The Elephant and the Ant and The Race between the Hare and the Snail

The Elephant and the Ant and The Race between the Hare and the Snail

            I was born and grew up in a village in a rice-growing area about ten kilometres from the border with Vietnam. I learnt stories at home, first from my grandmother and, after she passed away, from my father. The tales I heard at home were later reinforced at school when I learnt to read them from the blackboard and from books.

My grandmother lived with my parents and she told stories to me and my cousins, whose homes were nearby, almost every night. At about half-past six or seven, after the evening meal, we would gather around her at our house, sitting on the floor, our feet tucked to the side in the attitude of respect children always displayed in front of people older than themselves. Sometimes a favourite grandchild would lie across her knees. Grandmother always wore the traditional dress of black long-sleeved tunic and sompot, thee wrap around trousers with the long piece of cloth that passed between the legs and tucked in at the back. She was fond of chewing betel nut and as she talked to us she prepared the nuts by pounding them with a pestle and mortar. When she came to an interesting part of the story she’d stop pounding to emphasize the point; and in the pause between each story all of us children would massage her legs for her. In this way we showed our respect and our gratitude to her for entertaining us.

            Grandmother’s folk-tales were always about animals that were well known to us. We saw hares, snails, ants, buffaloes and birds every day in the village and the fields. We were familiar with elephants because the traditional doctor used them to travel round the villages, his store of medicines, herbs and wines packed on their broad backs.

            At school, at the village monastery, in the second and third grades we were taught to read folk tales from the blackboard and learn them by heart. The monks who taught us would hear us tell parts of the stories in turn and then questions us. ‘What is the moral of the story? What does it tell us about character? Is the story just about animals or can it apply to people?’ in this way the moral values of our society were taught both at home and at school, but the stories were more interesting when we heard them at home; the telling was more lively.

            My first three years of primary schooling were spent at the monastery. There were no girls there when I started in 1944, although they attend nowadays; then they were taught to read and write at home by their parents. When I began school, my father prepared me a board to write on. I was made of a slab of thee kapok tree, thickly painted with black lacquer. I wrote on it in chalk. It wasn’t until the third year that, as a special privilege, we were allowed to write in books of coarse, yellowish paper made from rice stalks. We used pen and ink to from our letters.

            When I was about ten, my cousin and I were the only two children in the village to go on to the public school about eight kilometres away. We walked there and back every day while our former classmates, whose parents could not manage without their labour on the farms, worked in the fields. In the public school there were books to read and in them the traditional tales of Cambodia were presented to me once again.

            Here in Australia I don’t seem to have time to tell stories to my children in the traditional way. The two oldest read them form themselves in Cambodian books. The younger ones will follow their example, I hope.

            Our folk tales tell something of thee customs and values of Cambodia. They are a way of letting Australians know something of our way of life, of how we look at things. With this in mind I would like to tell two of the traditional stories I learnt from my grandmother. The first one is called ‘The Elephant and the Ant’.

            Once upon a time, in the middle of the jungle, there was a pond. One day, as an old elephant came to drink, it saw an ant struggling in the water. It had fallen into the pond from an overhanging leaf and was desperately trying to get to the bank before it was eaten by a fish. The elephant felt sorry for the poor, struggling creature, so it took a small branch and placed it in the water near the ant. The ant scrambled to the safety on the branch and the gentle afternoon breeze blew the branch and the ant to the bank. In this way thee elephant save thee ant’s life.

            The ant lived near the pond and was able to observe the comings and goings of all the creatures that used it. One day it noticed a hunter waiting silently by the water’s edge. He had a bow and poisoned arrows and meant to shoot the old elephant as it came down to drink. ‘The elephant saved my life once,’ said the ant to itself. ‘If I don’t do something to help it now it will be killed.’ The ant climbed up the hunter’s leg and stayed there quietly.

            Soon the old elephant appeared, ambling towards the pond. The hunter silently ad steadily raised his bow and poisoned arrow and took aim. As he did so the ant bit his leg as hard as it could. The hunter gave a sudden shout of pain and the arrow flew wide of its mark, missing thee elephant. Startled by the hunter’s cry, the elephant flee into the jungle. In this way the ant saved the elephant’s life.

            The moral of this story is that a small creature can be just as important as a large creature.

            The second story is called ‘The Race between the Hare and the Snail’.

            Long ago, far away in a field there was a pond. Many snails lived in it. One day, when the hare had finished drinking, it saw a snail making its way along the water’s edge. ‘What a poor creature you are,’ said the hare. ‘How slowly you walk. Don’t you wish you were like me? I can run like the wind. Why, it takes me only a minute or two to come from the edge of the field to this pond, but you, it would take you all day just to crawl up the bank. How can you go anywhere or know what the world is like beyond the water’s edge?’

            The snail felt very angry when it heard the hare’s scornful talk, but it kept calm. ‘Do not judge me so hastily Friend Hare,’ it said. ‘Let me challenge you to a race around this pond. If you lose the race you must promise never to drink here again.’ ‘How could I lose a race with you?’ the hare laughed, full of confidence. ‘If I lose the race I promise you I will never drink from any pond or stream again.’ ‘Very well,’ replied the snail. ‘Come to this spot at the same time next week and we will race each other around the pond.’ ‘Agreed,’ said the hare and it bounded away.

            The snail discussed what had happened with its many friends and together they worked out a plan to teach the over-confident hare a lesson. When the race day arrived there was a snail in position every two or three metres around the edge of the pond. The first snail was waiting at the starting point for the hare. ‘Hello Friend Hare,’ it said. ‘Do you agree that the race shall begin and finish at this place?’ ‘Certainly,’ said the hare. ‘And do you agree that every few metres we should call out to each other, ‘Where are you Friend Hare? Where are you Friend Snail?’ just so that we know how we are getting on?’ ‘Most certainly,’ said the hare, smiling, ‘though I shall be so far in front I doubt that I shall hear you.’ ‘If we are agreed then,’ said the snail, ignoring the hare’s boastful remark, ‘let the race begin.’

            As it ran, the hare called out, ‘Where are you Friend Snail?’ ‘Here I am, just ahead Friend Hare,’ said one of the snails positioned around the pond. The hare was surprised to see the snail in front of it and ran harder, ‘Where are you now Friend Snail?’ it called again. ‘I’m here Friend Hare,’ called another snail. ‘Come on.’ And so the hare ran at full speed. Every time the hare called there was a snail just ahead of it or just behind it, and when it arrived breathlessly at the finishing place, there was the first snail waiting for it. ‘I am here already friend Hare,’ it said.

            The Hare, believing it had lost the race, went crestfallen away from the pond or stream. They drink only the dew from the grass and leaves.

            The moral of this story is that we should never under estimate anyone who appears weaker than ourselves.

Told by

Mr. Tel