Gorazde – symbol of resistance

Bosnia can’t be only bad news. Gorazde is a symbol of resistance – the only one of the Muslim enclaves in Eastern Bosnia that didn’t fall. That’s where Joop and me are heading the next day.

Just outside Sarajevo, we pass through Pale. The former capital of the “Republika Srpska” has not been destroyed at all. The ski-lifts and mine-free mountains would be ready for the Olympic games in 2’010. How great it would be if the IOC could give the Games again to Sarajevo!
Pale - that's all there is to it nowadays
A woman asks Jasmin if he’s a Muslim. She probably realized it from his behavior. No problems. The two start to talk. We let them talk. Later we ask what the discussion was about. About Sarajevo, how nice it was before the war. We had everything before the war, and what do we have now? Nothing. Both agree.
On the way to Gorazde, we pass again through Bosnian Serb territory and reach “Serbian Gorazde” first. Everything is divided in Bosnia. Edin and Jasmin refuse to eat in this part of town. A 60-year old factory worker tells us he doesn’t like the politicians (nobody does in Bosnia), but he admires general Mladic. In this part of Gorazde, very few people talk to us at all.
When we arrive in the Muslim part, our two friends are smiling again. Here they know everybody, including – of course – the girls. A man who is not smiling arrives with his car with a German number plate. He tells me about his houses in “Serbian Gorazde”, four houses that he had built with his own hands for his extended family. Now, one is destroyed, and Serbs live in the three others. His hope to be ever able to return there is dim. His car is full of consumer goods that he brought from Germany in a 16-hour drive. He pays the rent for two of his daughters who still live here. Paying a rent if you have three houses just 2 km away.
“I have lost everything, absolutely everything”, he tells me and cries. I almost cry myself. I look into the eyes of a strong man crying like a child because some nationalists wanted to turn back the clock to the 19th century. “Now, I have also lost my nerves”.
Two former war enemies - a Serb and a Muslim, Gorazde, 1999Next stop: a transitory refugee station. We unite a Serb and a Muslim – who have both fought in the war – around the same table. They both want to return to their respective part of Gorazde. As for now, they live in the same refugee centre and – what is rare – they believe in Bosnia and Herzegovina. We ask the same questions, and very often, the answers are similar. “This war was such a big mistake”, the 70-year old Serb says. “I will probably not experience the time when things are back to normal. But for the rest of my life, I will fight for it.” They even tell us who gets their votes in the next election: the multi-ethnic social-democratic party.
A woman interrupts us. She also has a story to tell – and no one wants to listen. OK, we want to listen.
Truth and fiction in BosniaHere goes the story: The man was in a Serb concentration camp, where he was beaten almost every day. He is now dependent of tranquilizers. Asylum was refused to them when they fled to Germany, and now they are in this refugee centre with their four children. We can see that the man is also an alcoholic and we feel that he probably beats the woman. She tells us the children sometimes have to look for food in the containers.
Here goes the truth, after some research with MSF: This is one of the numerous mixed marriages. The man is a Serb. He refused to go to the Bosnian Serb army during the war and was imprisoned for this. In Germany, however, he maintained that he was a Muslim. The family voluntarily left Germany after the war. They have been offered a newly built house in Gorazde – they refused because “it was too far away from the centrer”. The woman and the children were offered to go to a centre for women who are abused by their men. She refused.
So instead of a typical Bosnia war story, this is a typical family story like it happens all around the world. Joop and me have already made plans how we can help them. “Everybody wants to help them”, the French woman from MSF tells us, “but they simply refuse every help”.
Around these days, the New York Times claimed that up to 1 of the 5 billion US $ of international aid went into corrupt hands.

Next: Banja Luka
Books about the subject

Sarajevo – it still exists

“As long as Sarajevo exists, this newspaper will publish every day”, the editor-in-chief of Oslobodjenje is remembered to have said to his employees when the siege of Sarajevo began. The multi-ethnic paper did come out every day, and still exists – even no the two towers of newspaper are completely destroyed – and will remain like that, as a memorial of the war.

I remember watching the Swiss ski team on TV in 1984 at the Olympic games in Sarajevo. I also remember pronouncing “Sarajevo” dozens, hundreds of times on the radio, telling people that a new cease-fire had been agreed upon… Now I have arrived here myself, by train, and every minute of the day, the word “Sarajevo” is in my mind.
The front was where the trees startThe Olympic town has been thrown into the Middle Ages from one day to the other – during the 3-year siege, university professors became wood-collectors, and going out of your house was a deadly risk. Despite all the books, I never really emotionally understood the difference between attacking and defending in a war until I talked to the people in Sarajevo. The former front line is all around the city. You can still recognize it clearly: It’s where the trees start on the hills. Everything wooden has been cut to survive the winters. When you walk around town, there is almost no place where this tree-front-line can’t be seen.
Zihad was one of the defenders. The man in his 30ies tells me how he bought weapons in a town where even foreign head of states had troubles getting in. There were two ways, he explains: from the Croats – but they would take 50% for themselves (and possibly use them against Bosniaks elsewhere), or from the Serbs on the hills:
“We are both behind our respective frontlines. Then I would shout: ‘I want to buy a Kalashnikov. Can we make a truce?’ Then the Serb would respond: ‘OK, let’s make a truce from 4 p.m.’ At that time, both come out of their positions and negotiate. 500 DM for the gun, 1 DM per bullet. I give him 1000 DM, he gives me the gun. At 5 p.m. we go back behind our lines and start shooting at each other again”.
I ask him: “Do you know that you live in the craziest country in Europe?” – “Yes”, he shouts, laughs, and dances on the streets of Sarajevo.
The ruins of the former parliament building in the backgroundThe humor is universal with all ethnicities in Bosnia and Herzegovina (so is the driving style). A very popular souvenir – except for all kinds of used ammunition with pictures hammered in – is the Sarajevo Survival Map and the Sarajevo Survival Guide. The latter, which came out during the siege, can only be warmly recommended. The authors tell you how “to cook something out of nothing” and why driving fast over crossroads is the rule in Sarajevo (to escape snipers). In the introduction of the Michelin-style travel guide, you can read: “War so far hasn’t changed the climate”.
The place of the market square massacre - with a big Sarajevo roseBut it has changed a lot of other things, even if the Turkish old town (Bascarsija) is basically rebuilt (except for the National Library). So-called “Sarajevo red roses” – artillery craters filled with red gum – are a reminder of the places where three or more people have died. The outskirts of town still look horrible. It won’t be long before war tourism sets in. A Sarajevo Survival Shop has already opened, but I haven’t spotted any “I have survived Sarajevo” T-Shirt yet.  Foreigners govern Bosnia and Herzegovina. The “White House” is one of the nicknames people give to the seat of the “Office of the High Representative”. That’s where the real decisions are made. The High Representative has to agree with himself about everything the democratically elected nationalists can’t agree amongst themselves: common flag, common licence plate, common currency, common border police, new passport, return of refugees, … He can impose measures and depose politicians – and has done so.
All ethnic groups agree that this European protectorate is not what they want. If you are against it, you must be ready to accept the alternative: apartheid, brought about by “ethnic cleansing” and genocide.
The foreigners get a lot of money (“It’s the only reason we are in this shitty place”, says one). A lot of them have an alcohol problem. And like in comparable places, intelligent locals have made sure foreigners are catered for. In the “Internet Café” (a restaurant and a disco, it changes names frequently), foreigners and locals mix and try to dance and drink it all away. When the place closes, three young women ask if I want to go to another disco they know with them. OK. On the way there, I realize that one of them is a Serb, one a Croat, and one a Bosniak. Sarajevo was always like that. “I love you all”, I said to them. After the second disco closes around 5 a.m.), they asked where my car is or if I have money for a taxi. When I say that I am walking and that I am also not willing to pay their taxi, they were all – ethnically equal – pissed. No car, no money, no marriage.
Bosniaks, Serbs, Croats, Jews, SFOR-soldiers, employees of international organizations, and the few tourists, all have one in common in the afternoon: they are just terribly hot in the summer sun of Sarajevo.
Bascarsija - the old Turkish Bazar
Sarajevo will soon be a town ready again to accommodate tourists, and in the nearby Pale, you can already now do world-class  I interview many representatives of the so-called “international
community” in the capital of Bosnia and Herzegovina. These are probably
not of big interest to visitors to this page. I would like to point out,
however, one remarkable woman from an NGO called “Society for
Fadila Memisevic

This man has experienced three wars in his life - nothing can make him stop laughing.
rview many representatives of the so-called “international
community” in the capital of Bosnia and Herzegovina. These are probably
not of big interest to visitors to this page. I would like to point out,
however, one remarkable woman from an NGO called “Society for

Threatened Peoples” (Gesellschaft für bedrohte Völker).
Fadila Memisevic is now the head of the Bosnian section of this human
rights organization. Even during the war, she went from
Germany through all of war-torn Bosnia to Zenica, risking her life for the people there. Today, she still believes in a multi-cultural Bosnia and Herzegovina. She repeats again and again: “One cannot destroy our multi-cultural Bosnia with weapons”. One might say that it already has been destroyed by weapons, but Bosnia needs people like her. Bosnia doesn’t need the young pessimists who leave the country as soon as they can for a better future abroad. Fadila is especially engaged for the women of Srebrenica: “They want truth” – a bitter truth it will probably be. She also often points out the destiny of the Roma, which many people only know as beggar children on the street. Fadila is not neutral and not impartial. But being impartial in this conflict meant being impartial between aggressors and victims. You can’t expect someone to just leave this psychological baggage behind.

