Khmer – Borderless

Narratives and photographs by Suzanne Kamata

When my research partner Yoko proposed that the two of us attend a conference in Cambodia, I said “Yes, but I want to stay in a nice hotel.” Knowing her, she’d book us into a youth hostel, where we’d bunk with strangers, or the cheapest Air BNB available. In Japan, due to the massive influx of foreign tourists and the weak yen, hotel prices had been jacked up significantly. I could barely afford to stay in a capsule hotel on a trip to Tokyo. In Cambodia, I figured we would be able to pay for a decent room.

We flew from Osaka to Ho Chi Minh City to Krong Ta Khmau, landing in Cambodia’s newest airport. Modern, cavernous, and clean, it had opened only a few months before. We picked up our luggage from the carousel in baggage claim and proceeded to the exit.

“I’ll let you handle this part,” I told Yoko, as we emerged into fresh air and a phalanx of taxi drivers vying for our services.

This was Yoko’s third or fourth trip to Cambodia, and she had assured me that she knew how to arrange transportation. She’d already figured out how much we could expect to pay. She wasn’t about to get ripped off.

“Thirty dollars to Phnom Penh,” one guy offered.

“That’s too much,” Yoko said. “I’ll give you twenty.”

A deal was made, and we were ushered to a white Alphard Toyota, and introduced to the driver, a young guy, maybe around thirty, in sunglasses. He spoke English.

“To the Harmony Phnom Penh Hotel, please.” I showed him the address on my phone app.

On the hour-long drive, I gazed out the window, eager to soak up new sights. Various construction projects were underway. I spotted a Lexus dealer, and an Aeon Mall. Although much of the signage was in curlicue Khmer, some businesses were labeled in Chinese, Japanese, and English. Shiny new transnational banks rose above structures with traditional architecture. As we entered the city, the traffic became worse. Motorbikes, tuk-tuks, trucks, and cars jostled for space. Many of the cars were apparently Chinese imports. I’d never heard of the brands.

I tried not to distract our driver, whose name was Paekdy, from the business of driving, but we managed to have a conversation. He asked how long we’d be staying and offered his services for our journey back to the airport three days later. I added him to my What’s App contacts. He seemed nice.

“Can you pick me up tomorrow?” I asked.

I would be going on a tour to visit a teacher’s college and a language school. Yoko was planning on spending the day in and around the hotel’s infinity pool. The university where she worked, which was run by elderly nuns, was on the verge of shutting down. Yoko was under a bit of stress.

“What time?” Paekdy asked.

“Early.” I was supposed to be at the university where the conference would be held by 8:30. I asked him to be at the hotel an hour before that.

Yoko helpfully negotiated the fare.

The next morning, I got up, readied myself, and went out in front of the hotel to wait. A man out front was sweeping the pavement. Across the street, vendors were setting up piles of fruit. One woman was hacking at raw chickens. Further down, several tuk-tuks were lined up, awaiting passengers.

My driver was late. I had allowed extra time, so I would probably not be late for the tour, but I was a bit irritated. If I were him, I would have arrived early. After all, he’d had plenty of advance notice, and I had promised him a decent fare. I checked my What’s App messages. Nothing. I texted Paekdy: “Are you coming?” He responded with a voice message. Due to traffic, he was running late.

He finally arrived, and we set off for the university. I asked him questions about his life, and his family. He told me that he had gone to university and studied marketing. He said that it was hard to find a good job in Cambodia if one couldn’t speak a foreign language. In addition to English, he knew some Chinese. He told me that his daughter was learning English.

After our pleasant conversation, my irritation evaporated. When he dropped me off, I asked him to pick me up at 2:30 in the afternoon to take me back to the hotel. He agreed.

I registered for the conference at one of the long tables set up on the verandah, and picked up the sack containing my breakfast, which consisted of sandwiches and bananas. When it was time for the tour, I got on the bus with the other participants. Over the next few hours, we visited Phnom Penh Teacher Education College, and a private English school. Afterwards, we had a sumptuous lunch at a nearby restaurant. Back at our starting point, I looked for my driver. He was nowhere to be found. Late, again.

This time he sent a message: I am sorry maybe I am late. (prayer emoji) Can you wait for me please?

I sighed, considered hopping onto a tuk-tuk, and then texted, “Okay.” The devil you know, right? I would have a seat in one of the wicker chairs on the university’s verandah and enjoy the slight breeze.

He finally arrived and apologized profusely. The traffic was so bad, he said. Wasn’t it always? I wondered. Wouldn’t he have prepared for that?

“Did you have a lot of fares today?” I asked, in a bid to make conversation.

“Just one,” he said.

Me.

Back at the hotel, Yoko and I discovered that we could get use the Tada app, which was similar to Uber or Grab, to get to and from the conference venue for about $5. My driver was ripping me off, Yoko said, and he was always late. If I called him again, I would only be rewarding his bad behavior, I reasoned aloud. He didn’t deserve my business. If he wanted repeat customers, he would have to learn to come on time.

