On The Way to Kep

David is fixed in anger and his selfish thoughts, full of curses in his heart, and often contempts for the Cambodians. In his private complaints he moves side to side, windshield to windshield for a better view other than the traffic ahead. He could kick and scream, and wave his magic wand to clear away cars and motos in his way, and like a hurricane, everyone in his immediate precinct would be swooped up and sucked down into the sewer. Hapless, he can only sit biting his tongue to avoid comments that might discomfort his driver. He has been advised to tame his rage because in Cambodia, inappropriate expression of any form of anger can cause him his life. He has learned this after he had been hand cupped, dragged and beaten in Siem Reap for defending the rights of a Tuk Tuk driver at the ticket booth against these guards, who refused his client entrance merely to book a restaurant without having to purchase a ticket.

Damit, he murmurs.

Sorry, sir, did you say something? asked the driver. David does not answer.

He needs to spit thick mucus from his throat, but he can't. Motor drivers, cyclists, pedestrians, and vendors are moving about passing his car. Their eyes level his window. He closes his eyes and swallows with a frown of disgust. The after bad breath surges from his gut. In the mirror the driver notices his anxiousness, but doesn't know what to say. Outside, he sees miseries. Inside, David is in luxury.

Patience, David thought. I have been through worse traffic jams in the United States.

The Lexus he is in belongs to his company. He returned to Cambodia a few years ago as an executive of a bank. It was his first time since he fled twenty years ago as an orphan. He thinks of his own fate like a kind of lucky number on his forehead. He never stopped thanking Jesus his adopted parents believe in for his survival, though his whole family did not.

It's Friday's evening. He wants to reach his cottage, Before Kep, by seven. A few months after his arrival, a colleague took him to his village, and there was a piece of land on top of a hill with a view to a mountain and the rice fields. When he stood on top of it one morning, he saw a shroud of sparkling mist over the green rice field. He bought the land right away because it reminded him of his own village where he was born. He had intended to visit Kep, but he never reached it because of the land. It only took him two months, with all the labour of local villagers, to build Before Kep,a simple, Western styled structure that roofs and nurtures his dreams and fantasy of a simple, peaceful life, away from the ruts of the city. Every weekend he goes into a retreat, like a hermit, always alone in his sexual fantasies and dreams.


The humidity thickens still without breeze. A strong stench of rotten fish and sewer seeps inside his car. To his right, a woman carries a basket of sweets on her head walking against roaring traffic. The motors, being smaller, have the advantages of manoeuvring past the jam.

Sorry, says the driver. Look like we're stuck here for awhile.

The traffic flow out of the city, from the newly built Stung Meanchey Bridge, is a few miles at a stand still while the flow going into the city is moving along.

Turn on the music, will you? He clenches his teeth, praying. The traffic is full of dangers as people try to cut corners. He closes his eyes to a soundtrack of Yo-Yo Ma's cello in Chopin: Desire for Love, which he obtained from Amazon.com.

He imagines the Lexus with a set of wings and a helicopter propeller in front of it, taking him over the green rice fields while the sky is crisp blue and clear over the mountaintop. The music moves him to a sad and desperate longing to hold another man who is hot, sweating down his spin.

We're moving, says the driver.

Sounds of honking, chattering, roars, distant chants, death and wedding music fade with speed. No blood had been spilled, no motors had crashed into each other. The small children and women perching behind are safe. The babies tugged between dad the driver and mom the passenger slept through all the chaos.

David opens his eyes to a swamp of morning glories people harvest for the market. Sewage water go into the lake. Garbage and every filthy thing possible go into this lake of glories people eat. The new Chinese styled houses are along the road shine with glitter deck's metal beams. Some are painted bright green or glow in the dark pink. Every human figure seems to be moving non-stop to create a kind of subliminal occupation, without few restrains, actions and reactions are on the move, scurrying away like mice running from the cats.

Stop, David tells his driver. Did you see what I just saw?

