Dipika Kohli
By Dipika Kohli
Wherever you go, they say, there you are.
I’m into the idea of noticing small moments, taking in the visual details, in the place where I happen to be. The last two years have been quite stationary for me. No world travels. There are advantages to this. For one, people come to visit you. You go around together, then, to the main tourist sights and you see them take photos and you recall all over again the things you used to find cool about Phnom Penh, but grew too used to, over time. You see your visitors in a new way, too, your old friends, because they’re out of the context from where you’d first met or spent a lot of time in, and this kind of discovery has its own set of joys.
I’m walking. I’m out in the air at sunset hour, like I used to be in other places, in other times. Like Ho Chi Minh City, on my 5 o’clock walks by the canal for the better part of 2021, when I was there, waiting for borders to reopen with Cambodia, as we collectively anticipated the pandemic coming to an “end.” Or, in northern Finland, a place called Kärsämäki, where I got to experience midsummer in 2018. An opportunity had come along that I said ‘yes’ to, perhaps because I had pictured myself in a place that had tons of nature and was very quiet and calm.
In that time and place I had a bicycle lent to me, so I could use that to go somewhere, which usually was a spot off to the side of the main road that I called ‘The Three Rocks.’ Two friends came to visit me in that town, in that summer; now that I think back, I remember around evening time, not exactly ‘sunset’, due to latitude, but still, around five or so, we cycled over to this spot. Off to the side, somewhere relaxed and quiet.
Wherever I wind up in the world I like to drift over to these kinds of places. They’re much more informal, after all, and people aren’t trying to overdo it in front of tourists. You know what I’m talking about, you see it everywhere in the world that has travelers.
Five-ish and it’s nearly time for sunset. Here, it’s the market that I’ll wander over to at this time of day, instead of the Rocks or a canal. It’s a Saturday evening. Let me describe the things I notice, and what I see. Color, mostly. Bright red tomatoes, dark green watermelons, lots of lettuce in varying saturations of green, cabbage, dragon fruits with all their textures, and now, here we are, the fish section has arrived. Around the corner, past the cane juice stand, beyond the moto parking, is the entrance to the open-air market.
People are already set up. Metal tables folded out, rows of green and pink plastic chairs set out in front of them. Chili sauces, lemon wedges, jugs of tea, cups for those, tissues, and chopstick stands also holding forks and spoons in water are arranged atop the tables.
I notice it’s not too busy. I came here a couple of times in the last few weeks, once with a new acquaintance, to talk about our travels and our time studying abroad in different places. Japan, for me, China, for him. It’s fun to talk about where we’ve been, on solo tours.
It’s neat to imagine new places. Maybe he inspired me to want to get back on the road, after laying low for so long in Phnom Penh; I forgot what it was like to inquire into things one might discover in the far-away distance. He seems to retain a zest for this.
We order what I was first introduced to in Việt Nam, a dish called bánh xèo, which has a slightly different pronunciation, and taste, when you order it in Cambodia. We start talking about the arcs of stories, about getting out of your comfort zone, and seeing what else is out there, in the big world. Not everyone shares this.
Maybe in a few months, maybe in a year, I’ll be ready to go somewhere, too. I’d like to try something new, for me. I’d like to go to a part of India that I’ve never been to before. An aunt that used to encourage me to go places when I was younger and traveling around India had said back in those days that she thought I’d like it. (I can’t tell you all the details because I noticed that when I talk too much about an idea, I tend not to follow through with it. Rather, I’ll just try to visualize what it is that I want to feel next and maybe know which opportunity to say ‘yes’ to, because of recognizing what it is that I want. That was how I got to Finland, after all, as I said.)
Many people ask me these kinds of questions about why I travel so much and how I initiate these kinds of tours. It starts, I feel, with the gut feeling that comes over you when you know you can’t stay in the same place for too long, as you know intuitively that this means you’ll lose out on the chance to grow in other ways. Even a short trip can open new thinking.
A decade now, in Asia. I watch the sky. I notice the whole surround, it feels like slow motion, and I’m transported to another place like this, in another time.
You never really know what a trip’s about until way after you come back, someone who’d been at it for far longer than me, someone who happened to cross paths with me on M.G. Marg on a fine day in Gangtok, said quite candidly, back in the fall of 2013.
I’m still not ‘back’ from Cambodia, but I think I understand what he meant, a little better, now.
Maybe it’s time to go somewhere new. Maybe India. Maybe sometime in the not-too-distant future. There’s no need to rush, but I’m starting to picture it. That’s how it always starts.
Dipika Kohli is an author who is based in Phnom Penh. Discover her books at kismuth.com and other projects at dipikakohli.com.
