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The invasive plant water spinach is banned in some states — and essential to Asian cooking. In a small village outside Houston, relocated Cambodians are growing and selling it across state lines, up North, out West, hoping to get rich.
Thursday, Sep 6 2012
By Terrence McCoy
Houston Press (Texas, USA)
In a small farming village hidden down dirt roads among shrubs and tall grass, everyone's sleeping, and the rain won't stop. It's early afternoon on a Tuesday near Rosharon, a small town south of Houston, and the downpour has canvassed the paths with deep crevices and pockmarks, making driving all but impossible. Not that anyone here would ever be driving at 2 p.m. Afternoon is when they sleep.
Afternoon is when the only sounds flitting across this intensely insular and homogeneous community of Cambodian farmers are the warbles of swamp frogs and the cackle of a smoldering trash fire. Mobile homes, their frames expanded with slabs of corrugated iron and long, slanting awnings, line the dirt roads. They look almost exactly how they would 9,000 miles away in Southeast Asia. "Little Cambodia," villagers call this place. But looming behind the rusting shacks is something you wouldn't find anywhere in Cambodia: dozens and dozens of greenhouses.
Perhaps 90 Cambodian families live here, but like so many other mysteries coursing through this village, no one's really sure how many there are. Some say 50. Some say 120. The Cambodians cringe at exactness. In a community completely dependent on cultivating and exporting a prohibited — and highly profitable — plant, ambiguity and secrecy are crucial to survival. You can't trust anyone, not the other villagers and especially not newcomers like Johnny Bopho. He and the other sharks moved to town around six years ago with big-city entrepreneurialism and a rapacious business plan to wring a fortune from what, by every measure, is just a weed. But a weed that has so consumed this village that it's all anyone seems to talk about, all anyone thinks about. It's omnipresent, heaped in large piles outside most homes, stuck to the bottoms of shoes, poking out of the mouth of a passerby.