Couldn’t change my dollars anywhere – interesting given that Vietnam is a stone’s throw away from this place. A business opportunity that a Pot-pat hasn’t caught on to yet. Then my last van ride through Cambodia:
Scott, Chantal and I burst out laughing. The driver smiled cautiously. He’d just handed us some “border control” forms. We’d all heard about this – a “medical check” that they scam you $1 for. General consensus is to go with it. But when we got the form, we just couldn’t help ourselves:
Apparently, our dollar is helping to prevent an epidemic of hypothermia. Wetting ourselves, we calmed down and tried to take it seriously. But then the guy aimed a laser at us and took our body temperature that was duly noted on our forms (which, interestingly, had no official logo) and asked us whether we’d experienced any nausea, vomiting, and the like (all key symptoms of a condition that I was quite worried about, given the climate out here). It was all I could do to keep a straight face.
He, on the other hand, was taking it seriously. But when he took my dollar and stuffed it into the side of his briefcase, I had to turn away else he’d have seen me crack. Oh my, if you’re going to scam us, do it convincingly please!
Good afternoon, Vietnam.
I was looking forward to standing on the top deck of the ferry and watching the journey. That’s why you travel by boat after all (and to cross water, obviously). But no, it was just like an aeroplane – we had allocated seats down in third class, some cheesy TV, a cold cloth and bottled water. But no safety demonstration, which was a shame.
Tagged along with Scott and Chantal, walked down to the beach from their hotel and then wandered back towards the main town on the island enquiring at places to stay.
Found a steal: a private bungalow at a family-run hotel, with this view from my patio:
… for $25 per night. Decided to stay three instead of the planned two nights. Once again, winging it has worked out (part of the art, of course, is deciding whether pre-booked is better, but I’m kinda getting the hang of it). They even had bottled tap water 😉
Off for a dip in the sea straight away (the sun sets at 5:30pm-ish and it gets very dark, very quickly here). And they’ve even foot taps outside each bungalow to prevent the mass sand invasion that blighted my Sihanoukville place. Then back to watch the sun set.
No wonder it took 90 mins to get there – the driver crawled along. And then it occurred to me that he’d rarely drive up a hill, because Cambodia don’t have many and those that do exist are dirt tracks, so a tourist bus wouldn’t venture there. Seriously slow. I’d be surprised if we hit 15mph at any point on the journey (even coming down). And he took all the hairpin bends very tightly, and used the brake a lot, rather than the gears – all signs of a driver inexperienced in steep hills. But we were safe.
The King’s former residence was built in 1934 by the French as a holiday home.
Complete with conservatory:
And some interesting artwork:
This spot was chosen because of the views (but not today!):
Then to the “old casino”. I don’t know about gambling, but it would have made an awesome venue for night-time hide-and-seek (I actually won a game of this by just lying down on the landing – in the dark I couldn’t be seen and the seeker scoured all the bedrooms but not the landing!):
And guess who this is?
Go on, have a guess. No, it’s not Buddha (give away: Buddha didn’t have chesticles). It’s Ya Mao – the guardian of travellers. She was lost at sea travelling to see her husband… so it’s assumed that she was, er, “wanting sausage” (the guidebook’s phrase, not mine). Ergo, leaving phallic symbols, such as bananas, ensures pleasant onward travel.
Judging by this lot, she’ll be well-satisfied.
And you may have spotted the woman whispering into the rabbit’s ear:
I’m not sure what this was about. Further research required.
