A tuk-tuk driver poached me off 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 around town.

On the roof of the tuk-tuk, I noticed a poster:

God Loves Us! Tuk-Tuk Donated by American Christians.

On the backseat sat a neat stack of Christian pamphlets. As I flicked through the Gospel, I silently prayed Bam wouldn’t try to sell me religion along with the tour.

The Floating Village

A few minutes later, we stopped at a floating village on the Mekong River. Makeshift rafts were tied to the riverbank, each supporting a shack of wood and corrugated metal.

“The people who live here are Vietnamese,” Bam told me. “They came after the Pol Pot regime.”

“Why do they live on the river?”

“They don’t need to buy land. They breed fish under their houses — for food or to sell.”

“Do they move onto land if they make enough money?”

“The land is too expensive. I wanted to build a house, but materials cost too much now. Gasoline prices have doubled, and when fuel gets expensive, everything gets expensive. The rich get richer, and the poor get poorer.”

“Do Cambodians like the Vietnamese?”

“Yes, they are OK. I fought alongside them against the Khmer Rouge for two years.”

He paused.

“But more importantly — are you Christian?”

“No.”

“Well, I am.”

I stared at the water. The riverbank was only a few metres high. I’d survive the leap if it came to that.

“I used to be a very impolite person,” Bam continued. “But now I am blessed. No envy. No greed. I have peace in my heart. I have God in my heart.” He pointed skyward. “One day, I will live with Him in eternity.”

“How come you’re not a Buddhist?”

“I used to be. But Buddhists won’t go to heaven. Only Christians go to heaven. I don’t know where Buddhists will go.”

“Maybe back here?”

Bam shook his head and walked back to the tuk-tuk, ending the first sermon.

The World According to Bam

We passed a French watchtower once used to protect rubber plantations from bandits.

“I used to have an English girlfriend!” Bam shouted over his shoulder. “She really liked Kampong Cham! She was ugly! But she had a good heart! I don’t like girls with a pretty face — they don’t have good hearts!”

Our next stop was Mountain Pros, on a tour that really should have been called The World According to Bam.

“Are the temples still used?” I asked.

“Yes. But during Pol Pot, they were prisons.” He gestured toward a dusty field. “That was a killing field. Five hundred people were murdered there. My grandparents were killed. They were doctors and spoke French and English. The Khmer Rouge asked educated people to volunteer for teaching jobs. My grandparents raised their hands.”

“They didn’t get to teach,” he added. “They were taken away and killed.”

He took a breath, then smiled.

“Come on! Let’s walk across the famous bamboo bridge!”

A few weeks earlier, this sudden shift would have confused me. Now it didn’t. When your country’s recent history is that brutal, you probably learn not to dwell. If you do, it consumes you.

The Second Sermon

The bamboo bridge stretched hundreds of metres toward an island.

“Each year the water rises and the bridge is destroyed,” Bam said, bouncing on it. “Then they rebuild it.”

“How long does that take?”

“Six weeks.”

“How many workers?”

“Twenty-five.”

When I returned from crossing, Bam had made friends: two stocky American women and their Cambodian driver.

He pointed at me.

“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.

“It’ll take longer than a few hours in Kampong Cham for me to see God,” I said.

“You’ll see Him one day,” one of the women replied. “When you die!”

I looked at my feet. There was no recovering from that.

“They are Christians like me,” Bam said proudly.

“All of you?”

They nodded.

“I’ve been telling them you should open your heart to God,” Bam continued. “There is only one God! God is Jesus!”

The nodding intensified.

How had Bam found three more Christians in twenty minutes? Had he converted them? Or was everyone in Kampong Cham Christian? For a brief moment I stood completely surrounded, as if Judgment Day had arrived early.

“Can we go now?” I asked.

Bam nodded, then turned back to the others.

“I will pray for you.”

“And we for you,” they replied.

No one offered to pray for me. Perhaps I was already written off.

A Final Message from Above

Twenty minutes later, Bam dropped me at a scruffy hotel. I’d enjoyed the tour, but I was relieved it was over; there’s only so long you can feel like the Antichrist before it starts to grate.

I went to the lobby to use the computer. The screensaver flickered on: a painting of Jesus nailed to the cross. Beneath it, the words:

Jesus Died for You.

I scratched my head. There were two possible explanations. Either someone upstairs was trying to tell me something, or a group of American Christians had passed through Kampong Cham and carpet-faith’d the place.