We went to the rooftop where Yoko had spent most of the day and indulged in coconut milk and slices of fresh mango while gazing at boats floating along the Tonle Sap River. European tourists splashed in the pool nearby.

That evening, we called a car via the Tada app and went to the university where the conference began with a ceremony. Cambodian dancing was followed by a display of martial arts, several speeches by invited dignitaries, and a symposium on AI in language teaching. Afterwards, we filled up paper plates at the buffet and mingled with the other conference participants. When it was time to leave, Yoko called for another driver – not Paekdy – with the app.

On the way back to our hotel, it was dark and the traffic was severely congested, as usual. The car crawled along amidst a crush of vehicles of various kinds when…Bam! Suddenly we were side-swiped by a truck. My first thought was, I should have gotten travel insurance! My second was, now we will pull over and everyone will exchange insurance information and call the police. Except we didn’t. The truck surged ahead. The driver did not respond.

“Are you okay?” Yoko asked him.

He laughed it off. “Okay, okay.” His English was limited.

We could still see the truck’s license plate. We could write it down and report it. But maybe things didn’t work that way in this country.

“It’s a good thing that we are in a Toyota,” Yoko said.

Yes, there was something to be said for a sturdy, well-made car. I was happy that we hadn’t taken a tuk-tuk, or that we weren’t on the back of a motorbike.

Still a bit shaken, Yoko overtipped the driver when he dropped us off, hoping he would be able to use the extra funds to fix his car.

After the conference, Yoko and I debated how we would spend our last day in Cambodia. Before my trip, many people had said that I should to Angkor Wat, but Siam Reap was too far away. I felt that I should pay my respects to the victims of Pol Pot by visiting one of the genocide memorials. Since Yoko had already been to the country a few times before, she had been to the Killing Fields and the torture museum. She didn’t really want to go again, and I didn’t blame her. I decided that I would go by myself and meet up with her at the airport.

I wasn’t going to call Paekdy, but he sent me a message the night before, asking if I needed a ride to the airport. Oh, why not? I could ask him to take me to the Choeung Ek Genocidal Center on the way. Maybe he would wait for an hour or so while I toured the site. That way I could leave my suitcase in the car with him. Okay, so he was a little late sometimes, but I trusted him. I sent a text: Please pick me up at 2:00 PM.

The next afternoon, he was on time.

On the way to the memorial, we talked some more. He told me that his grandparents had perished while fleeing Pol Pot. Many people had died of starvation while in hiding. I remarked upon the many construction sites along the way. Paekdy mused that if not for the 1975-79 genocide under the Khmer Rouge, his country would have been further along. Indeed, had it not been for the vicious slaughter of an estimated 1.2-2.8 million people, comprising a quarter of the population, Cambodia might be right up there with Singapore or Thailand. I thought it was just a matter of time before the country caught up. I thought of the new airport I’d be flying out of, which was undoubtedly destined to become a hub.

Before we parted, my driver suggested that we take a selfie together. We both put on our sunglasses and smiled for the camera. He sent me the photo the next day, when I was back home in Japan. I realised that although I had enjoyed visiting schools, wandering the palace grounds, and snacking on fresh mangoes by the pool, the most interesting part of my trip had been meeting this taxi driver from Phnom Penh. I still have his contact information on my phone.

Suzanne Kamata was born and raised in Grand Haven, Michigan. She now lives in Japan with her husband and two children. Her short stories, essays, articles and book reviews have appeared in over 100 publications. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize five times, and received a Special Mention in 2006. She is also a two-time winner of the All Nippon Airways/Wingspan Fiction Contest, winner of the Paris Book Festival, and winner of a SCBWI Magazine Merit Award.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Amazon International

By Mohul Bhowmick

Blank faces welcome me in Phnom Penh. That the people smile at all is a miracle; years of haggard living, tortured upbringing, and painful deprivations have reduced this golden city of Indochina to one filled with figurative corpses. What America could not achieve, Pol Pot did in a flash and years of oppression turned into that of a blood-filled regime that the Mekong did not even try to wash away. For all its salubriousness, this river, among the greatest in the world, stood by and watched its children be consumed by an ephemeral fire that could only be extinguished in 1979.

Then the Vietnamese intervened, returning only after being loathed by almost everyone in Cambodia. The former, among other benedictions, took apart whatever little credibility the Democratic Kampuchea (Khmer Rouge) government had amassed in three and a half years in power. Pol Pot’s name, quite naturally, does not feature on the political billboards and hoardings that seem to have made themselves inconspicuous in Phnom Penh today. The national dish, Amok, made of fish or several vegan accoutrements to serve the European traveller, takes up the spot left by those of the beggars in the parking spot north of the royal palace.

