Was it UNESCO or Nhem En that wanted to develop the site, to memorialize and remember? It was another contradiction. I glanced over at the men in the shade, still watching me. The site was gray and drab. Maybe my research into Anlong Veng’s Pol Pot–worshipping had been wrong and maybe Samithy was right—maybe people in Anlong Veng did just want to forget. We continued on to the town’s second biggest tourist attraction, Ta Mok’s house: several stilted wooden structures clustered in brown earth, swept immaculately clean. With childlike murals and thick tree trunks as doorposts, it wasn’t a poor person’s house. At an altar near the entrance, bowls brimmed with fruit, stalks of bananas fanned open, and incense smoldered.
“Who brings that here?” I asked.
Samithy gave a shrug. “Maybe his family.”
“It’s very nice.”
Samithy nodded. “He lived here, in this big nice house”—he swept his arm across the empty room—“free.”
We roamed the grounds for another few moments, more because I felt like I should than out of any real interest. What were tourists supposed to do in Anlong Veng, with the barren grounds and minimal sign markings, with hot wind, dust, and abandoned buildings? We got into the van and pulled away from the grounds, past a lonesome vendor and a bored security guard. Samithy took out his cell phone and called Nhem En.
In his fusty office, Nhem En placed two warm water bottles in front of us. He took three cell phones out of his various pockets and lined them up on the desk in front of him. He spent a good minute arranging them to his liking. Then he folded his hands and smiled at me.
“Who is the museum’s audience?” I asked.
As I waited for Samithy’s translation, I watched Mr. Nhem’s face—dark, pocked skin, smooth comb-over. He looked a little like a frog, and his voice was high-pitched.
“Of the 2.8 million visitors to Angkor Wat,” Samithy said, “maybe thirty to fifty percent will come to the Genocide Museum.” Mr. Nhem’s number was off by nearly a million; there’d been only 2 million visitors to Angkor Wat the previous year. I asked what he’d based this figure on.
“There are two main objectives of tourists to Cambodia: to see temples and to know the genocide history. Last year, people from one hundred and ninety-two countries came to Angkor Wat. And now we have the new road to Anlong Veng. So they will come.”
I asked him if there had been any research into the level of interest, surveys, even, but the question seemed to get muddled in translation. I took a sip of my warm water. Mr. Nhem got more animated as he spoke, focusing on the stats of the proposed museum: he had 13 hectares of land on which to build the museum; there were currently 500 hotel rooms for tourists; there were “many” restaurants. There was “ninety percent security safety” in the area.
All the numbers Mr. Nhem were giving me differed from those he’d reported to the Phnom Penh Post. To them, he’d claimed possession of thousands of photographs, not hundreds, and access to over three times the amount of land. It occurred to me that I was in a place where facts were fluid, malleable, open to inflation depending upon who was asking.
In addition to the memorabilia and photographs, Mr. Nhem was also in possession of over 200 Khmer Rouge propaganda songs (to the Phnom Penh Post, he’d claimed to have thousands), the kind that would crackle over loudspeakers in the fields as people worked 18-hour days. Would I like to hear one? Before my translated response could reach him, Mr. Nhem lifted one of the cell phones and began pushing buttons. A tinny song blared out, a nasal voice distorted through the small speaker.
Mr. Nhem closed his eyes and listened. A smile spread across his face.
“This song,” Samithy said, “would play in the morning.”
The comment wasn’t a translation.
Of course, there were more artifacts for the museum, Mr. Nhem told me, but he could not discuss further plans with anyone other than his partners.
“I have a great objective,” Samithy continued, translating Mr. Nhem’s words. “To make a museum for the history. And if you can cooperate as an international partner, it will benefit not only you and your family but the Cambodian people.” A pause. “And world history.” Another pause. “And it will help develop Anlong Veng.”
Samithy shifted slightly in his chair. “And you can meet with an international lawyer to discuss the long-term financial benefits.
“But there is one thing.” Mr. Nhem picked his teeth with a toothpick and smacked his lips. “There are many people who have criticisms of the museum plan. They say I have a small heart, that it will preserve a bad history. I know this, but I want to preserve the history for the new generation.” Samithy’s voice wavered a bit. “I want to keep it for the young people, so they won’t follow in my way.”