In front of an SFOR base in SarajevoContrary to what I expected, everyone wants to talk about war. One elderly man insists on telling me every detail on how his son defended Sarajevo while his son’s friends watched the war on TV in Germany. After more than two hours, I find out that the man is a Serb, and that his son was in the Bosnian army. “It was not written on the heads of the people who is a Serb and who is a Muslim”, he says, which lets me think about “target discrimination” on the part of the attackers on the hills….
But despite all of this, Sarajevo still exists, and it’s worth a trip
Marcel in front of a Mosque, Sarajevo, 1999

Mostar: The City of Apartheid

The catholic Croats are proud of “their” Medjugorje, and they often go there. But as some humorists say: Now to something completely different.
Tourism sign at the front line, seen through an artillerie whole
To do it the other way around, going from Medjugorje to East Mostar (meaning east of the former front line, the Muslim part) is not all that easy. No consistent rumors about buses, I don’t want to hitchhike (like I did before) with all the baggage, so I splash out 30 DM for a taxi. “What is the name of the street again? But that is in East Mostar”, the Croat driver says. He absolutely refuses to cross what is commonly called “the invisible wall”, the completely destroyed former frontline.
50 m from that frontline- street, he stops.
82-year old Muslim in his 500-year old Turkish house There I go, in the hot sun (40 degrees centigrade in the shadow), walking over a former frontline, where hundreds of thousands of bullets have hit every single building, going into Mostar’s old city, trying to find the pension I have phoned. 2 liters of sweat later, the price of that pension has incredibly increased since yesterday. No way. Good-bye.
An 82-year-old Muslim man stops me. “I have a 500-year old Turkish house. Do you want to see it?” Yes, but first a bed and a shower. No, he wants to show me his old Turkish house. One liter of sweat later, we arrive there. Somewhere in the middle, he stops: “My heart!” Then I have to make the tour of that – indeed – wonderful house. It belonged to a wealthy Osman family, has survived World War I and World War II, but not the 90’s. I get to see the kitchen, the living room, and some books as old as 500 years. I recover somewhat over tea, where he tells me that he also has a house in Western Mostar, now occupied by the army of the Republic of “Herceg-Bosna”, a republic that is theoretically dead and buried. But Dayton is one thing, the facts on the ground are quite another. As much as I feel sorrow for the victims of this war, I almost become one from dehydration: I reluctantly bring up the subject of getting a place to stay. Oh yes, he knows someone, “very close”. Almost on the other end of Eastern Mostar, two liters of sweat later, I get to know another proud descendent of the Osmans, around 60 years old, married “three or four times, I don’t remember”. The guy has a lot of humor and knows four languages. Finally, I have arrived, six hours after I’ve left Medjugorje, 30 km away.
In front of the Karadzozbeg Mosque (1557)
After having slept under a Cross and after having had breakfast next to the picture of the Pope, I now wake up to the sound of Mosques. This is the multicultural Bosnia and Herzegovina – you can still see it, if you are a foreigner.
The very symbol of multiculturalism was the “old bridge” (Stari Most) – that the Croats destroyed in 1993. Now you can see how the Hungarians fish the pieces of one of Europe’s most remarkable bridges out of the Neretva River. Whenever possible, they will use the same stones. The running joke is that Stari Most will be older than before with the Hungarians re-building it. Of course, SFOR takes care of security, and the new bridge will need 24 hours of surveillance, that’s for sure.
Stari Most - can you recognize where it used to be?
Former front line between East and West MostarEvery day, I do what few locals do, at least three times: crossing the former front line, that 1.5 km stretch of a street that makes Mostar continental Europe’s city of apartheid. On the Eastern side of that street – which a sarcast named “Boulevard of European Union” – you are in Bosnia and Herzegovina. On the Western side, everyone feels and behaves like in Croatia. There is even a provocative sign: “Welcome to Croatia”. In a café in Western Mostar, the mood is easy until the waiter, who was an HVO soldier during the war, wants to start talking about the war. “This is f****** occupation”, he says, adding that later he earned only 1’500 DM as an interpreter and field officer for the ICRC (an incredible amount in Bosnia). Thanks to the ICRC job, his knowledge about Switzerland is very deep and differentiated. We hand out syringes and drugs for free to drug addicts (half-true, to avoid HIV, crime and prostitution), while he would kill his son if he was addicted. I also learn that the Swiss, living in a multicultural state, are “foreigners in your own country”. One day, the Croats will kick the international community out of their country, just like in Somalia. And as to the Muslims: “Can’t you choose your neighbors?”. No, we can’t.
Rebuilding a Serb house in Rastani, near MostarI am aware that Western Mostar is not Bosnia; it’s the worst of Bosnia. Only a few kilometers outside Mostar, in the village of Rastani, the other Bosnia can be seen. Here, Serbs and Muslims help each other re-build completely destroyed houses. The Serb coordinator for the return of the Serb refugees is overly optimistic: “This will be an eldorado”, while a pensioner, who has to live with less than 100 DM a month, says they will continue to rely on international aid – even for food. Only the Croats of Rastani try to do some last-minute obstruction to the return of the refugees, by cutting off the water to the Serb and Muslim part of town, for example. One Muslim historian present complains: “We are a protectorate. Why doesn’t Mr. Petritsch turn on the water?”.
In East Mostar, also everyone wants to tell war stories, emphasizing their roles as victims. “Once a grenade just went 2 meters past me when I was running to get water in the Mosque”, a woman tells me. Most Muslims seem to be quite secular: If you look at the dresses of the young women, you are convinced that the Sharia is not what they think about the whole day…
Mixed graveyard in Western MostarThe most pervert thing about Mostar are – again – the cemeteries. Like everywhere in the towns that were in the war zones, almost all green areas have been transformed into cemeteries. But in Western Mostar, you can learn history from these cemeteries. In some of them, Catholic and Muslim graves are next to each other – that was in the first phase of the war, when Croats and Bosniaks fought alongside against the Serb attack. In others, it’s Croat-only – ethnically divided, like everything in this country.
But things are moving towards the better, even in this horrible town. The youngsters sometimes go to the discos of the “other side”, fall in love with each other, but don’t say anything to their parents… The mafia cooperates. And at the front line, the first café is open again, and some renovation is being done.
250’000 deaths and 2 mio. refugees can’t be forgotten in a few years.
Old or new demons? Former front line.