Others were praying to the stones with incense sticks to their heads:
… whilst a westerner judged it appropriate to climb on their religious monuments: #facepalm
A history lesson followed. It turns out that 1979 wasn’t the end of the Khmer Rouge. Although they were booted out of the cities, they controlled (terrorised?) the countryside, including this hill station that was built by the French in 1924. Rural areas were out-of-bounds for Cambodians, with the Khmer Rouge planting landmines and dominating the countryside. King Sihanouk returned from China in 1991 and brokered a deal with Khmer Rouge: you stop killing and we won’t send you to jail. It wasn’t until Pol Pot’s death in 1998 (which the guide advised was because he got sick and died of natural causes) that the regime finally fell. Between 1998 and 2000, landmines were cleared from the region and tourists started visiting again. But it was a ghost town here: 42km from Kampot along “the dancing road” took three hours, so to see anything tourists would have to stay overnight. The only accommodation was a rangers’ station. So the government allowed the development of the hill station, selling it to a private company. They built roads, a new casino and everything else a holiday-maker apparently wants.
Yet, it’s destroyed the place – when you step into the casino, you could be anywhere in the world. The new casino opened in 2012… but it’s very expensive to stay, so people now do day tours. A classic example of a lack of user research.
Another example of this was the waterfall:
Very pretty, but this is what, rather incongruously, you saw looking the other way:
Eating our pre-packed lunch of meat and rice here was surreal.
Whilst I’m no stranger to Catholic churches, it felt odd seeing one here:
With some fantastic views:
And then the slow drive back. Very slow drive back. I’m pretty sure could have biked it in half the time.
A quick kip back at the hotel and then off for the sunset cruise. How different this one was from the one in Phnom Penh – relaxed, nice music, chilling out on the top deck with Jack the Scot, just watching the world go by.
But not the sunset, because the mountain blocked the whole thing!
Fireflies on the way back (no photo as my phone camera wasn’t even close to being capable, and that’s without factoring in my poor photography skills). And then out for dinner with a group from the boat. Overall, a pretty good day with a really nice bunch of people.
Cate’s been in Kampot for four years. She lost her house in the US with the economic crash (living in it for three years without paying because it took so long for them to get round to evicting her due to the number of repossessions they had to deal with). “Somewhere near water, not too big, cheap to live with a sense of community” was her criteria, someone suggested Kampot and six weeks later she was here. She’d never been to Cambodia before, let alone Kampot. Problem is, she now can’t move back: she’s on a Cambodian wage (personal training and teaching yoga) and airfares are $850pp.
But I can confirm she’s a fantastic yoga teacher – it was one of the best classes I’ve ever done. Bordering on bikram yoga in this heat, but that just contributed to the workout.
Another day off to just be in Cambodia. After lunch I went to a screening of “The Killing Fields” – in a lovely, casual cinema:
The film seemed more relevant here than watching it back home. Whilst it showed some of the atrocities, it concentrated on the relationship between a journalist and his Cambodian sidekick. But it certainly brought it to life.
And then I summoned up the courage to try crab for dinner. I like crab (that’s not why I needed courage) it’s just that I had no idea what I’d actually get. Exactly what I ordered, it turns out – a pile of cooked crab!
Nice, and surprisingly filling. And then another thing struck me that I’d noticed, but needed to verify: Cambodians don’t like touching money. When you pay at a restaurant, handing them cash directly makes them uncomfortable – you need to put it on the table, or in the folder the menu comes in.
And now, let’s talk toilets. Unless you’re in a tourist resort (so paying decent money), they have no paper and they’re bucket flush (there’s a vat of water, you scoop some with a small, handled bucket and pour it down the pan).
But there’s always this spray next to it:
It amused me that, despite having no flush and no paper, they always made time to give you a spray to rinse down the pan. Turns out this is exactly why they have the spray. Whilst it is, apparently, very good at killing mosquitos (just aim in the general direction and gravity does the rest), it is, in fact “the bum gun*”.
*I can actually hear my dad laughing (which, to me, is one of the most wonderful sounds in the whole world 🙂
Today was a good or bad day, depending on how you look at it. At times, it felt like one disaster after another. But it wasn’t really.
I’ve never driven a motorbike. I like being alive so never bothered to learn. At $5 for the day (versus $20 for a moto driver), it was much cheaper to drive myself, so we went to practise on the scrubland across from hotel. Straight ahead, I could do. But I failed to get it to turn – it either didn’t move, or shot ahead and tried to throw me off. Eventually it succeeded. I don’t particularly like driving anyway, and my sense of direction (or lack of) is legendary, so reasoned that an extra $15 (about £10) was worth it to not get lost in the Cambodia countryside and prevent a potential insurance claim.
