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We were driving alone down a bump-ridden dirt trail. The
lush vegetation was closing in on us as we made our way through
in our beat up Toyota Camry. I've been told how beautiful
the Cambodian jungle is, especially when you are as deep as
we were, yet I couldn't focus on it; every bump and tick that
the road delivered to the system sent shocks down through
my body, but not in the normal sense of being jarred by a
poorly maintained road, but by the feeling that at any moment
one of those jolts is going to set off one of the grenades
or perhaps one of the rockets that we have stuffed next to
the AK-47s or the M-60 machine guns.
I contemplated my actions which led to me travelling with
this band of Cambodian civilians and one young soldier. The
only thing to keep my mind off the trunk of the car was the
LCD screen before me, but it was playing "Rambo"
and the explosions and exchanges of shrapnel left nothing
to comfort. It's the traveler's nature to push it, to push
as far as he or she can, to discover that moment in time where
the rest of civilization drops out and the visceral clarity
of what you have discovered hits you. It is to walk off the
beaten path, squeeze the old adrenalin glands a bit, then
draw a map for your buds to come see what you found - or at
least that is how I saw it.
It was 7:30am where I boarded flight 754 into Phnom Phen
from Bangkok. The mind was groggy but still a little excited
from the cab ride. We roared down the freeway with speeds
in excess of 100 miles-per-hour. I remember bracing
in the crouched position awaiting for the cab to blow one
of the turns, and for us to cut loose of the force that binds
us… to break free of the embankments and soar off that
great highway that connects downtown Bangkok fifty feet above
the smog choked streets. We came to a screeching halt at the
terminal and gravity grabbed the change, threw it forward
to the driver, and I was off running to catch the flight…
leaving this place, the land of eternal carnal lasciviousness,
crapulence… the place of true corporeal fulfillment.
I didn't come for that - that road ten thousand expats have
already tread. I mean, sure it's interesting, but I was on
a whole new kick. I was heading to the land of that "up-river
planet," with the promises of lawlessness and corruption,
the place bread into American "fear-lore," because
folklore is just not on the agenda nowadays. Maybe it's my
over indulgence of "Apocalypse Now" or maybe it
is my fascination with Kurtz and Marlow's journey…
On the plane I worried slightly about my entryway into the
country. There were expectations of passports and photos and
whatnots… but what kind of trip would this have been
if I had been totally prepared, this was supposed to be "dirty,"
especially greasing the officials. Another man sitting next
to me warned of the entry protocol. He was sure I was not
going to get in. I recall being too tired to care much about
that condition. As expected soon after de-boarding and meeting
with the customs officials, all they wanted were a couple
bucks and the normal 20 to make it through. A little handshake,
a slip of the cash, and I was turned loose to the streets
of Phnom Phen.
Out in the capital city I could immediately feel the rawness
seething from it's pores like a beast lurking behind every
child's closet door. The mind was already running stories,
telling tales five years old from authors and ex-patriots
that have fallen from the tracks in this town. Their stories
of this unapproachable heart of darkness seem fading, lost
to fiction with every tourist sign warning of international
child laws, and the guns that once roamed the streets, the
"free-range" weaponry, were now locked and caged.
I knew I would have to delve deeper… it was there, the
story… the insanity.
I hitched a ride on the back of a scooter for a couple thousand
Riel and soon found myself flying along the streets clutching
my camera desperately snapping shots over the shoulder of
my driver. He wore a smile ear to ear, a bubbly sort of man
not so tall as he was happy. He stood at the average height
of about five foot five, and was adorned in the clothes that
I can only describe as what my grandfather would wear: plaid
shirt circa Salvation Army 1975, and pants, khaki, "lived
in" and dust ridden. His over zealous mood threw me off
a bit, naturally looking for him to rip me off, but how could
I be robbed, a couple bucks for the royal tour of Phenom Phen?
Though I knew what I came here to do…
"Where are the rockets?" I said with intent.