90 Days in Cambodia

In which country can you stroll through the biggest temple in the world, jump into a crystal clear volcanic lake, and have a beer in swimming Video Karaoke Bar? In which country can you shoot a rocket-propelled grenade launcher and play roulette with former Communist guerillas? In which country are skulls a tourist attraction just like Buddhist monasteries? Welcome to one of the most contradictory and fascinating places on the face of the earth: Welcome to Cambodia!
A magic temple at AngkorThere is something magic about Cambodia. Either you feel it, or you don’t. There is nothing in between. During my first trip through the former Indochina in 1997, which included Cambodia, I certainly felt it. I’d better not analyze too deeply what made me come back. My dad in Ho Chi Minh City to visit, improving security in Cambodia’s provinces, but also .. the exceptional, the unknown, the magic.
To get from Ho Chi Minh City’s Kim Cafe to my favourite Hotel Indochine  in Phnom Penh cost precisely 10 US $. One hour to leave the moloch of Vietnam’s sprawling city, unfriendly Vietnamese border guards, saying good bye to Latin characters, walking 100 meters to the other side, and there you are, in the country of landmines, American bombings and the Killing Fields. But it may be different than you think. I will learn it in the course of the next three months – hopefully I can share it with you.
“Suo Sedei – Sok Sabaii?” (“Hello, how are you?”). On the road to Phnom Penh – the same road the Vietnamese took to invade Cambodia in 1979 – about 200 party signs are visible. It’s election time in Cambodia. The main contenders are the Cambodian People’s Party (CPP), FUNCINPEC, and the Sam Rainsy Party (SRP). But there are also the more bizarre names like the “Woman and nation’s rule of law party”, the “Buddhist liberal democratic party”, or the “farmer’s party” – no less than 39 of them are registered for the second post-communist elections of July 26th, 1998. They could be the last chance for a democratic Cambodia. After last year’s coup (5th/6th July 1997), the optimists are rare. Numerous self-proclaimed Cambodian experts advised me against going: “Have you not heard that there is a Hun Sen style election campaign going on?”, was the useful comment of a Lao opposition group. “We’re all watching world cup footie here in the Heart”, emailed someone else, describing a rather quiet situation…
Cambodia – the “Heart of Darkness”?
“The Heart” is the name insiders give to the most popular bar in the capital – the “Heart of Darkness”, named after Joseph Conrad’s famous book. He described the Congo of almost 100 years ago, but what happened in Cambodia between 1975 and 1979 can certainly be compared to the horrors of Central Africa. In the Congo, it was exploitation of humans by humans for economic reasons. In Cambodia, it was exploitation of humans by humans for ideological reasons – the most radical transformation of a society ever attempted. Pol Pot’s idea of a purely agrarian society without money, cities, schools, and hospitals – practically cut off from the outside world – had a human price: 1.7 million people died due to exhaustion, starvation, and political persecution.
The latter took place at Security Prison 21 (“S21”), a high school transformed from educating the young to torturing the educated. Intellectuals were in low demand in Pol Pot’s “Democratic Kampuchea”. Wearing glasses was enough of a crime. Having to confess to working for the CIA, the KGB or even worse – for the Vietnamese. A sign told the victims not to cry while being tortured with electric shocks and other methods. Barbed wire prevented them from committing suicide – jumping down the second or third floor would have been much preferable to watching your child being stabbed with a bayonet. Today, “S21” is the “Tuol Sleng Holocaust Museum”, and all of this can be seen on pictures. Thousands and thousands of portrait pictures are on the walls, with fear of death in their faces. This girl can’t be older than 17 – what has she done? Human creativity has no limits, also when it comes to cruelty. The horrendous results of torture can be seen as well. Also the torturers – mostly teenagers – were later tortured themselves. Paranoia of the ruling elite. In the last room, skulls and bones make up a huge map of Cambodia. Is that what Cambodia was all about? In the museum there are some camera teams, no tourists, some mine victims, and a few crazy people.
Beyond description: Cambodia's killing fields“Tuol Sleng” helps not to forget, but it doesn’t help to understand. The same is true for another place on the Khmer Rouge tourist circuit. It is one of the most horrible places in the world, known as the “Killing fields” – the mass graves of “Choeung Ek” outside Phnom Penh. That’s where my motorcycle driver (most common way of taxi transportation) drops me off. Skulls taken from the mass graves remind future generations never to let genocide happen again. They are in a 25-meter glass stupa, where they are sorted according to gender and age. What have these people done against Paradise on Earth? “Female, 15-20 years”, is written on one shelf of the immense glass stupa. It’s my second time here, but now, I am all alone. Alone in the “Killing Fields”. Only a cow is drinking some water out of an empty grave, with a sign next to it: “166 victims without heads”.
So maybe Cambodia where people forced to work in the fields were beaten to death (to save bullets) was really the “Heart of Darkness”? Back to the bar. It is a strange, small, kind of dirty hole-in-the-wall pub where the decoration includes a snake wine and big fake spiders hanging down from the ceiling. And of course: it’s dark in the Heart of Darkness. You can also play pool, but that’s not why you go there. (NB: driving at night on the back of a moto taxi was not always very safe – losing your money at gun point is very common at night time Phnom Penh). You go there to drink beer and meet the fascinating mix of expatriates (UN and NGO staff), local and foreign journalists, English teachers, backpackers, tourists and weirdoes. The American working for the council of ministers on behalf of the World Bank, the Human Rights Monitor from Colombia, the Japanese photographer waiting for the next shoot-out, the British political science researcher, the Irish bodyguard…. the list has no end. What drives them to the Heart of Darkness? Cheap drinks, the best music in town, or perhaps…. the magic?
Let’s take the Irish bodyguard. Black jeans, black T-shirt, black woollen cap, black hair, and small black beard “goatee style”. I remember him from last year when I saw him in the very same bar. He did some kind of shadow boxing in the air then, every now and then right in front of someone’s face. You meet strange people in Cambodia. I am trying to stay away from him this time around. But he takes the initiative. He fixes me with his dark eyes, points at me and says slowly with his calm voice: “I know you”. He’s the kind of guy you don’t object to. He knows me, ok. He wants to talk, also ok. He’s in his 30s and works as a bodyguard, one of his previous customers was the son of Prince Rannaridh. You don’t talk about salary in this job, which is “99.9% boring – just waiting”. You also don’t talk about how many people you’ve killed. What you do talk about is yourself. He lifts his T-shirt and shows me his body full of scars and some tattoos. In Ireland, he has been a heroin addict for eight years, he says. But then that wonderful country called Cambodia made him completely clean. Quite admirable, considering the fact that drugs are cheap, laws are neither known nor enforced (Marihuana is free in the Heart), and that anarchy and corruption are probably the two most accurate words to describe the country we are in. Now he’s proud of being “100% clean”, as he sips his 11th Tequila. He is married to an Irishwoman and has a child. The kid will never go to the International School – “We will teach ourselves”. The future? “I have nowhere to go”.
Election campaign in Cambodia
The infamous Foreign Correspondants Club of Cambodia (FCCC)Visitors, however, have lots of places to go. Before moving to the Heart at around 10 to 11 p.m., the colonial-style “Foreign Correspondents Club of Cambodia” (FCCC) is clearly the place to be. You can “watch the river go by”, as the advertisement says (if you ask me: the best view in South East Asia), while sipping a drink, eating good food, and talking to interesting folks. It’s more the upscale crowd who goes there. A UN employee I met was dealing with, amongst other things, getting the election material to the 11,699 polling stations all around the country. Amongst the stuff are seven tons of indelible ink – one of the ways to make sure no one votes twice. This ink had to be flown in from India via Thailand, he explains, while we were sitting in the large armchairs of the Club. Yesterday morning, however, there was no ink in the Thai airplane arriving at Pochentong airport. Today is the deadline. If he couldn’t manage to get the ink to Phnom Penh by today, the election could have been postponed, he says. He phones the Thai ambassador, who phones the Thai Prime Minister, who phones the CEO of Thai airways. The PM makes clear to the CEO that the ink is going to be on the plane. And guess what – it was on the plane…. Going to the FCC has something colonial in it. You fight your way through amputees to get upstairs, where there is a 10 US $ / hour internet cafe, buy the newest magazines and newspapers, and look down on people who earn 100 times less than you while you are eating pizza – don’t ask why a lot of expatriates are overweight.
The riverside in Phnom Penh. Election propaganda on the tree.The first Canadian election observers have arrived. An English-speaking newspaper ran an advertisement looking for additional International Election Observers. A chat with one of the Canadians gives me some hints about whether I should apply. The man in his 50s with a T-shirt “Jamaica election observer” explains: “We have been briefed back in Canada – you know, things like Malaria, and how to overcome the culture shock”, he says, “If you do that job, it’s gonna be an eye-opener”. Next day I became a volunteer international election observer for the “Neutral and Independent Committee for Free Elections in Cambodia” (NICFEC).
One of the places I can unconditionally recommend is “Tom’s Irish Pub” – a very relaxed place run by former UNTAC employee Tom who has his heart at the right spot. Every now and then, he organizes a party for orphan children, and this makes him at least as happy as the kids. His wife and his staff are extremely nice, always there for a chat, and “Tom’s” is by far the easiest place to make friends. [Unfortunately, I have heard since that Tom has died.]
As a whole, Phnom Penh still seems pretty much like the year before. Less expatriates (a number of aid programs were cancelled after the coup), a lot less tourists (except the drug and sex tourists), a lot of political propaganda (trucks with supporters of Sam Rainsy driving through the streets: “Sam Rainsy, Sam Rainsy!”; posters everywhere), more crime – but Phnom Penh is still Phnom Penh. Big boulevards, quite a nice riverside to stroll by, thousands of motor taxis (easily recognized by their baseball caps), and beggars in front of the expatriates places: “njam njam”. The Phnom Phenois talk a lot about the elections. There seems to be a lot of support for the rather intellectual opposition candidate Sam Rainsy. Not surprising in an urban environment. Also there seems to be some irrational feeling with the people that violence or war is ahead. It has been like that every time something changed in Cambodia since 1970.
“Wanna shoot gun?”
Another constant since 1970 are guns. Time and again, people are asking: “Wanna shoot gun?”, referring to an army shooting range near Pochentong airport where everyone willing to pay can give his instincts a free ride. First, a motorbike takesAt one of the shooting rangs, the handling of weapons is casual. you to the “army market” to buy ammunition for 15 US$. Then the moto driver drops you at the shooting range, easily located by the sound of serial fire. It’s basically a wooden hut, open on both sides, in which members of the Cambodian armed forces hang around. Children are playing. A Briton and an Israeli are shooting some automatic weapons. The young Israeli seems to have a lot of fun, though “we have this for free at home”, he says. The local Commander lies in his hammock (hammocks are a universal passion in Cambodia) and plays with his loaded handgun. Every now and then, he stands up and shoots a few rounds. What a comfortable place. Of course, like everywhere, there is also a Buddhist shrine. The instructions for me how to shoot the AK-47 take about one minute. Unlock, hold it the right way, point, and press the trigger really slowly, slowly. This is the place where 500 – 1000 US $ gets you out of prison if you’ve committed a murder – this is Cambodia. Some people go an shoot cows there.
Buddhist monestaries are being rebuilt all over Cambodia.The tourist spots of the more regular kind in Phnom Penh is the Wat Phnom, for example, where you enjoy the wonderful peaceful feeling of a Buddhist pagoda with its flowers and smoking sticks inside. It’s impressive how the Cambodians have kept their Buddhist culture in their hearts despite the fact that the Khmer Rouge have destroyed almost all places of worship. Pagodas are being re-built all around the country despite massive poverty. Every morning, monks in their orange robes are going on their alms rounds and get their food for free from the population of one of the 20 poorest countries in the world. Still, the longer you spend in a monastery as a young man, the more respected you are.
Buddhism survived Pol Pot
Heng Hoeung is one such young man. I meet him in front of the magnificent Silver Pagoda in the compound of the Royal Palace. He and his friend ask if I would allow them to practice their English with me. (NB: In the tourist shop, you can buy the Cambodia Lonely Planet guidebook from 1992, even before UNTAC. They admit that they haven’t sold a single one for years.) Thanks to UNTAC, Cambodia may be the prime English speaking country in South East Asia. The elderly who have experienced French colonial rule still speak French. But the young, like those all over the world, want to learn English, the American accent. They want Coca-Cola, ATM machines and nice-looking women. That’s what TV tells them the West is about. America does not have to conquer the world, money does the job. If you read somewhere that the national currency of Cambodia is something called “Riel”, replace it with “Dollar”. The Riel is generally only used for amounts smaller than 1 US $. But Heng Hoeung doesn’t care about Dollars or Riels, at least not for the moment. Board and lodging is free, and living in poverty is not only a constraint, it’s also a choice for a Buddhist monk.
Heng Hoeung, my friend, the monk, in his living quarter.I get a chance to see how he lives in “Mohamontry Pagoda”. The living quarter is very basic – one big room where 18 people live together. Only some orange curtains provide a bit of privacy. Hoeung offers me some water, and his fellow monks (novices, to be precise) are quickly there to see the “barang” (the world for “foreigner” is not meant to be derogatory like in Thai). Few dare to practice what they have learned so hard in daily English lessons from teachers who have rarely enjoyed more than three months of training themselves. Before I leave, one of the monks tells me: “I will give you my prayers when you go to Stung Treng”.
Stung Treng is my province of choice for the elections. It is in the very northeast, a sparsely populated region of Cambodia near the border with Laos. Only 35’675 voters (= 1 seat in parliament) are registered in the rather large province, but the recently defected KR make sure international observers are needed there. My group is composed of 89 international observers spread all over the country, mostly expatriates working in Cambodia. The UN and EU observers make up the bulk of roughly 600 international observers. National observers and party agents will also be trying to make sure the elections are “free, fair and representative”. It is well known that people close to the ruling CPP dominate the Polling Station Committees of the 11,699 voting stations. Our job as observers, we learn in the training, is strictly that: observing. We are not running the election.
Driving to the real Cambodia with my friend, the monk
But before I fly up to Stung Treng, I meet him again, my friend, the monk. He invited me to his home province Takeo for a day. I hire a motorbike at “Lucky Lucky Motorbikes”, where the friendly employee keeps my passport saying: “In Cambodia, no insurance”, meaning I am paying 500 US $ if something goes wrong. My friend, the monk, seems to think something will go wrong all the time. He sits in woman’s posture behind me, while we are heading south out of Phnom Penh. Hoeung never forgets to tell me when one of the newly installed traffic signals is red, probably thinking that I have never seen a thing like that before. He also frequently mentions that I am driving fast. To be honest, I would prefer if my friend, the honorable monk, would balance himself a bit better instead of providing advice. While driving and counter-balancing the monk, I remember Lonely Planet’s advice to consider all Cambodian drivers as “visually impaired psychopaths”. The rules, which I have found out in an empirical way, are as follows:

1) Only look what’s going on in front of you. Everyone is doing the same.
2) Never make abrupt changes in your movements. Everyone supposes you continue doing what you are doing.
3) The bigger the stronger. Truck, big car, small car, big motorbike, small motorbike, bicycles and cyclos, and God bless you if you are a pedestrian.

