In the waning months of 1993 I happened to run into my old high-school friend, Chris Riley. He had just returned from working in Hong Kong and Cambodia as a photo-journalist. He described a proposal he had put together involving "priceless photographic archives in Cambodia, threatened by a volatile political situation, years of neglect, lack of resources and the absence of staff trained to deal with them..." The archives were from the S-21 detention center, "where 20,000 Cambodians were imprisoned, photographed, interrogated, and tortured during the Khmer Rouge's rule from 1975-79..." We met a few weeks later and over a game of pool he explained the urgency involved because the recent elections in Cambodia created a coalition government that was trying to appease the Khmer Rouge and there was a distinct possibility that elements of the KR would join the government. I volunteered to help on the project in any way I could. Several weeks later we met and Chris told me that he was going in January whether or not he had raised all the money. I committed to go with him and to help raise money. I made arrangements to pay my way to Cambodia and live for at least a month. Chris was predicting it would take three to four months to finish the project.
We arrived in Hong Kong at 8:30 pm, Tuesday, February 1st. It was a very efficient airport, decorated like a British public lavatory. Riley had arranged for us to stay with John McDougal, a photographer Chris knew from the Agence France Presse. The plan was to meet him at the Press Club. The Press Club is in downtown Hong Kong just on the edge of the red-light district. We carried our luggage up the tiny elevator and into the club. Chris and I had both packed two small bags and each of us carried a box of chemicals. Immediately we were greeted by some friends of Chris' and were invited to join them at their table. John was not there. We quaffed a few pints of Guinness and talked of the project. Someone asked if I had ever been to Cambodia before and I replied that I had never been to Asia before. Comments ensued suggesting that Cambodia was the most intense and inhospitable introduction to Asia that you could imagine. The assembled group consisted of magazine correspondents and photo editors. We exchanged cards and continued to converse until John Eichelberger, another friend of Chris', joined us. He is a painter and lives out on the island of Chung Chao with his girlfriend Michelle who works as a photo editor at the AFP. He sat with us for a while and then we got a call from John McDougal. He was at home and suggested we just meet him there. So Eichelberger, Riley, and I got a cab over to McDougal's apartment where we drank fine single malt and retired.
The next morning McDougal went off to work early and Chris and I woke as he was leaving and had tea with him. Then we set out for breakfast and our plan was to visit Eichelberger at his place on the island. He had left the night before in time to catch the late ferry. Chris knew his way around so we walked through a beautiful central park that was a few blocks from McDougal's. Uniformed school children and old men were doing Tai Chi surrounded by beautiful plants and exotic birds in aviaries with the skyscrapers fencing the sky. We emerged from the far side of the park into the thick chaos of cars and people and trolleys and merchants. The narrow streets were overburdened with intricate signs and neon banners. Laundry and air conditioners dangled from every window.
We went into a Japanese mega-store that Chris knew had a juice bar and decent food. The main floor was like a supermarket and lots of little kiosks lined the walls selling sushi or juice and some things I couldn't guess at. We had fresh squeezed OJ and some sticky rice wraps. Then we got on a trolley to the Business District. The double decked trolleys were tall and narrow and colorful, built of wood and designed for small people and packed full.
We walked to the near-by Ho Gallery where Eichelberger’s paintings were on display. They were stark interpretations of the Hong Kong skyline framed in thick blocks of concrete.
We made the two o'clock ferry. The weather had cleared and it was a pleasant hour-long trip to the island. We were met at the dock by John. The island has no roads; only narrow walkways. We decided to buy food for a barbecue and John had to find some charcoal tablets for Michelle who had an upset stomach. So we wandered through the dark maze-like streets from shop to shop asking at each apothecary for charcoal tablets and having no success. None of the merchants spoke any English. We then proceeded to the fish market. It was actually a fish and meat market with blood flowing down the gutters and flies and the stench of flesh. We picked out a nice sized white fish of unknown variety that was swimming around in a little pool. The fishmonger, once informed of our choice, took the fish out and casually banged it's head on the edge of the table and then wrapped it in paper. We left the narrow streets and followed a series of steps and inclined walkways up the hill towards the house, stopping at a small cafe to buy six large Krønenbergs. We passed a school yard and several large homes of deco-style architecture and pastel colors. The flora encroached the path as we reached the top of the island and only the gates to homes were visible. Just at the apex we reached John and Michelle's house. It also was a pastel deco-style. Clearly built in the twenties and overgrown and crumbling it was perched right on the ridge dividing the island and afforded a spectacular view of the South China Sea from the porch. Which is where we settled into our beers and conversation.