He looked at me puzzled in the way that I would look if he
rattled a bunch of Cambodian phrases at me, and especially
the way I speak with the mixing of the words and the slobbering
of the vowels. In that moment as I was crouched down doing
my sign language for shooting rockets, I imagined that I somehow
had fulfilled the American. I had stepped off the plane and
gone for the biggest and most badass thing in town. He seemed
to enjoy this though. He possessed some carnal instinct of
power that I had only imagined in some latent pre-pubescent
Texas youth. It is that sense of power that I saw in his eye,
the one when the rules no longer apply… when one is away
from fuck-all, ejaculating his desires… those repressed
urges that bubble forth in places like Cambodia: " because
I can, I will," the American steamroller, pushing out
with the covert struggle and violence… and damn right
I wanted a part of it, to experience that moment… that
fantasy only brought to my generation from the movies, a little
taste of the "shit" only described thirty years
previous. The little man understood the signals for rocket
launcher and announced his elation with a double super extra
smile. The plans were drawn out to meet up with his "friends,"
and prices would be worked out down the road. We hopped onto
his motor scooter again and tore off down the road into oncoming
traffic with the flickering sounds of my camera shutter firing
away. I've seen this before though, dreams on the back of
a bicycle riding up the freeways of downtown Los Angeles with
the rush hour traffic greedily speeding by.
It was dry season in Cambodia, and the dust was incredible.
It penetrated every pore and article of clothing, and within
a couple of minutes on the back of the scooter my nose was
clogged with large artifacts of congealed dirt and grime.
Luckily enough the ride was short and we only needed to make
it to that point where the dirt filled streets became filled
dirt streets.
Shortly we arrived in some compound, no doubt a home familiar
to the outback lawlessness of some country lovin' Montanan.
The facility was covered floor to ceiling with machine guns,
but mostly the floor containing those too heavy to mount,
such as anti-aircraft weaponry and assorted hand explosives.
Upon inspecting the anti-aircraft guns I had to laugh - we
were only half a mile from the international airport.
Around the corner in the back room were the local patrons
of this facility. They ranged from actual city police to expensive
bodyguards in training. They sat around a table playing cards,
but of course to me, they were each wrapped with red bandannas,
one sitting next to the other; Christopher Walkin facing Deniro,
and a little man in the corner yelling "Mao!" I
was seated at a near by table and handed a menu. The front
side seemed normal enough for the typical restaurant, offering
assorted food and beverage, but upon inspecting the backside,
I found the "meat," and more deadly than a roving
band of Canadian bovine, it was the whole list of weapons
and their pricing. It was quite steep, but as heavy as the
backpack on my shoulders, the overused symbol of the elitist
wanderers, I found myself deeper in the "haggle,"
struggling price for price. The rockets had been mentioned
but seemed to be off the list. I told the man I didn't come
here to shoot hand guns and 22s… 22s being the anti beer
bottle choice of every mountain and country bound twelve year
old boy with an inkling of destruction. He mentioned that
we would have to go farther off to do the "real stuff."
I took a moment to confer with my colleagues, me, myself and
I. We concluded that heading off into the jungle with four
Cambodian strangers was a wild idea. These men, like Rambo's
lost children, the sons of his targets, were dressed oddly
enough in American school gear attire, mostly Abercrombie
or some Macy's late day sale, but then again I guess they
do make the clothes.
Later down the road I awaken from my traveling stupor, having
reflected on this decision that has me here in this car, 10,000
miles from home, two hours from the relative safety of society,
and amidst the dense vegetation of outback jungle. We are
entering another compound festooned with flags that suggest
more than a communist society at work. The entryway was blocked
by tanks and ancient U.N. armored personnel carriers. We made
it past and came to a rest by the barracks. Five well-armed
men in military outfits greeted us. They belonged to one of
the three factions of the government ruling at the time, most
likely the one that is more aligned with the communist government
of Vietnam, due to the apparent flags around the facility.
