Crossing the border from Thailand into Cambodia it soon becomes apparent we’re in a different country.
Not everything changes of course: the tropical heat is still intense; the writing just as squiggly; the large paintings along the roadsides of their monarchs with medals similarly blinged-up.
The friendly demeanour, the enticing smiles may continue, but we soon find out that these two countries share more differences than just the ongoing border dispute, (a nasty little row which has recently spilled over into out-and-out, albeit small-scale fighting.
The friendly demeanour, the enticing smiles may continue, but we soon find out that these two countries share more differences than just the ongoing border dispute, (a nasty little row which has recently spilled over into out-and-out, albeit small-scale fighting.
Unlike the saying this current conflict is most certainly not good for business, at least in Cambodia’s tourist epicentre, Siem Reap. Much-needed tourist dollars are down as visitors are scared off, leaving guesthouse owners and tuk tuk drivers like our own, the curiously-named Mr Pea, competing with too many others for too little business.
And how this country of 15 million need that business. Unlike Thailand, this is a country where crushing poverty is endemic and the recent past is very dark indeed.
This starts to become apparent the moment we cross the border: hassle from hawkers increases; begging becomes commonplace.
Any westerner is a potential meal ticket and the locals go to great lengths to prise the much-valued dollar out of your willing hands (in Cambodia, the mighty Greenback is King; the local Rial currency used only as small change).
At times it becomes just plain uncomfortable. Riddled with guilt from a day spent batting away beggars in rags and scrawny waifs we sat down for dinner at a café on the street. Within minutes they had zeroed in on us, trying to flog us their pitiful wares, surveying you with hungry eyes and making each mouthful feel unjustified.
The tuk tuk drivers are incorrigible, following you into your guesthouse in a bid to secure the next day’s business: “where to tomorrow sir? Killing fields? Market?”. They usually draw the worst of my ire, but whilst you can bat them away with steely eyes and caustic curses it’s hard to deny those in greater need.
Whilst all this hassle this is often distressing, leaving you feeling powerless at best, and more often than not a cruel, cold-hearted, exploitative Westerner, there are also moments of light relief.
Top marks have to go, in a very tough field, to the young lad who tried to sell us his wares whilst stood in a water up to his knees in Siem Reap’s bus station during one of the frequent torrential downpours.
The monsoonal conditions had turned the place into the shallow end of a massive swimming pool, leaving us to board our bus wading through the its mochachino waters, trousers rolled up and shoes in hand.
But there was no stopping this indomitable little chap. He had us in his sights and, in the pouring rain he bounded over, umbrella in one hand, fruit in the other. He danced up and down on the spot, every inch of him sodden wet yet still bearing a massive grin on his face, “pineapple sir? Banana?”
His was the face of today’s Cambodia, where an incredible 40% of the population are under 15 years old.
Many of them seem to be forced to foresake some of their childhood in order to support themselves and their families, working in the fields or walking city streets, selling whatever they can.
Kids here, seem to have got the rawest deal (we couldn’t tell about older people - there didn’t seem to be any). Infant mortality is high (59 per 1000 live births) and child abuse is still a major problem. Posters aimed at Westerners, warning them of the penalties for such crimes, are a common sight in the streets and in hotels.
One skinny little girl accosted me at a temple, with the usual collection of poor-quality, photocopied Lonely planet and books about the horrors of the Khmer Rouge. Her eyes were vacant as she robotically reeled off her patter “Where from Sir ? England? Lovelyjubbly”.
Later, another girl, no older than seven, tried to impress us with her knowledge of our home country, telling us the UK’s capital, its population, and even the name of its Prime Minister. Others didn’t even bother with this, simply tugging at our sleeves and begging ‘one dollar, one dollar’.
It’s desperate, it’s miserable and it’s heartbreaking. Life in Cambodia seems very cheap indeed.
All this made it rather hard to for me to sympathise with the obnoxious American girl in a Siem Reap shop who protested indignantly ‘I can’t believe they don’t sell coke zero’.
In Phnom Penh one night we sat down for a meal at a pavement cafe, amidst the noise and exhaust fumes of a million motorbikes.
After half an hour of sitting there our tally of hawkers stood at four kids and four amputees, one chap without any limbs pushed by a young boy on a rudimentary wheelchair.
The latter are all victims of landmines, in a country still littered with these deadly, inhumane devices. In Cambodia, hundreds of people are killed or maimed by these monstrous devices every year.
I don’t know how they survive, dragging their broken bodies around the filthy, rubbish-strewn streets of Phnom Penh.
One of the poor fellows who could at least propel himself around, wobbles up to our table on crutches, a heavy box of trinkets hanging from his neck. He nods at my delicious fish curry and smiles : “Cambodia is very good yes?”
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