The Americans scattered like camouflaged ants as the gray Cambodia sky began spewing swaths of rain. The local villagers slowly disbursed, some of them taking up shelter under umbrellas or awnings with the Marines and sailors. As we stood there waiting for Mother Nature to finish flexing, we stared out at the Islamic Center’s large, grass square, now transforming into many mighty lakes and rivers. In the center stood a scrawny boy, about nine, wearing a pair of oversized shorts and nothing else. He had walked out from the shelter of the mosque across from the classrooms’ overhangs, under which most of us were standing, and centered himself like a stage performer where the biggest puddle was quickly forming. He stood there for a moment treelike, absorbing all nature’s aggression with a smile. I was so fascinated by him I almost forgot to pick up the camera around my neck and make some pictures of what I was seeing. The water poured over him as he slowly knelt, prostrating in a way resembling the Islamic prayer posture. He sat on his feet, leaning forward, head hanging down and hands flat on the ground beneath about four inches of water. It was like he was worshiping the water and every feeling it elicited in him. He stood up and began dancing and flailing around, kicking and splashing like a city kid around a summer fire hydrant. Finally, two other children joined him, and the game began. They chased and hurled water at each other with sweeping kicks at the endless puddles beneath them. This went on as long as the heavy rain did, which was for some time.