Mr. Nhem placed the toothpick on the table and folded his hands. “So I need a partner who will not listen to that criticism.”
We sat there, all three of us quiet.
Mr. Nhem broke the silence by turning on his digital camera. He started showing me pictures of other “potential investors”: scruffy-looking white guys wearing cargo shorts and bemused expressions, like they weren’t really sure how they’d wandered into the picture. Mr. Nhem continued to scroll through. There were photos from the American War Museum in Ho Chi Minh City—old uniforms and recreated war scenes, an army hammock. This was where he’d gotten the idea for the museum, he told me. Maybe if I became a partner, we could go to Ho Chi Minh together to look at the museum.
Mr. Nhem was getting nowhere with me. Finally he changed tactics and decided that maybe people who weren’t investors could see the future museum’s artifacts after all—did I want to come to his house to take a look? He put his three cell phones in various pockets and we headed back into the heat. Mr. Nhem hopped onto his motorbike while I followed Samithy to the van. I wanted to ask Samithy if this guy was for real: if he really thought I had $120,000; if he really thought I’d give it to him if I did; if this museum was as much of a scam as it seemed. But before I could ask, Samithy looked at me and said, “He has a very great idea.”
Samithy stared over the steering wheel. “He is not a big man. Like I say, all the big men are in Phnom Penh now. But he has a great objective.” He looked over at me and nodded. “He would be a good business partner. This is a great opportunity for you.”
Mr. Nhem’s house was a stifling wooden structure with a makeshift market out front. The air sagged around the boxes piled up—bottles of water and flip-flops and tissues and cell-phone cards, things he sold from beneath the desolate and unmanned beach umbrella. He introduced me to his wife. She pressed her palms together and bowed. By country standards, it was a rich person’s house—it had two full stories and furniture. Framed photographs lined the walls, hanging from haphazard nails. Some were Barbie-esque wedding photos; others resembled mug shots of startled-looking relatives, now deceased. There were many photos of Mr. Nhem, posed with various Westerners, standing before podiums and microphones in shabby conference rooms. “This is the old U.S. ambassador.”
He pointed my attention to a different photo, an old one of him. He looked young and fresh-faced; he was wearing all black. His cheeks were round and his skin had a healthy glow—not someone suffering from malnutrition or overwork. If it hadn’t been for the black pajamas and krama scarf, he could have been an upright, eager young peasant from anywhere. In the photo, he held a camera in his hand.
“This is from 1976, when I went to study in China.” Samithy’s eyes slinked across me as he translated, discreetly scanning my face for some kind of recognition. I knew the significance of the statement. The year 1976 was the middle of the Khmer Rouge reign; no one was going off to study in China unless the regime had sent him there, and unless he’d been deemed valuable. I decided not to reveal that I understood the importance of this. In the home of a former Khmer Rouge cadre in a town without foreigners, with a tour guide who contradicted most of what I’d learned, I instead gave a half smile and nodded.
“The museum will show ma
ny photos like this,” Samithy translated.
We followed Mr. Nhem upstairs and sat on metal folding chairs. Mr. Nhem fished out a big reel of keys and jangled through them. He cranked open a metal cupboard where objects in large ziplock bags lined the shelves. He took them out, one at a time, tenderly displaying them for me:
“Here are Pol Pot’s shoes.” They were a pair of rubber sandals not as weathered as they ought to have been.
“Here is the Genocide Camera.” It was a vintage-looking box camera.
“Here’s Pol Pot’s cap.” Mr. Nhem flopped it onto his head and smiled.
“Do you want to try on Pol Pot’s hat?” Mr. Nhem took it off his head and extended it toward me.
I waved it away: no, thank you; I would not like to try on Pol Pot’s hat.
There were other artifacts: Mr. Nhem’s notebook from his trip to China, and a rusted old hand-crank radio once used to connect with China. Mr. Nhem wanted me to know that he could certify the authenticity of these artifacts, and it was only when he said that that it occurred to me that there was really no way to prove these artifacts were real.