The inside of the house was adorned with John's paintings and curios that he found in the yard; old tin cans and rusty old toys all with intricate and humorous Chinese designs. Michelle had cut out small drawings from an English language book and put them in small black wood frames hanging in odd places in every room. It could have been the inside of an artist's loft in SoHo. As the sun set we gathered up wood and started the barbecue. A friend of theirs named Greg joined us for the meal and brought more beer. He also lived on the island. We drank and talked well into the evening. The last ferry to Hong Kong left at 11:30 pm and John and Greg walked us down to the dock. We stopped at the house of an old Chinese lady who knew John and Greg and even remembered Chris from when he lived on the island. We stopped and talked with her for a while. We mentioned that we were going to Cambodia in the morning and she got very serious and warned us: "very dangerous"... It was a strange situation- we were all a bit drunk having a lively conversation with an old Chinese woman who spoke only a little English in the darkness of the constricted and quiet streets of this island. I was beginning to realize that I had no idea what to expect upon arriving in Phnom Penh; everyone we met to whom we mentioned that we were going to Cambodia looked afraid for our safety and sanity.
We just made the last ferry and napped through the trip. A taxi took us to the Press Club where we met John McDougal and although he insisted we stay and drink, Chris and I were exhausted and our flight to Cambodia was early the next morning.
After a fitful sleep and fighting off a painful hang-over I awoke before dawn. Able to shower and shave while John slept-in, we had a cup of tea with him before we left. There was a taxi stand around the corner from the apartment and we lugged our bags and boxes over just in time to meet the first cab. We got to the airport in time to settle into a couple of bloody marys before departure.
The plane was empty. We had the entire rear section of the airbus to ourselves. After we had settled into our drinks Chris said, "When we land, let me do all the talking." He began imparting his knowledge of Cambodian temperament in anticipation of our arrival with a cargo hold of darkroom chemicals and equipment and the expected customs hassle this would elicit. "Showing impatience or raising your voice only makes them angry. If a Cambodian starts smiling or laughing out of context as you are venting your frustration at them, be assured they are plotting your ultimate demise." He also stressed the importance of keeping the nature of our project a secret because half the government would likely oppose it and the Khmer Rouge were still actively killing.
Our Australian pilot for Dragon Air informed us as we were in the final approach that the runway was a tad short for the 737 jet we were propelled through the void in. He went on to say that the runway was pitted and cracked. He told us not to worry if the plane buckled and rocked. He was an expert pilot and the plane only seemed to tear itself apart at the seams when he laid on the breaks and the wheels recoiled from the pockmarked tarmac. We were unceremoniously deposited via a rickety portable staircase onto the scorching hot runway. The humidity was tangible, as if the atmosphere had turned to warm jello. Doug Niven, Chris' friend and co-director of the project, approached us as we lugged our carry-on past the tail engine's exhaust plume. He wore a Ministry of Information press pass which heartened us as to our chances of an easy entry into Cambodia. This was not to be.
We were corralled into the main terminal building which resembled a warehouse. Dozens of customs officials stood about looking officious. The throng of recent arrivals pressed up to the counter waving passports and entry cards. The smart ones were flashing $20 bills as well. The customs squad picked out the moneyed travelers and those with American or European passports and slowly processed their visas. It was an hour before we were allowed to pay for our visas and move on to the next hurdle. We fought our way through a confused mass of travelers who shared no common tongue or concept of how to pass through the oblivious agents of Cambodian customs. More forms were required to be filled out, even though no one who accepted our honest and exhaustive descriptions of our non-declarable and declarable goods could understand a word of what we had written. We were permitted to pass out the other side of the terminal into a sea of rag-wearing children and legless, armless beggars. There was nothing in-between: no duty free, no information booth, no 'welcome to Cambodia sign', just a glass door slid open by several Khaki clad soldiers who required one last glance at our passports and visas.