We began to haggle again for prices, I, speaking to my driver,
and he, whooping and hollering to the men in the back store
room arranging the weapons. At a point I imagined myself in
the midst of a New York trading floor, or perhaps a mid-Chicago
exchange haggling over commodities futures, a distant past
left behind in an old college degree long since unused. We
agreed upon an amount, two hundred dollars, that I didn't
have on me. It seemed not a problem and to my safety, I was
told we would be able to stop on our way back by a bank in
town. I don't enjoy foreign debts, but since they have to
take me back to town to get the money that was okay with me.
The trunk fully equipped and no doubt completely unstable,
we headed off two minutes outside the compound arriving in
the clearing which was to be the "firing range".
It resembled less of a target area and more of an old landing
zone, an area cleared out with a couple bombs to drop the
helicopters. The car came to a stop, "this it?"
I asked. "Yea, here," he said. I opened the door,
got one foot down on the ground and began to load my camera
with more film. At that exact moment the casings of an AK-47 five feet off to my left rained into the side of my head,
and seconds later the sounds that were already apparent penetrated
my brain, where the ridiculously slow signals were sent to
the muscles… I dropped to the ground. Later I was able
to piece together the situation… the car was coming to
a stop while the young Cambodian soldier, who was just a little
anxious, was already exiting the vehicle with the gun ready
to fire, and as soon as his feet landed, the hammer was on
the bullets repeatedly pistoning its way forth like a "Motown"
factory well greased in its ways. Lying on the ground with
the persistent ringing continuing, I was tapped on the back
and handed the AK-47, "ok, ready…" the young
boy said.
I stood in what was the regular position for usage, one leg
staggered behind the other, and prepared myself. Bursts of
fire began to rain forth from the gun, blowing the weapon
into my face with each release. The man standing behind bracing
my shoulder for the recoil couldn't help the accuracy any.
It's a powerful weapon that AK, but just too inaccurate. So,
I opted for the rocket-propelled grenade, that most real piece
of any young man's video game fascination.
The man placed the iron tube on my shoulder and with the broken
English of a new foreign professor explained the sightings
of the weapon and that it didn't always work. But no worry
if it doesn't, because as he said that he'll be there to put
a new rocket in if it malfunctions. Funny things going through
your brain when you have a live grenade attached to a very
ready rocket on your shoulder next to your head. Even weirder
though, is that with the possibility of malfunction, I wanted
to go through with it.
I steadied my aim, braced for the inevitable, and "Click!"
Muscles still tensed, eyes tightly squinted, and I saw that
the rocket still dangled at the end of the tube. The man came
running over with another rocket in his hand. He grabbed the
weapon and prepped the next round. I again donned the launcher
and allowed that macho bullshit to push me through it, that
stuff that "makes a man." I yelled over my shoulder
to send the ready signal, but there was no response. I turned
around to see all the men crouched around the backside of
the car. I saw little eager eyes peaking over the roof, and
fingers jammed into ears. I thought, "Are they protecting
themselves from the blast or just from the pieces of me?"
I gave a count down and milliseconds after the familiar click
a bomb exploded all round me. The ground encircling bounced
forth and left itself in a cracked state. The smoke dissipated
for just long enough to see the hazy trail of the rocket propelling
its way down range at an incredible speed, and exploding later
in a fury of dirt, black smoke and fire. Happy as I was, I felt
a little unimpressed, I guess Hollywood makes explosions look
too good in the films. I half expected a large ball of fire
to billow into the sky and armed men to go screaming into
the air, as I wipe the sweat from my glistening biceps and
spit into the dirt with contempt at their communist ways.
We fired off more machine guns and some grenades, but never
quite filled that void that only great expectations leave.
I slept off the adrenaline on the way back to town and drowned
the day in Angkor Beer on the lakeside by my guesthouse room.
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