15/02/03: Taxi to Phnom Penh. Book into Last Home, go for a drink at the Foreign Correspondent’s Club, eat and drink with all back at guesthouse.
This is Asia. Phnom Penh:
total mayhem, a million motorcycles jostling for position, lorry with
widescreen visor, elevated bicycle taxis, and a minor crash witnessed every
couple of minutes spent meandering around this insane city. It feels very
postcolonial here. Looking down from the balcony of the FCC, you half expects
the city to burst into civil war at any moment. The taxi-drivers sleep in hammocks on the street, shrouded in mosquito nets. Street urchins constantly assaulting you – too far off the beaten track
one dare not venture.
But
a strange dichotomy exists: in the most evidently poor of the three
nations I have visited, it is here that I find my tourism the subject of the most
organisation and expense. The Killing Fields and the Khmer Rouge prison, S-21,
should be seen, but they come at a price. And for $20 I am more than welcome to
visit the local firing range and release a cache of ammunition from an AK-47
semi-automatic machine gun.
It's morning, and we’re to take our hangovers to Cambodia’s
capital. We know where we want to stay in Phnom Penh, because O – who now
appears to be operating a day ahead of everyone else’s programme – has emailed
us the address of the guesthouse he’s booked himself into. We’ve not hired a
private minibus so as to avoid any more clandestine goings-on between driver
and hotel. Instead, the proprietor at Mealy Chenda has booked us seats on a
daily public service that runs between Kampot to Phnom Penh, and they will be
picking us up shortly. The journey is scheduled to take approximately four
hours.
I’m ready and waiting when
the first minibus turns up. Our party currently numbers six, but there’s no way
we’re all going to squeeze into this vehicle; just two of us would be pushing it. The driver is
gesturing for me to get on board. I try to explain that our group
comprises of six and he appears to wonder what point it is I’m trying to make. Welsh
L to the rescue – he’s far more adept at this sort of thing – but no, it
appears that this is it, this is our minibus, there is no second vehicle. The passengers already on board – locals all
– start adjusting their position to make more room for us, which is very nice
of them but there simply isn’t the physical capacity for another half a dozen
people. Stupefied, I take an uncharacteristically firm stance on the matter:
I’m not prepared to travel in this vehicle, even if it means me and my partner abandoning the rest and going it alone. F is equally adamant, his six
and half foot frame precluding his involvement whether he likes it or not. As
every member of our entourage completes their own private inspection of the
vehicle’s swamped interior, unanimity is promptly reached. Our only option now
is to hire taxis.
The proprietor of Mealy
Chenda, who organised the pick-up, is completely flummoxed. He genuinely cannot
understand why we’d be reluctant to travel in this way, practically sitting on
top of each other – maybe actually
sitting on top of each other – and reckons that we’ll rue our decision once we
realise how much money taxis will set us back. This runs contrary to
every other situation we’ve been in where it’s presumed we’ve so much money that
expenditure isn’t something foreigners factor into their decision making. Well
it is, but right now I don’t care if it costs us $30 each to get to Phnom Penh.
It works out just fine. The
local bus station draws blanks but we are approached by a man who can arrange
for us to be driven to Phnom Penh, to a destination of our choosing, for $10 a
head, in actual cars. The only slight hitch is that F, my partner and I will
have to share with our prospective driver’s four year old daughter, who he is
looking after today, while Welsh L, K and G will occupy the second car. F has
proved himself to be good with children, and I’m good with maps, so I’ll take
the front seat.
The child is generally very
well-behaved – as children in these parts generally are – her patience only
momentarily wearing thin before tiredness finally gets the better of her about
an hour or so before we breach the capital. Moreover, our driver will make a
brief stop along the way to furnish his passengers with liquid refreshment –
it’s all part of the service.
Our driver struggles to find his way around Phnom Penh. Our
maps aren’t detailed enough to make the job any easier and, door-to-door, it
probably takes us nearer five hours to reach Last Home Guesthouse. We remunerate our
driver for the inconvenience and book ourselves into what turns out to be tolerably
spartan accommodation.
Last Home Guesthouse is a
large building. Each floor has been partitioned off into about five rooms, with
communal showers and toilets situated at the top of each floor’s stairwell. The
dividing walls are slight of build with glass panels about a foot deep separating them from the ceiling. The walls are painted white, there are no windows, and
furniture has a limited presence. There is a balcony at the end of the corridor
overlooking the street at the rear. The place does appear to be clean, if
cluttered, and the dining area downstairs opens out onto the street with a view
over a park of sorts (there’s greenery, but concrete too). There are bars and
cafés within walking distance.