Takeo provinceHaving those rules in my mind, we are driving through rural Cambodia, the real Cambodia that makes up 85% of the country. Some of the rice paddies look like deserts – the rainy season has not yet taken off. The lives of thousands of people could depend on it. Sometimes people shoot at the clouds to get some rain. Everywhere people are waving at us, especially children.
After a stop at the little-known ruins of Tonle Bati, we drive up a “mountain” to a monastery, where fellow monks from other places are always welcome. A “mountain” in Cambodia is anything in the landscape that is not completely flat. In this case, we are talking about a mountain of app. 300-m altitude. An elderly man who came to provide food for the monks is asking me whether we have mountains as high as this one in Switzerland, and if we, too, have problems with the rainy season this year. He, about 20 villagers and about 20 monks listen carefully to the translation of Hoeung, as I am explaining that we have mountains with eternal snow, that we have four seasons and are rather into potatoes. Everyone is very attentive and seems very happy. The villagers have cooked for the monks, who eat first, but only after chanting prayers in their traditional Pali language. It sounds monotonic but somehow magic. After we’ve all watched the monks eating, the others are also allowed to sit down on the ground and eat. Village people waiting until the monks have eaten.It goes without saying that I eat amongst the most elderly persons present, and my friend, the monk, translates constantly. They read my lips. When I mention in passing that I am a bit tired, someone brings a mattress and allows me to rest for a few hours. Then I go outside, look down the wide landscape of palm trees, even see some monkeys jumping from tree to tree. We hear the music of a funeral and decide to join it after asking the senior monk if my presence is in any way disturbing, of course. It is not. A 26-year-old monk has died of a stomach problem. Strangely, his body is not burned, but buried. We can’t find out why. The last stop on our tour through Takeo province is the village where Heng Hoeung lives. We turn from highway number 4 into what I would call a bad footpath. I try to keep the balance with my unbalanced monk on the back for about 20 kilometers until we finally reach his village. It’s a hot day in Cambodia. The children surround me immediately – they have never seen a foreigner, Hoeung explains, and they hesitate between curiosity and fear. Hoeung’s mother offers me some hot tea – not that I am cold, but who wants to refuse hospitality? Finally, my friend, the monk, and I are driving back to Phnom Penh. “I will never forget this day”, he says.
Unforgettable is also the day of my departure to Stung Treng. An article in the Cambodia Daily, a pro-opposition English newspaper, misquotes me as saying: “Unlike the EU/UN observers, we are covering different polling stations in one day”. What I did say to the backpacker-turned-journalist was “Like the EU/UN observers… “. In other words: the contrary.
Arrival at Stung Treng
So on this Wednesday, July 22nd, 1998, “Royal Air Cambodge” (RAC) flies me to Stung Treng. Very few foreigners ever went there during that summer. I meet Ruth and Walter, two EU observers, and Sheila from COMFREL, another independent organization. At the “airport” Tom, a tall American greets us. He’s been around since the middle of June to observe the pre-election period and has built a high level of confidence with the local authorities. It is those authorities to which we want to introduce ourselves first:
– The (CPP) Governor of the Province. Everything is under control. Four KR had divisions defected to the government. Peaceful campaign; recent shootings concerning animals…. it’s gonna be a peaceful election. On Election Day, no movements allowed, not even for going to the market, in order to prevent any possible unrest. Alcohol will also be prohibited. “And I would like to inform you that the Khmer people like to drink”, the Governor smiles, and the translator translates nervously. For us, of course, no problems whatsoever.
– The Provincial Election Committee (PEC). No serious problem apart from the “high-jacking” of a polling station kit by KR, who released it shortly afterwards. And a nasty flyer against CPP. Unqualified national observer groups make money with false promises. Everything else: excellent.
Judging from the statements of these high authorities, it seems as if Cambodia were the most peaceful place on earth where government-affiliated election officials are only interested in democracy.
Stung Treng province - in the middle of nowhere. Take note of the cow in the water.Meeting amongst the international observers: How to divide up the province? Tom, Brad, Walter and Ruth will be covering the 18 polling stations of Stung Treng district, which can be reached by car. Sheila and her colleague are thinking about moving further out. So am I. The likelihood of intimidation and cheating increases the further you are away from the centre, and that’s where we are needed. Tom would have preferred if I had doubled up on some of his stations. He cites security risks outside the district, which can only be reached by boat and motorbike. “What exactly are the security concerns?”, I ask. He leans back on his chair, undecided whether he should smile or look angry: “What’s the problem in Cambodia?!”. Landmines, banditry, hijackings, bad roads, KR, communication difficulties – Cambodia has no lack of problems. No hope for a precise answer.
Translator Chantha knows the province very well from his half a year with UNICEF. On a small canoe-like boat with a motor on the back, we cross the Sekhong River. The boat has barely the width of the bike, and if the later had fallen down, it would have been my second unintentional swim in an Asian river. Certainly one of the scariest boat rides of my life. We visit the polling stations on the island of Samaki, get to know the chairmen of the Polling Station Committees, let them know that I am there. Of course, they insist that everything is completely fine. 45 Khmer Rouge (KR) defectors are registered in Samaki District. We are told they live in a camp and are rather unhappy. The roads on Samaki are horrible, so is Chantha as a driver. He explains that only half a year ago, it would have been extremely dangerous to be here.
“They are Khmer Rouge”
With another boat, we cross the most beautiful and untouched stretch of the Mekong I have seen so far, to get to Thala Barivat District, where hundreds of KR defectors are registered. It is there where my first direct encounter with some of the most extreme communists takes place. Chantha is driving; I am on the back of the motorbike. “Can you see the four men?” he asks, “they are Khmer Rouge”. Here I am at the end of the world, approaching four Khmer Rouge guerillas, armed with AK-47’s and B-40 rocket launchers. The latter are a rather … strong means for self-defense, and could better be used to blow up polling stations, for example. Smiling, we drive by the four teenagers in regular Cambodian army uniform. A radio call to Walter confirms that this is nothing to worry about. Villagers tell us that there was no immediate intimidation by KR as far as the elections are concerned, but that violThey don't look like it, but the uniformed are Khmer Rouge vice commanders for this area.ence and rape by KR is fairly common. We check out three future polling stations in Thala Barivat, eat surprisingly good noodle soup in a local “place to eat”. We again pass the four KR and ask them where they are heading. They say that they were going to the local KR headquarters to store their weapons for the duration of the election. This is apparently a deal made with the Governor. We went to that very headquarters: It’s a medium-sized basic wooden hut filled with hammocks and unmotivated bored people who clearly haven’t seen water on their bodies for weeks if not months. It’s only been in May that most of them have given up their long fight for another Pol Pot style Cambodia. They look like normal Cambodians. They smile like normal Cambodians. They are friendly like normal Cambodians. But only a few years ago, they may have kidnapped and/or killed a visiting foreigner. The most superior member present is Pin Ten, the Vice-Commander. In his 66th company, 93 soldiers are under arms; 114 family members also live at the headquarters. “I hope that the elections will be free and fair and I am happy that you [the international observers] are here”, Pin Ten says. A human rights organization or the Khmer Rouge? “A lot of the reports you hear are intentionally falsified”, he says. We are shown the piles of weapons, which have been stored to decrease the likelihood of crazy individuals disturbing the vote. Sometimes history is not a dramatic rupture, a change that can be reported in the news. Sometimes history is former guerillas handing in their weapons when elections are approaching. Sometimes also history is not made in the capitals, but in a place no one has ever heard of, like Thala Barivat.
Talking about history being made, remember the Gettysburg speech of Abraham Lincoln? Sometimes history is made differently, in a commune room in Stung Treng, Cambodia, where every Friday members of the Cambodian People’s Party (CPP), FUNCINPEC, the Sam Rainsy Party (SRP), the Governor of the Province, the Provincial Election Committee (PEC), and members of the security forces meet around a big table to discuss the campaign. At the last meeting before the vote, all observers are present. Before the actual participants of the meeting make their points, they always offer their regards to the others – even if they hate them. Issues on the agenda: the national observer groups who have recruited large numbers of persons for the purpose of exploiting them; nasty leaflets against CPP, and too little police. The only one who really complains is Chao Phaly, the provincial chairman of the Sam Rainsy Party. According to him, members of the armed forces and of the police have been threatened when they were trying to join the SRP. A member of the military police replies that this is simply not true. An agitated Chao, speaking in a very loud and angry voice, also complains that most of his party agents (observers from the party), didn’t get their admission cards. It turns out that it is only a technical problem, they will get their cards, and the voice of the SRP chairman calms down. Later he even offers a light to the CPP Governor.
These meetings have certainly contributed to the good campaign atmosphere. “No beating, no stabbing, no shooting, no chopping”, Tom quotes one official as having said once. No chopping…
The day before
The big day comes closer. Saturday, July 25th, 1998. The campaign has stopped at midnight. No leaflets, no party T-shirts, no rallies allowed anymore. It will now be up to the people to decide. We divided the zone amongst the observers. Chantha had the excellent idea of hiring a boat and forgetting about the motorbike altogether, as all the stations are either along the Sekong or the Mekong rivers. Schools and worship places are slowly transformed into temples of democracy – or at least of elections.
When we return in the evening, a leading member of the local group of the “Buddhist Association for the Relief of the Poor” (BARP) is sitting outside our Hotel (the only one in the Province) with the other international observers. The “National Election Committee” (NEC) has suspended the accreditation of his group, meaning they are no longer observers. “I am afraid about my security”, says the man in his blue shirt (that’s why Tom calls him “blueskirt”). Blueskirt is afraid of his security because the 270 members of his group in the province have been promised anywhere from 150 to 200 US $ per month for the next three years. In order to get that kind of fortune, these unfortunate idiots have paid 6 to 8 US $ to join the group and traveled on their own budget here up to the north, only to find out that they have been deceived. So was probably Blueskirt – the national leader of BARP has reportedly already left the country with the money. Tom: “there is nothing we can do for him. You are an observer. You are not to interfere at all“. Ruth to Tom: “They are desperate. We should make sure nothing is stolen from our hotel rooms this night”. Brad to Blueskirt: “What a hard lesson to learn!
The Cambodians I talk to are rather tense. No one knows what’s ahead. On the evening before Cambodia’s second post-communist elections, the rain sets in. One of those romantic monsoon rains when it just pours down and down and down… I am running in the warm rain outside the hotel chasing children.
The big day: Elections in Cambodia
Early in the morning, everybody wanted to be first to cast the vote. Democracy in action.The big day: Sunday, July 26th, 1998 – the day voters, journalists, photographers, cameramen (and -women), observers and politicians have been waiting for. Just what will happen on the first supposedly democratic election organized by the Cambodians themselves? I am standing inside the veterinary station in Stung Treng, where the assistant, Chantha, is voting himself. A large number of people in their best clothes are already waiting outside. The procedure is as follows: Chantha presents his registration card to the secretary, who also checks if his right pointing finger has ink on it and if his name is on the national computer list (safeguards against voting twice). The vice chairman of the polling station separates one ballot paper (format A4!) from the block, stamps it, folds it twice, hands it over to him and explains what he has to do with it. Then Chantha goes behind the voting screen, which had to be installed in a way so that no one sees which one of the 39 parties is ticked. Inside the screen, he unfolds the paper (where both party names and their logos are on; 35% of Cambodians are illiterate), marks the party of his choice, re-folds the ballot paper twice and leaves the voting screen. He places the ballot paper into the metal ballot box (re-cycled from the Japanese election), that has been sealed before the polling station was opened. An assistant puts the right pointing finger of Chantha into indelible ink and waits a moment to let it dry. The chairman supervises the process, decides in cases of doubt and answers questions from party agents as well as observers.
