Smoke

My final trip to Cambodia was, as usual, fantastic. I bought a bunch of clothing and DVDs, ate gourmet chocolate, drank passion fruit smoothies, hung out at the Foreign Correspondents' Club overlooking the river, and read a fabulous book in the sprawling garden of the hotel where I stayed. I also bought some really awesome jewelry from an NGO, and these very colorful pieces are made entirely out of trash. I soaked in Phnom Penh's quirky beauty, and the feeling of having stepped back in time to an entirely more classy and romantic era. I love love love it.

I noticed that people in Phnom Penh are constantly picking their noses and hocking loogies (yeah, I really have no idea how to spell that word....). Like, CONSTANTLY. At first I was puzzled by this, as I had never noticed that before. However, since this was my first visit where I didn't have a krama (Cambodian scarf) wrapped around my face each time I climbed into a tuk tuk, I realized that the air there is unbelievably grimy. It goes so far beyond just being polluted or dusty. You get a mouthful of soot that accompanies each breath, and the mucus in one's nose instantly springs to battle. While I was a bit more discreet about it than the locals, I found myself needing to clear out my nose constantly. It just doesn't seem fair that the air there is actually capable of leaving a stain.

I took a taxi to the airport, which had a very kind man with a gently lined face behind the wheel. And while I've read quite a bit about the history of Cambodia, and about the atrocities of the Khmer Rouge, I've never had the guts to ask anyone about it. It's not the kind of thing that, you know, comes up in conversation. But, well, I figured that this was my last chance.

I started by asking his age, and then did some quick mental math. He was about six years old when Phnom Penh fell, and he was more than willing to talk about his life during "Year Zero," which is what many Cambodians call the period from 1975-1979.

"I wore black clothes and had to work very hard, even as a young boy. And I cried every day because all we could eat was a bowl of water with a few grains of rice. I used to steal food from my parents because I was so hungry." He hung his head slightly. "I was a bad boy."

He went on to tell me about his oldest brother. All of his siblings were sent off to the labor camps--what he called the "work very hard camp"--and one day when his brother was working in the field he found a small fish or crab and stuck it in his pocket. One of the other boys from the labor camp saw this and told the guard. The guard apparently gave the standard lecture about sacrificing for Angka, never stealing from Angka, never lying to Angka, and that thieves must be punished. And then he shot him.

"But this is kind," my driver, Hen, went on. "The people that were killed in front of me were hit over the head with shovels or sticks until their skulls cracked. The Khmer Rouge soldiers didn't like to waste bullets."

He also sang for me one of the brainwashing songs that the Khmer Rouge soldiers taught the children. It was a sickeningly jaunty tune. I felt like my skin was on fire when I listened to it.

"So, do people still talk about what happened? Do they discuss the past?"

He told me that he and his friends would gather in coffee shops and talk about their experiences. He also said that most people his age, who had lived through those years (and he did point out that there is a large dip in population numbers of people above the age of thirty in Cambodia today), were very eager to see the Khmer Rouge leaders and soldiers brought to justice. The hearings have been happening over the last few years, but the money funding these trials always seems to run out. Other countries have donated money, he explained, but it somehow always ends up in the hands of corrupt politicians and not in the courtrooms.

"Soon these men will be too old. They will get old and die without having been punished," he said.

Our conversation then led us to the subject of education. He was pleased to hear that I am a teacher, and all he wants for his children is a good education. He told me that school in Cambodia is free, but that if his son does not bring 500 rial--just over 1 USD--to his teacher each day, that his teacher will not let him in the classroom.

"Teachers only make about 50 USD per month, so they charge the students." He shook his head. "If the government just paid teachers more instead of giving all of the money to corrupt politicians in their Mercedes, then my son wouldn't have to worry about paying his teacher each day, and he could just worry about his studies."

My head was spinning as I listened to him, as I watched the scenery go past me. I watched children playing in piles of garbage, and beggars without limbs sitting next to buckets, pleading limply into the air. Hen really had no trace of anger in his voice. He was very matter of fact, and even chuckled a bit at the fucked-upness of it all.

"Well, I love your country," I said in a high pitched voice because I was trying not to cry. I felt like a freakin' idiot. Some smiley idiot tourist with absolutely no conception of struggle or grief or difficulty or injustice. I felt a hot twinge in my chest and wondered, really, how much one place has to endure before the Powers That Be will lay off already. My face was all screwed up and I could feel Hen's compassionate (and puzzled) glance in the rearview mirror.

"Why, thank you!! I love Cambodia too!"

Earlier that day I had climbed to the top of Wat Phnom to give a final offering to the Buddha, staring at its compassionate face through the stinging smoke of my incense sticks (three, as is the custom) that I had clasped between my palms. I love the Khmer Buddhas. Their faces are so expressive, their lips are so full, their eyes hold the hint of a smile, their fingers are thick and bulky and look like they could handle a rice harvest. Don't get me wrong--I love the various styles of Thai and Laos Buddhas as well, but they are a bit more rigid and refined, with thinner fingers and tense mouths and expressions that are pure business. I feel completely comfortable gazing into the face of a Khmer Buddha. Like everything is just as it should be, and that cultivating a sense of humor is indeed a spiritual undertaking.

"I won't forget Cambodia," I whispered, sending the smoke into the air in chaotic curlicues.