CAMBODIA

(i) The Killing Caves, Battambang

I clamber up the rocks
slipping at times
walk down steps
where children in bright orange
or pale blue shirts
sit smiling, scratching their heads
sticking out their hands
for one dollar, please

I step into the cool darkness
of the cave, skulls in a cage
the Buddha reclining
so calmly, so silently
I cannot imagine pain

But somewhere in the crevices
a hand
that waited to be pulled up
a rock
tightly held in a fist of hope
a face
that someone knew well and loved

They crawled there and died
blood in their broken skin,
matted hair
their scared eyes

Were there screams?
Did they sob into the darkness?
Did they know they would die nameless,
just a statistic, or if lucky
a skull in a cage?

Their blood was wiped off
the floors and the rocks,
years mopped the stench away
now there’s incense, flowers
tourists who say oh my god,
how could it be
and the monks in their red robes
who even smile sometimes

(ii) The Guide

Salon lost a sister to the Reds
they came in the seventies
and he says, smiling,
‘She was just two months old’

His voice doesn’t break
as he slips in this death
while pointing out mountains
‘In the rains, it is more green’

Does he remember her face
or of those who came to kill?
He squints in the sun
‘They fucked around, stole our stuff’

Monks sleep under a tree
a black snake slithers in the garden
an old man bargains with a banana-seller
‘When I came here first, the smell was so bad…’

In off-tourist season, he works in bars
wiping glasses, mixing cocktails
cleaning tables, hoping for tips
‘One manager made me wash toilets’

Over beef and rice, he charts out his life
many small jobs, now a tourist guide
been attacked twice by thieves but
‘I am smart now’

His wife runs a riverside stall
cooking dishes I cannot name
smiling as smoke rises above her eyes
‘She’s pretty, yes, she is’

He poses, on a concrete tiger,
leaning against his motor cycle
on a bamboo train, smoking
‘Best Cambodian cigarette brand’

I am light-headed after a harsh puff
shake his hands firmly before boarding a ferry,
around him, men in military green
stand on wooden legs, begging

We promise to stay in touch
‘My cell was stolen twice,
but I still got the same number,
for all you people’

He waves from the riverbank
somewhat impish, chuckling perhaps
at the ten extra dollars
in his shaggy pocket

(iii) Two of everything

In Phnom Penh, we skip the memorials
the palace, the museums
for a drink by the promenade

At a French restaurant, by the river that flows
in two directions every year
we dine with a psychologist
who sips beer and mutters,
this country, as confused as the river

Two of everything
two prime ministers
two neighbouring countries
to ward off or welcome
one is never sure

Sitting in his wooden house
where bamboo poles
stand in for pillars
and beer mugs for glasses
the doctor saw
a line of people walking
silently, stoically
ready to give up
a second language
currency, towns, life itself

It was 1997, just after a coup
and they were sure
the killings would begin again

The doctor watched
from his window
fear a sickle-shaped river
flowing through his heart
in more than two directions,
he remembers now

Note: In 1975, a radical group called the Khmer Rouge, led by Pol Pot, took over Cambodia, advocating harsh measures to return to an agrarian economy. Over a million Cambodians are estimated to have died in the four years they were in power. The Khmer Rouge, literally, the Red Communists, tortured and killed people for merely knowing a second language or a dance form. Today, many of the torture chambers, such as the Killing Caves in Battambang, have been converted into memorials.