THAT RED DIRT SHOWER

 Man I miss those showers.

The water heated by the sun, washing away that orange dirt picked up from a long day travelling the contours of some contested zone. Government probing Khmer Rouge or Khmer Rouge chasing them back. Always fluid. So you gotta be all pert, senses on high alert, locked on, focussed. Then the sun sinks, saying "that's enough for today." So it's back to whatever refuge you have found, hotel, hovel, brothel. And then that shower. Drencher or bucket and scoop, heavenly. The Grand in Siem Reap being the best, like an ageing silent film star, it was shabby but still echoed elegance. It clung to illusions of grandeur, confident of a comeback, due to the effort of that marvellous Swiss manager - Rudolf was it? - who would do anything to help you and help get your story out, a big deal in those pre-mobile days. Less elegant was him recommending you hit the bath tub if shit hit the fan at night. Was the only guest in the place for the later three of the six day UN poll in 93. The hotel was packed on day one with global stars and Japanese with almost coffin sized satellite phones. They would be outside the hotel trying to align with the gods as I walked out and headed to UN Military Observer office where I would ask to use the phone. I would dictate the copy and an hour later as I re-entered the Grand my wealthy colleagues were still searching for celestial contact. Then on day one over 85% of the population voted and the Khmer Rouge's odd rocket fire went without dramatic consequence. So by day three the stars were bored and the gods weren't listening. So everyone bailed. I mean everyone. Bar wannabe me. Think of The Shining dreaming of Michelin stars. Walking alone down those colonial corridors heading to bed, it felt pure Conrad. And if the heat wakes you, you sleepwalk to the shower. Then breakfast comes with me sitting by myself being attended to by about 10 staff. And there was a bar. Of course. With a barman. What more could an apprentice foreign correspondent ask for? Spent day 6 touring the temples without seeing a soul. Not even a coke seller. When I got back late afternoon I thought the sun had got to me. I thought I heard voices coming from the bar. A few of them. And this is getting trippy, They sound Irish. I stroll into the bar to discover three Irish policemen and three Irish election supervisors. So we had a drink. And then another. And many more. Then it was time for a shower, And dinner. At least the guest to staff ratio was now 1:2 as opposed to 1:10. I almost forgot to mention, I was getting paid to do this..

Crossing Cambodia's Great Lake Into The Khmer Rouge Controlled Heart Of Darkness

Crossing Cambodia's great lake, the Tonle Sap, on a heavily armed boat with Liz Gilliland. Siem Reap 95.

Crossing the Tonle Sap on a heavily armed boat heading into the Khmer Rouge infested marshlands '95. Just visible in front is an armoured naval patrol boat and we had fifty cal machine guns mounted in skiffs on our port n starboard sides. We were not taking chances.This was the badlands. It was also beautiful. And I had just fallen in love with Liz, featured. This was my idea of a heavenly honeymoon. Everything fascinating and terrifying about life ram-packed into a day. A gov anti Khmer Rouge unit had been accused by the UN of going rogue and kidnapping for ransom, maintaining a secret prison in the marshlands, murdering those without ransom money to pay and dining on their livers. All the usual lovely stuff. So armed up to the teeth, the gov took us across the lake and into the marshlands. The purpose was to show us that there was no secret prison ie there was no massive old colonial fortress with bars. But you didn't need that shit. Out there there was no escape. You were upriver in Col Kurtz territory. We stopped off on a nearby little island where jittery gov troops were dug in with deathly seriousness in a unprecedented disciplined manner. These guys were not messing around. And whatever went down as sun did too was real Heart of Darkness drama. Sometimes the war seemed distant, almost quaint. But not out here. That's why there were three other gun boats escorting us. Tried to interview some locals about prisons and prisoners but with gov officials and soldiers all around, we got nowhere. Adding later credibility and added horror to the report was the subsequent attack on a UN official outside his home in Phnom Penh. Assailants stole his car. With his 3 year old daughter still in the back. She was later dumped outside the royal palace. A supposed act of mercy as it was a place she would soon be found. Not so merciful was the fact they shot the toddler in the leg. This was a daughter of a man who worked for the office that produced the report about the secret prison way out on the lake. So we're now back on the lake. Starting the return journey. Feeling a bit more relaxed. Thinking this is some holiday. But despite all the colourful and panoramic vistas and the fact that we were way way way off the still to emerge tourist path, there was the incoming from the brutal backdrop of violence, war and tragedy. Fresh love and novel passion was doing a good enough job at providing Kevlar for my soul and keeping the horrors at bay. But you were not allowed to just sit and dig sunsets. Not in this show. So it was good to have company as distraction. And all of the accompanying intensity of 'foxhole romance.' And Liz was thrilled to lig along. And presumably to be with me. Hopping the helicopters and boats without question. I was being treated like a big shot. If it wasn't so comical I might have tried -and then failed - to spin it as impressive. But enough about me. The entourage on the boat stopped off at floating crocodile farms and other fishing villages. Although most of the big floating fishing villages had disappeared. The Khmer Rouge had pulled off a successful campaign to ethnically cleanse the area of Vietnamese fishing people who lived in boathouses in floating villages along the great lake. Attacks culminating in a 93 massacre of around 40 villagers led to a mass exodus down the Mekong to the Vietnamese border. There was very little sympathy forthcoming from most Cambodians at the time. The usual show. Brutality and beauty. As King Sihanouk said: "We smile but we also kill." What a day. 

Pic by me.