Fatigued from both the
journey and the previous night’s exuberance, the majority rules that we retire to
our rooms for a while. But not I, nor my partner, and O’s got no such excuse.
Sihanoukville felt strangely soulless, and although Kampot had a certain essence
it was still pretty sedate. Our most recent stopover in Bangkok seems like an
age ago now. We'll take a stroll, find our bearings, see what this metropolis
has to offer.
First impressions are of a youthful,
burgeoning populace moving about at great speed. Amputees are a common sight;
bucolic martyrs, now useless in the fields, driven to begging on slattern
streets. There are too many children about – too many people generally. I sense
that we are being regarded quite differently to how we were in Bangkok, and that the people have notions of what we’re doing here.
What are we doing here? Partaking
in tourism, I would think, but of an odd sort. One would probably find it hard
to convey to someone who’s not been to somewhere like this why it is you would want
to come to somewhere like this. It feels a bit like that first week in Bangkok,
but darker and poorer. It’s too much, and I don’t hesitate for a moment when O
enquires if my partner and I might like to visit the Foreign Correspondent’s
Club (FCC) for a cold beer. This country’s past cannot be ignored, and I now
understand why my Grandmother used to ask that I consider these people who had
nothing, but now have more, but not much more. And she was just taking John
Pilger’s word for it.
Sitting in the FCC,
under-dressed – in need of a linen suit – it’s like I’ve stepped into another
era, probably one where the colour of my skin buys me privilege but also puts
me in some unspeakable danger. It is, however, entirely possible that
I’m over-sensitising my situation and that my cadres are experiencing nothing
of the sort.
16/02/03: To the Killing
Fields and S-21. Recover, and write notes back at guesthouse. Happy Pizza for
tea, drink on hotel balcony with partner, F and G.
Time is precious for G, and Welsh L and G’s sister, K, are
pandering to that. Further, G has formed quite a bond with F, sharing a room
with him to keep their mutual costs down, which generally means that F has
become a de facto member of their
clan. Conversely, L, O and I have been inclined to navigate our territory at a
much more leisurely pace. As it was with L in Laos, it sometimes pays to have
people around who are more focused – or more obliged – on using their time
productively. So today we’re off on a jolly to Choeung
Ek, the most
infamous of all the 'killing fields'.
The Killing Fields, for those
unfamiliar with the terminology, is the collective name given to the numerous
agrarian plots where Cambodian dissidents, perceived to be enemies of the Khmer
Rouge, were taken to, summarily executed and then buried, normally in mass graves
of their own making. It was genocide on some scale, fuelled by the paranoid
tendencies that often accompany regimes intent on implementing radical social and political change. As tends to be par for the course with such things, nobody was safe –
not even members of the Khmer Rouge – but being of an intellectual bent, a
member of what one might call the professional class, of differing ethnicity,
or even a Buddhist monk, meant your position was particularly precarious. It is
estimated that well over a million corpses rest in these crude graves, although
the Khmer Rouge were indirectly responsible for the creation of many more,
through starvation, overwork and disease.
When you consider it, it’s weird
what people do in the name of 'dark
tourism'. Maybe we like to remind ourselves of what we hope we’re not
capable of – or of what people are
capable of under circumstances hopelessly alien to our own. But might it not
seem a little odd to those who lived through it all – and are still living with
the consequences – that citizens from far-flung states willingly come to ponder
over another nation’s tragic past? How does it affect the host? What do they then feel:
appreciation, disgust, shame?
The fact that so few people
survived that first wave of horror means that, for the most part, your average
Cambodian will be too young to remember the full savagery meted out by the
Khmer Rouge. Because of this they may not feel a strong emotional attachment to
what went on, or the sense of outrage befitting somebody who witnessed it
first-hand. Furthermore, this was genocide in its purest form, perpetrated not
by an outside agency but from within. In this respect, it has more in common
with Stalin’s purges than Hitler’s holocaust. Still, why would someone from an
entirely different continent (and from a continent that did so little to
intervene at the time) want to come and survey its morbid aftermath?
Maybe because I’m the sort of
person who thinks like this, I find myself taking as much interest in the
several beehives protruding from the eves of the large stupa built to display
5000 random skulls in memorial as I do the 5000 unearthed skulls. These bees
are a sinister presence in themselves, and I’m wary of them. On closer
inspection, the skulls are more sinister still. Peer among these bones and
you will find that many of them are damaged. While some of them have degraded naturally over time, most were revealed in this condition: beaten,
smashed in while life still breathed from them.
