Pol Pot is Dead

His eyes stared wildly, lurking for the walkers. Sometimes he craned his neck, twisted it back, left, right. He saw a man standing in a crossroad, buried his minds in the map he’s holding, looking for directions. That man, with a large backpack on his back, shades over his eyes. A drop of sweat fell on his map, he wiped the rest with his left hand. Sighing, he stared at the dusty road.

“Wooo…, Man… Brother…” he seized the moment. He waited for the man to take away his eyes from the map. Just seconds, he yelled to the man.

“Wooo… you need tuk-tuk, man? Bro…? Sir…? Tuk-tuk?” he yelled. His face told a story that he was unlucky today. No one rode in his tuk-tuk yet. The man with backpack walked passively, back to his map, wiping his sweat…again.

“Sir, where you go? Tuk-Tuk? Where you from? Wooo…. Bro?” he yelled persistently. The man with backpack walked, not caring. He swore. Curse words only the Khmer would know.

He went back to his tuk-tuk, looking for shelter from the fierce sun. He sat in the back, a small radio hanging on his left; a radio that perhaps older than him. He turned the knob, a Khmer song heave slowly. These days, people are able to enjoy radio and television. They dance to the Khmer tones and even the western beats. They can relax a bit though earning a living is still a burden. They buried their fears, unlike when Pol pot ruled the country. Khmer Rouges as the French said. Over 2 million lives taken in such a short time. One song passed no sitter yet.

He stepped down, eyes ready. Three older women passed. A camera with a very long lens hanging on one of those women’s neck. They spoke in Russian or Croatian perhaps.

He wasted no time.

“Halo, where you go?”

The three women turned.

“We just want to walk around,” seseorang menjawab. Bahasa Inggrisnya terdengar khas dengan logat Eropa timur.

“We just want to walk around,” one of them replied with a heavy east Europe accent.

“Where you from?” he tried to converse.

“Czech,”

“Where is that?”

One of them tried to explain calmly, the other taking photos, recording words into pictures. He nodded. Not sure if he understood or simply he didn’t care. All he wanted was these three women rode with his tuk-tuk. He would take them anywhere as long as they paid enough.

“Tuk-tuk, madam?” finally, he muster up after the woman stopped talking. He offered his service.

“Where you go? Angkor Wat? Cheap, very cheap madam,” he pleaded. They apologized and walked.

He cursed in Khmer. Pol pot is dead. Red Khmer is history. Tourism rising. Pub street always packed. Always noisy. He, and many others, still penniless. Will it ends?

He went back, sank himself, and closed his eyes. Possibly dreaming about his kids get high education. The highest.

“Hallo, tuk-tuk.” Someone took him back to reality. A white woman. Looked like she was drunk. Drunk  in the middle of the day. He jumped vibrantly. His first sitter of the day.

“Where you go?” he asked.

“Can you take me to heaven?”

Siem Reap, Februari 2015