Something Beautiful

Yesterday was beautiful.
Pursat, however, isn't beautiful. But you don't need to be in a beautiful place to have a beautiful day. Even by Cambodian standards, Pursat is somewhat of a shit-hole.  In many ways, it's like Yakima, Washington. It's flat arid, and devoid of culture. Like Yakima, the town stretches forever along on an ugly strip of road.
Even the buildings are ugly. Pursat used to hold Khmer Rouge prisons during the Pol Pot era of Democratic Kampuchea. Unfortunately, they're still in use, but run by a different government. The prisons look like some really shady, cheep motel in Tijuana that just happens to have barbed wire intertwined with everything. It would almost fit to have a sign that says, "Bienvenido al Motel del Khmer Rouge."
Another major blemish is the town market. Surrounded by decrepit buildings, this market looks like a third-world country fair. The main building is large and metal, and looks as if it's supposed to hold livestock. Instead, it holds shops that sell three-dollar jewelry and Chinese laundry soap. Surrounding the market building, there are food stands under dirt-caked multicolored umbrellas. The whole place smells like mutilated fish.
But, like anywhere, Pursat has its charm and wonder. Parked in the center of the Pursat River is a former warship that has been converted into a park. A golden bridge leads to the island that has a playground, pagoda, track, and stage. The charm of this park-island stems from its randomness. No one would expect to see such a thing in the middle of  rural Cambodia.
 I traveled to this island with my friend Kimmeng yesterday. It's only about one kilometer from Sustainable Cambodia, and we take our bikes. After we pay our parking fare, we walk around the island. Sometimes we people-watch, sometimes we go on the playground or in the pagoda. But my favorite activity of all is the exercise-dancers. Every day, at around 5:00 p.m or so, a group of about 30 people gather in front of the stage and dance to Khmer-techno music.
I'll usually join in, trying to match my steps with the others. Of course, I draw a lot attention because I'm a foreigner, and I try to put a bit of extra pizazz into my step. It's amazing how quickly the sweat starts to drip. I had done this dancing before, in a much different environment; a camp in the Poconos with a bunch of Jews, under the banner "Schvitzing with Corrie" (the word "schvitzing" means "sweating" in Yiddish). 
Dancing is personal to me. If I could go back in time, I would have been a ballet dancer, a boy who pulled his leotards over his legs every afternoon from the age of three. Consequently, I feel a sense of loss when I cannot dance, as if being close to what I could've been makes me realize what I'm not.
Last night, there was a Khmer dance that I'd been determined to learn. I must confess that I'd wanted to learn this dance ever since I came to Cambodia. After multiple tries with different groups--one at the Olympic Stadium in Phnom Penh, and another one at the boat-island--I was frustrated with my inability to master this dance.
Yesterday, I had a choice. When the music came on, I could get frustrated over every little step, or I could trust myself, trust my body, to dance in the right way. You need to see something in its entirety to capture it's true nature.
Something changed within me yesterday.My body became one vessel, instead of fifteen body parts trying to move to a rhythm. Control and serenity replaced frustration.
Dancing there was like entering another world, a world that you fully understand upon arrival. For the first time, I felt synchronized with the people of Cambodia.
There I was, a white boy from the rez, finally able to dance one of the hardest Khmer dances. Being there, my body moving in harmony, I felt light.
It was something beautiful.