A turn around the shallow
graves reveals yet more ghoulish artefacts. Shards of bone, traces of cloth and
people’s teeth are clearly visible in among the leaf-litter and topsoil. While you’re taking all of this in, there are children on the other side of the fence
asking you for money (don’t give them any, the staff don’t like it).
And then off to S-21, or the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum
to give it its full name. Security Prison 21 used to be a school until the
Khmer Rouge commandeered it to incarcerate and torture its enemies. It lacks
the subtlety of Choeung Ek, with many of the makeshift cells left exactly
how the Vietnamese found them when they drove the Khmer Rouge from
Phnom Penh in 1979. There are photographs of what they found, of the dead
strapped to bare metal beds, recently executed by their fleeing captors. The same beds remain, as do
the blood stains beneath them, a grim testament to the slaughter that went on here.
In other rooms there are
blown-up photographs of some of the estimated 17,000 prisoners that were
detained at S-21, taken from the records their captors left behind. Others
contain apparatus of torture, such as water-boarding devices. There are manacles
and there are more skulls. There are also crude paintings of interrogations in
progress, drawn by Vann Nath, whose artistic ability ultimately spared him:
rather than have him killed, Comrade Duch, who ran the prison, had him paint
portraits of Pol Pot.
Here are the Concentration
Camp Rules, translated from Khmer and on display in the courtyard as you see
them:
1. You must answer accordingly to my question. Don’t
turn them away.
2. Don’t try to hide the facts by making pretexts
this and that, you are strictly prohibited to contest me.
3. Don’t be a fool for you are a chap who dare
to thwart the revolution.
4. You must immediately answer my questions
without wasting time to reflect.
5. Don’t tell me either about your immoralities
or the essence of the revolution.
6. While getting lashes or electrification you
must not cry at all.
7. Do nothing, sit still and wait for my orders.
If there is no order, keep quiet. When I ask you to do something, you must do
it right away without protesting.
8. Don’t make pretext about Kampuchea Krom in
order to hide your secret or traitor.
9. If you don’t follow all the above rules, you
shall get many lashes of electric wire.
10. If you disobey any point of my regulations
you shall get either ten lashes or five shocks of electric discharge.
How much time has to pass before the testament of horror can
be reclassified as entertainment? When does viewing the detritus of internment,
torture and execution become a legitimate pursuit? What’s considered a safe
distance from whence we can take a good look? There must have been a period
when we would have baulked at the thought of going anywhere near Aushwitz-Birkenau.
Now you’ll find it under the ‘In and Around’ section of any travel-guide to
Krakow, footed by a sub-paragraph headed ‘Getting There’.
Take yourself down to London
Dungeons. There you will find depictions of and references to: the Bubonic
Plague (which claimed over 75 million lives); mechanised torture of various
forms; Bethlem Royal Hospital (where the mentally ill were routinely chained to
the walls, and people paid money to laugh at them); and Jack the Ripper (a
very nasty piece of work by any era’s standards) – all presented in a playful manner. We might call it gallows humour, and I understand
that as a mechanism so designed to cope, for violence is a timeless endeavour that
begs we deal with it. But at what node in time does something of an appalling
nature become nothing more than a tourist attraction?
On our return home, everybody is up for a little drink –
there’s nothing like an ice-cold beer after a day spent poring over mass graves
and concentration camps. Or if we like we can go and fire AK-47s? ask our chaperones ($20 a magazine). The general consensus is we
stick with the beer. I wonder if I’m the only one who’s secretly tempted to
take them up on the offer.
My drinking marches on, then,
but at a civilised pace. However, I get the feeling that tonight might be
another big one. While everyone prepares for dinner at Happy Pizza a few doors
down, I choose to remain downstairs, to write notes, sup another cold beer and
watch the world pass on by.
There's something about Phnom Penh that is drawing me in, and I am growing fonder of Cambodia as a whole. I could do without the three overweight American quinquagenarian sex-pests staying here, exchanging tales of licentiousness
and of how they’ve still 'got it’. (One guy as good as says this, and goes into
great detail. Another, not wanting to be outdone, duly lays
claim to having an identical experience. What they’re essentially saying is that
they’re so good in the sack that they’re capable of pleasuring sex workers maybe 30 or 40 years their junior
and half their size.)