Then he began to take out photos, plastic sheets without their album covers: freeze-frame glimpses of jungles and soldiers and wooden meeting rooms.
Here was one of Pol Pot’s wives, now withered with dementia and awaiting trial in Phnom Penh.
Here was the man who had killed Son Sen, another higher-up.
And here was Pol Pot.
He looked elegant in a crisp linen suit. It must have been tailored, the way it hung so perfectly. He was leaning slightly on a railing, a green vista spread out behind him. His salt-and-pepper hair was combed back. His eyes had delicate lines around them. He looked like an aging Hollywood star; he looked like someone’s wealthy Asian grandpa. It was the kind of photo that belonged on a mantel.
As I stared, Mr. Nhem interrupted. “He wants to take a picture of you,” Samithy told me.
I looked up at Mr. Nhem and something in me buzzed. I thought of all the faces he’d photographed, the thousands of people tortured and executed, their bones later laid out in tourist displays. The former photographer of S-21 wants to take your picture, I thought. I’m not sure if I said anything or if I just sat there, shaking my head no. Samithy encouraged me, though, so I dragged myself up and stood by the metal cabinet with Mr. Nhem, sweaty and stiff. I winced a smile. The camera flashed. Mr. Nhem grinned and took the camera from Samithy, examining the viewfinder. He showed it to me—I looked like a strange, ghostly version of myself, wearing the same expression as those other white faces, the other “potential donors” Mr. Nhem had showed me earlier. I considered the fact that I would likely become another face he showed to another foreigner who traipsed through.
I sat back down, now itching to leave, every instinct in my body now screaming that it was now time to go, to get out of this house and this town, to get as far away as possible.
Mr. Nhem pulled out a big bound book and flipped to a bookmarked page. It was a list of donors, a hand-drawn chart with their names, nationalities, and the amounts they’d given. Was this different than leaving donations at a Rwandan or Armenian museum? Was this all just a scrappier version of Bill Clinton raising millions of dollars to open a Bosnian memorial? I didn’t know. All I knew was that there was no way to verify where the money was actually going, and no way I was getting out of this, but in that moment I didn’t care. I just hoped it would get me out of there faster. I fished $5 out of my purse and handed it to him, hoping it’d help me leave sooner. I tried not to look at Samithy as I did this, but I couldn’t help it—I could feel him watching me. But then Samithy took the book from me and began writing his name down. He opened his own wallet and took out $10.
I got up, began to inch my way down the stairs. Mr. Nhem kept wanting to show me things, kept wanting to thank me; he wanted my phone number. His wife gave me another warm bottle of water. I was sick to my stomach. I just wanted to get into the van; I just wanted the air-conditioning to come on; I just wanted to go home. As I climbed into the van, Mr. Nhem called out to me. “He says that maybe you can find a millionaire from your country to become an investor,” Samithy told me. “Since there are many there.”
Samithy and I were silent for the first part of the ride back. He stared forward at the highway. “That man,” he said at last, “he is one of the ones who killed my family.
“Maybe not him,” Samithy continued after a pause. “Maybe he didn’t do the killing, but someone like him.” He paused again. “Maybe he photographed my parents before they died.”
“Were your parents at S-21?” I asked at last.
Samithy shrugged. “I don’t know,” he answered. “We were separated very early on. My parents, they were high-class people. They were the kind of people they killed at S-21. So maybe he met them there.”
The silence hummed. I felt the heat blazing in. “He went to China in 1976,” Samithy said, scanning my face the way he had back at Mr. Nhem’s house.
“I know,” I said, looking at my hands.
I asked Samithy if he thought Mr. Nhem was a bad man. He nodded. “Yes, I think he is a bad man. He helped kill many people.”
“Then why,” I cleared my throat, croaked the words out, “why did you give him money?” Why did you want me to become an investor? I wanted to ask.
“I give him because I must forgive.” He paused then added, “I am a Buddhist.”
“Yes, but aren’t you angry? To see that man, like that? Because I’d—” I stopped myself. I was going to say I’d be angry, but I realized that wasn’t quite true. I shook my head, corrected myself, “Because I’m angry.”