Just past the pawing beggars were the shouting and jostling taxi drivers. We had arranged for a car, we even had a 'fixer'- a Cambodian translator who was also a reporter for the Agence France Presse (AFP), named Sok. Riley and I had passed with comparative ease through customs but our cargo had been driven straight from the plane to a building across the street from the airport (down a raised dirt road that ran between paddy fields). It only took an hour or so to determine that this building was where our cargo had been taken. It was then a matter of showing our letter from the Ministry of Culture to the agents in charge with Sok properly interfacing for us. Unfortunately the customs agents could not lift a finger without a letter from the Ministry of Customs. We determined that we would have to take our letter from the Ministry of Culture to the Ministry of Customs. As all these ministries were downtown we decided to settle into our digs and have lunch. We dinned at a fine restaurant called Déja Vu, run by Anthony from Britain and Kelly from New Zealand. They are a charming young couple and served up fine European cuisine in a beautiful French Colonial building that just happened to be across the street from the current Khmer Rouge headquarters.
After lunch, Niven, Riley, and Sok, went to the Ministry of Customs only to be told that their letter was no longer valid as it was issued by the UN interim government that had been replaced by the newly elected Royal Government of Cambodia. It should be mentioned that the conflicting parties in the new government are the same conflicting groups that had been at war for the last ten years. The CCP Minister of Culture supported our project because it could be used as propaganda against the Khmer Rouge. The FUNCINPEC party would be less favorable as they had been allied with the KR during the war.
We had to recover our equipment from the cargo storage area before the photographic paper and chemicals were ruined by the heat. This required that we shuffle from one ministry to the next dropping $5 bills for secretaries and bottles of Scotch for Ministers in order to get letters to get letters to verify the letters we already had. This took several days and in the end we find we were being charged a 'storage fee'. We got to show five different customs agents the letter we finally acquired from the Minister of Customs and all were equally unimpressed. We had our translator fill out detailed forms that even he couldn't understand. Then we had to fill them out again because each Air-bill needed a separate form. It was at this point that we began to wonder where they could store all this paperwork- their desks had no drawers and the rooms were barren of file cabinets. It seemed like they were playing a game and would use our papers to cook dinner with. When we finally had the forms in order, customs wanted to inspect each box. We opened boxes explaining in vain through our interpreter what an enlarger is, what a print washer is, and please don’t open those boxes of light-sensitive paper! (thanks). After inspecting ten boxes the agent stamped our forms and sent us to the final hurdle. The last stamp we needed was in the hands of a bureaucrat who took the trouble to note that our letter from the Minister of customs refers to Air-bill #0516320 instead of #0516350 and he will not release our stuff without a signed and stamped correction from the Minister. On Monday we would give the minister’s secretary $5 to correct her mistake. We signal the driver of the van we have rented to drive up to the loading area and he backs off the road into a paddy field . We have to extricate the heavy van before they close the building. This takes hours in extreme heat. We finally pile enough heavy boxes on the back of the van for the wheels to grip the sandy berm of the road. It was a final irony that when we finally loaded the van no customs agents checked to see which or how many boxes we took. We drove back to the AFP villa and took the champagne out of the freezer where it had been since we arrived. We allowed it to thaw in the 100 degree breeze and then commenced to celebrate. Next we would construct the darkroom.
The room we decided to convert into the darkroom was a large extension to the kitchen that the guard's wife, Ming, used as a laundry room and was often a place where the guard, Sam, could be found napping. It had fifteen foot ceilings, decaying and moldy walls, a concrete floor, one large window facing the alley (where the landlady and her family lived), and two windows facing a dark passageway. There was no door: it was separated from the kitchen by a three quarter length wall. Our first step would be to paint the walls and ceiling to create a moisture barrier and keep the old flaking paint from circulating as dust. We arranged to rent a 50-cc Honda motorcycle through Mr. Sahm, the office manager at AFP. He recommended one that wasn't too new or too powerful so as to be less appealing to thieves. With this we would set out to the market to buy cleaning materials and paint.