That’s how boring democracy is on Election Day. A secret vote. It is that very same procedure that we will be observing at the eight polling stations:
– Boat to Hang Khoban in Samaki district – total chaos there. The Cambodian way of queuing up is not quite the English way – it’s more leaning inside every hole of the wooden school-turned-voting-station to see what the hell is going on in there. The Cambodian way of doing things in general is early in the morning. They could vote until 4 p.m., but they all do it at 7 a.m. A mass of people are waiting. One seal is not correctly attached to the ballot box, but the second seal is ok. I was suspicious of the chairman of that station right from the beginning; he just left a bad impression with me. So I make another surprise visit later on.
Poster explaining to analphabets how the voting process works.– Boat to O Trel in Thala Barivat district. Everything quiet. As usual, introduction to election officials. Outside, we tell people that we know how they voted. An elderly man smiles: “I know you can’t”. The message seems to have gotten out. The National Election Committee (NEC) has produced information videos with model polling stations. The TVs, videos and generators have been brought to the furthest corners of the province. The turnout of the villagers for these to see these videos has probably been even higher than that for the vote. Also COMFREL, the biggest national observer group, has done a tremendous job in informing the population in the simplest way possible.
– Boat to Kang Decho. Like everywhere, three smiling party agents (CPP, FUNCINPEC, SRP) and a smiling COMFREL observer. What we are seeing is sometimes even over-zealous. If someone folds the ballot paper once instead of twice, the chairman himself stands up and sends him back behind the voting screen, making absolutely sure no one in the room sees where he makes his tick.
– Walk to Thala Barivat, the main polling station in the district. App. 640 voters registered. Most have already cast their ballot when we arrive. As always, I report by radio that I have left the polling station.
On the way to a remote polling station with translator Chantha.– For the next few hours, Chantha (on picture left) and I will be out of radio contact as we are moving up the Mekong back to Samaki district to the most distant station we cover, in the small village of Koh Kondin. It seems as if time had stood still at that remote place. Even the water buffaloes go: “Barang?”. Chantha tells me this region used to be very dangerous only a few months ago. Now it has completely changed. People walk or oxcart-drive from as far as 10 kilometers to cast their votes for the future of Cambodia. If all of them know what they are doing is a different story. But I have doubts about that in Switzerland, too. By now, I am quite exhausted.
– Boat to the small village of Thmei, where, allegedly, I am the first foreigner to set foot. I am more being observed than I am observing. Out of the 264 registered voters, only 13 have not yet shown up. The elderly nice chairman uses the loudspeakers to try to convince even the few guys who live on a small Mekong island to come over. As if to apologize, he says that a woman has given birth this morning and is not ready to move, and that some people are sick. At least I can observe one person voting, bringing the number of absentees to 12.
– Boat to Hang Khosoun, the communal election center, where also the counting will take place the following day. Same picture there. Everyone who can get out of bed has already voted. Not a single complaint filed by any of the observers or party agents.
Finally, on the boat back to Hang Khoban. Radio conversation with the EU team. They confirm no troubles at all also on their side.
40 out of the 45 KR defectors at Hang Khoban have decided not to vote. They are rumored to have disappeared back into the forest, but no incidents have been reported. All other KR have participated in a normal turnout, which is about 90%. In the evening, everyone in Cambodia has ink on his finger.
The day after
Monday, July 27th, 1998. Counting day. We are observing the Hang Khosoun communal counting center, where votes from four different stations are counted. After unsealing the metal ballot boxes, the ballot papers from different polling stations are mixed together on four different tables. The secretary takes one paper, unfolds it, quotes in a calm voice the party ticked, and marks it on a form. The Vice-chairman checks the validity of the ballot paper (e.g. not more than one party ticked) and repeats the name of the party. Finally, the chairman verifies the party name, holds up the ballot paper for everyone to see, and announces the number and/or name of the party with a loud voice. If there is any doubt about validity, they allow us to check it out ourselves. There is no discrimination. Also votes clearly cast for CPP, but not at the right spot on the paper, are declared invalid. When it comes to filling out a form or following a certain procedure, they sometimes ask us because they think that the “internationals” have studied .. The party agents have developed soAn overcrowded boat, but a relieved crowd - the big day went well.me kind of confidence between them. They have overnighted next to the ballot boxes in their hammocks. Cigarettes, bananas and smiles are exchanged. They made their notes, they were attentive, and in the end, they all signed the paper saying that the counting day was ok. Asked whether he has made new friends from other parties, the FUNCINPEC agent says: “We are building up Cambodia together“. Another one adds: “Whoever wins, gets the flowers”.
In Samaki district, CPP gets the flowers (707), followed by FUNCINPEC (375) and the Sam Rainsy Party (319). Some scattered votes go to others; three people have voted for the “Woman and nation’s rule of law party”. On the whole, it’s clear that CPP gets Stung Treng Province.
A small wooden boat drives along the Mekong and crosses over to the Sekhong one last time, completely overloaded with ballot boxes, radio antennas, and 20 persons. Despite the … let’s say “unstable ride”, no one seems to be afraid. Relief sets in – the election is over. Shortly before we reach Stung Treng, the boat strands on a sandbank. Pants down for the captain, and there he goes pulling us over.
Reports from the rest of Cambodia also talk about a surprisingly peaceful election with a minimum of negative incidents. “Voice of America” gets it completely right: “If there was any intimidation, voters ignored it”. The only major disturbance was a KR attack on an election convoy in Along Veng, where 11 people have died. Also in Stung Treng, someone has died. It is the colleague of “Blueskirt”. He supposedly hung himself, but it could have been murder. “What a hard lesson to learn“.
Demonstrations in Phnom Penh
All international observer groups have given a thumbs up to the second democratic elections in Cambodia. The Joint International Observers Group (JIOG) talks about free and fair elections to the extent that “it represents the will of the Cambodian people”. This means: irregularities have taken place, but they have not affected the result. Even before the result is known, JIOG asks all parties to accept the it. To the surprise of many, the Cambodian People’s Party (CPP) has won a relative majority (but not enough to form a government on its own). The divided opposition came in second (FUNCINPEC) and third (Sam Rainsy Party). It is clear already a few days after the elections that whatever coalition is formed, Hun Sen is going to be the sole Prime Minister. FUNCINPEC and SRP immediately reject the result, talk about massive cheating and manipulations, threaten to boycott the Parliament, file hundreds of complaints with the National Election Committee, and take their protest to the streets. From a square opposite the National Assembly they re-baptize “Democracy Square”, they shout slogans like “Hun Sen is a Vietnamese puppet”, as if the campaign was still going on. But it is not. They have simply unexpectedly lost the elections. No one talks about an election that was 100% free and fair. Access to the media, for example, was not fair. Votes have been bought. But hey, this is a country that has had four years of Pol Pot, followed by two decades of civil war. UNTAC with its 22,000 personnel could not provide for a better election in 1993 than the Cambodians themselves with little outside assistance. A
Unhappy about this undeniable fact is not only the opposition, but also a lot of the local English-language press and some of the international media. An academic debate is going on as to how to allocate the seats. Everyone is an expert now. Talking to some of the journalists after a press conference we were invited to, we get the impression that they are rather unhappy. Lucky is the photographer who was present at the Along Veng attack, the only major violent incident. A peaceful vote in a former war zone, one of the 20 poorest countries in the world, with a turnout of more than 90%, doesn’t make big news. The majority of the correspondents fly back to their bases in Bangkok or Singapore.
Rattanakiri: The destruction of one of Asia’s last big forests
Rattanakiri province looks idyllic from the surface, but major logging is going on.Back to the Northeast, to Ban Lung, the provincial capital of Rattanakiri (again over pristine forest). This mine-free mountainous province will certainly attract more visitors in the near future. The whole of the northeast is a completely different world. In Rattanakiri, “chunchiet” (ethnic minorities like the Kreung and the Tumpuon) practice their own culture. Two American Baptists are working on establishing an alphabet for the “chunchiet”. Of course, they have basically one book in mind to translate. It’s important to tell people about God’s word when they do strange things like this: Before a couple gets married, they spend some days together in a tree hut. There they try to find out if the spirits are favourable to that marriage. They may also include sleeping with each other during that time to find out if they fit together (that’s the part generally known…) But I don’t want to criticize the missionaries too much, as I don’t know what other work they do there. As I will find out later, a lot of the local people are striving for survival.
Few aid organizations are in Rattanakiri, where the Ho Chi Minh path cut through Cambodia. Too remote, too difficult, population density too low. Nonetheless, believe it or not, Ban Lung offers an “American Restaurant”. Don’t check what the kitchen or the toilet looks like, but the owner “Nai” provides some of the best and cheapest food in Cambodia, including hamburgers. On my first night, I eat one of them and encounter a very slim man in his forties, grey-black long hair, and very long beard of the same color. He looks like a backpacker who has been travelling for 25 years. “USLTO?” (United States Long Term Observer), I ask. “No, I am an aid worker” – “In what project?” – “Rural development. Different projects”. A quiet man. He doesn’t like to talk, especially not to travellers who apparently came here in the past to smoke Marihuana and sleep with virgin village girls. He knows about it, he’s been here for three years. It turns out that the long-bearded Dutch with his deep voice is the director of the regional CARARE (Cambodia Area Reconstruction and Rehabilitation Program) office and has an excellent reputation. So much for judging people according to their looks.
Another interesting guy I meet at the “American Restaurant” is Ben, 32, an American himself. He is one of the two USLTO’s in Rattanakiri who is observing the post-electoral process. His Khmer is as good as his English, because he has been building wells in Kompong Thom since 1992. (NB: EU election observer Walter has been working on a similar project in Kompong Thom for the German government. Walter built the wells for free, Ben for a symbolic amount of money raised by the villagers. Experience has shown that if people have paid for something, they take better care of it. Two organizations doing exactly the same thing in exactly the same place in a completely different way). While working in Kompong Thom (where now the ruins of Sambor Prei Kuk in the middle of the jungle can be visited safely), Ben has been shot at several times by KR and once fell into an eight-meter hole. Before the election, he trekked through the forests of Rattanakiri for three days. On Election Day, he went only to the polling stations where he thought there might be problems. And apparently, there were quite a few problems in Rattanakiri, much more than in Stung Treng. Villagers had been threatened; observers had been forced to stand at the other side of the room while the counting was going on…
