Spice. Robert A. Webster

      From what his parents taught them at an early age about identifying poisonous plants, Ravuth knew the plant was safe to eat. “It tastes bitter,” he said, chewing a leaf and grimacing, “Maybe it will taste better cooked.”

      Suddenly, they heard several twigs crack and the surrounding foliage shook. The boys felt terrified as a young male tiger crashed through the undergrowth and stopped several feet away from them.

      Indo-Chinese Tigers roam the jungles surrounding the Cardamom Mountains. They distanced themselves from humans as much as possible as they considered them annoying and did not appear as if they would taste good. However, two of these small beasties had disturbed this tiger’s favourite sunshade spot.

      Ravuth stuffed the strange plant into his pocket and he and Oun raised their machetes, pointing them at the young tiger.

      The tiger growled and paced back and forth in front of the boys.

      Back away slowly,” Ravuth ordered with every muscle fibre, every sinew alive and ready to react to the moment.

      While watching the tiger pace around growling and looking at them with disdain, the terrified brothers backed away towards the thick undergrowth.

      With the humans away from his cave entrance, the tiger walked to it, cocked his leg, and sprayed his domain with his scent. He glanced at the boys and then crawled into the cave.

      Ravuth and Oun watched the tiger going into the cave and rushed into the jungle.

      Stumbling through jungle terrain for twenty-minutes, they came upon a clearing covered in familiar vegetation. They stopped, caught their breaths, and smiled. “Tror bek! Great, I know where we are now,” said a relieved Ravuth.

      “Good, let’s just get some and go home,” said an even more relieved Oun.

      The bedraggled boys reached their village late in the afternoon. They expected to receive a scolding from their mother. Instead, they noticed that all the villagers gathered inside the large wooden communal hut in the centre of the village. Confused, Ravuth and Oun sneaked past the large hut and went home. They knew that their father had gone to *Koh Kong early that morning to sell his trinkets and did not expect him back until the following day. However, when they reached their wooden stilted shack, they saw their father’s bicycle outside. They went up the steps, walked inside, and saw a square black canvas bag on the table. Unsure what was happening, they put the strange plant along with the vegetables into a bowl and headed for the communal hut.

      “What’s happening?” asked Oun.

      “I don’t know. I am confused too. Why’s father home so early and I wonder what’s in that bag on the table?” Ravuth asked.

      The brothers made their way to the large communal hut. From the doorway, they saw their mother sitting on the floor. Their father, with tears running down his grimy face and with a look of terror, addressed the shocked looking villagers. Ravuth and Oun sat on the floor beside their mother.

      “What’s wrong mother, why does father look so afraid and covered in scratches, and why is he speaking to everyone as the village chief instead of Ren?” asked Ravuth. He looked at his frightened mother, who whispered,

      “Ren’s dead and your father’s telling people about what happened in Koh Kong, so be quiet, and listen. He’s almost finished and we will explain to you later.” Although afraid, Rotha tried to appear calm for the boys’ sake.

      Bemused, Ravuth looked around the gathered villagers. Ren’s children huddled around their weeping mother on the opposite side of the room, consoling one another, along with other families whose relatives had not returned. Ravuth and Oun had missed most of what their father had told the villagers, but seeing the faces of those present, they realised that it must be something serious. Once finished, their father made his way over to join Rotha and the boys.

      “What happened father?” asked Ravuth.

      “We all have a lot of work to do,” said their distraught father, Tu. “Let’s go home and I’ll explain.”

      The family left the communal hut as the others inside dispersed and went to their homes.

      The siblings and their father sat on a Kam-ral, a straw rug, and while Rotha tended to his cuts, Tu related his horrific tale to his sons.

      “I went with Ren and the others to the Thai-Cambodian border to sell the trinkets we have been making. Everything seemed normal at first. We stopped behind the border post, where we usually leave our bikes.”

      Tu winced as Rotha put a stinging balm on a deep scratch and then continued.

      There was no military at the post. Instead, several young men and women dressed in kheaw aeu chout and krorma (black pyjamas and red and white checked scarves), stood at a large barrier under construction at the checkpoint. They carried rifles and ordering workers to build a fence. I saw Thai armed soldiers stood at the Thailand border looking anxious, so I stayed with the bicycles while Ren went over to find out what was happening and the others went to wait for the tour bus. I saw Ren approach a boy who, upon seeing him, aimed his rifle at his body.

      Ren looked scared as the boy yelled at him and said he was a *Khmer Rouge soldier, and now in charge of Cambodia.”

      Tu looked at his sons and told them,

      “The boy looked around the same age as you, Ravuth.”

      Oun and Ravuth saw their father trembling as he said, “Another young Khmer Rouge soldier shouted as a bus approached and the Khmer Rouge scurried around, waited until the bus stopped. They shoved a group of terrified foreigners off the bus into the waiting Khmer Rouge, their belongings hitting them as they threw them off the bus. The foreigners grabbed some of their belongings before the Khmer Rouge pushed them over the Cambodian border into no-man's-land. I saw the Thai soldiers aiming at the approaching party of foreigners, Khmer Rouge, and our villagers who went to help, so I stayed where I was.”

      Tu took the black bag from the table and said. “I saw several items left by the tourists, so I went over to the empty bus and rummaged around the scattered items. I have seen similar ones to this carried by tourists.”

      He opened the bag, pulled out a Polaroid camera, and showed it to his inquisitive sons.

      “I walked back to my bicycle, strapped the bag to my handlebars, and continued to watch what was happening at the border. The group neared the Thai soldiers and stopped. The Khmer Rouge pushed the trembling foreigners forward and shouted at the Thais, but I could not hear what. The tourists ran to the soldiers, who, still aiming at the Khmer Rouge, let the foreigners through and they ran behind the soldiers. All the Khmers turned around and marched back through no-man's-land and back into Cambodian territory, laughing and joking.”

      “Are you okay dad?” asked Ravuth as his father went silent and rubbed his eyes.

      Tu nodded and told them,

      “Ren and the villagers now seemed to get on well with the Khmer Rouge. They laughed and joked with one another as they walked back to the Cambodian side of the border. I felt relieved and was about to join them, hoping that they had not seen me taking the camera.”

      Tu, with a quake in his voice, then told them, “My relief turned to horror as the young Khmer soldier walking behind Ren, put the muzzle of his rifle to the back of his head, and pulled the trigger.”

      Ravuth and Oun gasped.

      Tu shook his head, “Ren knew nothing; he was talking to another Khmer Rouge when his face exploded. I saw the bullet exiting his head and his body falling to the ground,” said Tu and wiped away tears.

      Rotha brought them over cups of water and put her hands on her husband’s shoulder.

      Tu gulped the water, composed himself, and continued,

      “I hid behind the border guard’s shack and could hear the Khmer Rouge soldiers laughing and chattering, with our friends and neighbours now pleading for their lives. I knew I had to get away from there, even