I responded.

A bit embarrassed, I went inside to unwind, using my new rag to scrub the floors. About half an hour later, a young girl in a baseball cap and a middle-aged woman came knocking at my door. The woman introduced herself as “Borng srey Sray Han,” Srey Hem’s elder sister. Srey Hem is the name of my neighbour’s daughter ten year old daughter. With our limited ability to communicate, we’ve become friends. I was pretty sure she has a sister living elsewhere. I invited both of them in, wondering what had prompted the visit. They both walked straight to the rear of the house and Srey Hem’s sister pointed to the stain. The young girl, acting as interpreter, explained that the neighbours were complaining about a leak.

“Yes,” I said, “I know. I just talked to them about it.” A middle-aged bare-chested man walked in, dressed only in a Sarong. He spoke with Srey Hem’s elder sister. I wondered what was happening. Again, I explained about the laundry. Much apologizing and forehead slapping followed. Still no one seemed satisfied. The girl asked me about my other leak. “Other leak?” I responded. She moved aside my garbage can to reveal that the plastic bag had not only leaked, but dribbled a large puddle of decomposing mango, banana, and assorted nasty juices onto my floor and into my neighbour’s flat. Again, my forehead took a beating. In the meantime, the girl grabbed my new floor rag and begun earnestly scrubbing away. “Well, that’s it,” I thought, “It’s definitely not being used as a shirt ever again.” In the meantime, the man began shouting at the little girl walking about and stomping exaggeratedly on the floor.

I felt bad for the girl. As it turns out, my neighbours below were being annoyed by the sound of my walking. I promised to try to be quieter and to cause no more leaks. Everyone, including the irate sarong-clad man from the flat below, said that it was no problem. I was starting to get a knot in my stomach from the constant embarrassment.

Eventually, they left. I continued cleaning. I went to read a book to unwind. Just as I sat down, the phone rang. The call was coming from my boss’ phone. “Hello Adam, this is Srey Hem.” Srey Hem, coincidentally, is also the name of Mike’s wife, whose elder sister, the woman I just met, I now realize, is my landlady. “I heard there was a problem.” I again explained about the leak and apologized repeatedly. This time at least, my forehead remained unharmed as Srey Hem speaks fluent English and wasn’t there to see me hit myself anyway. I hung up and went to take a nap, waiting for the call from Canada:

“Hi Adam, this is Russ [EWB’s Overseas Operations Director]. It’s 1:00am here. Why exactly is Mike calling me from Cambodia to tell me about a complaint from your neighbours…?”

Thankfully, it never quite escalated that far.