But now the election is over, and the demonstrations and legal battles are going on far away, in Phnom Penh, three days by pick up and boat, 40 minutes by the RAC plane, which comes once per day like a thunder over that peaceful little town. At the friendly “Mountain Guest House”, I hire a motorbike to go to Yok Lom lake. Yok Lom is one of the magic places in Cambodia: an almost perfectly round, crystal clear volcanic lake, about 1 km2, surrounded by primary forest. You can take a swimEverybody gains from logging, except the environment and - in the long run - the local population., visit the little culture museum, and walk around the forest. It’s a wonderful peaceful place where you completely forget where you are. Nobody visits Yok Lom only once. The romantic feeling would be perfect if one would not know that all of Rattanakiri once was full of primary forest like that. Logging is going on at an alarming rate. Big Vietnamese trucks take away the trees – which are sometimes hundreds of years old – directly across the border. They have built the roads themselves, and the Cambodians are thankful for it. No one has a real interest in stopping the deforestation of one of Asia’s last big forests. Everyone makes money out of it. The only ones trying to hit the alarm button are environmental organizations like Global Witness and sometimes parts of the local population which realizes that since the trees are gone, the rain is gone, too (not scientifically proven as far as I know). But money needs no missionaries. It is a universal religion. The Vietnamese sell the wood on the world market for a price several times of what they pay the Cambodians. And loggers are not only dangerous to the environment, but also to humans. I find this out on the road to veoun Sai – big trucks with armed loggers, looking unhappily at me and my camera. Smile, even if they don’t smile, and turn around.
Expedition to the “Virochey National Park”
What was on the mind of this Rattanakiri farmer fighting for survival when he saw me tramping through his rice paddies?A lot more smiles and no arms are at the headquarters of “Virochey National Park” in Veoun Sai. Khoy Sokhan, the director of the park, and his ten employees are incredibly happy to meet a foreigner and show him around. I am the fourth foreigner. There was Mr. X (forgot the name) from the WWF; there was Mr. Andy from the World Bank (a credit of 5 Mio. US $ is under consideration), there was Mr. Tom the geographer (and election observer), and now there is Mr. Marcel the journalist. The bad road is not the only reason why not more foreigners have made it to there. The headquarters have only been opened at the beginning of the year, and for the time being, that’s all there is of the so-called “Virochey National Park”, a piece of land marked on a map, declared a national park by the King. Any attempt to get into the park itself is an expedition and should not be done in the rainy season. We have decided to go to the buffer zone close to the park, spend the night at remote villages. With a lot of supplies, Sokhan, three rangers, and I are driving up a river from village to village and through beautiful nature. After a long ride in the hot sun, we are getting out at the village of Koh Piek. To reach the forest, we have to walk through the village and cross the rice fields. The rain has finally set in – this means everyone is planting rice, the water is high – and it also means that it’s raining… The weather can’t decide between rain and sunshine, and my body doesn’t know whether to get soaked or sunburned. Sometimes the water is as high as our hips. At one specific point, there is something I would describe as a “minor lake” with one big wet round tree serving as a bridge. It reminds me of the balancing scene in “Dirty Dancing”, except that this has nothing erotic in it. “Do we absolutely have to cross here?”, I ask I am the center of attraction, but it's more fun afterwards then while you are doing it.Sokhan. “Yes, but we can take another way back”, he says. OK, if it’s only way, but there is no way I risk my almost 960 US $ camera (bought the year before in Phnom Penh, reportedly the cheapest place in the world for Nikon equipment), my exposed and unexposed films, and my life, by walking across that slippery tree. Sokhan and his friends have more experience – I give them my valuable stuff, let them cross (while I am praying) and then walk across the water, which is pretty much covering me. While you are walking through deep muddy water at the end of the world, questions like “Why the hell am I doing this?” cross your mind. Pretty much the same question comes up when you are walking across rice fields where people are eagerly planting rice. They stop whatever they do, watch you, smile at you. But even if it is not apparent, they are fighting for their survival. The rain set in late – and a bad harvest can mean malnourishment or death.
After the rice fields, there is an area I would describe as “scattered forest”. Brief visit at the village chief’s house to introduce myself. We have to pass on a flood warning. The villagers here in the buffer zone have cut the big trees for their own use; a few kilometres further north starts the national park. Tigers are around here. Nobody knows their exact number in Cambodia, but they are certainly in the hundreds. Here at Virochey National Park, villagers sometimes still go out there to hunt them. 4’000 – 6’000 US $ is a big incentive. The Chinese illusion of tiger penis making them more virile pays well. The village chief says that nowadays they have to go further and further into the forest to hunt tigers, whereas in the past, tigers were very close to the village. The potential for eco tourism would be tremendous; especially because protected areas are also on the Lao and the Vietnamese sides of the border. Maybe one day a trans-indochinese national park where potent tourists pay lots of money to see some of Asia’s few remaining tigers? (A tourism policy like Botswana or Zambia).
In this house in Koh Piek, I spent a night not too different to how I would have spent it 500 years ago.Maybe my great-grand-sons will also want to know about my night at Koh Piek (in the house to the right) which I spent in a hammock covered with a mosquito net (never had so many bites) in a wooden house with no walls. The fire on which we cook fish and rice provides for some romance and reminds me a bit of Africa… Koh Piek will always stay in my mind. Most probably, my great-grand-sons (and daughters) will not be able to see a real village like this anymore. TV and tar roads will have destroyed it. Here in Koh Piek, there is absolutely no evidence of the 20th century. No electricity, no roads, no Coke can, nothing. While Sokhan and me discuss about the environment and about his time under Pol Pot (he pretended to be an analphabet), I actively look for signs of our century. There must be something. But all I see is wooden huts between palm trees and other plants, women with baskets on their backs, a pig every now and then, a chicken, a buffalo making strange sounds with his wooden bell. Finally, at night, there is something. If we listen very very carefully, we hear the over flight of a big airplane at an altitude of about 10 kms. It’s barely audible. The only thing foreign in this place is we with our motor boat. Do we have the right to disturb it? In the morning, I brush my teeth at the river covered with fog, look at the mountains (real mountains out here) where the national park is, and thank God that I had a chance to be here.
Middle right: Koy Sokhan. Middle left: me.We go back to Veoun Sai, where we visit a Lao village. An English speaking Chinese (the Chinese are well respected all over Cambodia) chats with me – but no photos: “I am too old”. Generally people die before they are 50 at these places, Sokhan explains. Even if there were effective medication available, there would be no money to buy it. Also in Veoun Sai, of course, there is no electricity. But the sound of a generator can be heard out of a “restaurant” where a TV and a Karaoke machine entertain about 60 people. 80% children and 80% of them find me much more interesting than the Karaoke. The rangers who have come with me are singing Khmer love songs to Thai kitsch videos. They are having so much fun. They are about my age, earn 30 US $ a month, and are so happy.
The train to Kompong Som
Every time I get back to Phnom Penh, more political news. Basically: no new government formed because of the opposition protests, demonstrations still going on. Hun Sen says they can demonstrate as long as they wish. Let’s wait and see. This is Cambodia. My next destination is Sihanoukville, or Kompong Som, as the locals call it. In 1994, three foreigners were kidnapped and killed by KR on a train to the south coast. I find the “chef de train” in a yellow French colonial-style building and talk to him for a long time: “Yes, you can go to Kompong Som by train”, he says in French, “there are no KR anymore”. But quickly he adds: “We are not allowed to sell you a ticket. This would leave a trace…”. (The government has prohibited the selling of train tickets to foreigners after the 1994 incident.) An offer for a free train ride to the beach without kidnapping and killing – that sounds nice enough. But because I would still like to take many train rides in the future, I continue to enquire. A well-informed motodop gives a strange piece of advice: “You can go, but you have to pray to your ancestors first”. Hmm….- “What do I have to pray for with my ancestors? I mean, is there a special reason why I should pray to my ancestors?” – “We always pray to our ancestors before we undertake a trip”, he says.
Train station in Phnom Penh.The next morning, at precisely 6:40 a.m., the “chef de train” is waving the flag, and the old train – which includes also three cargo cars loaded with soldiers – is leaving Phnom Penh at a speed of about 20 km/h. This speed we will keep up for the next 13 hours and 10 minutes until we reach Kompong Som – sometimes waiting half an hour for wood to be loaded or unloaded along the way. Soldiers hang their hammocks at the luggage departments and watch the rice paddies passing by. The whole family is working on the fields now that the rain has come. The train looks like in a Second World War movie, and the wagons have wooden seats.
A blind man, about 60 years of age, walks from the front to the back of the train and sings constantly as if he was singing to a child – a very nice slow melody. Then he turns around, walks from the back to the front of the train – and sings. I will never forget his blind eyes and his nice voice. A few hundred Riels are being put into his pockets by the locals. Also the traders want money, at every stop, they sell bananas, coconuts, and God knows what else. One of the coconuts changesA look out of the window during that very, very slow train ride to Sihanoukville. hands for 400 Riel – 0.11 US $. An elderly woman is laying down on the wooden seat and is being massaged by a relative – she is sick. Massage is for free and the only treatment available. Train is the cheap way to get to Kompong Som; the bus would be much faster and more comfortable. The only one, who doesn’t pay on that Tuesday, August 18th, 1998, is the big attraction. The “barang” is surrounded. “How much did that camera cost?” – “50 dollars”, I lie. “How much did that watch cost?” – “3 dollars”, that’s the truth (the Russian market in Phnom Penh, near the place where they sell illegal software copies). “Why are you putting this [sunscreen] on your face?” … An elderly woman is more than amused by my few words of Khmer. And then, the big attraction, “barang” pisses. Trains are no exception when it comes to the absence of public toilets in Cambodia. This means pissing into the bush at one of the numerous stops. Everyone does it, but a barang… Not that anyone of the app. 40 people on the roof and the 20 at the windows want to admit that they want to see the barang pissing, but yes, barang pissing is interesting. Pissing in the bush is not the activity I like to be observed.
Beach in Sihanoukville. No tourists at the time when I was there.The landscape changes from rice paddies to former forest. We are practically driving from logging village to logging village. At around 6.30 p.m., it’s getting dark. I don’t know if the soldiers make me feel more or less comfortable. I arrive safely at Kompong Som. The town as well as the beaches are unspectacular, but nice for a weekend off or so. The 900 tourist beds are filled with about 9 tourists. (Pot-smoking, gun-shooting, and prostitute-using). Almost a ghost town. The expatriates living in Kompong Som are some of the most decadent in all of Cambodia. As far as they are concerned, I spare you the details. The only interesting guy I meet is a Taiwanese who has built a shoe factory, surprisingly the Swiss brand “Bally”. A few afternoons at the beaches make me bored, and an air-con bus (Swiss standard – no kidding) drives back to Phnom Penh for 3 US $.
Drinking and shooting party
Back in the capital, after almost two months in the country, numerous nighttime motor rides, a peaceful election and for the most part peaceful demonstrations, I get reminded where I am. “The world’s biggest automatic shooting range” says an advertisement on the road, co-owned by a Taiwanese-American named Victor, one of the most important men in town. The “Marksmen’s Club”, as his shooting range is called, is not the only element in his empire, which also includes a Casino, the “Holidays Hotel”, the “Manhattan’s Club” (the most exclusive night club in town), a radio station, an island off Sihanoukville, and I think he has something to do with the new “President Airlines”. Certainly an interesting guy to meet. But the first guy I meet (picture below) at the range about 8 km outside Pochentong is one of his bodyguards. Our accents are the same – he’s Swiss
Andy, a Swiss, is no stranger to weapons - and shootouts.There is something strange about talking in Swiss German (“We have a good reputation. The bandits know: One shot of us is enough. And I am not afraid”) in front of about 40 individual ranges where you can realize all your dreams as far as weapons are concerned: Hand guns (from 19th century revolver to laser-guided hand gun), guns, machine guns, grenades and grenade launchers. But contrary to the army range, security is high on the agenda here. Everyone on the staff is experienced. The Swiss has been a bodyguard in Bangkok, the guy from Sri Lanka has participated in that civil war, and the Russian doesn’t talk about his past, but is known to have been a “tough guy” in Afghanistan. Anyway, they do make sure nothing goes wrong. They say that one of the best customers once shot for 1,200 US $ in one session. Also Victor, who joins us, is experienced. The naturalized American with his deep voice and his dark glasses was in Vietnam. He seems delighted to talk to me. He says I came at a good time, since he will be having a “drinking and shooting party” with some of his equally important friends.
