Cambodia 2011 Peace Project Event (Part1 The Story)

PREVI HEAR JOURNAL 2011 ! The Peace Project
PREVI HEAR JOURNAL 2011 ! The Peace Project
rises in the sky. Soon that
will be gone too. Its purple
twilight set against the
silhouette. I see the drivers
waiting, smoking and
chatting at the gate of the
hotel and realize we need to
leave soon.
At the third check point,
Sre Pich One is not there.
Mr Buthy, one of the motor
cycle drivers remains at
the bottom of the mountain
guarding the motorcycles,
quietly smoiking and then
waves with a gentle flick of
his wrist. The pick-up truck
on the road mumbles then
back-fires and continues
up the hill as we are film
me and So-Pert talking in
the truck. Before we leave,
we give him lunch money
and cigarettes. The pastel
blue mountains ripple in
the morning haze. The
cracked and emaciated
cement road curls like a
snake up the backside of
the mountain. It now sports
broken tufts of dried grass.
Next, in an explosion of
wind, I loose my cap. The
wind has picked it up as the
truck scuttles over a bump
around one of the many s
curves to the summit. So
my white gimme cap like
a torn spinnaker is blown
from the speeding tuck. A
minute later the bloated
onion- stained sandbags
and gun emplacements
come into view. Dirty
children in faded blue
denim and orange and
bottle green T shirts run
out towards the truck
waving at the truck
frantically as we take this
turn. The sun is rising
and I breathe in, saying to
myself,
“What a magnificent
adventure! This moment
we are the heroes in the
dream of life!”
The boys are still filming
as we pass the children
waving. Then I think of Mr
Vanna and his creepy eyes.
When I remember him I
remember that we are not
allowed to film anything.
Ten minures later we
are climbing, and having
gone through the ritual of
dispensing the cigarettes
to the guards as they linger
at different tiers of the
mountain.. As we reach the
summit, a soldier from the
Previ Hear Temple guard
emerges out from under
the painting, having slept
under the Blue Buddha
picture which he had slept
under the night before,
sullenly waiting for another
cartouche of cigarettes. He
smiles sheepishly as we
hand it to him. He takes it
and walks away with a limp.
His back is hunched and
twisted. I think, “It’s beads
for the natives. People are
that primitive.”
The restaurant girl at
the base of the mountain
with long black flowing hair
and ringlets is now near
us puffing from carrying
up the mountain a babyblue
plastic picnic hamper
crammed with food for
the crew. For lunchtime,
Sambo spreads out out the
blue torn tarpaulin we use
to protect the painting at
night and Sre Pich set out
the plates with grilled fish
and white rice with ants
crawling across it. Sre
Pich asks me to sit next to
her her. As we sit crosslegged
together we share
our lunch. Soon it will be
her birthday. I think,”The
party tomorrow is birthday
present enough.”
In the afternoon I film
with the boys. Mr Mao is
doing the recording. We
talk about where we are
painting. We want to escort
the image of peace into the
No-Mans-Land between
the two sides. In the middle
distance down the hill is a
small nissan hut where the
two sides congregate. An
hour later up on the second
tear level we are visited by
a Buddhist monk in bright
orange veil. He walks up
to us with an odd saunter.
We are the only attraction
apart from the cold granite
stones. So its hard to
ignore us. He looks gay and
carries an ultramarine
blue tattered denim bag
with silver Dement stars
on it. His shaved head has a
pimple on it. Bright green
eyes look out like possums
through bottleneck glasses.
I tell him about what we
are doing. “We are trying to
make a peace conversation
about peace between the
Thais and Cambodians.”
I show him the message
and the Universal
Declaration for Peace.
Standing next to him. I pull
out some printed pieces of
texts in Thai and Khmer
and the mock up image. I
feel the intense heat prickle
my skin, scorching my
brow, while Sre Pich stands
beside me, holding the
parasol. He appears serious
and wrinkles his brow.
There is a twinkle in his
eye. The monk nods with a
jerk of his chin, blinks and
smiles. If I was a different
person I might think his
enigmatic presence is
“all knowing.” Now I just
believe he is well meaning
and doesn’t understand
my English. By two in the
afternoon between the two
temples the once empty
field is soon a brimming
crowd of tourists. A
delegation has arrived.
Someone is carrying a flag.
Now they have reached the
summit ready to present
offerings. Sambo whispers
that its a delegation with
a Cambodian film star. A
murmur ripples through
the crowd. Whispers.
Rumors. Conjectures.
Is she a film star with a
minister walking up the
mountain? A small woman
in blue denims and Chanel
sun glasses and a semi
transparent veil with white
skin smiles and then waves
at me fifty meters away. I
wave back with a shy flick of
my wrist and then resume
painting.
In the afternoon while
I continue to paint with
So Pert, Mr Vuthy brings
Sokheng, Sambo and Srey
Pich to the cave. They
are told, (not told but
commanded,) “No cameras
are allowed.”
The boys return two
hours later to explain.
“This is a restricted
military area. We went
down the mountain
through jungle and vines.
There was no path. A few
soldiers were guarding
something. Smoking
cigarettes. Then we
entered a huge empty
cover but we saw that it
wasn’t empty. It was dark
inside. Wet. Boxes. Lots
of them. Maybe food.”
In Sokheng’s words,
“Its a hidden area. And
mysterious place for the
Khmer military.”
“ Why mysterious?” I
ask.
“Its forbidden because
this is where the military
keep everything. Caves
are the best. Underground
caves even better. “
His brow wrinkles. He
looks scared because he
knows Mr Buthy can be
jailed or fired from his
position as chief soldier
having brought brought
them to this position.
Sambo then walks up
and explains that he has
problem. “I think I have
lost some footage from the