Tourists rule here: the money to be made means it’s worth locals dropping everything to do what you want, when you want. It still makes me feel uneasy, but I’ve learnt to deal with it as, ultimately, it’s mutually beneficial. So ten minutes later, my moto instructor reappeared as my moto driver for the day.
I have long legs. The footrests on the moto were obviously designed by and for Cambodians, who do not. My knees were by my ears (ok, ok, but it’s only a slight exaggeration) and my feet kept sliding off the footrests. A day like this was not going to be fun. My driver tried wedging some stones into the mechanism to improve things, but they just got crushed, so we proceeded. As we went through a local “town” I noticed he kept slowing down, looking around. And then we pulled up to a moto repair shop where he proceeded to hammer nails into the footrests to make them more comfortable for me! What a gem 🙂
“You have a head torch?” the lad asked me. I’m guessing he was about 13 (which, in English terms, is the equivalent of 24). “Yes!” The tourists at the guesthouse had advised I should take one. I rummaged in my bumbag. No head torch. I sat down in a rock and searched each compartment thoroughly. Still no head torch. Pants – what had I done with it? So my phone torch acted as an inferior substitute whilst he showed me the bats, and the temple that was built by the cave’s occupants and is now slowly being claimed by the mountain with an impressive stalagtite as its centrepiece:
He proceeded to tell me that rising up to meet it was a stalagmite called a Shiva Linga. It was, indeed, a Shiva Linga but quite clearly not a stalagmite. His prediction that in a thousand years they’d meet in the middle seemed unlikely seeing that the drips from the stalagtite were actually eroding the Shiva Linga!
When the Khmer Rouge heard of the community living here, they invaded, found them hiding further into the caves and murdered the lot of them.
He also pointed out lots of rather dubious “animals” in the rock (“all natural”) – elephant heads, a crocodile body and a footprint of King Kong. And this cow (can ya see it?):
But he was a lovely, pleasant lad and was happy to answer all my questions, so an enjoyable visit.
I passed on the option of the scenic (read “for experienced climbers only”) route back. A pleasant visit to some impressive caves, with spectacular views:
As we sped (ok, well, trundled at least) through the Cambodian countryside to our next stop I realised my mind was preoccupied with losing my head torch (I’d texted Seb at the hotel who confirmed I hadn’t left it there). It’s annoying, but not the end of the world, I told myself. I knew I wouldn’t get another like it here and it’s been so useful already, but I decided to put it out if my head and enjoy the moment.
The “secret lake” was clearly not secret, with the same raised platforms with hammocks and mats, with thatched roofs like those at the crater lake near Banlung:
Apparently there is a proper secret lake near here – it’s said that less than ten westerners have seen it since its discovery in the early 1900s. Young people gathered for a meal:
… and even the monks came out to play (no photo). Unfortunately, once again rubbish everywhere kinda spoilt it much more than you’d expect.
Pagoda. That’s what these (233) steps lead to:
And here’s what was at the top:
The observant among you will have spotted the conspicuous absence of a pagoda… because apparently it’s still being built. Hmm, maybe he just thought I needed the exercise!
The pepper farm must have been good… even my guide was taking photos:
They grow round columns of brick. That’s all I know because he didn’t speak English, and my knowledge of pepper farming is, shall we say, work in progress:
Ah, this was the pagoda we were meant to visit:
Small, local and obviously used by the community… and it’s already been built, which is obviously a bonus.
Kep’s crab market was the highlight of the trip:
But it would appear that the concept of sustainable fishing has not reached these shores, and I fear that it won’t until it’s too late. Thousands of crabs were being hauled out of the ocean and sold by the kilo.
And they’ll even cook them up there and then:
Don’t like crab? How about a ray?
