Free Cambodian Book of the Dead by Tom Vater Page A

as I do how mad and murderous the Khmer really are. How can one be happy in a country like Cambodge , a land with so much sorrow? Look at what happened to M Rolf. A pleasant countryman of yours by the way, M Maier. A young man from a good family, that much was immediately clear. He came with great ideas and ideals. He wanted to help. And look what happened. And then take a good long look in the mirror.”
    â€œOne day I will bar you from the premises, Maupai, because you have a big mouth. You can go sit on the beach, converse with the dogs and get eaten by crabs.”
    The retired bank director laughed loudly, his bitterness gurgling in his throat like long suppressed bile. “By then there will be a bistro and a wine bar here and only the rats will visit you. Until that time, you need my money. See you tomorrow. Salut.”
    Maupai slammed a handful of dollar notes onto the bar and walked out into the sun. Les shrugged while the Vietnamese gathered up the money. ZZ Top played from the speakers overhead.
    â€œDon’t ask me about the young German straight away, otherwise I might really think you’re a snoop, buddy.”
    Maier also paid. There was no sense in putting a man like Les under pressure during a first meeting. The conversation would continue another time.
    â€œNice to meet you, Les Leroux. I will be in the area for a while, so I will drop by again. Great bar.”
    â€œYou alright, Maier, ain’t you?”
    â€œI am, yes.”
    â€œThen take care. And don’t believe everything you hear. Kep is a small place. Everyone knows everyone else and everyone thinks they know everything there is to know about everyone else. Almost everything. It’s wonderful, really.”
    Â 

 
    KALEY
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    A sandy potholed track led from the Last Filling Station to the crab market. To the north of what passed for town, the densely forested Elephant Mountains rose into a gun-metal grey sky that had conspired with the jungle to fall down and bury everything. You always had to fear the worst in Cambodia. And usually it wasn’t too far off the mark if you did.
    Kep was no exception. The villas of the rich and gone stood on overgrown plots of land, demarcated by crumbling concrete fences and grandiose entrance gates. The side streets that branched off from the coast road had been claimed by tall grasses, and, following the rains, the former streets had turned into ponds and small streams, in which millions of black tadpoles flicked about, hoping to grow four legs before the water evaporated. Kep was an untapped archaeological dig of the very recent past, waiting to be rediscovered by twenty-first century history students. Cows grazed in the middle of traffic crossings. Twenty-year-old palm trees had replaced the street lamps and grew from the foundations of the old buildings. If nature had its way, all traces of human activities would disappear within a few years. No buildings, no streets, not even thoughts. Maier suddenly felt hopeful.
    But Kep had not yet recovered. In 1994, a train had been attacked nearby. A number of Cambodians had been killed, while three foreigners had been kidnapped and taken into the mountains along the coast where they had later been executed. Cambodia found it hard to rid itself of its old revolutionaries. Maier walked from property to property, aimlessly at first, in order to think, and to get the vodka and the joint out of his system. He hadn’t smoked for a long time. In Germany it no longer suited his lifestyle. But here… he laughed at himself, anything was possible in Cambodia.
    Maier took a closer look at some of the abandoned properties. Some of the buildings were occupied by penniless Khmer – most of these casual tenants had no belongings and simply strung a piece of tarpaulin between walls that remained standing, to find refuge from the rain. Feral-looking children grew up beneath the improvised plastic roofs. But for the squeal of a child or