Happy Pizza was as good as
I’d hoped – almost as good as Falconi in Laos – and the evening was a very
happy one indeed. Once we'd eaten and had a few drinks, F, G, my partner and I retreated to the balcony at the back of the fourth floor of
our hotel to find the day’s busy streets to be utterly deserted. Until now I’d
considered Phnom Penh to be a crumblier and dirtier cousin of Bangkok, but
really it wasn’t. Nor was it anything like Vientiane, which had been relatively
peaceful. But it was as busy as Bangkok by day and as quiet as Vientiane by
night – that was all. The city was deathly silent, the roads ridden with cracks and potholes, the buildings gashed with filth. From our shallow concrete balcony we looked back
along our hotel corridor and laughed hysterically at rats the size of small
dogs.
17/02/03: Welsh L, K, F and G
leave for Siem Reap. Develop some photos, dinner at The Globe, a few drinks at the FCC and a few games of pool.
18/02/03: Central Market with
my partner. Wat Phnom, with partner and O, internet café on my own, then to the café
next door. Royal Palace and the Silver Pagoda with partner, dinner at
guesthouse and play some cards. A few drink in the Blue Lagoon just next door.
19/02/03: Sick. Change up
money, Royal Palace and Silver Pagoda with partner and O, FCC for coffee, tightly contested game of cards in the evening.
On Monday, Welsh L, K, her brother, G, and F departed to
Siem Reap. Siem Reap is near Angkor Wat, and a lot of people probably wouldn’t
even bother with Cambodia were it not for Angkor Wat. The reason they were
going now, after spending only one whole day in the capital, had to do
with G’s limited time here and wanting him to experience as much as he
reasonably could within that restriction. Angkor Wat promised much and they intended to allow themselves enough time to explore it,
assuming that it did ultimately live up to the high expectation. Something had
to give and that something was Phnom Penh. I wasn’t ready to leave Phnom Penh
and was also weary from all the travelling we’d done of late, having
not fixed ourselves anywhere for more than two nights since leaving Koh Chang. Fortunately,
my partner saw similar potential in staying in the capital, as did O.
The first day was spent doing
nothing much in particular. I developed some photographs (and would have
developed more if they’d been processed to a satisfactory standard) and we ate
out at The Globe. The Globe wasn’t the sort of place I could have afforded back
home, and in truth I felt under-dressed there. The food was good
though, and it helped perpetuate this ‘Graham Greene abroad’ type thing I was getting, now we’d entered a country that wore its colonial past a little more
openly. Suitably, we followed this up with a few drinks in the FCC, and then
called it a night.
We still weren’t ready to
leave the capital the following day either, but made more of a fist of it this
time around. First up, we headed to Central Market, which reminded me of the Pannier Market in Plymouth, except circular,
yellow, and about twice the size. Dating back to the 1930s, it’s also about 20
years older than Plymouth’s indoor bazaar, which makes its condition all the
more remarkable. The similarities only really exist in the functional
characteristics of the architecture, culminating in vast, re-enforced concrete
ceilings that give these markets an airy, spacious feel. Such calm is disturbed
by the pushiness of the traders and the relentlessness of the landmine-scarred
beggars. It can get to you after a while, but nobody’s physically aggressive
and a firm ‘no thank you’ is normally enough.
Come the afternoon and we set
about exploring the Royal Palace and the Silver
Pagoda – both worth a look. I realised that Phnom Penh rewarded the traveller
who moved about a bit, because at first there didn’t appear to be much to see. The
older buildings tended to all look the same, and even the more modern elements
we passed through on the way to the Killing Fields appeared strangely uniform. Instead,
seek out the open spaces: the promenade along the river or the parks and the
wide boulevards. The pace of life seems slower there, the Cambodians themselves
more amiable and relaxed.
It was never somewhere I
could feel completely at ease, Phnom Penh, although if I were to live there I
might. I would need the appropriate attire, and enough money to eat at places
like The Globe on a daily basis, and drink nowhere else but the FCC. That way I
could get off on my environment in a way the itinerant backpacker never could. There’s
an edge to Phnom Penh that is of no use to those merely passing through. If you
were a citizen here, and the indigenes could take you more seriously, I suspect
that Cambodia might open up to you and reveal something else altogether,
whatever that might be. I can never be entirely sure of this because the
evenings seemed to confine us to the area surrounding our guesthouse. After
dinner, more cards and a few beers I was always ready to stalk the city in
search of the appropriate nightlife, but my partner and O weren’t game. We made it as far as the Blue Lagoon next door, a forgettable place which
shared exactly the same view as our guesthouse, but charged more for the
privilege. So I got drunk to get over the disappointment of not finding
somewhere better to get drunk.
The next day I paid for my
obstinance, disgorging the contents of my stomach for only the second time on
my trip. I didn’t even feel that bad and coped with the changing of more money,
a second visit to the Royal Palace, a cup of coffee at the FCC, before playing some
more cards and having a very early night.
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