And the market was, once again, multiple versions of the same stall. These sell various seafood on a stick (perhaps this is where Dibbler started life..?*)
Lunch was a kilo of lychees (in the vein of most of the native fruit – rough skin, slightly sweet fleshy inner with a stone – but a better ROI as they’re easier to peel and much larger than lonigans) and a great view:
Unless you looked closer to home:
Or behind you:
And then the pre-storm winds came, and the stench of sewage offended the nostrils. It offends my eyes, but the locals don’t seem bothered by the sight or the smell (one Pot-pat suggested that tuk-tuk drivers should be employed as litter pickers during the low season; this idea works on many levels).
*You’ll understand this comment if you read Pratchett. If you don’t read Pratchett, then I envy you as you have a whole wonderful (Disc)world to discover.
A trainee Diane Warren. That’s who is composing music throughout Cambodia – slick, but badly written power ballads rule. I managed to not burst into song as I dined (this wasn’t difficult), and then guess what I did? Yep, another sunset to end another wonderful day. And this was stupendous – the most spectacular sunset I’ve ever seen:
Let’s start with a “wildlife” review, with these two still sleeping when I arrived for my pick-up:
Finally checked out of my “hotel”. I’d probably have stayed another night here if it’d been good, but I just couldn’t wait to leave. And nowhere to dry my clothes meant that I was down to my last pair of pants. So glad I brought three spares 🙂 On a positive note, Steve tried to make it up to me by providing an enormous breakfast. Here’s what a full English cooked by an Englishman in Cambodia looks like:
But then the “baguette and jam” arrived. It wasn’t so much the radioactive colour of the jam that perturbed me…
… it was the dead ants in it. But hey, this is Cambodia (and in Mondulkiri, I did actually consider eating ants… but didn’t summon up the courage before they’d all been eaten), so I scraped them out and down it went. Then down to the beach to soak up this view before the van arrived:
… when I was accosted by a lady offering any beauty treatment you could desire. There was no way she was getting her hands (and thread) on my eyebrows (what *is* that all about?!), but a quick haggle and she effectively waxed my legs using cotton thread. It stung a little, and took a lot longer than waxing, but it was pretty effective. I’ll report back whether it stayed away for the advertised “4 or 5 weeks”:
I like Kampot. It reminds me of Kratie (a coastal, functional town that’s alive, but not too touristy). Stopped at another local joint for lunch where there were only four things on the menu (and one was pudding!). And then a minor slip… off to find a massage place and inadvertently ended up at a brothel (or “massage with happy ending”). I can’t comment on her, er, “night job” but I hope she’s better at it than her day job – woke up with bruises down my legs. Will be more careful next time!
Loads of ex-pats here (or “Pot-pats” as they’re called). This may be exacerbated by the lack of locals due to Phjum Benh – the end of the 15-day festival when people return to their old country. Apparently, the temple visits are to “feed” the ghosts: when someone dies but doesn’t make it to the planned place they stay on earth as ghosts. Some of these may be your ancestors. So you go to the temple to feed the ghosts… whilst they’re working out a way to get where they want to be, I assume.
I really needed a ballet class (I’d even do adage;), but yoga was the next best thing and a lovely way to kick off Kampot 🙂
A quick risk assessment. Safe. I collected myself, took two confident steps forward… and jumped.
After breakfast and this view:
… we’d quickly piled on to the boats, people suddenly appearing from nowhere, and we were off into the beautiful waters of Cambodia’s southern coast.
First stop was snorkelling (at Koh Praeus?).
Grabbed some googles, jumped in and promptly choked. As a sprint swimmer I’m conditioned to “explosive breathe” when I’m in the water: inhale quickly, hold my breath (this aids buoyancy), then exhale quickly before the next inhalation. Doesn’t work with a snorkel, it just makes you splutter. Ok, I thought, better teach yourself how to snorkel. And fast. It took ten minutes to retrain a lifetime of breathing 🙂
And I was off. But without a waterproof camera so here’s what I saw, courtesy of Google images:
A leisurely lunch stop followed at a beautiful beach with clear water:
A hammock:
Fantastic views (note the cow):
And a ton of litter:
Or rubbish, really. To me, litter implies a bottle or two, but this was like fly tipping. It’s everywhere – beaches, streets, people’s houses. Cambodia is one big rubbish heap.