Niven had made arrangements for us to stay at the AFP villa. The rooms were spacious and shared a stark bathroom. Each had an air conditioner, a large bed with mosquito netting, wardrobe, desk, chair, and fan. The lights were fluorescent tubes but we later purchased small reading lights. As the power supply was always in flux we used our mini-mag flashlights more often than not. The villa is walled and gated and the guard and his wife and daughter live in what was once the garage. Niven lived at the villa but the AFP corespondent, Kevin Barrington, rented an apartment several blocks away. The AFP had a large generator sitting in the courtyard next to the badminton court for use during the frequent blackouts and brownouts. It often overheated or ran out of fuel; so a small noisy generator was used as backup to keep the computers and wire-service machines running. It made a hell of a racket and spewed fumes all throughout the villa. Having air conditioners in our rooms was more of a tease than a relief as they never had any power to run on. The shower ( a pipe jutting out of the bathroom wall) held similar disappointment as it was supplied by a tank on the roof. The water was cold in the morning when a warm shower would’ve been nice and boiling hot in the evening when washing the sweat and grime from the days travails called for cold water. When the power was out the pump did not carry any water to the roof and the shower would emit rude gurgling noises but no water.
After cleaning the future darkroom with various toxic chemical cleaners produced in Thailand, we put a few layers of thick leaded paint on the walls and ceiling. Even with a fan and all the windows open we were overcome by the fumes. The paint never really dried but the fumes dissipated after several days. We commissioned some local furniture makers to build the tables and shelves we would need. These turned out to be of extremely fine workmanship. We commissioned the making of print drying racks using a drawing from a catalog and these also were very well built. We needed to seal off the room from light and still afford plenty of air circulation. We covered the windows with sheets of plywood and cut holes for a fan and air-conditioner. The entrance was a more difficult proposition. The Cambodians build with hollow bricks stacked on top of one another with reinforcing rods through them. They then plaster over this. The entrance was plaster over brick and could not be hammered into. We had our builders rig a wood frame around the entrance then we stapled four interwoven layers of black curtains to this.
It's raining in Phnom Penh. Between the claps of thunder and flashes of lightning the reports of AK47's can be heard. Maguire, who can smoke joints like I smoke cigarettes, spent a day at the market looking for some quality pot and returned with a large bag of green buds and a small vial of hash oil. He smoked a few spinners with a healthy dab of the oil smeared the length of each joint and retired to his hotel room. Several days later he left the little brown vial at our office with a skull and crossbones drawn on a scrap of paper taped to it. The Cambodians apparently believe that shooting into the sky is a way of warding off the gods of heavy rain and thunder. It seems to work because it is usually clear the next morning. The sun filters through the lead fumes and presents a white canopy tinged with blue above the strange deco architecture . The buildings remind me of the fantasy cities depicted in Serge Clerc's comic book : The Adventures of Phill Perfect. Standing 4 to 5 stories above the wide tree-lined boulevards, they are divided into cubicles; each with some form of commercial enterprise at street level. A commercial enterprise can be anything from selling used tires, plumbing fixtures, or warm beer and soda. On the sidewalks, women sit on stools shaded by faded striped umbrellas selling cigarettes and gasoline (dispensing the gas from two litre plastic Pepsi bottles). A pack of cigarettes is one dollar. Two litres of gas is 1200 rial (about 50 cents).
The traffic on the pot-hole ridden roads of this capitol city consists of Japanese motor-scooters (Motos), three wheeled Cyclos, small children on adult-sized bikes, and 4-wheel-drive cars and trucks. There are no traffic rules. The right of way belongs to the bigger, stronger vehicle. Police, in their baby blue shirts and navy pants, stand under shade trees ready to extort money from anyone unlucky enough to stop-usually by collision or mechanical failure. No one ever intentionally stops while they are on the road. Pedestrians walk obdurately through the traffic swarming around them. Cyclos plod along, their driver sweating in the sun as his passengers press together under the sack-cloth umbrella. Motos, their drivers donning imitation wayfarers, with two or three or even six passengers clinging on, vie for position even as they veer around potholes, pedestrians, police, and Pathfinders. The cars and pickups and vans (most with U.N. or NGO markings) drive as if the streets were abandoned - only slowing or turning to avoid larger vehicles. Trucks drive down the center of the road and do not slow for anything.
