Cambodia Would Never Know Drought

After finally finding a place to eat last night in the Riverside area, we walked along the boardwalk and observed the scene. It is interesting to see the tourist taking romantic strolls, Cambodian youth doing dance work outs and playing games, along side snack vendors selling fried spiders and fish. With the idyllically clean streets, under the fairy tale lampposts there are also a few families setting up for the night, their children sleeping in their laps as they overlook the river, while their other children bed barefoot in their pajamas, offering any type of service imaginable to the passers by, as a cop jokes with his friends and turns a blind eye.
We woke bright and early and went to the Russian Market for breakfast before doing some historical tourism. We may have caused a verbal argument between some Tuk Tuk drivers, but still managed to get a good deal. We took the long dusty road to The Killing Fields, where the Khmer Rouge would play loud music from a tree so that the moans could not be heard of the innocent people they were killing. More than 20,000 people died in this one small killing place. The 17 tiers of bones that were excavated are a humbling sight to see, while the children at the nearby school at recess create an eerie presence. They took them from S21 in the dead of night to avoid detection, also to avoid detection, they never shot their victims, they instead hit them in the head with blunt objects, cut their heads with machete’s, or sawed their neck with wood from a Palm tree. To avoid the stench, lye was placed over the mass grave, just in case someone was still alive.
Making our way back into the city, we stopped at S21, a former high school made into a prison camp. Classrooms were divided into small animal stalls with only a small square hole to peek into , a chain and bowl of water on the floor. This is the place people were taken before they went to The Killing Fields we visited. Taken in the dead of night to avoid detection. Of the rows and rows of photographs filling many rooms, only seven survived. They were placed in age groups; photos of men, then women, then teenagers by gender, then nearly a whole room full of pictures of children. A little toddler stuck on the wall as if he had neon lights. What was his crime? The fact that he was born to a teacher? Or someone with glasses? This reminds me of a student I have back home. His father was  a doctor in Cambodia, now works at a cereal packaging company. The price people pay for freedom is indeed high. We took a moment to look at the plumeria trees in the courtyard, surrounded by medieval playground equipment, which was turned into torture and interrogation devices before we boarded the bus for Siem Reap.