Back on the boat, we pulled up here:
Everyone fell silent, not sure what was happening. Snorkelling again? “Jump”, said the guide in his basic English. Err, what? People started looking round at each other. “Oh no, I didn’t sign up to this,” said a voice behind me.
But we did it! Almost everyone had a go. Standing on the top, I could fully experience how the kids I teach feel standing on the poolside, toes curled over the edge, trying to summon up the courage to jump in for the first time. I also knew that the longer I contemplated my fate, the more difficult it would be. So I checked that the water was safe to jump, collected myself, took two steps forward… and jumped.
I was in the air for ages – we guessed it was about 7m high. And didn’t do what I teach (keeping your feet together – it’s really difficult when you’re falling). Let’s just say that it wasn’t the most elegant water entry I’ve ever made. But I did it (no photo – I was otherwise engaged). And I felt a real sense of achievement 🙂
One final snorkel stop (not good visibility as last night’s rain had churned things up here) where we spotted this beggar floating nonchalantly around us:
… and then back to the number we first thought of tired, happy, wet and very very sandy. A quick shower and back to the beach for sunset.
Only six of us again, and a western-standard van. I’m going up in the world.
As ever, we stopped for “lunch” ridiculously early (10:30am), where they were selling these:
I was intrigued (she could only tell me the name in Cambodian, which obviously didn’t mean much), so I tried some:
Like a grapefruit but less juicy, so you can tear the segments from the pith.
It rained hard yesterday and you could see the flooded rice fields. You can’t mind the rain – it keeps the population (and me!) fed.
Dropped near the centre of Sihanoukville, I decided to wander round the town before heading out to my hotel – the main beaches are party capitals, so I’d settled on the furthest beach, 7km out of town.
In a mini-mart, I found garibaldi biscuits 🙂
And stopped at a local joint for lunch. Getting off the main tourist track is better, cheaper and more interesting. In Phnom Penh, I dined at a local cafe just one street in from the quay and feasted for half the price of one main dish on the main drag. You’ve just gotta have the confidence to try. Same here – at first I thought the $7 tom yam soup was expensive… until they served me enough to easily feed two (the lidded pot contained more rice than I could ever possibly eat). Lunch and dinner rolled into one.
I’ve noticed a number of western males with younger Asian females around. In the most part they appear to be in a mutually-consenting relationship. Jim was one such male. He explained it thus: “In England, I’m a fat, ugly slob; here, I’m like a demi-god.” And it’s true: females are conditioned to be attracted to mates that will not only produce good offspring (so handsome and intelligent), but who have the means to provide for them and their children (rich). And by western standards, you don’t need much to be considered rich here. And the men get attractive, young females. A win-win situation, it would seem. And they appear to be a small percentage of couples, so not adversely affecting the social equilibrium. But I don’t really know. Just interesting.
An hour later, the heavens opened. So I decided to head to my hotel.
“See!” I pointed at the big “Otres Marina” sign:
We were stood in the road, not more than 4 metres away. My tuk-tuk driver squinted. And then nodded enthusiastically, smiled a big grin and said “Ah yeah! My eye not so good.” He’d just driven me 7km in the pouring rain unable to see his hand in front of his face. It had occurred to me that I’d not seen any Cambodians wearing glasses, but had pushed it to the back of my mind. I resolved, at this point, to only use young tuk-tuk drivers. We’d been past my hotel twice already but when I’d said I thought it was here and pointed to the sign, he’d just nodded and carried on driving.