A truck rolled over. A crowd of people gathered around a victim. The driver pulled close to the crowd. David gets out of the car, enters the encircling crowd to take a look. To his right, he notices a sign that marks the entrance to Choeung Ek, the killing fields.

Why in the world hasn't anyone called the police or an ambulance, David shouts. The driver pulls him aside and whispers in his ear.

Sir, people are afraid to help the victim because they think they might be blamed for the injuries. It's not cruelty, he explains.

Oh, for God's sake. That's ridiculous. Check on the man in the truck.

He's dead, says one of the women.

David checks the pulses of the man on the ground. He's still breathing, though he's bleeding badly.

Please help me, he asks the people. Gently and carefully move the man into my car.

The injured man is being lifted with able body men like a pillar on a feather. They gently placed him in the back seat of the dark blue Lexus David didn't want to have because he think it's too ostentatious. He prefers a moto and the invisible status to a loud, gregarious one, that gives him Excellency status and social respect, or even fear because it's a symbol of power.

Thank God I have this car. Please take him back to Phnom Penh to Calmette Hospital, he tells the driver. The road is newly paved so it's very smooth.

Let him live, David prayed. From his front passenger seat he occasionally checks on him, wondering who he is. The dirt bike he was driving was completely smashed into pieces. He should have survived at all. The truck was on its back with its tires up laughing at the dead driver. He had seen accidents before, but there were always police to take care of it.

This one was at the mercy of time, kindness and generosity of certain people. They say that if it's not your time to die, then you'll survive.

Doctor, this is my uncle. He just had a moto accident. Please give him the best care possible. David put a few hundred dollars in his pocket. The driver filled out the paperwork.

Don't worry. We'll do our very best. Come back tomorrow. We'll have good news for you, the doctor assured him.

The injured man was rushed into the emergency room. A team of doctors and nurses begin to keep him alive so they can fix the other injuries.

David looks at his Rolex and sees that it's already seven past seven.

Just take be back home, he tells the driver.

The driver, who doesn't say much, nods and opens his door. He's a very loyal, obedient servant. David doesn't like it, but it's his duties. He's the driver and all his life he has been driving for others, the embassy diplomats, the NGO workers, the businessmen and all the expats with money. David knows very little about him, for he keeps his personal life at a distance. He doesn't know whether he's married and whether he has children or not. He never tried to have a conversation either, unless David asks and he answers. He never asked David about his life or where he had been, though he has keen interest in protecting him, ensuring that's he gets what he needs.

One day, I will ask him, David tells himself. That one day never came. He goes in and out of the car, here and there, to meetings and social events, and the driver has to wait, though from a distance, the driver is always there, close to him with his eyes looking out for an alarm.

Will you take me to the bar instead?

Yes, sir, the same one you always go to, sir?

Yes, that's the one, referring to the gay bar with dancing drag queens. The gay bartenders are always happy to greet him.

Welcome, older brother, they would say. Please sit down. What would you like to drink?

David on a bar stool having the usual Beer Lao.

Apartment Hunting

I drove around with Vy for about 4 hours looking for apartment. The price is too high and the apartments are usually not worth the price the owner asked. Some have dirty, dark stairs, full of spider web, nesting outside sots. Nobody bothers to sweep. Plastics, paper and garbage along the road. No entrance an easy way to breathe in joy. No attractive invitation to enter. Some are too small, in neighbourhood that is too busy and unattractive. Noises hum from morning to night, eyes of predatory men stare in boredom, lounging in shades away from the heat. It is especially hot today. Each day is full of extreme, rain or shine, hot or cold, the air is stuffed with something unbearable, and life drags its feet hopelessly in limbo. I am beginning to have second thought about Cambodia, whether or not it's worth buying an apartment when I will only be here half time of the year. I think I might be better off building a home out somewhere in the countryside, on my own land, where there's fresh air and a garden. It's nice to be in the city once in awhile for the action, but to live in it everyday is getting to be very aggravating. This is where the job and opportunities are. Out there in isolation isn't the answer either. The countryside is equally frustrating, full of human predicaments, prejudices and poverty. I don't know if I can bear the solitude; yet, I think I can. There are times, I just need to make the decision and go for it. Buy or not to buy an apartment is what I need to come to term with, and as they say, patience pays.