“But how can I live if I am angry?” Samithy answered. “How can I work? How can I take care of my family? It’s very painful; he is a bad man who did many bad things and he is free. He is not just free; he live a good life. He has a good position and a nice house. Me, I am taxi driver. For me, this is painful.”
The sky ahead of us was heavy, the heat pushing against the sealed windows.
“I think the museum is a good idea. I think he should build it, because it is important. I think maybe he use the money I give for drink, for girls.” He shrugged. “But I give anyway.”
“I don’t get it,” I finally said, slumping against the seat, my nose twitching with the sting of tears.
“It’s because I’m Buddhist.”
I shook my head. “I understand that. I understand you’re Buddhist. But I’m not. I’m American and I . . . I’m just angry.”
“For me,” Samithy said, “it’s just painful.”
We fell into another silence. I considered the fact that after a day of contradictions, this was the first time it felt like Samithy was being truly upfront with me. How was someone, anyone, supposed to move on in a country where the trauma was still so palpable? Where all the same men were still there; where the remnants of the war were that easy to touch and sit next to and give money to? If the wound was still that open, how could tourism do anything but scrape against it?
We fell into another silence. The ruggedly logged landscape passed outside the window. The heat was a hand pushing in on us. Finally it burst and the rain started. It was a real rain, one of those Southeast Asian ones you can’t hide from. Umbrellas, ponchos—they don’t do anything. There’s no fighting it; you just have to surrender.
And that’s what people did. Outside the window, I watched the young boys on motorbikes not bothering to cover themselves; I saw women walking slowly alongside the road, their clothes stuck to their bodies. Skeletal cattle blinked placidly in the puddles that had suddenly formed in the fields.
No one looked for shelter.
MONTE REEL
Camino Real
FROM The New York Times Magazine
BEFORE THE PASSENGERS turned on the driver and began plotting a mutiny, the ride was smooth. The bus rolled out of the station in São Paulo at about four o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon last July, and within an hour it had sha
ken free of the city’s clotted tunnels, jammed overpasses, and coded graffiti. By six, we were barreling straight into a lurid sunset that endowed everything with the candied luster of fresh paint. Green hills, silver ponds, golden palms. Two parrots soared in tandem over a sugarcane field, inviting us to drift into a pastoral trance.
Then the engine’s fan belt snapped. The bus limped into a roadside service station about 220 miles from São Paulo.
“In a half hour we’ll be ready to go,” Mauro Yodes, our cheerful driver, assured us. “Go ahead and get something to eat at the café, if you want.”
This was the only bus that advertised start-to-finish service on the recently completed Interoceanic Highway, the first paved route to fully cross the big green heart of South America. The breakdown should have been a useful reminder that South American cross-continental travel was still new and many kinks had yet to be worked out. But we were antsy. We had so much ground to cover.
The bus was supposed to cross 3,500 miles of pavement (roughly the same distance as a flight from New York to Paris) in about 96 hours. My plan was to disembark early, about 50 hours into the trip, then I’d cobble together a series of shorter bus routes, which would allow me to spend time in towns and villages, all the way to the Pacific coast. Mauro told us he planned to stop for just 40 minutes a day—enough time, theoretically, for each passenger to wash up and buy food and drinks at a gas station. For the other 23 hours and 20 minutes, as he shared driving duties with his partner, José, we’d be confined to rigid seats—benumbed contortionists sweeping crumbs from our laps.
Among those onboard were more than a dozen unrelated Peruvians who worked in São Paulo and were returning home to visit family; a few Brazilians on vacation; a college professor from Ecuador who said he was studying the continent’s “touristic infrastructure”; and a young couple from Cuzco, laboring heroically to entertain their 18-month-old daughter.
The various nationalities rarely mingled. The informal segregation reflected the continent itself, where two of the Western Hemisphere’s most isolating geographical features—the Amazon basin and the Andes mountain range—have always gotten in the way of a unified South American culture. Lowland Brazilians and highland Peruvians couldn’t be more different—in language, in genetic ancestry, in culinary traditions. But now an unbroken strip of common ground unites them, and every time someone makes the journey from one end of the Interoceanic to the other, the clean divisions between regions blur a little.
The Best American Travel Writing 2015 Page 30