Siem Reap
Cambodia is a raw place.
Yesterday I watched a teenager die in the street. He was hit by a taxi while
driving his motorbike on the main road of Siem Reap. I arrived with my
friend Moun Sinat soon after it happened; there was a crowd of people, a
smashed motorbike, and the kid. He lay there barely moving, legs splayed out
and broken, blood pouring from his mouth and ears. Sinat was the first
person to call the police then, twenty minutes after it happened.
"Is this common?" I asked him.
"Oh yes. Many accident. Taxi supposed to pay for accident, so they drive
away."
The teen's friends pulled up a few minutes later by motorbike, frantically
assessing the situation. One friend picked him up off the street, limp and
lifeless as a rag doll, and shoved him on the back of their motorbike. The
driver, in a panic revved the accelerator, and the body flopped backwards
violently - the danger of internal injuries was obviously unknown to them. He
had stopped moving by the time they sandwiched him between the driver and
his friend, his head hanging limply to one side, dragging his toes on the
pavement as they drove off.
"He dead. Very dead." Sinat said sadly, shaking his head as we left.
Sinat is no stranger to injuries and death; his body is covered in scars and
full of shrapnel, a landmine destroyed his left leg just below the knee. He
is a veteran from the Cambodian civil war, and has survived more serious
wounds than anyone I've ever heard of. I was with Sinat that day because I
made him a promise four months ago, when I first came to Cambodia. He had
told me he was going blind, that pieces of bone from his missing leg were
imbedded in his eye.
"I try to save money for operation, but it very hard." He told me.
I drew a picture of Sinat then, and told his story to my friends. When I
returned home I exchanged prints of that drawing for donations to help him.
Through the generosity of these people, I raised enough to provide him his
operation.
Last week, when I walked into the war museum where he works as a guide, he
was surprised and amazed to see me. I gave him a print of his drawing, and
he nodded while knitting his eyebrows together, muttering in his own
serious, matter of fact way "I do think it a very good picture." Cambodian
war veterans make good art critics.
We talked for awhile, and exchanged news about our lives and our families. I
asked him about the state of his injuries. He told me the infection in his
leg was acting up, and indeed I could see he had a considerable limp. I
asked him about his eyes, and he excitedly told me some very good news. A
generous man from Hong Kong visiting the museum had listened to his story,
and sent him an envelope with a money transfer to pay for his operation. I
was overjoyed, and left wondering what to do now, being there with the means
to help him. I asked to draw his picture again, and we arranged to meet
Sunday.
Sinat picked me up at my guesthouse Sunday afternoon, putting in on his
cousin's motorbike. As we drove to his house, we came across the accident in
the middle of the road. He was saddened by the sight, I was disturbed. This
was the first fatality I’d seen here, and was a gruesome reminder of the
risks and realities of this country’s infrastructure.
We drove down the little dirt road to his house, avoiding potholes and
chickens. His wife and two little girls were at home, and they smiled at me
bashfully as I came in. We sat on his little porch, at his plywood table,
and I pulled out rolls of paper and pencils, and began sketching away, just
as I had four months previous. Sinat was much more relaxed this time,
smoking a cigarette and chatting about politics, while his little daughter
poked her head around the corner shyly, and hid every time I looked up.
The sky darkened and the wind kicked up quickly as I drew, and within five
minutes, a torrent of monsoon rain was pouring down just beyond the awning
of his little hut. I had never seen rain like this before. It came with such
sudden ferocity and deafening sound that for a moment I felt as if his whole
house would be crushed by the abrupt and furious storm. The rain was so
thick and intense that the path beside his house immediately became a
foot-deep puddle, and a heavy mist began soaking the paper I drew on. I
sketched like mad as lightning flashed and thunder echoed about, and the
volley of water loudly pounded on Sinat’s corrugated rooftop.
After an hour it subsided, and his daughter began splashing in the stream
that had formed outside, squealing as she jumped after tiny fish in the
water. I showed the drawing to Sinat, and asked him to write something on
it. He carefully wrote out a paragraph in Khmer, and nodded approvingly.
When most of the water outside had drained and the rain had calmed, we drove
back to town. On the way I asked him a question over his shoulder, already
knowing the answer.
“Why do you still have an infection in your knee?”
“Because pill cost too much. 6000 Riel for ten pill. Take six pill per day,
and it very expensive.”
Six thousand Riel is $1.50. I could understand how someone making a dollar a
day while supporting a family would have trouble buying medication.
As we came into Siem Reap, we began driving through a river. The rain had
turned the streets into a waterway inches deep in flowing brown filth. When
we arrived at my guesthouse, one of the reception boys ran up in his
underwear, yelling “Change room! Change room!” The storm had flooded the
entire first floor of my guesthouse, including my room, in half a meter of
water. I told Sinat to wait as I waded in, and retrieved my backpack which
was fortunately dry on my bed, and moved it upstairs to a new room.
I came sloshing back down with a brown envelope with two names on it. I gave
it to Sinat, told him who those people were, and that they wanted to help
him. The money should pay for his antibiotics for the rest of the year.
He beamed like a little boy when I told him this, and hugged me tightly. I
have never seen such a serious person express so much gratitude and joy. I
thanked him back, for letting me draw him and tell his story, and said
goodbye. He promised to write me, and I believe he will.
The sun was setting as he putted out of the driveway, and the colors were
doubled by the reflection of the pool that was the guesthouse lobby. The
receptionist boys sloshed around in their underwear, singing Khmer pop songs
together in the knee-deep water and pinkish light. For a moment, things
seemed fine in Cambodia.
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