As I sip my umpteenth sugarcane juice, fortified with cubes of ice that may have once come out of Tibet, I wonder whether the king curls his lips in distaste seeing the beggars and rag-pickers waiting outside the golden gates of his palace. But the official line in Cambodia is that Sihamoni is a staunch Buddhist who likes the occasional bit of Czech opera, and all my thoughts of irreverence — born out of weeks of living in Indochina — flush down the confluence of the Mekong and the Tonle Sap while looking past Sisowath Quay to the east.

This river, the lifeblood of Indochina, had once emerged as a trickle in Tibet, and I am perplexed by the lack of cohesion it shows while merging with the Tonle Sap, which also shares its name with a large freshwater lake in Siem Reap. During the monsoon season, the Mekong forces the Tonle Sap to reverse its water with such gushing force that the latter is left with no choice but to flood itself with fish.

It doesn’t rain in Phnom Penh; I had heard this phrase before but am accosted with it with painful lucidity for the first time when visiting the Tuol Sleng primary school that served, for years, as a torture centre for the Khmer Rouge. Had it rained on the frangipani-filled lush gardens of the school — belittling the despair and agony that went on inside — I would not have noticed. I envy the frangipani blooms and their ability to distance themselves from such emotions as those that afflict men. Outside, a survivor of the Khmer Rouge years sells his story for a few pennies; recognition from the foreigner seems more validating to him than acceptance from his countrymen, who have long forgotten his ordeals. I am told that a McDonald’s might soon open across the street.

When encountering the fabled ‘baby-killing tree’ in the ignominious Killing Fields in Cheoung Ek outside Phnom Penh, there is a numbing sensation which I have scarcely felt before. The tears fall heavier than the unseasonal rains I would have wished to encounter in Phnom Penh; it was not too long ago when I could have claimed that I had not cried in ten years. That this tree is also a Pipal, a cousin of the one under which Sakyamuni attained enlightenment, seems a cruel joke to me. That there is still some sign of life on it, populated by the innumerable butterflies and twittering sparrows, exacerbates this feeling all the more.

Angkor[1], a few days later, seems resplendent at dawn, but I am unable to escape the reality that the men who built this monument had also given birth to the reality that the Khmer Rouge would later become. Indeed, Pol Pot was known for his selective readings of the classics of the Khmer kingdom of Angkor — if building this city was possible, anything was, even his vastly unerudite idea of returning the country to a year ‘zero’, doing away with the market economy, abolishing money and persecuting intellectuals for wearing spectacles.

The rain that evades me in Phnom Penh finally catches up with me in Angkor Wat; unable to make a visit early one morning on a bicycle in a thunderstorm through the black jungle, I remain rooted to my guesthouse and eventually fall asleep.

On my first visit to Angkor Wat, I am stunned by the intricacies and details that seem to have permeated every angle of Khmer design. The frescoes on the walls and the images on the gates of the large temple complex depict wars fought and construction projects undertaken; for all its virility in eventually losing its grasp over modern-day Cambodia, the Hindu-Buddhist Khmer kingdom — of whose ilk Jayavarman VII had been, and whose predecessor Suryavarman II had ordered this temple made in 1150, at first as a tribute to Vishnu, and eventually, a mausoleum for himself — was remarkable in its aesthetic sensibilities.

The several other temples in the area, including the great Bayon, Ta Phrom and Prasat Preah Khan — not to mention the gigantic meadows located in the heart of the old city of Angkor Thom — attract and drive my senses even as I struggle to cycle on flat roads in the deadening midday heat. The meadows, which feature statues of elephants attired in regal resplendence, remind me of a time simpler than this, when a thousand parasols could be had for cheap and held over the head of the king. The climate of Indochina, I surmise, may not have been too different from what it is now; I look yonder for concrete jungles mimicking the ones that seem to have sprung up choc-a-bloc in west Hyderabad, but encounter only lush blackness.

In effect, understanding Khmer society or the part of it which is shown to the visitor, is a challenging affair unless one undertakes a voyage of the heart that infrequently involves short-changing between lives of a different kind. The Mekong, which makes no appearance in Siem Reap, slithers away from the intemperate nature one finds in Angkor.

When I walk past Sisowath Quay one night under a moonless sky, I am reminded of my own idea of happiness, which seems to have been torn to shreds on this journey; a group of middle-aged Khmer men, devoid of languor in this dark hour and well-fortified with Angkor, the brew and not the temple, beckon me over to join in their game of sai[2]. It is then that I know it is time to put the killing tree to bed. For now.

[1] Angkor Wat is in the city of Siem Reap

[2] Played with the foot with a shuttlecock-like structure

Mohul Bhowmick is a national-level cricketer, poet, sports journalist, essayist and travel writer from Hyderabad, India. He has published four collections of poems and one travelogue so far. More of his work can be discovered on his website: www.mohulbhowmick.com.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL.

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International