It was about to get worse: not only was the hotel not expecting me (“they don’t email us when they take a booking”; but I’ve not had a problem before so decided to reserve judgement) but my two room options were “awful” or “really awful”. Interestingly, it wasn’t the cold shower (not so bad when it’s 30 degrees outside) or the open-air bathroom option, but the sand. Sand everywhere so you never really feel clean. Even after a cold shower. On a (very) positive note, the wifi was super, the AC effective and quiet and no mozzies (I can deal with lizards – they don’t try to suck my blood). Still, I think I made the wrong decision. Went to book a snorkel trip at the bar down the road, turned round and saw this:
The place was beautiful, alive but chilled. Maybe I had made the right choice after all 🙂
Planning. It’s obvious when you think about it, but on a trip like this you have to set aside time to plan: “where will I go” and “what will I do” is swiftly followed by “how do I get there” and “where will I stay”. And so it was this morning.
And then I ventured into the sunshine and hit Wat Phnom. Not literally, obviously, because that would rather disrespectful.
I like temples. Just as I like churches. And mosques. I’m not religious, but I feel comfortable in these places, because I let myself. And they are usually peaceful and a microcosm of all that is good. That people find comfort in belief is of comfort to me, even if I don’t share the feeling. I’ve never felt any need. But it also struck me as how strange it is to pay respects to an inanimate object. Visitors were mostly Cambodian and, therefore, Buddhist. They removed their shoes, stepped into the temple (left foot first, I assume), and knelt in front of the display of statues and various other objects:
Hands in prayer position, they touch their forehead with their thumbs and then bow down and touch the ground. Repeat twice. Then they relax. Various touching of the forehand with prayer hands ensues, but I think they’re free-styling at this point. All to an inanimate statue. Gifts and money are tucked into places all over the display, similar to the collection plate in a Christian service, I guess. I’ve never noticed how English society is secular, because it’s all I’ve ever known, so the way their religion pervades the Cambodian way of life is thought-provoking. The way that it seems to give them meaning and structure and a common ground is surely A Good Thing. And that people blame religion for so much conflict throughout history doesn’t hold either – religion doesn’t start wars, people do.
Walking back to my hotel (which is much better, btw, thanks for asking – the bathroom is bigger than my former prison cell, I’ve covered electrics, a bed that doesn’t feel like sleeping on an egg-box and plenty of natural light; it’s amazing what £4 can buy you in these parts), the heavens opened. Again.
I sheltered in a cafe until it subsided, and then crossed the street… and was met with a puddle at least a metre wide. Too far to jump onto the pavement. So I started walking… into the oncoming traffic. Not only did I not get run over, but nobody even beeped me. Welcome to Asia. Think I’m getting the hang of it 🙂
It’s not until you’re tested that you really know how much you’ve learned. I think I’ve learned quite a bit (and writing it all down has definitely helped, too). So to the National Museum to further cement my knowledge of Cambodia’s Angkorian history.
Pre-Angkorian statues show strong Indian influence as, in C6, the Queen of Cambodia married the King of India. Telltale signs are the relaxed posture (sitting into the hip) and skirts:
… whereas the Khmer style shows a more upright, assertive posture, a moustache and “trousers”, which are actually tied from from a single length of material. The method of tying the skirt reveals the age and province of the statue.
And later styles show Buddha (you’ll recall that King J7 was a Buddhist):
And it was kind of comforting to see that the statue of said King J7 was armless.
There was an impressive collection of Shiva Linga, with the exhibit towards the front really demonstrating how the Linga and the font represent the male and female genitalia (stop sniggering in the back):
One of the statues had someone’s lunch in front of it. And then I noticed another one with exactly the same lunch. And another. Leaving offerings for the various gods is considered good luck, courting their favour to ensure a smooth transition into the afterlife. When I went back to take a picture, they’d gone. Not sure what this means for the person who took them.
All of the temples have been subject to looting, and you may recall that some of it was to sell to westerners who, for some unfathomable reason, felt that buying a piece of another country’s history and moving it to their home was a good thing to do. So it was nice to see statues returned by the Americans.
