The rain poured from the Cambodian sky, an unrelenting stream which pooled outside the door of our tiny villa near Battambang. The heaviest rain of the monsoon season started in summer, and we were in the thick of it. It was July of 2018. The jungle foliage, thick and deep, seemed to multiply with every new deluge. Tree limbs, almost obscured by massive green leaves, created an unnerving call and answer syncopation as they knocked rhythmically against the windows and roof. Every other tourist in every other villa in our resort was similarly trapped. My husband and I imagined we saw people peering through windows of the villas near us, but everything outside was a blurry mess, and we questioned our vision. Maybe those shapes were simply shadows, and all the other tourists left.
I wondered about the woman two doors down. When we first arrived, paranoid about dengue fever and food poisoning, we were shocked to see her eating a salad outside her villa with the door wide open, slapping casually at flying insects. She held court at breakfast, informally lecturing her fellow guests about the filtration system that kept the water clean. We nodded our heads in agreement, then reached for another bottle of water.
“Don’t trust the guidebooks,” she said numerous times. She ate a huge salad every morning at breakfast. “Look how healthy the local people are! Of course, they eat raw vegetables! Your body will adjust!” We wanted to believe her, but still ordered omelettes or dry cereal. Trust but verify was the tourist mantra of the day.
Surprisingly, our TV reception remained decent, even as the storms raged. CNN relayed breaking stories in breathless reports, which we watched like news junkies. The Thai boys’ soccer team had already been trapped for over two weeks when our own hellish weather began. Hope ebbed and flowed for their eventual rescue. We talked about the boys, and then we took a breath and talked about something else with equal intensity. Like, whose turn was it to go out for food and beer? Even as we cracked inappropriate jokes, the unlikely rescue of the boys and our own isolation was depressing. One of us was always reaching for the remote to check on new developments. If the TV wasn’t working, we plugged in headphones and watched downloaded Netflix movies or reread old emails, trying not to think about the young boys struggling to survive in a cold cave while we stifled bored yawns in comparative luxury.
Watching the TV coverage of the catastrophe, and its accompanying tsunami of international concern for the boys, was a guilty pleasure. Like the rest of the world, we spent a lot of time discussing what we hoped would happen and looking with great interest at the multiple diagrams and scientific analyses of the cave system displayed on the TV screen.
Lying crossways on our bed, we drank beer, ate boiled peanuts, and peeled dragon fruit, the supply of which never seemed to end. Every day at ten am, we greeted our housekeeper and tried to stay out of her way as she changed the sheets, mopped the floor, and replenished our fruit bowl. We were sick of dragon fruit, hoping that something else, like apples or bananas, would replace it. But that had not yet happened.
Without the diversion of the Thai soccer team, our time trapped in the villa could have been full of petty disagreements and unresolved grievances, which were the hallmarks of many of our trips. Instead, we found common ground in talking about the survival of the Thai boys.
This trip to Cambodia was in honour of our anniversary. On our anniversary night, we toasted our marriage with the last of the bottled beer, shared a bag of cashews and talked about our wedding.
“Do you remember the huge storm the night before we got married?” I asked.
“How could I forget? I ignored the warning from the gods,” he said, laughing quietly. “I didn’t run when I had the chance.”
That wasn’t the response I wanted to hear, but I bit my tongue. My husband’s flippant comments triggered my irritation and reminded me that the past few years had been full of misunderstandings just like this one. Our wedding day, thirty years ago, had dawned surprisingly bright and crisp, everything clean and shiny. I had also thought of the storm as a sign, but in my mind, it was a positive omen, a cosmic washing away of the past. That was the memory I selfishly guarded.
The next morning, sunshine greeted us for the first time in days. People were sitting around the pool, all wearing the requisite expat travel outfit – loose-fitting, brightly patterned drawstring pants with tight tanks or tee shirts—even though their bodies ran the gamut of lithe to extra-large. They greeted each other in traditional Cambodian style, palms and fingers touching at chest height.