The Lovers

Every year a carefully planned arrival is made to the shore of Kep. Arrangement of flight and months in advanced booking of Knai Bang Chatt, “Rainbow around the sun” resort. The lovers return for swims in glowing, cleansing plankton seawater. They take boat trips to off shore Rabbit Island to lounge in each other’s arms where no one else had been. They make love with sworn secrets. They eat the crab prepared by granny Om, who can concoct the perfect meal from ancient spices to enhance their sexual desire. She is familiar with their love for each other for they have returned to her shore year to year. Crabs tossed in green Kampot pepper garnished with edible flowers accompanies their bottle of Vina Maipo Rose from Knai Bang Chatt. The cheap Chilean wine slows their movements of passion with a basket of European condiments, chocolate and cinnamon sticks they would sit to a sundown before boarding a fisherman’s boat back to the main shore. On the pontoon of Knai Bang Chatt’s Sailing Club a table is set with sweets they would savour into the night. When in bed, after a nice playful swim in the affinity salted pool they collapse into each other’s arms holding onto a star lit night full of magical dreams. The sounds of creatures large and small serenade their deepest love for each other.

It has been over a year now the couple has not returned. Granny Om waits not knowing who to ask. Why hasn't the couple returned for her rapturous spicy crabs? Are they alright? Have they found a better shore? Everyone wanted to know.

Another year had past but only tourists who only visit once come month after month. Kep does not miss them when they are gone. It misses only the couple, whose hearts are true and pure.

One day, to everyone’s surprise, half of one returned with a suitcase in his hand. No one had recognised him at first for he had grown gaunt with a full bearded face. His eyes were hallowing full of deprivation. Lines of sadness and incessant state of sorrow had changed his appearance.

"My beloved is gone," he came to say. "She had been snatched away from me by a vehicle accident, and I’m the one who killed her. Is this where I can find her again?"

Speechless, the staff of Knai Bang Chatt dropped to their knees and wept. "We are so sorry, dear brother."

"We, too, are waiting for her return. Let us take your suitcase to your favourite sea view suite. There, a frangipani for your lover’s beautiful black hair. On the sheets and towels her scent remains and by the pool a bouquet of orchids she had ordered. She isn’t gone. You’re not her killer. You’re only a man with a fate. She is here and in the sun by the sea she calls out your name. Let her go so you can live and love again. Through your kindness she will be reborn, and when you’re ready you can open your heart for another. You have our deepest condolences. Stay awhile."

The man stayed until light returned to his eyes, a smile cracked from his sorrow, his composure assured and confident, his face radiant and hopeful.

Kep was his longing until the day he died. Her shore the arms of his beloved calling him out to sea.

October 13, 2009 - A Day In My LIfe

Woke up. Watched news at a friend's house. Cleaned his kitchen. Took out his garbage. Went to meet a friend at Psar Thmei, Central Market. The market is being renovated. It's looking very nice and new again. My friend Vy is going to show me his house that he wanted to sell. I didn't know what to expect, but it's the best house I have seen so far. From the balcony, I can see the Central Market and Sorya Mall. From the other side, dirty rooftops of other apartments. Vy had tastes. His top floor house is an open space, with an enclosed room and bathroom. Doors and windows are antiques. He has plants growing like a top roof's garden. His bed soft and heavenly to lie down on. The simplicity of his decor made me wanted to linger as my own home. I really like the space, but it's $39000, and I only have about $30,000. Will bargain, but I doubt he could go down that much. Maybe he will understand because I am his friend or maybe not. When it comes to money, people are funny as they say. He seemed like a decent, honest guy. Ever since I had met him ten years ago, we had never hung out. We would run into each other now and then, but only to say hello and bye.