This “drinking and shooting party” is also one of those … things I’ll never forget. Imagine a few people sitting around plastic tables on plastic chairs. Alcohol is constantly provided. Every now and then, one of them stands up and does the whole training course: get out of a car, shoot a few human silhouettes (“always hit the one closest to you first”), shoot a hostage-taker (not the hostage), shoot through a hole out of concrete, finally tramp into a door and also shoot some figures inside, … I don’t recall all the details. All has to be done as quickly as possible with as few shots as possible. The scores clearly decrease with alcohol consumption. (NB: I limit myself to the alcohol.) “If I hadn’t drunk so much, I would have hit better”, one of them once says. Jokes are being made a casual atmosphere. At around 6 p.m., serial fire can be heard. “Is this from the range next doors?”, I ask Victor. “No, this is probably the two army compounds next doors having an exchange of fire. The atmosphere changes immediately. When the shooting gets real, it’s time to go. Hundreds of serial shots can be heard. Victor radios half of Phnom Penh to find out what’s going on. He decides that we leave in convoy, not on national route number 4, the normal way back, but on national route number 5, driving around the city. I am joining Victor in his car. His loaded silver handgun is next to the handset of his radio. Personally, I am sitting on an AK-47, which hurts my ass every time we hit a pothole. “I want to know where little Igor is, by street number", he orders. He also tries to radio two of Hun Sen’s advisers. It’s become dark. No one knows what’s going on. People are on the streets looking into the direction of the shots. Sometimes Victor first touches his gun before finding the handset on the seat next to him. But he's in control, it's not the first shoot-out. Reports come in that the shooting has stopped. 12 people dead. A few days later, it will turn out that these people have died of rice wine with too much rat poison (reputed to make you more virile), and that people were simply shooting at the Ghosts...
The party goes on in Victor’s "Manhattan Club", the most upscale place in town. Even the prostitutes are upscale. "Absolutely no firearms" is written in front of the metal detectors - much more appealing for me. Victor himself is doing the DJ from time to time ("I wanted to bring music to Cambodia"). After I’ve had my share of drinks and dancing, I would like to go back to my beloved Hotel Indochine. At around 2 a.m., I am sitting on the back of a motorbike, like so many times before. I am a bit uncomfortable because I don’t know the driver. He’s trying to communicate with me in extremely bad English, and I am just saying: "Indochine, Hotel Indochine". At a street corner, a nightmare: soldiers lying in hammocks. Some of them pick up a few bricks and throw them in our direction in order to stop us and probably rob me. The driver thinks: "Oh, they are throwing bricks, let’s better slow down". I think: "Oh, they are throwing bricks, let’s better hurry up". I am shouting at him: "Go! Go!" - a word everyone understands. Maybe he’s teamed up with the soldiers. Bricks are still coming our way. From the back of the bike, I take the gas device into my right hand and accelerate myself. No bricks have hit, but the message is understood: It’s summer of 1998, there is no government, and you are in Cambodia.
Chunchiet - local ethnic minorities.Mondulkiri: Hills, forest - and the elephant
And Cambodia has much more to offer, even during these troubled times. I am off to the eastern province of Mondulkiri, where the ATR-72 lands on a dirt road in the middle of Sen Monorom. Even the provincial capital has no electricity. The few generators are used for Karaoke and TV. One morning in the market I can see with my own eyes how culture gets destroyed: literally hundreds of chunchiet, baskets on the back, pipes in their mouths, are sitting and standing around a TV showing some Thai soap opera. Even those outside use every hThe only TV set in Sen Monorom attracts hundreds inside and outside that house.ole of the basic house to get a glimpse of that strange machine showing things from far away. They will probably show Thai kick boxing one day. Mondulkiri is one of the last places in the world where people live in their traditional way. Only four foreigners are resident. And of course, the people have the right to change their lives; they have the righMarket in the early morning in Sen Monorom.t not to die of malaria if medication is available. They have the right to improve their life quality by building sometime in the future a dam to get permanent electricity. And yes, they have the right to watch TV and see how the Western (American) way of life is. But do these mostly illiterate people really know what they win and what they lose? In the end, we will have to share the responsibility of the consequences. As soon as we set foot on these territories, we have made this change inevitable. I am happy and sad at the same time to be able to see something that will not exist anymore in the not too distant future.
My personal not-too distant future is exploring the green hills of Mondulkiri with a motorbike, on which I could luckily get my hands on at the friendly "Pich Kiri" guest house. Two nice waterfalls. I hear of a third one at Bou Sra, near the Vietnamese border, which is much bigger, on three stages, much more beautiful, but difficult to reach. I decide I want to go there, but as so often, have not the slightest idea how.
In Mondulkiri, I experience something I have experienced at many remote places in the world: Difficult access means interesting people. One is an employee of the education ministry, with whom I have extensive discussions in French about education and development policy. Another one is Paolo, a Colombian Human Rights monitor working for the United Nations. With the latter and his assistant Tho, we arrange an elephant trip through the forest. Elephants have even been used to transport election material inside this province, because if there is something at all in the forest, it’s a path. There are reportedly still wild elephants around, but as with the forest and the tigers, they become scarce. A local tourism official (there used to be a time with tourists...) helps us hire the elephant at the village of Phulung. We pay way too much, but going through the Cambodian jungle by elephant is worth almost every amount of money.
An elephant ride through the forest with the blessing of the spirits of the jungle.If you can climb a mountain, you can also climb an elephant. That is the motto we follow when we try to get on this hairy sympathetic Asian elephant. A small bamboo thing keeps us from falling down. Off he goes. After a few minutes into the forest, we are on paths that can only be used by elephants. Sometimes I am wondering where she will go now. We cross rivers, and around us is nothing but the sights, sounds, and mostly the smell of that wonderful forest. For the local population (mostly non-Khmer), the forest is not necessarily something good. It’s where the diseases and KRs are. Therefore we have to stop at a deserted waterfall to calm down the spirits of the jungle. "Very important", says our "elephant driver". We sacrifice a few bananas and smoking sticks. The guide mumbles a few prayers. Tho donates a smoking cigarette because he has no smoking sticks with him. We have to drink rice wine - reluctantly, because we still remember the 12 deaths recently... Surely they have not put rat poison inside here...
Then we take a bath in the perfectly clean cold water (you could even drink it, no human population further upstream). The elephant takes a little walk by herself to eat some green stuff. What a wonderful peaceful place. You can't believe you are in Cambodia here, and you want to stay forever. On the way back, I insist on taking a different path, and I will have to bear the responsibility for it. Sometimes it’s going up so steep that we are almost sure that bamboo thing we’re sitting on will break. I am joking about the message that would be posted at the FCCC: "Two employees of the United Nations and a foreign journalist have been killed while fulfilling their duties on an elephant ride in Mondulkiri". Paolo finds it not so funny: "That’s not the way I wanna go". Thorns and rain are also making the trip back less of an enjoyment. The elephant proves to be very intelligent. When a water bottle falls down, he stops immediately, even if nobody has recognized it. But she’s also stubborn: if she wants to eat, she wants to eat. But the spirits have been well meaning, and we all have a wonderful time.
Bou Sra - Paradise on Earth
I hope the spirits will do their best to allow me to go to Bou Sra. It takes me literally days to find someone who is prepared to take the risk to go to that reportedly most beautiful waterfall. Three rivers to cross and rain almost every day. What if we reach the falls in the morning and then rain makes the way back impassable? Finally, 15 US $ (driver and big motorbike) are enough to convince a local driver with absolutely no knowledge of any language I know. I proudly practice my 60 words of Khmer with him during the whole day.
The drive is 40 kms. The road is acceptable (dry so far...), the first two rivers doable. At the third one, the current is simply too strong. We could not even push the bike across. 35 of 40 kilometers are behind us, but this river won’t let us cross, with the bike. We decide to hide the bike in the bush, try to cross by foot and walk the last five kilometers. More than once we think that the current is going to take us away, but we safely arrive at the other side. The guide also nervously looks if clouds are coming up. No clouds so far. After less than an hour’s walk, we are there, at Bou Sra, 15 km from the Vietnamese border, which is not open for international travellers. If it were, Bou Sra would be one of the major eco tourism attractions in South East Asia. It’s a waterfall on three stages surrounded by nothing but pure jungle, as you would imagine it - evergreen majestic trees. The trees are kings here. As I am sitting on a stone on the second stage looking down 70 meters, I am writing in my diary: "God has created a wonderful kingdom right here on Earth. What I see in front of my eyes, is nothing less than Godly perfection". I can see how the water cut itself a gorge over millions of years, without any help from man whatsoever. It’s just perfect.
I would love to camp here, but I have no equipment and too few supplies. We have to go back. The afternoon rain sets in when we have already crossed all three rivers, and we reach Sen Monorom without any major problems.
Talking about problems, ordering food in Mondulkiri is not all that easy. If you do that in the friendly guest house (no English spoken), you do precisely that: order food, whatever food is available that day on the market. The formula is: rice + x. My little bit of Khmer helps to order: "Njam njam bey-pii" – "eat six [o’clock]" – and at six o’clock there will by surprise dinner served by the smiling owner of the guest house. The Khmer are generally very friendly and hospitable.
Before I leave my favorite province (where NB: app. 350 KRs officially defect while I am there), I meet another fascinating person. I forgot to write down his name; he’s a hero without name. The Vietnamese sent him to prison from 1979 to 1987 for contra-revolutionary activities. Apart from occasional torture and a handful of rice a day, he had to endure forced labor and detention conditions beyond imagination. And now it comes: When finally the day of his release came, it was not revenge; it was reconciliation that came to his mind. Maybe it has to do with the time you have to think; maybe it has to do with him being Buddhist. But since then he works to improve the human rights situation in Cambodia. An American organization sent him to Mondulkiri where he goes out to the villages to tell people about their rights. He was also the provincial chairman of COMFREL, the most important national observer group. Sometimes his observers had to walk for two days to get to their polling stations. His wife and his three children are back in Phnom Penh; he sees them every three to six months. "My life is very miserable"; he says in French and has some kind of smile at the same time. But I can see definitely no bitterness in his face. The hate for the Vietnamese is universal in this country. But this man doesn’t hate the Vietnamese, who tortured and humiliated him. He even lives in a province with a lot of Vietnamese, and leaves the past behind. This man is a hero for me. He is a hero of reconciliation, a hero of peace and democracy. While Paolo and I listen to his explanation we are close to tears.
The tragedy of Phnom Penh
