Cambodia 2011 Peace Project Event (Part1 The Story)

PREVI HEAR JOURNAL 2011 ! The Peace Project
PREVI HEAR JOURNAL 2011 ! The Peace Project
answers,
‘ NO!’ The voice on
the end of the phone to
Sokheng is blunt, polite,
but definite! Definitely
NOT! Sre Pich smiles
sheepishly and then
attends to another permit
holder. I look at the others
who are still joking.
I am thinking, ‘Oh wow,
this is how it’s going to be!’
This is the first day
when I begin to realize two
things. ‘To keep the crew’s
morale up I have to feed
them very well. Luckily it’s
super cheap here so I can
afford to fill eight face here
until they are bloated. For
an anorexic, bulimic artist
thats going to be hard. But
easy on the pocket. There
is a restaurant next to the
round- about in Srae‘Aem
we have dubbed “The Soup
Kitchen.” Fifteen dollars
and everyone is Fred
Astaire, Oops I mean FED!’.
It’s not exactly heaven as
far as sanitation goes but
everyone is happy.’ And
that’s fifteen dollars to
feed eight people! The next
thing I realize is,
‘Everyone is exchanging
jokes all the time. It’s all a
laugh. The serious peace
project will need to weather
the humor, but at least I get
it done. I have to be patient
and understand that it
doesn’t matter. They are
here to help me with the
humor!’
After the last recent
depressing telephone call,
we climb back
onto the motor bikes
and drive in convoy to
the transit point ready to
change vehicles. The road
for the next fifteen miles
goes straight and ends
with some ridges which
divide Cambodia from
Thailand. They loom huge
and picturesque. There
are colors of viridian and
ochre brown dappling the
horizon.. Sap green too.
On one mountain lies the
Preah Vihear temple, but
I am not sure which it is.
From what I have been told,
it’s made of solid granite
and the temple was cut
from the stone right out of
the mountain side. A set
of steps have also been cut
seven hundred years ago
leading up to it. It is called
‘the Ancient Staircase!’ As
I look from the speeding
motorbike I think,
‘There are definitely NO
tourists around.’
The steps up the
mountain are carved from
the same stone but the
access to the mountain and
through the ancient stair
case is not the way we want
to go.
At the summit we inspect
the site and decide on
where the painting and
easel must go. Mao has
already has assembled the
wooden stands. The guys
collect together and move
them onto the correct
positions. This is our first
day when we choose a
site for the painting and
sort through the painting
equipment. As evening
descends we make the
first return trip down the
mountain. Here there are
palm trees and men in
foxholes. I can see small
anti- personnel carriers
and men in observation
booths with binoculars
looking across in Thailand
and the border. We can
see a road, an observation
tower, some fix holes and
cement bunkers and the
Thai flag fluttering. Then
we return as darkness
descends to Sra'Aem to the
lean-to wooden shops to do
internet and photocopying.
When we drive in to
Sra’Aem, it’s twilight. There
are people milling around.
Families and soldiers
and shop keepers. The
usual. Its a town of threethousand
people, I imagine.
Maybe more, including the
soldiers stationed on the
border. They are the town’s
business. Not us!There are
obscure lights lining the
shops and hand-painted
signs outsides. It reminds
me of a border town on the
Amazon river. But nobodies
selling fish. The trading
which goes on here are for
the soldiers. . We pass a few
Karioke bars, two tumbled
down massage booths and
tiers of lights from street
restaurants. There is a
market and a vacant lot full
of litter which doubles on
the weekends for a boxing
stadium. During the week
days they use it for the
buses and on the weekend
for boxing.
DAY FOUR
Sunday,
13th of
November
2011 Sra
‘Aem
It’s seven-fifty am. I crawl
out of bed past the file of
ants
trekking to the bathroom,
past the sleeping boys and
to the cold white tiles and
the cold shower. The air
con is on but the moment
I leave the room I feel
the putrid humid heat
outside.
‘Oh gee, I’m still in
Cambodia!’ is the first
thought which attacks
me like the ants.
It’s only after four
coffees that I begin to feel
like have kick- started
the day. Even before the
sun has risen the drivers
are waiting in the dawn
for us. They are quiet,
murmuring amongst
ourselves. This is the
first time we have driven
with the motorcycle
riders together. We
will be a team. We ride
in the early morning
light en mass to a small
carpentry shop on the
outskirts of town. To get
the sound synchronized
with the images, we need
a clapperboard for the
sound recording. Or at
least I think we do. Three
days later I understand,
‘we don’t.’ It’s a disaster,
but this morning at
eight, I
think we do. It’s now
eight Ay Em in the
morning. We drive into
the town, past the roundabout
searching for a
new clapperboard and
roller. Mr Bora is
pillioning me. Five
kilometers outside town
we pull up. It’s just “a
flea bitin” tin-shed with