He and I decided to drive out to Tuol Kork to see some plants and flowers on sales. Chea Sopheara, the former governor of Phnom Penh has a big estate facing this row of plant and flower vendors along the road. The gate and walls to his estate are high. You can't really see what is inside. I can only see roofs of mansions being built.

I wonder how he got all his money.

Once rice fields, the whole area, Tuol Kork and beyond, is now full of houses and sky rises. Camko City is nearly completed. Rain water once created swamp now is being pushed elsewhere, and some houses are now sunk in water.

Vy and I returned to his apartment after. I slept a bit on his bed. I had a dream that I was living there. I prayed that I would bring beautiful people to the place to share my bliss.

On my way out, I saw two transgender guys, with whom I had worked before. I told them about dancing opportunities, but they are too busy.

Now, home, as I am typing this journal, I hear my neighbours fighting, screaming. This particular woman sounds very nasty. Her high pitched voice is very violent.

I have to eat soon.

The Road Along Kandal Provincial Riverfront

Today, I took a ride, a very long ride on a small paved road of Kandal Province that seemed endless, past centuries of war and violence, villages, towns and cities, where construction boom is now the sound of a new Cambodia. No piece of land is free. It's being divided and kept inside concrete wall. People live along the bank of the Mekong River inside houses small and large, wooden, traditional houses on stilts or now bricked, modern design - that awful gaudy looking style of the Chinese graves spruce up everywhere all over Cambodia, in the same style, row after row.

I had never been on this road before, but it was a familiar one. I turned into a temple facing a big hyacinth covered lake where I sat for a bit to write and draw. In front of me banana groves sunk in water.

The sky was crisp blue. On my way back, I looked inside the temple being constructed: stupas, Buddha statues, paintings depicting the life of Buddha, green, yellow, gold, spires pointing up, majesty, though gaudy, the external appearance moved me to ponder the road back home, where it is and what I should be doing, whether or not I really have a purpose in this life.

Beng Kak Lake The Slum

A company had bought 80% of the lake and it had evicted those who lived on it. Beng Kak Lake is an important part of the city's lung, though the lake is so polluted by the people who live around or on it. This company is building a mall. They could have cleaned the lake up and build malls around it, but no, they are filling it with sand.

Yesterday, I went to teach a class of children affected by AIDS, whose fathers or mothers had died from the disease. They live on part of this lake, inside tin covered roof and wood slated walls nailed to sticks that can fall apart. On the water are these garbage floating to shore, rotten shoes, condoms, organic matters, shits and piss all go into the lake. The children swim in it and take shellfish from it to eat.

Our class was held on this shack on the lake. I gave the children some paper and colored pencils to draw their lifelines. They ended up drawing whatever they wanted, their house in the countryside with lots of trees and earth where they could run and play.

One kid did draw his life. I had to leave because I felt so sick due to the smell. I did not get to ask the children to talk about their drawing. I will during the next session.

Next door, a man was sleeping as if he was dead. I tried to see sign of his pulses and found that he was still breathing. He must have collapsed from sheer exhaustion. He may have been drinking. His hair curled in the sun. He was not conscious of anything around him. The children came in and out of the house to pee. Below is water and the man is floating away in his dream.

Noises, Voices, Dream or Reality or Both?

5 AM sounds of water hitting the tiles
from a neighbour's shower
Someone is starting a moto or a car
A loud roar of the engine
Women talking
The children going to school
Noon, I left the house
to sounds of my heart,
to sights of poverty
to market of bargains and chatters
to places I had no plan to visit
Evening I paint
I paint
to sounds of karaoke
to my neighbour's talking through thin wall
to plates, forks and spoons touching
Night I go to bar
I frequent music that makes me dance
Gay night at Pontoon every Thursday
Stayed 'til morning
Home alone, nightmares
Fear, I paint again.