And, luckily, the toilets had further instructions to ensure I did things right:
An impressive collection:
Then back on to the street, where it appeared people were actually living:
The trip started promisingly. A lovely boat, but not too big, with pot plants and good views.
And then the beats started. The pilot had plugged his phone into the stereo system and it was, quite frankly, bleeding awful. The whole “cruise” was spent with various people asking him to turn it down. The trip itself was nothing much – just a little way round the island in the Mekong and back again. But I wasn’t expecting the Vietnamese floating village (I assume it’s called that, but this time they were all in boats rather than houses on stilts):
An interesting alternative view of the city:
And the sunset was really impressive behind the Phnom Penh skyline:
Note to self: get some photography lessons. Again. And try to remember it all this time.
I wasn’t intending to stay. But the night market was fascinating.
And, happily, no hassling took place. Perhaps I’m losing my knack. The “food court” was particularly intruiging. Firstly, all the stalls were selling the same thing. Exactly the same thing. Not like in a western food hall where you get cuisines from all over the world. Raw wares were displayed, and customers took a plastic basket and filled it with their choice of foodstuff which was all duly dropped into a deep-fat fryer (presumably to make it safe to eat, as well as cooking it).
And then we all had a picnic in the middle.
This is “chicken porridge”.
But it’s not porridge, really, it’s rice soup. Delicious, cheap and very filling. Bon appetite.
Visiting the genocide museum and the killing fields was not a harrowing experience. There, I’ve said it. I was expecting the visit to be tough, but I felt strangely detached. I cried many times, but listening to what happened and seeing the photos, I was numb. I don’t think it’s because I’m an ogre. I think it’s because my brain just can’t comprehend it. This one’s a toughie, guys. But important. Really important.
What follows is my understanding of what happened. I’m afraid I haven’t verified and properly researched all this, which I’d really like to do but unfortunately don’t have the time as I travel.
In 1975, Cambodia’s population was between 7 and 8 million people. Over the next four years, the Khmer Rouge were responsible for the deaths of up to 3 million people (there is, and probably never can be, a reliable figure). Through systematic murder, malnutrition, forced labour and disease, Cambodia lost between 20% and 40% of it’s population, with anyone of intellect, education or direct opposition “destroyed”. Khmer Rouge’s communist fantasy was of a self-sufficient agriculture-based society, and anyone who jeopardised this dream was murdered. And their families, to prevent revenge attacks in the future.
In 1970, the Khmer Rouge waged war on the government (who weren’t particularly popular), selling the Communist ideal to the people. On April 17th 1975, they marched victorious into Phnom Penh, and many thought it a positive step … but within hours armed soldiers appeared on the streets and ordered everyone out of the city, spreading rumours that the US (who were still at war with Vietnam) were going to bomb. The Khmer Rouge then opened fire on people as they left. Within three days, the city was deserted as people duly returned to their “old country”, i.e. the province from where their parents had come, and were forced into hard labour. Overnight, all businesses, hospitals, schools, police stations, universities, post offices and any form of private ownership were abolished. Religion was banned. Money in bank accounts was no longer owned by the account holder, houses and land became the property of the state.
Soldiers were selected from rural families (so they had little or no education) with promises of equality and prosperity, and then brainwashed to carry out the abhorrent crimes of the Khmer Rouge who were now leaders of “Democratic Kampuchea”. Led by Pol Pot, security stations were set up around the country. Doctors, lawyers, teachers and other skilled and intelligent people were tricked into revealing their backgrounds with offers of jobs and then arrested and accused of various fictitious crimes. Soft hands or glasses were also a death sentence. They were then taken to the security stations. Here, they were systematically tortured until they confessed to, for instance, being spies for the CIA or the KGB, and had named others.
Tonl Sleng was one such security station. Originally built as a high school, the facilities and equipment were converted into cells, torture chambers and instruments of torture. It was code-named S-21.
