A tuk-tuk driver poached me off of the bus at Kampong Cham. He introduced himself as “Bam” and told me there were no onward buses until the following day. Realising the Temples of Angkor would have to wait I accepted his offer of a tour of the town.
On the roof of the tuk-tuk I noticed a poster: God Loves Us! Tuk–Tuk Donated by American Christians. On the backseat I found a bunch of pamphlets about Christianity. As I flicked through the Gospel I prayed Bam wouldn’t try to sell me religion as part of the tour.
Several minutes later we stopped at a floating village on the Mekong River. A series of makeshift rafts had been tied to the riverbank and on them were small shacks made from wood and corrugated metal.
“The people who live in the huts are Vietnamese,” Bam told me. “They emigrated to Kampong Cham after the Pol Pot regime.”
“Why do they choose to live on the river?”
“Because they don’t need to buy land. They breed fish in cages beneath their houses — which they eat or sell at the market.”
“Do they move onto land if they earn enough money?”
“The land in Kampong Cham is too expensive. I had planned to build a house, but now the materials cost too much. The price of gasoline has doubled so the cost of everything has risen. The rich get richer and the poor get poorer.”
“Do the Cambodians like the Vietnamese?”
“Yes, the Vietnamese are OK. I fought side-by-side with them against the Khmer Rouge for two years. But more importantly are you Christian?”
“No.”
“Well I am.”
I looked out at the water — the bank only was a few metres high — I’d definitely survive the leap if it came to that.
“I used to be a very impolite person,” Bam told me. “But now I am blessed. I don’t feel envy or greed. I have peace in my heart. I have God in my heart.“ He pointed to the sky, “And one day I will live with Him in eternity up there.”
“How come you’re not a Buddhist?”
“I used to be. But they won’t make it to heaven. Only Christians get to heaven. I don’t know where the Buddhists will go.”
“Maybe back here?”
Bam shook his head and walked back to the tuk-tuk — bringing an end to the first sermon.
After this we drove past the French watchtower — built to protect the rubber plantations from bandits. Bam shouted over his shoulder, “I used to have an English girlfriend! She really liked Kampong Cham! She was ugly! But she had a good heart! I don’t like girls with a pretty face! Girls with a pretty face don’t have a good heart!”
Our third destination — on a tour which really ought to have been called “The world according to Bam” — was Mountain Pros. Together we walked around the temples.
“Are the temples still used?” I asked.
“Of course, but during the Pol Pot years they were prisons.” He motioned to a field where dust rose from the dirt. “And that was a killing field. The Khmer Rouge murdered 500 people there. My grandparents were killed during the regime. They were both doctors and spoke French and English. The Khmer Rouge asked anyone who spoke another language to volunteer for a teaching position. My grandparents raised their hands. They didn’t get to teach children. They were taken away and killed instead.” Bam took a deep breath and then his face wrinkled into a smile. “Come on! Let’s walk across the famous bamboo bridge!”
A few weeks ago I would have been confused by this sudden switch from solemnity to joy — but not anymore. When your country’s recent history is as terrible as Cambodia’s I guess you try not to dwell on it — if you do it’ll consume you.
Back on the tuk-tuk we followed the river until we reached a bamboo bridge — which stretched toward an island about 300 or 400 metres away. Bam jumped on the bridge to demonstrate its strength. “Each year the water-level in Kampong Cham rises and the bridge is washed away so a new one has to be built.”
“How long does that take?”
“Only six weeks.”
“How many workers does it take to build it?”
“Only 25.”
Bam waited by the river while I walked along the bridge — which was tatty but strong. The reverberations from the motorbikes that drove past could be felt from hundreds of metres away. At the end of the bridge I turned around and walked back. When I returned to the riverbank Bam had made some new friends — two stocky American girls and their Cambodian driver.
Bam pointed at me as I approached. “Tom doesn’t have God in his heart. I’ve been telling him about the gospel but he doesn’t want it.”
An unconventional introduction, but I think I recovered well: “It’ll take longer than a few hours in Kampong Cham for me to see God.”
“You’ll see him one day,” replied one of the girls. “When you die!”
I looked at my feet — there was no coming back from that.
“They are Christians like me,” Bam confirmed.
“All of you?”
The three of them nodded in unison.
“I’ve been telling them you should open your heart to God,” Bam said. “There is only one God! God is Jesus!”
They nodded again — this time more vigorously.
How had Bam managed to find three more Christians in 20 minutes? Had he just converted them? Or was everyone in Kampong Cham Christian? For a few seconds I stood there completely surrounded — as if judgment day had already arrived.
“Can we go now?” I asked.
Bam nodded and turned to the others, “I will pray for you.”
“And I for you,” they replied.
No one offered to pray for me — perhaps they had decided I was a lost cause.
Twenty minutes later Bam dropped me off at a dishevelled hotel. I’d enjoyed the tour but was relieved it was over — there is only so long you can be made to feel like the devil re-incarnate before it starts to wear. I went straight to lobby to use a computer — the screensaver showed a painting of Jesus hammered to the cross — the words underneath said: “Jesus died for you.” I scratched me head. There were two possible explanations here: 1) Someone up there was trying to tell me something, or 2) — and this is the one I was leaning toward — a group of Christians had visited Kampong Cham and carpet-faithed the place.