Spice. Robert A. Webster

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 though it meant leaving them,” he sighed, “But there was nothing I could do.”

      Rotha went outside to the kitchen area as Tu continued, “Wheeling my bicycle a few yards away from behind the border guard shack, I ripped my trinkets off, and peddled as fast as I could. I hadn’t gone far when I heard people behind me, yelling at me to stop. Terrified, I ignored the shouting and carried on riding. I heard a shot, and a bullet whistled past my ear.”

      The boys looked at one another, and then at their distraught father, who continued. “Pedalling frantically, I veered off the road, and headed across fields, and into the jungle. I rode until the track became too rugged for the bicycle, and ran into thick undergrowth and hid behind a clump of trees. I waited for what seemed like ages. After not seeing any sign of the Khmer Rouge, I retraced my steps, picked up my bicycle, and rode home.”

      “What’s the Khmer Rouge? Ravuth asked.

      Tu shook his head. Unaware of events happening in Cambodia, he only knew they should be afraid and make themselves scarce, so replied, “I don’t know son, but we need to stay hidden until we could find out what’s happened. We will be safer deeper in the jungle and tonight we can organise our belongings and find a new site. In the morning we will break down our dwellings and rebuild elsewhere,” said Tu. The boys could see how concerned, confused, and afraid their father appeared.

      “What’s this?” interrupted Rotha, holding up the plant that Ravuth had placed on top of the tror bek.

      “I don’t know mother. We found it along the track and thought you would know. Maybe we could eat it, right Oun?” said Ravuth, looking at his brother for backup.

      “Yes,” said Oun paying scant attention and looking inside the camera bag.

      “I’ve seen nothing like this before,” said Rotha, who held the strange plant and inspected it.

      Rotha went ignored; the two youngsters seemed more interested in the instruction and demonstration their father was giving on the Polaroid camera.

      Rotha went over to their clay rainwater trap, filled a bowl of water, and placed it alongside a bubbling pot containing vegetables and a small broiling chicken. She studied the plant and knew by the leaves shape and colour that the plant was edible, so she plucked a leaf, tasted it, winced, and put the rest into the boiling pot. She pierced the gold seed pod and it oozed a milky white sap which she tasted. Rotha couldn’t understand why it tasted sweet and delicious with the leaf tasting so bitter, but she would experiment with it later. Rotha noticed that the round seedpod had a strange sheen and its gold colour appeared as a lustrous mosaic of vivid shades; the effect created with motor oil on water.

      Disturbed by a sudden bright flash, she looked up to see the smiling faces of her two mischievous sons and her even more mischievous husband holding the Polaroid after taking a flash photograph of her. The camera’s machinery whirred as a film popped out of the front. Tu removed the photograph, peeled away the first layer of film, and put the picture on the table to develop.

      Rotha glowered at her husband as he once again focused, pressed the button, and took another snapshot of her, and repeated the development process. Tu then motioned them all to get together to take a picture of the three of them. They alternated and took turns at taking pictures until they finished the six remaining films in the camera’s cartridge.

      They watched the photographs developing under their solitary light bulb and looked amazed as the images appeared. The family gazed at the first photographs they had ever seen, forgetting for a moment about the tragedy that had befallen the village. Rotha removed a banana leaf woven box from a shelf and placed it onto the table. Everyone in the village had several of these boxes. These interwoven strips of dried banana leaf, coated with a resin from the sap of palm oil bark, gave the box a hard-wearing varnished sheen. The small shoe size boxes, apart from selling to tourists, the villagers used them to store knick-knacks and anything unusual. She opened the box and placed the photographs inside.

      “You can look at these again after we have eaten. Ravuth, get the dishes ready and I will serve