The advice "stick to the well traveled trail," takes on new meaning in Cambodia. Robert Frost and his "take the one less traveled" philosophy would end up limbless or dead here.
Crossing the western Cambodian border shared with Thailand at Poipot, Cambodia's recent, violent history becomes apparent with the presence of the many limbless survivors who were “lucky enough” to make it across no-man's-land alive. Using hand-wheeled cycles and hobbling on the stubs of what used to be limbs, these survivors return to a region of Cambodia where until 1998 the Khmer Rouge had implemented an ambitious program of planting land mines seemingly everywhere and anywhere.
It is hard to imagine that these injured and poor people are the lucky ones, the two-thirds to three-quarters of the population that survived the Khmer Rouge's reign, the U.S. bombing during the Vietnam War, and the civil war before that. Yet for all that suffering, the beauty of Cambodia is undeniable. Here the Angkor Watt temples still stand like giant, art covered, sandcastles dripped from the hands of Khmer gods. The capital now bustles with a million or more citizens after shrinking to just 50,000 during the Khmer Rouge's population relocation plan, and, most impressively, the people radiate hope that transcends their painful history, with warm smiles and indefatigable spirit.
Shortly after arriving, I learn that getting from point A to B is not easy in Cambodia. The road between the Thai border and Seim Reap is a strong contender for the "worst major road in any country" title. It is the main artery between heavily traveled Thailand and Cambodia's major tourist attraction, Angkor Wat. Yet, the unpaved surface is literally impassable at points forcing the traffic to bounce through the rice fields safari style.
During my particular trip the "micro bus" I am riding in is packed beyond capacity forcing me to bounce for six hours on top of a "mini" chair in a narrow aisle. The seat only covers half of my behind and it extends a third of the way up my spine so I am forced to sit with an attentive, upright, schoolboy posture. Suspended by hinges to the seat on the left, my chair bounces like a diving board in an earthquake over the crests and troths of the red road.
As the bus twisted and pitched over the potholes, I am held in place by the strangers' shoulders on my left and right. At times, the red dust churns up from passing trucks and limiting visibility to only a few feet. Crop burning across the vast expanse of flat fields adds a warm, orange hue to the dust and smoke. It did not take long before my ear facing the window is clogged with red dust. A third-world transpiration experience indeed, I thought, as I look longingly at the bus assistant balanced delicately on a pile of twenty or so backpacks that formed a giant beanbag that almost reached the roof.
The trip took all day in part because of the road conditions but also because of the frequent rest stops. For our first break we stopped at one of the many villages consisting of one-bedroom, stilted houses sitting in the shadows of adjacent giant piles of grains.
It was here that I would get my first sense of the struggle that is part of the every-day life of a typical Cambodian. Immediately after we arrive, but before the bus company assistant had time to move the bags blocking the door, children surrounded the bus. "Mister, mister you buy a drink from me! Buy fruit from me. Ok, you buy from me," they yelled, jumping up and down attempting to get their voice up to the bus window. A split second of eye contact and the exigent children would respond, "Ok, you buy from me Mister." Some travelers angrily told the children to get away. Others bought out of pity. After a few minutes and the transactions were completed, things seemed to settle down.
In this seemingly insignificant village I was soon reminded of the words of Plato: “You can learn more about a person in an hour of play than you can in a lifetime of conversation.” As I watched the feeding frenzy, Goan, a calm and confident thirteen year old approached me and asked a series of questions that are common to someone who is practicing English. When I told her I was from the United States she replied, "The capital is Washington, DC, and it is on the East Coast."
I grinned and said a surprised, "Yes!"
She proudly smiled back and asked, "How old are you? I think 26."
"You really want me to buy something.” I replied with a false clearing of the throat.
She laughed and replied, "You'll buy if you want. If you don't, you don't. I have bracelets I made. Beer, soda, and I can get you fruit or a baguette."
"I'm not hungry after that seasick road," I said imitating the bus ride rocking back and forth with a nauseous look on my face.
She let out a loud bouncing laugh and said, "You people always look so white coming off the bus. You people always look so white." Under her flipped-up, full brimmed Cambodian hat her broad smile rounded her face and made her chestnut eyes beam with energy.
If you are able to break through the salesperson persona adopted by the children in the tourist areas, they become exceedingly honest in both their reactions and their emotions. When other children surrounded me, curious about the laughter from Goan and myself, one ten year old noticed the soda I bought and yelled alarmingly at me, "Hey, you told me you were not thirsty! Why you no buy from me!"
Taking my thumbs I slowly rubbed his eyebrows outwardly mirroring on my own face his scowl that dissolved into a smile. The crowd of children, including the ten year old boy, laughed. When the laugh settled the boy scowled again and said, "But, you told..."
I held up my thumb and imitated his scowl. He smiled again, and the group of children laughed. Now comfortable, the children looked at my stomach and said bluntly, "You're fat," followed by, "You are a nice person."
Many of the children I interacted with in the tourist areas have, by necessity become shrewd business people. In the village a child comes up to Goan and pays her ten bhat. "I sell fruit to her. She sells it for twenty and gives me ten back," Goan says with a proud laugh. I ask her how she uses the money and she tells me how she pays her teacher in bhat because he is Thai.
Like many Cambodian villages I visited, there is a dearth of middle-aged adults in general, and qualified teachers in particular. With a glowing smile, Goan tells me about how she works hard to pay for her education. As I listen to her it becomes apparent to me that the lack of older people and indigenous teachers is yet another painful legacy of the Khmer Rouge's "reeducation" program that killed many of the teachers and forbade any education other than Khmer rhetoric.
In appreciation for joking around with her and the other children Goan gave me a bracelet she made. "Don't you need the money for this bracelet?" I asked.
"You're a good man so I give this bracelet to bring you good luck. You have to take it. Your only choice is color," she said grabbing my wrist to put a bracelet on before I could respond. In other Cambodian towns I found a similar spirit with children who were selling goods, as they were eager to speak English and smile. Most were easily brought to laughter and valued genuine interaction. When smiling they seemed as content as the gods on the Angkor Watt temples.
As I travel along on this journey, events and time sometime transpire and prevent me from sharing all of the details from each stop along the way. But this story was only the beginning of my travels through Cambodia.
Along the way I would see the ancient Angkor Wat temples during a 100 kilometer adventure on a big "granny bicycle" and I would experience a bizarre superstition of taking dead animal juice and dropping it in children's eyes for perceived good health. Along the way I had the pleasure of visiting the excessively friendly floating fishing villages on the giant Tonle Sap Lake and Sanker River and I would also get a taste of the true Cambodian urban life in the un-touristy town of Battambang. I also experienced the dark side of the country's recent past and see the horrors of Khmer Rouge atrocities in Phnom Phen and the empty ocean side town of Kep. I will never forget the timeless rhythm of life with the thirteen inhabitants of Rabbit Island near Vietnam, and the struggle and hope in beautiful merchant children on the pristine white sand beaches of Sihanoukville that have become the target of western development. All of these stops have their own unique stories and I hope to record them as well.
Yet, the stories that persists in my memory are embodied in the people like Goan whom I found in every town. Their happiness defies their living conditions and recent history. Many have endured so much struggle to support the wishes of a few. When they smile I see hope that can transcend even the most dire conditions.
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