Tortured to confess to a crime that they did not know, prisoners had their throats and stomachs cut, and were left to bleed. Toenails and fingernails were pulled out. They were hung upside-down until they lost consciousness and then dunked into chemicals, such as DDT, which awakened them so the tortune could continue. Once a confession had been obtained, they were marked for destruction.
Every few days (for the lucky ones), they were stripped and hosed down. They then could not lie on the floor until it had dried. Speaking was forbidden. Each prisoner was measured and photographed upon arrival – the documentation of the Khmer Rouge is extensive and detailed.
Each night, trucks containing 70 to 80 people would leave the compound “for a new house” and arrive at Choeung Ek, 17km south of Tonl Sleng. One by one, each prisoner would be taken from the truck, made to kneel in front of a large, deep pit with their hands tied behind their back and blindfolded, and were beaten to death. Hammers, machetes, hoes, axes, jagged edges of palm leaves. Anything the soldiers could find. Bullets were expensive, and not to be wasted. Babies were held by their feet and slapped against “the killing tree”, found in 1979 stained with blood and human flesh. The dead body was then pushed or thrown into the pit. And then they murdered the next one. And the next one. And. The. Next. One.
DDT was poured over the bodies to finish off anyone who hadn’t died, and reduce the stench of rotting flesh. Screams were drowned out by blaring revolutionary music. And it was deliberately far away from civilisation, so nobody could hear, see or smell what was happening at Choeung Ek, or “The Killing Field”. They were checked on to and off the truck to ensure nobody had escaped. Approximately 20,000 men, women and children were brought S-21. About 200 survived.
So, what the f*ck was the rest of the world doing at this time? The short answer, it would seem, is “not giving a sh*t”. Cambodian borders were closed, with only diplomats allowed in and out of the country. And the genocide was taking place in secret. It was the Vietnamese, along with Cambodian defectors, who liberated the country, with the Khmer Rouge falling on 7 Jan 1979. They went into hiding in the jungle, where they regrouped. Yet, they were still recognised as the ruling party of Cambodia by first-world countries. Not only were they given a seat on the UN council, but they were also given funding. Yes, apparently the UN saw fit to continue giving money to the Khmer Rouge. In fact, Pol Pot lived happily (albeit in secret) until the age of 73 when, it is believed (but, again, can never actually be proven) that, upon getting wind of the fact that the world was on to him, was poisoned by one of his soldiers. Nice get-out clause.
In Jul 2010, the commander of S-21, known as “Duch”, was sentenced to life in prison for war crimes, crimes against humanity, torture and murder. Most of the other perpetrators have died before trial, some murdered by others within the regime, with one or two awaiting a trial that is unlikely to come to court in their lifetime.
I’m no historian, but the similarities to the Nazis are frightening: the mentality of the leaders, the way in which they controlled others to carry out their crimes, the systematic torture and murder of vast numbers of people within a short space of time, the obliviousness of the rest of the world until so much damage had been done. That this could have happened so soon after Hitler is devastating. Did we not learn? How many times will this have to happen before we learn to predict it? Surely it’s just a matter of time until it happens again…?
And I got back to my hotel room. I turned on the TV. And my heart skipped a beat.
North Korea.
A leader who imposes their will on the population, in the pursuit of a warped ideal. Who keeps things secret. Who has the mentality of a meglomanic. What’s happening behind those closed doors? Is it any of our business? Yes, it is. It is absolutely our business. Just like acid rain in Sweden is our business. Because we are humanity, and we have a responsibility that crosses nationality, race and gender. And I suddenly felt scared, upset and utterly useless. Genocide could be happening right now, and nothing is known about it, let alone being done about it. Suddenly the Cambodian genocide and the Killing Fields became real for me in a way that it hadn’t done during the day. I still can’t comprehend it, but somehow the threat of it is something my brain can process. And it is a harrowing thought.
But it would appear that the concept of sustainable fishing has not reached these shores, and I fear that it won’t until it’s too late. Thousands of crabs were being hauled out of the ocean and sold by the kilo.
