Free Cambodian Book of the Dead by Tom Vater

and laughed defensively. “The only subject that is safe to speak with strangers about. Everything else our little community talks about is so evil, you will not want to know.”
    He put special emphasis into the evil, like a real estate salesman or a priest talking up an unspeakable product to keep consumers tied to their own shoddy wares.
    â€œMaier.”
    The handshake was slack and moist. His English was perfect, but for the pronunciation. His voice was full of the pride he took in his own importance.
    â€œHenri Maupai, from Paris. I was regional director of Credit Nationale, but I got out of the rat-race early. Life is too short for working only, n’est-ce pas ?”
    Maier grinned at the Frenchman. That’s exactly what he looked like. Like a man who wanted to get something out of life, but had somehow missed the boat. Really a good-looking guy, but way too boxed in. Here, he could let go. Maier tried to imagine Madame Maupai.
    â€œWell, you don’t look like much of a backpacker, Monsieur Maupai.”
    â€œHa,” the man laughed drily. “This Lonely Planet , the Guide de Routard , they should be banned. The people who travel with a book like that, they leave their brains at home. The little bastards come and destroy everything. They fuck on the beach and upset the locals. They drive their bikes too fast and sleep in the old villas, so they are not paying anyone anything. They hardly bring any money into the country anyhow and they bargain for every riel, and if the room price in the guidebook is lower than offered, they have a fit. This generation is a weird one, incomprehensible. And just think, we put them into the world. We gave them life, everything.”
    His second swig finished the can and he waved at Les. The Vietnamese silently put another can on the bar. She smiled, but not at her customer. Maier didn’t like the man much, but you couldn’t fall in love with everyone.
    â€œI have retired here with my wife. My children have left home. I grew up in a France that no longer exists. In my time, one might have bought a little holiday house or apartment in Provence, but these days, too many Arabs and Africans live there. They steal your car while you are sitting in it. The concept of the Grande Nation is dead, completely dead. There’s a McDonalds, Burger King or kebab on every street corner. If the Arabs don’t burn our cars, the Americans force their fast food down our throats.”
    The second can was empty.
    â€œ Ca m’enerve . Compared to that, the Khmer are just great. Here the communists killed everyone who could think, but at least the Cambodians have respect, and they smile when I ask them something.”
    Maier silently played with the bar mat and tried to look neutral.
    â€œMaupai is our village racist. He doesn’t enjoy life.”
    â€œYou just enjoy life because you fuck your little Vietnamese and take drugs all day.”
    â€œYou hit it on the head there, buddy.” Les chuckled, trying to diffuse the Frenchman’s aggression.
    â€œHave another beer, Maupai, and enjoy the unique ambience of the Last Filling Station. Soon you’re gonna die from misery.”
    â€œEnjoy, enjoy, you are just running away from something. One day Kep will be returned to its former glory and guys like you will be thrown out. Kep will bloom, I tell you. Just like it did fifty years ago. A little island of civilisation in this tired country. Imagine if we had kept l’Indochine. There would be hospitals, schools, roads, electricity and good coffee.”
    Les sighed and turned to Maier. “People travel around half the world because they don’t like their own country and then they complain about how things are done in their adopted home.”
    Maier was content everywhere. Maier never spent enough time anywhere to get bored. But the Frenchman was drunk and wouldn’t let it go.
    â€œThat’s all just talk. You know as well