I had never ridden any sort of motorcycle so Riley, having driven one during his last stay in Cambodia, taught me how to drive it, in a empty dirt parking lot which was insufficient preparation for the anarchy of the streets. To actually propel oneself and a passenger through the treacherous avenues, avoiding foot deep pot-holes, dunes of deep fine dirt, and the maniac drivers , required skills only experience could provide.
The chaos of the streets has its own soundtrack; everyone on the road must constantly beep their horns or ring their bells so that the person they are about to cut off knows they are about to be cut off. Roosters crowing, baby's crying, dogs barking, workers hammering, cell phones buzzing, guns popping, are mere background noise compared to the din of scooter and car horns.
Human beings quickly adapt to their environs and soon the noise, heat, dirt, exhaust, rotting garbage and open sewer odor, and mosquitos endemic to Phnom Penh had ceased to affect.
One evening Niven and I drove along the river-front to the Wat Phnom. We were waved through a roadblock manned by MPs, and stopped at a vietnamese ‘night drink’ bar. It was 20 meters from the roadblock on a corner facing the river. We sat outside by the curb and ordered a couple of Tiger beers. Apparently the thai beers come with complimentary vietnamese girl. One sat next to me and perplexingly began massaging my thumb ( this is not innuendo - I mean the actual thumb on my left hand ) Perhaps it was some secret sexual accupressure point. Niven was trying out his new vietnamese phrase-book asking the girl sitting next to him “Why is this shirt damaged”. A series of whistle blows sounded from the guards at the roadblock and we looked in time to see a man on a moto speed through the roadblock towards us. The whistles gave way to warning shots. The MPs fired several rounds into the air then lowered their guns. We dove under the table as they started shooting blindly after the fleeing moto. He escaped by turning down the side street next to the bar. A few rounds embedded themselves in the wall behind our seats.
Perkins was asked to provide a photo for a filler story that Shelly was writing about bats. Apparently, Phnom Penh has the largest urban population of bats in the world. the National History Museum’s attics are home to millions of little bats. He set out one morning with this information, a camera, and the promise of $25 american in cash. At the empty museum he met an old Khmer dressed in a grey uniform that denoted somehow his position as guard. He spoke a little english, introduced himself as “Dada”, and agreed to help Perkins find the bats. Now, every evening at sunset if you are sitting on the balcony of the FCC you can see these millions of bats all fly out of the big spooky museum, so we all knew they were there. Where you might find them during the day was the mystery. Dada led Perkins through the museum to the upper galleries and to the entrance to the attic. Along the way he got one of the other museum staff, a cleaning man to come with. This man agreed to show Perkins the attic for $3. Perkins gave him the money and the man disrobed down to his Kamar, telling Perkins to do the same. In his boots and boxer shorts Perkins followed the man up the thirty foot bamboo ladder to a dark hole in the ceiling with a Pentax and mounted flash unit around his shoulder. They stepped off the ladder onto the floor of the pitch black attic. The rafters were up still another twenty feet and it was raining bat shit. The floor was ankle deep guano, sticky with dead bugs of all sort and size. Perkins understood the reason for stripping down as he was quickly covered in white bat shit. Eager to get the shot and retreat he aims in the general direction of the roof and shoots. No flash. His batteries were dead. Returning down the ladder Perkins tells Dada that he will have to return later with new batteries. Dada smiles, gently flicks some guano off Perkins’ naked shoulder, and says, “No problem.” After going home and showering Perkins returned with fresh batteries and a hat. Dada was waiting with a bundled up shirt squirming with bats. He released them one at a time so Perkins could photograph the tiny pink bats as they flew off. The AFP ran one of these photos with Shelly’s piece, and he made $25 (less $3 for the guano guide).
