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. Realizing 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, a bunch of pamphlets about Christianity sat in a neat stack. 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. A series of makeshift rafts had been tied to the riverbank, and on them stood small shacks made of 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 live on the river?”

“They don’t need to buy land. They breed fish in cages beneath their houses — either to eat or sell at the market.”

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

“The land in Kampong Cham 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, the Vietnamese are OK. I fought alongside 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 riverbank was only a few metres high — I’d definitely 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. “And one day, I will live with Him in eternity.”

“How come you’re not a Buddhist?”

“I used to be. But Buddhists won’t make it to heaven. Only Christians go 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.

The World According to Bam

We drove past the French watchtower, built to protect the rubber plantations from bandits.

Over his shoulder, Bam shouted, “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 stop — on a tour that really ought to have been called The World According to Bam — was Mountain Pros.

“Are the temples here still used?” I asked.

“Of course. But during the Pol Pot years, they were prisons.” He motioned to a nearby field, where dust swirled in the heat. “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. 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 shift from solemnity to enthusiasm, but not anymore. When your country’s recent history is as terrible as Cambodia’s, you probably learn not to dwell on it. If you do, it’ll consume you.

The Second Sermon

We followed the river until we reached a bamboo bridge stretching several hundred metres toward an island.

Bam jumped on it to demonstrate its strength.

“Each year, the water level 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?”

“Only 25.”

Bam waited by the river while I walked across. The bridge was tatty but sturdy, though I could feel the reverberations of passing motorbikes from hundreds of metres away.

When I returned, Bam had made some new friends — two stocky American girls and their Cambodian driver.

As I approached, Bam 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. I recovered as best I could:

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

“You’ll see Him one day,” one of the girls replied. “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 added. “There is only one God! God is Jesus!”

The nodding resumed, this time more vigorous.

How had Bam managed to find three more Christians in 20 minutes? Had he 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, then turned back to the others.

“I will pray for you.”

“And I for you,” they replied.

No one offered to pray for me; perhaps they’d decided I was a lost cause.

A Final Message from Above

Twenty minutes later, Bam dropped me off at a disheveled hotel.

I’d enjoyed the tour, but I was relieved it was over — there’s only so long you can be made to feel like the devil incarnate before it starts to wear.

I went straight to the lobby to use a computer. The screensaver flickered to life: 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 here. Either someone up there was trying to tell me something, or — and this is the one I was leaning toward — a group of Christians had visited Kampong Cham and carpet-faithed the place.