The group, held hostage by the rain for many days, was loud and chatty, hungry for conversation. We could hear them discussing the Thai boys and knew they’d been watching TV updates, too. The Cambodian staff, dressed conservatively in khakis and polo shirts, circulated quietly among the group, wiping seat cushions dry, and delivering drinks. It was hard to imagine the resort workers sitting around the pool, making as much noise as the tourists and wearing the clothes we all considered to be Cambodian.
Knowing the nice weather could be short-lived, my husband arranged for a local guide to drive us through the countryside. He arrived with his tuk-tuk, an open rickshaw pulled by a small motorcycle. On our long journey through the countryside, we saw the usual stray dogs and cats, farm fields and people using unfamiliar, primitive tools. Three young boys on bikes followed us through a village where older people turned their heads to stare, and kids with big smiles yelled random English words. When we waved or smiled back, we felt like visiting royalty. We headed for a local monument, one of the few day trips available since so many roads were impassable due to the heavy rains.
Two young monks, barefoot and wearing orange robes, were sitting on a bench as we pulled into the monument site. As we approached, they put their hands together in lotus positions and stood. We did the same. Our driver gave them some coins, and they went on their way. “Monks,” he said. “They are good people.” He then showed us the subtle difference in the hand gesture, which could change the meaning from peace to a knife.
The monument was a small house-like structure with two windows on each side. As we walked toward it, I realised that so many skulls were piled in neat rows that they entirely filled the building. This was a small killing field, according to our guide, only 10,000 skulls. He seemed almost apologetic, offering to take us to a larger one later in the week when the roads were accessible.
The guide was explaining how the Khmer Rouge had come to power and excitedly relayed gory details of the genocide. He pointed out the makeshift prison, formerly a Buddhist temple. It shocked me into silence, knowing these scenes of carnage had become popular tourist sites and that people posed for selfies in front of the gruesome remains. A small flock of birds, eyes black and unblinking, sat clustered together on treetops and fence posts, silent witnesses as I wandered the perimeter of the field. I imagined the Thai boys, sitting in rows like the birds, their own eyes haunted, waiting for imminent death.
I know that a bird’s metabolism is so high that its body temperature is nearly seven degrees hotter than an average human. I know that the bones of birds are hollow, enabling them to fly long distances without tiring. Maybe children have more birdlike skeletons than adults, allowing them to manoeuvre the tiny cave passages while conserving their body heat. Maybe the young boys can magically escape from their cave prison. Maybe. My husband glanced at me, surprised, when I abruptly asked the guide to take us back, skipping the tour of the torture museum.
Our return to the resort felt different to our journey to the countryside. The stray dogs we saw looked hungry and mean. The village roads were muddy and strewn with garbage. The children still yelled at us, and the adults still pounded with their ancient tools, but I looked at the people with a new awareness. Few of them were older than me. The Khmer Rouge had wiped out countless numbers of people who would have been village elders today. If I were Cambodian, I would be dead, too.
Our guide dropped us off on the road outside our resort. We politely turned down the chance to see a bigger killing field later in the week. Wearily, we walked back toward our villa. There seemed to be a party around the pool. One woman held up her drink. “Cheers,” she said. “We’re celebrating! The boys are going to be rescued! They’re going to be alright!”
We ordered beers and joined the group. When someone asked where we’d been all day, I squeezed my husband’s hand and simply answered that we’d taken a tour through the countryside. He squeezed back, signalling that he understood and would not talk about the killing fields.
We joined in the revelry. As the alcohol took effect, the horrific image of carefully stacked skulls was replaced with magical visions of the boys flying from their watery graves. The group cheerfully raised glasses to the heroic divers, the young boys, and even the setting sun. On impulse, I stood up and announced that we had recently celebrated our anniversary. “To thirty more years!” my husband added. More drinks, more cheers, more laughter. We held hands as we returned to our villa. The bowl still held dragon fruit, but our towels had been carefully folded to resemble birds.
