Smile
Go on. Really smile.
Pull back your lips as far as they can go, flash your teeth and bare your grin.
Let your eyes sparkle like stars over a desert sky.
Smile a smile that masks a traumatic and brutal past, one beyond the realms of understanding of any normal, sheltered, Western human being.
One so soaked in blood you cannot fathom how the smile on your face is so kind, so warm, so forgiving.
So welcoming.
If you can smile this smile…
…make it natural, instinctive, pure…
…then you may well know what its like to be Cambodian.
When Nixon turned up the heat in the Vietnam War, he decided that Cambodia’s neutrality in the whole affair was merely a ruse to hide the fact they were helping supply lines reach their neighbour’s Northern territories.
He was right.
So when a US supported military coup d’etat dethroned the popular Prince Sihanouk from power in 1970, and replaced him with US stool pigeon Lol Non, the country – specifically its thick, richly forested countryside – was to pay a huge price.
The next few years saw American planes blanket bomb the Cambodian jungle. Killing thousands. And when the rural population looked to the capital for support, it stared back with an unsympathetic gaze.
But America would finally back down in Vietnam effectively washing their hands with its neighbour. The traitorous Lol Non was left defenceless as head of state. Things would surely go back to normal. Things should have gone back to normal.
However the real price was only just about to be paid.
Because for all the American napalm and phosphorous that burned crops, homes, flesh and bone…
…it all paled it comparison to the murderous regime of one Saloth Sar…
…aka Pol Pot.
When his Khmer Rouge soldiers rolled into the capital Phnom Phen on April 17th 1975, overthrowing Lol Non, you could easily forgive the celebrations from eager residents, blessed with the hope that all the horrors were over.
Pol Pol had other ideas.
4 years later, the Vietnamese stormed into the country to stop the slaughter and genocide by the Khmer Rouge
But 1,600,000 Cambodians had already been killed.
A quarter of their population.
Now where’s that smile of yours?
Phnom Phen – evacuated by the Khmer Rouge in 3 days in that fateful April in 1975 – carries heavy scars.
The S21 prison and the nearby Killing Fields bear testament to the brutal manner in which Pol Pol tried to manufacture his Socialist utopia through fear, torture and death.
On my first day in the city, I took in both of these symbols of Cambodia’s dark past, and I doubt if I have ever felt more somber at a nation’s monument as the horrors are revealed with a frankness that will haunt the most cynical of souls.
The Killing Fields in particular, or most potently the Killing Tree.
In the middle of Phnom Penh’s memorial to the slaughter – now a peaceful park, where birdsong and peace reigns over where once bodies lay on top of each other covered in chemicals to mask the smell that would drift into the countryside – sits an innocuous looking tree.
It was against this tree that Khmer Rouge soldiers would literally swing new born babies against it, smashing their skulls, before throwing them into the one of many open graves littered around.
The thing is, this wasn’t one nation against another. This wasn’t even ethnic cleansing really – though Cham Muslims and the Vietnamese were the original targets of Pol Pots wrath.
Such was the paranoia towards the end of the regime, the majority were Cambodian – or Khmer. And then Khmer Rouge on Khmer Rouge.
‘Traitors against the righteous cause of the Democratic Kampuchea [the Khmer Rouge’s political arm]’ were taken to the S21 prison (Tuol Sleng) and subjected to unimaginable torture, before being told they were being sent home.
Only to be sent to the Killing Fields and disposed of.
Meeting one of the survivors of S21 – Bou Meng, who spends his elderly days talking to visitors about his experiences in the very courtyard that he would endure unspeakable torture – overwhelmed me. You feel shame at the lucky, indulgent life you represent, but also a deep sense of respect towards a man, who is still strong enough to step in through the gates of the prison he so longed to step out from.
But Bou Meng still smiles. Still smiles that wonderfully warm and inviting Cambodian smile.
Because elsewhere in his insanely flat, hot, humid and vibrant country…
…there’s plenty to smile about.
I had arrived in Cambodia across the southern border of Laos, and after parting ways with the Bucketeers, headed straight to Siam Reap.
Home of the remarkable temples of Angkor Wat.
In my 5 months of travelling, you name it, I’ve seen it: temples, forts, pagodas, temples, statues, religious monuments, museums and more temples.
By the bucket load.
While many are impressive, grand and iconic, you also get a little saturated. So it was with a mild sense of ‘here we go again’ when I bought my ticket to see Angkor Wat.
And we’re not just talking one temple (though the name refers to a specific one), we’re talking about a huge complex of them, spanning a fair few square miles near Siam Reap. Such is the size, that I was advised to get a 3 day ticket.
Oh well. Here we really do go again.
But – and I think you all sensed it was coming – they are truly something special. These incredible feats of construction built by the Ancient Khmer empires and entwined with the remarkable force of nature take you out of reality, and put you straight into a fantasy film set.
Quite literally (Tomb Raider to be precise).
