A Prince of Hell Arrives in Siem Reap (2018)
When I first came to Cambodia, my status as a tourist bugged me. I saw at once that I was missing everything. I saw that I arrived with heavy baggage, not of the luggage kind, but in terms of racial, historical, and economic casting. I saw that I was not quite human in that context, and that I had done this to myself.
So, I wrote about that.
1.
The airport is a little one, half-assed
in its officialdom, like a school play.
The evening is a cool one, after rain.
A man is waiing for me, with my name
(improbable in such a place) displayed
upon a piece of paper. Ancient ways.
In Hanoi, when they picked me up, my name
shone out from a computer tablet, but
Hanoi is over for the moment. This
is Siam Reap. This is Cambodia.
The man is Mister Sina, and he drives
a tuktuk for a living. This is a
pavilion with a motorbike in front.
I sit within it, trying not to look
too much like Queen Victoria. I fail.
And then we set off into darkness. I
am a parade of one, and Siam Reap
reveals itself to be a different world.
It's quiet and spread out and archly full
of Western signs. And women pray and bow
to Buddha at the intersections. And
the Goddess Poverty is everywhere
with all her children. Maybe she is calm,
maybe she is patient here, and yet
her power in this place is absolute.
One moment is enough to feel her might.
She is the reason I am different.
She is the reason I am in the back
of Mister Sina's tuktuk, not the front.
2.
The morning comes. The Sun, whose power here
is almost equal to the force of need,
unfolds a low brown city. But the glare
of Poverty is brighter. Children ride
to school, and men in underpants sweep down
the dirt outside their houses. I walk by,
as I will do so many times today
to O so many people. And I act
the part of tourist rather than voyeur
(or vulture) because this is what I do
in places such as this. My camera is
my shield against the darkness of my role:
that I have come to mock the animals
but praise their ancient temples. And the man
who brought me from the airport waits outside
to drive me somewhere, because I am his
most potent hope of work today, and he
is brave and good, and has a family.
Among the many sorrows of this place,
just past a would-be Turkish restaurant,
I find a temple. All its grounds are filled
with massive tombs like tall pagodas, some
with strips of paper stuck to them, the prayers
of those who pay to keep all hope alive,
which is the purpose of this place. The monks
wear orange, and eat breakfast in the shade
beside the schoolroom. Many golden dogs
attend them, sleek and beautiful. These don't
look poor at all. Like judges at a fair,
they are exempted from the tests and trials
that play out all around them. I am not.
My walk continues, back out on the road,
where children look at me and I look back,
and find their eyes too beautiful to meet.
The Kingdom of the Poor has many names.
Today it calls itself Cambodia,
but it has embassies in every place.
Its citizens are gods. Like gods, they get
mere token offerings, not proper food.
Like gods, they see much more than they report.
Like gods, I need their blessing, but I don't
deserve it, and I never really will.
And this is fair. I am a demon here.
I walk among them as a Prince of Hell.
My stupid hat proclaims my evil wealth.
My choices have condemned me. I left home
to be a tourist here, so I am doomed.
I am a customer. They are a show.
Hell forms itself around me as I go.
My mighty palace with its many rooms
is just a shell. Its few inhabitants
are servants, never masters. They are paid
to maintain the illusion that I am
a decent person, but it's just a sham.
The Goddess Poverty is everywhere,
telling them exactly what I am.
3.
And yet it is a pretty place. The world
is gentle here, and green, and generous
with birds and flowers. And yet as I write,
at this same moment, Mister Sina waits
to drve me somewhere. Will he wait all day?
Am I responsible for that? Am I
responsible for what I do not want
as well as what I do? I sait and wait
for breakfast. I do want more coffee, but
I find I am ashamed to ask for it.
I have no claim upon it but my wealth.
Such are the burdens of a Prince of Hell.
To my sorrow, to my pain and grief,
I find I wish that lovely man would leave.
4.
A Prince of Hell does get some benefits.
Though coffee is expensive here, the beer
is very cheap. And I have salved my guilt
by booking Mister Sina for the day
tomorrow, to take me to Angkor Wat.
Angkor Wat is a UNESCO site,
which means (in practice) it is part of Hell.
The poor have been exculded, driven out,
because their virtue, left out on display,
would drive us rich demonic types away.
Another tuktuk driver, seeing me,
has parked himself beside me. I drink beer,
and act as if I cannot hear, but he
(adept in Basic Demonology)
persists in his attempt to summon me.
As a demon, I would be obliged
to answer, if he called my name three times.
Alas for him, he does not know my name.
And so we carry on with the charad
until my beer is drunk, and I have paid
the demon bill my evil has accrued
with demon money from the USA.
5.
The demon, raised in Hell but in a cold
and stony part of Hell, retreats from noon
to lounge beside the pool in his hotel.
A European floats across his view.
She seems contented, to be floating there,
She weighs as much as four adult Khmer.
Her flesh would feed a family of gods
for weeks, and she would never feel the loss.
Some say that Hell is other people, some
that Hell is what you make it. They are wrong.
Hell is where the tourists come to swim
after they have satisfied their need
for photographs that capture everything
about their trip except the suffering,
which is the part they really came to see.
I ought to know. I'm talking about me.
I am a Prince of Hell in Siam Reap.