Fireworks and the King Father

They're setting off fireworks every night.

I can see them from my balcony, barely, the colors exploding in the sky just above the top of the houses from the river side, the sound taking a second or two to travel here. The first boom always scares the daylights out of me.

They burned the body on Monday, in a crematorium built for the occasion, but no one was there to see it but the Queen Mother and the King, and maybe a group of monks. The dignitaries and the royal family invited to the funeral were present, but the curtains were closed, and the millions of people who came to mourn were behind blockades four blocks deep.

I'm not sure why -- I think they were worried about the possibility of a stampede or other nastiness. The roads around the area have been blocked for days, and even people who live on the streets in question have to haggle with the policemen on guard to get through. Groups of guards with very large machine guns have been seen lurking on nearby corners.

The ceremony itself took hours, the dignitaries paying their respects, the royal family theirs, and lots of chanting and music. The Queen Mother didn't stop crying for hours, quietly dabbing at her eyes even during the ceremonial greetings to the dignitaries and the parades and the praying. Either through protocol, age, or grief, she and the King moved slowly, dressed alike in white traditional pants and white shirts.

They moved the body from its coffin of gold to a bed in the center of the crematorium, covered in a white sheet. The camera placed inside the crematorium was covered by a white cloth, and the only thing that could be heard was the haunting chant of the monks inside, preparing the body for its final journey.

When the burning began, they set off fireworks, all around the crematorium, and the 101-gun salute -- a line of cannons firing blanks on the river side -- went off in tandem. I could hear the booms from my apartment, could see the lights flashing in the sky.

I read today they dispersed most of the ashes into the river, at the confluence of the three rivers here. Some of the ashes were kept for the Royal Palace, and some pieces were given to a few lucky bystanders, who consider it very good luck.

King Norodom Sihanouk was not my King, and his death meant nothing to me, but it meant a lot to many, many people here. The energy of the city over the weekend was rippling with mourning, a kind of heaviness across the city (along with the anxiety of the security officers.) The Cambodian television networks have been running nothing but retrospectives on his life, old pictures and footage, discussion of how -- despite fallling in with the wrong people and a controversial rule -- King Sihanouk always worked for Cambodia first and Cambodia always.

Although the ceremonies are done now and the ashes dispersed, things are not back to normal and the mourning will continue through the week. The concerts at CTN this weekend will be quiet, everyone will only wear black and white, and there will be no dancing.

I'll be happy for the extra rest -- I went back to work at the visa office this week due to a need for extra money and well, desk jobs have never really been my thing as much as it's not the worst job in the world -- but I do admit the extra time is starting to make me antsy. That might just be a need for a longer rest, or the anxiety of various unresolved things and preparation for a highly-anticipated trip home next month, but either way I'm in a 'hurry-up-and-wait' kind of mindset.

All the more reason to sit on the balcony, quietly and alone, and watch the tips of the fireworks explode in the sky. Celebrating, commemorating, and saying goodbye to the beloved, uniting force of man that millions of people here are dearly missing.