Huge trees grow out of temple walls (Ta Phrom)...
...huge faces emerge from rock and moss (Bayon)...
...and as the sun falls, stone turns to gold (Pre Rup).
This is real other world stuff. And I can safely say, from 50 ft Buddhas to Indian monuments to love…
…Angkor Wat reigns supreme.
Okay, so I only used up 2 days of my 3 day ticket. There is more to life than temples (even bloody wicked ones). Siam Reap would offer something else different entirely.
Like teaching.
Or – in my case – dossing around with a bunch of kids for 2 hours.
Eager to do something that enriched me (going out drinking and partying didn’t seem to be working) I decided on volunteering at a local orphanage. Mr Ross’ to be exact.
I needed to prepare. I could have quickly asked the teachers I knew for advice, I could have consulted my old TESOL handbook - hell I could have even googled: ‘How to Teach’. But I did none of these.
I just bought a big bunch of lollipops.
Now I’m not one to boast, and I’m not sure Jamie Oliver would approve, but I think what education needs today, to really drive the next generation forwards, to truly inspire learning from our children isn’t the internet.
Its lollipops. Shitloads of em.
I’m not sure whether my class truly walked away with knowing the difference of I can and I can’t (it was the topic I needed to teach), but they weren’t going to forget the lesson for a long time.
That is until the next totally unprepared and clueless foreigner turns up with a guitar and a bunch of sweets.
Still, I had such fun, that the time I spent, went by in the blink of an eye – and a Chupa Chup or two.
Leaving Siam Reap –with 2 crazy French girls I had started to travel with – it was then onto Phnom Phen and the sights, sounds, smells and horrors of Cambodia’s capital city.
By this point I’d got to know my new travelling companions quite well. Which seemed to confuse me even more. One of them claimed to love Paris, called New Zealand home, regarded herself as half Irish, but supported the French at Rugby. She classified herself as a lesbian or bi-sexual (depending on who she was speaking to at the time) but made a point about sleeping with men.
Make up your bloody mind, luv *pats her cheekily on the butt*
Life in Phnom Penh – the Pearl of the Orient – was far different to what I expected. Don’t get me wrong, Cambodia is poor. Poverty seeps out of almost every pore. However the capital has truly hit back at its tormented past and fashioned itself a new lease of life.
There’s a buzz around the city (mainly traffic), and people are embracing Western Capitalism with gay abandon. Slick restaurants and bars coat the banks of the city’s river, as well to do Cambodians park up in their huge 4x4’s in between the multitude of shiny new scooters.
Though far behind Laos in terms of progress, it feels a more important part of South East Asia. The French influence is even more apparent, and the amount of ex pats greater exceeds its northern neighbour I had just left.
Unfortunately the ex pat situation is also Cambodia’s Achilles heel, with many white older men entertaining their disturbingly young Khmer girlfriend in full view of the worried glare of the backpacker. Child prostitution is prevalent here – apparent by the amount of public awareness campaigns to get locals to rise up against it.
And it’s not just a problem with Western men, with many Khmer men, taking their Buddhist teachings to tragic literate levels, and seeking young virgin women in which to purify themselves by taking away their chastity.
Hold your tongue, walk past, shoot a glare… and hope Karma does its job.
Where it hurts.
However Phnom Penh had a shelf life for me. And 4 days was more than enough.
The south beckoned.
Cambodia’s southern coast has options. Head to Sihnookville, and its menu of 7 beaches, or off shore islands, to indulge, party, score Ket, get caught up with the Mafia, lose your mind… and eat great seafood.
I opted for the more chilled vibe of Kampot. I may well have been tempted by the chaos of Sihnookville at some point if Kampot couldn’t settle me, but no fear. I stumbled across Olly’s Place, and that, my friends, was that.
Olly’s Place and Bodhi Villa are 2 neighbouring hostels with terraces that literally hang over the Teuk Chow rover. Bodhi even has its own floating bungalow resting on the water via the versatility of airtight barrels. It’s an extraordinary place with a bottle-it-up-and-sell-it chilled out vibe. It even hosts a renowned party every Friday where travelling musicians from across the world ply their wares to an expectant and Jaegar bombed audience.
Olly’s in comparison is much smaller, but perfectly formed. With only 7 rooms/bungalows I did something that I hadn’t done since my first night in Delhi. Book.
So on the quiet Thursday, after moving my stuff across town, I moved into Olly’s for a little sojourn. Only to still be there 2 weeks later.
You see its all about timing. A good place to stay can provide you with a perfect template to enjoy yourself, but when the colours are filled in by vibrant characters you just click with, you’re on your way to a little masterpiece.
The men that had stumbled upon Olly’s Place, who roughly all had the same time left in Cambodia, and had the same laid back intentions as each other, were to find a solace and brethren that would lead to a fortnight of good old fashioned male bonding.