Blood Relatives

My mother's side consists
of peasants of the countryside,
dark complexion, round Indian eyes,
everyone's poverty thinks of money
I have for them to buy
A pair of oxen for cousin one
An engined plow for cousin two
A new thatched roof for cousin three
A sewing machine for my aunty's daughter
A hundred dollars for a wedding.
I am an American who can grow
money on trees, each leave
a thousand too short.
What I have saved would not
buy what they want on demand
and when days are hot and humid,
they would sit to neglect their garden
and rice fields, without a plan
and a will, my arrival is seen
like a blessing in disguise
my moto rich expensive and desirable
my clothes fashionable and different
my accent an American full of confidence
and tending to their needs
a breach between my own comfort
with that of their poverty.

The Silenced Majority

Everyday, past or present tense,
the silenced move like ants
on motos and bikes or on foot
with loads on their heads, their shoulders
or backs
stacked high and overloaded
vehicles carrying produce
to and from markets,
bricks, rocks and timbers
to construction sites
where young men and women
from the countryside would
labour for their meals.
Their invisibility a nameless count
in mass graves that scattered
all over the country
Cambodia a map full of skulls
the present people are too busy to see
Life an occupation in a capitalist system
that enslaves and exploits
their needs to eat and survive.

Photo Cosmetic

Her frizzy hair cut
her freckles dissolved
the discolouring of her clothes shine
a new colour that exudes
a beauty that isn't her own.
Her dark skin whitened sharp.
Her cheeks polished rouge
and her lips her husband had never kissed
thickened with lipsticks
that weren't there before.
Her photo a sitting on chair
still pose, awkward stare,
eyes cow black, the camera
her mirror full of disillusion,
her fake teeth yellowed from cigarette stains,
her nose flat and her eyes slanted
without colours or shine,
she is made into a star
simply with a Photoshop
by the surgical skills of a computer boy,
who changes an old photo into a kind of allusion
and beauty to be framed and hung
in the home of the one photographed.
Each incision full of gloss,
moles, freckles bad hair day
all can be dissolved and made over
with photo cosmetic at the cost
of a few thousands riels.

Flowers for the Dead

The procession,
the dead music,
the huming of a truck carrying you away
in your coffin
and the garland in front
a kind of flower you had been allergic to
is now around your neck
dangling like a curse
taking you to judgement day
if there's such a thing
as heaven and hell,
and what causes one to wonder
is why all these fusses over an afterlife
when there's no death had ever
meet a sensible rebirth,
and why would anyone wants to be reborn
a human after all these miseries
the earth had shed upon one's existence?
What fool would seek an afterlife?
What fool would live to die just to return for a better one?
Reincarnation isn't for me thank you.
Take what you want, death
while I live my fullest life
before you come to shut my smiles and my joy.
I don't like the flowers
that don't smell like the salinity of the sea
I don't like anything to accompany
my death. No tears upon my body.
No remorse for the deeds I have done,
good or bad, let death shed it all away.
No flowers for me, thank you.
No jasmine my death can't smell.
No lotus where life yearns to become.
The sum of me and of what I am worth
no one should remember nor want.
Burry, bury burry me
for death is freedom and joy.
My voice but a croak in the sea.

Your Love

Your love multiple stairs
one layer a labouring climb
to many metaphors
each with its own incompleteness
I must incise to get to your inner core
when darkened
I can only feel what you cannot
wind ruffling leaves
sea breeze touching your skin
salt of tears and despair
longing full of miseries
like wretched blank stares
my heart cannot bear to ponder
stairs stack high
full of places and emotion
like waves in contempt
crash onto my shore
as you break into snore the night
your back was turned to mine
Oh, how I kept wanting
your kindness to return
my arms are empty without you
but without knowing
what to do
I longed blindly for the day
I could reach the peak of your heart,
while you shoulder me
through our growing indifference
but again you're a man
even all the stairs I have climbed
to get where you are
it would not be enough to secure
your love for me
you are a palace full of prisoners
and you are their guards, their barbed wires
their shards of glasses pointing from concrete wall
You're a man I can't understand what you want
I can't decipher your codes
Your metaphors doors to sharp knives
bleeding my palms that love the Psalm
of your ancient ruin
swallowed by a jungle of
your heartless desire.