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.