Germany (Johannes & Christian), USA (Sean Kelly), France (Vincent), Belgium (Olly himself and Gerrit) and Brummagem united and flourished.
From the first time I joined the lads plunging into the river from Ollys terrace, butt naked, in the dark of night, surrounded by a multinational display of wieners and shining phosphorescent plankton, I realized:
a) * I’m still very much straight
b) * I was going to enjoy the company of these men regardless
Nudity was to play a common theme, with a little ‘weekend break’ to Rabbit Island with Johannes, Christian and Gerrit. The island, just half hour from the nearby port of Kep, is a quiet, isolated land mass, that hosts a mere sprinkling of bungalows and resorts.
Keen to avoid any other living soul, we trekked to the other side of the island, where we pitched up on an empty beach, built a fire and slept out under the stars.
Not before a huge bottle rum led us to strip off, head into the sea to swim with the plankton, light palm branches and holding them high on the beach like burning torches, screaming at the top of your voice across the jet black water and into oblivion.
Even with my German friends’ penchant for flagrant nudity, it was a wonderful day and night – falling asleep to the sound of the sea merely a metre away from your foot makes for one hell of a morning wake up.
For a great photo story on it, click below for Johannes blog:
And all thanks to Ollys Place.
His guesthouse/hotel/ B&B (he needs to make up his mind) was like a little haven for those working while they travel. Sean and Johannes – both web designers – like I, found the restful nature of Olly’s Place (and its quick WI-FI) a wonderful place to sit at your computer and earn your way around the world.
It stopped the rollercoaster ride of the last few weeks from overwhelming you. Rather it was like being served your necessary medicine of reality but by a leggy toga’d blonde, accompanied by hot buttered toast and Marmite, while lying in marshmallows.
Work was never a chore.
What made it easier to enjoy was being able to take your motorbike – just $5 a day – and head out to the surrounding countryside and nearby towns, to explore secret lakes, marvel at Salt fields, burn past acres of Pepper plantations.
Kep for instance was one destination. A popular Cambodian holiday option, and the jumping off point for Rabbit Island, just 22km from Kampot – is famed for its crabs (fnar). In fact the whole region is chock full of mind-blowing seafood. Mix it with the local green peppercorns from the nearby plantations and you have a match made in heaven.
Taste. Meet sensation.
Gigantic plate of prawns, squid, crab, clams and fish… sometimes for as little as $3 a plate. Simply awesome feeding.
But when you engage with relaxation and blissful living on this scale, the downside is that time seems far too eager to kick start the throttle and fly by.
So the time was almost about up for my time in Kampot…
…but there were 2 more issues to address.
The trance party in the middle of the Cambodian Jungle and the League Cup final.
The former was held on the Saturday – and the fluorescent paint filled clearing, classic Goa and Psy Trance at its best, and blinding stuff from DJ Dib Dab, led to a cracking night, side by side with everyone from Olly’s Place.
Sean even had the patience to teach a rather worse for wear Brummie the art of Yoga at 3am, as people all around flew with their heads in the clouds.
On returning to Ollys in the early morn, I even managed to convince the poor lad to head out on the Paddle Boats with me to enjoy sunrise on the water. However for some reason my night of consumption left me with absolutely no balance whatsoever.
And after the 5th time of falling into the water, and sunrise still a good hour away, bed called me into its warm – and dry – bosom.
So to Sunday.
The 27th of February 2011.
A day that will be marked for evermore in my memory as the day that my beloved team finally won a major trophy at Wembley. And a day that will be marked by the fact that I was fucking miles away from it all.
Still, expat Vic – the co-owner of the Rusty Keyhole in Kampot, and fellow Bluenose – was a wonderful host, and the Leeds, Liverpool, Man Utd – even Vile – fans in attendance were wonderfully supportive of our team’s victory at the hands of a generous Arsenal.
As Martins slotted home, me and Vic ran into the quiet streets of Kampot (it was 1am) screaming our delight. In our own way, we bought a little Royal Blue to this compact corner of South East Asia.
And while nothing will ever console me for being so far away from our greatest triumph, my continuation of my wonderful adventure will distract me from it.
No surprises as to where I was heading either.
I’d already stumbled upon the border to my next country a week prior, when me and my good friends Paul and Grainne were trying to find a secret beach on our bikes. The panic stricked border guard, armed with weapon and flailing arms, shouting ‘NO NO NO’ led us to believe that we may have taken a wrong turning.
It didn’t help much when I asked him whether he knew in which direction we should have been heading.
‘FAR FAR AWAY!’
I take that as a no, then.
But on March 1st I would take that same route, but this time armed with my rucksack, guitar and amended Visa.
To the country, whose war with America has provided the backdrop to so much of what this part of the world is defined by.
Jimmy Cliff sang about it, Oliver Stone made films about it, Top Gear drove across it and my sister was about to arrive in it.
Cambodia, Laos, Thailand – take a back seat.
I bid you good morning, Vietnam.
