A man for all seasons?

During a stay in Tokyo I was proudly informed by my hosts that Japan is the only country with four proper, well-defined seasons.

I was skeptical, but every country I’ve been to since has seemed a little confused about its seasonal distinctions. Cambodia is a good example - can someone please tell me what season I’m meant to be in just now?

It’s certainly not rainy anymore - autumn was never exactly mists and mellow fruitfulness here, and the rains ended late last year leaving the worst flooding in living memory with their final throw. You wouldn’t know it now, with our once overflowing lake now withering rapidly in the heat. So I guess that makes it dry season? But it’ll be dry for the next 6 months, so that’s not much use as a definition. Our Khmer teacher Dara called it windy season, and the afternoon breeze is certainly a welcome change.

My vote is for dusty season - as opposed to the muddy season before. My local newspaper, fascinated that there may be life beyond northern England, asked me what was on my CD player (vinyl is being slowly phased out in Oldham). ‘A thick layer of red dust’ I answered bitterly. It now seems perfectly normal to tenderly tuck a sheet over my beloved computer in the evening to protect if from clogging with dirt. This is opposed to the impending hot season, when in temperatures of over 40 degrees many computers just stop working unless you get them their own special fan.

My Cambodian friends just call this Winter. Certainly not the snowy wonderlands I long for, but it’s logical. (Which hemisphere do you think Cambodia is in? We sure get tropical heat, but we’re actually well north of the equator here). Until a few weeks ago discontented hospital patients took to sporting socks, gloves, even balaclavas. Staff wore thick Parka jackets over their uniforms as temperatures plummeted below 30. Even I took to sleeping under a thin sheet.

Traditionally, the end of the rains also heralds the dreaded wedding season. Here this translates as open season for the excruciating noise, excessive drinking and revolting food which bring such joy to happy couples here. I though I'd escaped lightly this time, but I hadn’t reckoned on Chinese New Year - every morning the tormenting loudspeakers woke me at 4am for special sino-torture including kung-fu movies, fire-crackers and plinky-plonk ‘music’ (it sure wasn’t Vivaldi). After a couple of hours, when thoroughly past any chance of sleep, it promptly stopped - just when I had to get up.

To everything there is a season, and sadly now seems to be a time for war on the Thai-Cambodian border. I live just 15km from Thailand, and there’s plenty of cross-border commerce. Every so often shots are traded too, usually further east near the disputed temple at Preah Vihear. It’s probably just an annual show to keep nationalist voters happy, and no doubt the generals will smooth it out over a rice wine or two. But I confess to being a little disconcerted at reports of tanks trundling through my nearest town. And I wouldn’t like to try explaining the logic of seasonal scuffles to the wife of the Cambodian solider or dependents of the Thai villager who were both shot dead the other night.

Happily, life continues as normal in my village. Now the rains have gone, it also seems to be building season. Tents have sprung up outside many homes as families renovate (read knock down and rebuild) their homes. And I’m delighted to say that this is also the case at the hospital - our new surgical ward is taking shape at blistering speed, so much so that we might not have any staff trained in time for its opening!

Of course the real test comes in the next month or so, when it gets even hotter. I’m sure I’ll find a few choice adjectives to describe that season - temperatures are already pushing into the 40s and high humidity will mean I’ll do little else but try to keep cool. Let’s see how I get on - only time will tell if I can really claim to be a man for all seasons.