Arriving back at Pochentong airport, I realize something has happened that is not in the spirit of reconciliation. It’s full of police. At the hotel, Savuth is agitated: "Sam Rainsy will be arrested. You have to go to Cambodiana now." What a difference a short plane ride makes. Two grenades were thrown at Hun Sen’s house, where he never is, and then Cambodia’s strong man apparently lost patience with the demonstrators. He declared that today, at midnight, the demonstrations will be over, and those suspected to be responsible for them, including Sam Rainsy who has used a lot of violent words in the last few days, will be arrested. Since then, Rainsy is in the office of the UN’s special representative to Cambodia, which is under the luxury Cambodiana hotel. I immediately go there. Outside the compound, app. 500 demonstrators shout slogans like "We want democracy". Some police are inside tPhom Penh: People running away from warning shots.he compound to keep them at a distance. All foreigners with some importance are there (more foreigners = less deaths). Several camera teams, photographers, journalists, diplomats, human rights representatives, Sam Rainsy’s spokesman and somewhere... Sam Rainsy. An Italian colleague and I try to get to the opposition leader. Of course we know we will not get through. At the entrance of the Hotel itself, friendly porters open the door for you. Inside, the typical atmosphere of a luxury hotel: nice instrumental music, you can have an expensive drink at the bar. The only thing that reminds you of the agitation going on outside are the foreigners with the sound of their mobile phones and radios. But everyone knows they are not going to storm the hotel. At reception, we are asking: "Can you please tell us the room number of Mr. Sam Rainsy?" (That would be like asking: In which room is Chelsea Clinton?) The answer: "Can you write down guest name, please?". We write down guest name. "Oh, Sam Rainsy... ha ha, he not here". Why then does she think all these demonstrators (many more by now) shouting "Sam Rainsy, Sam Rainsy", all these barangs and all these armed people are out there? We are going downstairs to the UN’s office, where of course nervous Rainsy bodyguards keep us from doing anything.
Then the tragedy happens. Police shoot into the air to disperse the crowd. Inside the hotel, everyone has the urge to run, even though there is no need for it. Outside, all the journalists are running away from the shots (something of a natural instinct, isn’t it), while the camera teams and the photographers are running towards the shots. After the demonstrators have been forced back, we see a dead man in his thirties is lying on the ground with his motorbike. A few minutes later, another journalist asks me to take a picture of him touching the remaining shoes of the dead man with liters of blood around. For what purpose? To show what a tough guy he is?
At midnight, nothing happens. The armed forces wait until the demonstrators are so tired that they will encounter little resistance. They dissolve "Democracy Square" the next day using fire-fighting cars (no deaths) while I am sleeping. When I try to get out of the hotel, all the streets are closed down by military police. "It’s difficult to get a cup of tea", says one of the rare tourists in the hotel. From time to time, warning shots are fired in the air. One of the most bizarre scenes of my trip is this: about 30 military police close down Sisowath (the street parallel to the riverside). A motodop is trying to come too close, they fire in the air, the man stops and gets beaten up. Only a few minutes later, while every Khmer on Sisowath is afraid of leaving his or her house, a foreigner with walkman jogs next to the road. He doesn’t even slow down the speed of his daily jogging trip when he passes the military police roadblock. Barangs can do whatever they want in Cambodia. And they do whatever they want.
Kratie: Dolphins and a mountain monastery
Kratie: Setting up a provisional bamboo boat to transport illegal logs down the river at night.What I want to do is to see the freshwater dolphins reported to be in the Kratie area. I have to remind myself that I am here to write travel stories, not to run after the bad news. To get to the fast boat, I have to climb over several other boats, until I reach "Rambo 4". Rambo is almost an airplane on the water - really fast (5 hours upriveFreshwater dolphin north of Kratie.r, 4 hours downriver). It goes without saying that like everything that moves in developing countries, it’s overloaded. Sitting outside gives you a bigger chance of sunburn, but also a bigger chance of survival if the boat flips. On the other hand you miss the wrestling video inside. So I am inside. Kratie is a wonderful clean town on the Mekong. Too bad my time is running out. I am driving with a motodop north for about 15 kilometers near the village of Kampi, looking for dolphins. But for now, I only see people building provisional bamboo boats to get the illegal logs down the Mekong. So let’s take a boat - someone will surely be happy to make 5 US $ an hour. Finally I see the rare freshwater Mekong dolphins, always at a distance of at least 8-10 meters, but it’s a wonderful experience. Spotting these animals while they jump out of the water reminds me of the game drives Sandra and I have done in Africa. There is such a big fuss about some dolphins in the very south of Laos. No one I talked to has ever seen them. Here, there are about 30 of them, and you can easily spot at least two or three in an hour’s boat ride.
A monestary on Phnom Sambok with an elderly monk happy to receive me.Later we stop at Phnom Sambok, a Buddhist mountain monastery. Like at many places in Cambodia, some police guy offers to protect you, but there is no need for protection in this monastery. I leave him some water. An old monk they call "Grand Father" waves me inside his sleeping cell. He has no teeth and no English or French word left, but a younger novice translates. I am trying to find a sitting position where my feet don’t point at any of the two people in robes, which is not only difficult, but also extremely uncomfortable. Same thing later on when they allow me to attend a teaching session. About 40 nuns and monks in white clothes listen to what a senior monk comfortably seated in a big chair has to say. For me of course, a purely visual experience. Their visual experience is enlarged by my presence. A nun whispers in perfect French I should recite some of the Pali phrases. But Pali sounds to me as familiar as Swahili, and I would feel uncomfortable anyway reciting something I don’t understand. If you go up there, pay the utmost respect to these people - they don’t often see foreigners. One monk invites me to sleep on that monastery hill, which would certainly have been one of the great-grand-son-experiences, but I have to return to Phnom Penh early next morning. Before I leave Kratie, I am forced to see the other side of Cambodia again. Dozens of soldiers are in the restaurant I eat. They will be "escorting" illegal logs down the Mekong during the night. One of the wood traders tells me later about the old times when there were two prime ministers and he needed three signatures: "The minister of agriculture (FUNCINPEC) wanted 50’000 US $, the first PM (Ranarridh) 60’000 US $, and the second PM (Hun Sen) only 40’000 US $ for their respective signatures. So Hun Sen is the least corrupt!"
Last interviews in the capital: de facto Minister of Tourism, the CEO of Royal Air Cambodge, the managing director of the popular Swiss company "Diethelm Travel", and others. The general feeling is that after a new government has been formed, Cambodia has made it. Filing articles, then: saying good bye to the dozens of people I got to know well in Phnom Penh. Last night at Tom’s - incredible, I almost cry. Talking to Tom again about Kratie, where he was stationed under UNTAC. "It’s close to my heart", he says. And yes, I also have to say good bye to the "Heart". But I find only the four or five most crazy customers there, so not many to say good bye to. Many of the foreigners in Cambodia do excellent development work, though I am not really qualified to judge. Personally, I was impressed with Kantha Bopha Children’s Hospital, run by Swiss pediatric doctor Beat Richner. He runs probably the only hospital in Cambodia that is full, clean, and corruption-free. His friendly Swiss nurse Simone shows me around. Opinions whether this almost Western-style medicine is sustainable in a country as poor as Cambodia are divided. But one looks into the eyes of one of the hundreds of sick children waiting to be treated in Kantha Bopha, and you forget about politics.
The tragedy of Siem Reap
The politicians don’t leave me alone during this trip - not even in Siem Reap, the most peaceful place you can imagine. Inauguration of the 122 new Parliamentarians, including Hun Sen, Prince Ranarridh and Sam Rainsy, in front of Angkor Wat. Someone attacks the car of Hun Sen with a B-40. Instead of hitting the car, it huts a house, where a 12-year-old boy is killed in a horrible way. His sister loses two legs. The litres of blood on the destroyed walls of that house will always remind me of the reality of violence and war. It is ... beyond description. The news journalists grab the story and wire it as fast as possible all around the world. If you watched CNN that day, you get the impression that Cambodia is in a state of terror. In the evening, one of the resident free-lance journalists is giving a philosophical speech to me: "A million deaths is a statistic. One death is a tragedy". Give me a break, my fellow journalist. No one is interested in what’s going on in Mali. You make your money with these dead 12-year olds, and a day like this is eldorado for a freelancer. If it were not for events like this, you wouldn’t be here. But violence sells better than the inauguration of a Parliament. If you are that concerned about children dying, why don’t you try to get 6-7 km outside of here, where the roads are so muddy that basic food supplies can’t get through anymore? The body of that boy doesn’t get out of my mind. On that day, I hate everyone.
Angkor - capital in the jungle
Too many traders, too little tourists; the biggest temple of the world in the background, Angkor Wat.It’s strange to switch now to talking about how beautiful Angkor is. I spend a full week exploring again the ruins of Angkor, the centre of a big kingdom between the 9th and the 13th century. I am exploring every corner of Angkor Wat, the biggest temple on the face of the earth. Once I sleep a few hours inside Angkor Wat over the hot time. I go back to the spiritual centre of the mighty Khmer empire maybe five times, go to the mountain to see it from the top in the middle of the jungle, and of course the place I return to most frequently is Ta Promh, a Buddhist temple left in exactly the same state the French found it in 1860. Big trees have grown over the stones, have cracked them apart but help at the same time to maintain the structure. A strange symbiosis between nature and culture. Complete romance. Once one of the monsoon rains comes when I am there. I am sitting inside one of the windows. In all of Angkor, only the holy has survived, because stones were reserved for the holy. Wooden buildings have disappeared over the centuries since the capital was moved away from the jungle. I am sitting inside this broad window and watch the rain falling onto the partially overgrown stones. I am doing nothing else than enjoying the moment.
Another place not to miss is Banteay Srei - the "citadel of the woman", allegedly built by a woman. But de facto women (the beautiful Apsara dancers) were responsible more for the erotic part 1’000 years ago in Cambodia. And today, the woman does all the real work in Cambodia, while men enjoy their lives. The beautiful fine carvings at Banteay Srei are reproduced all over Cambodia. Banteay Srei used to be one of the off-limit places at Angkor, but those times are over. On the first World Tourism Day celebrated in Cambodia, the temple is officially re-opened. The de facto tourism minister - Secretary of State Thong Khon - had invited me for the event when I interviewed him. He arrives in style - by special airplane and brings with him the Chinese chairman of the chamber of commerce ("This is my friend Marcel, journalist from Switzerland"), the minister of culture, the Governor of Siem Reap province, a number of people from the tourism industry, and of course the compulsory five Cambodian camera teams. I am on Cambodian TV a lot these days, just that the TV per inhabitant ratio is not enough to make me famous. At the ceremony, Khon says: "Security is very good now. The roads are bad, but we have already asked the Asian Development Bank to make a new road". We tour the wonderful citadel.
Selling cold drinks, hot photo films - and if necessary sex.What else shall I tell you? Everything has been written about Angkor, which was bigger than any European city 1,000 years ago. Shall I tell you about the limb-less and blind who play their melodies on their erh hums and manage to keep up their smiles even if most of the few tourists ignore them? About the five-year-old girl that doesn’t take no for an answer: "Wanna buy cold drink? Postcard? Guide book? Krama?". Or shall I tell you about the owner of a restaurant who has his distinct opinion about the Khmer: "The Cambodians are not a people of rice farmers. If they can have an easier life with an AK-47, they will prefer that. They love war"?
An Apsara dancer.Maybe I should tell you about the Grand Hotel d’Angkor - think about colonialism what you want, but it is worth a visit. It has been completely renovated so you can enjoy the atmosphere of the 20s with the luxury of the 90s and the price of ... the next millennium. 320 US $ costs a night in Cambodia’s most upscale hotel. Even if you can’t afford that, there are three things you should do there except wandering around its colonial halls:
- Eat at least once at one of their restaurants and forget for once that you are in Cambodia
Many of monuments such as these are taken away by looters.- Absolutely go to one of the Saturday night Apsara (traditional dancers) presentations. You haven’t seen Cambodia if you haven’t seen the Apsara dancers with their very soft hand movements. I wish my English was good enough to describe it. Go there!
- Also go to the "Elephant Bar" downstairs. Like the restaurant, this bar could be anywhere in the world. It has its price, like the two of the above, but it gives you a feeling of what colonial life must have been like. The Elephant Bar is where I meet up with Tim, an American photographer whom I got to know at the Banteay Srei inauguration. You realize immediately that he is an open-minded person. It’s also not his first time in Cambodia. He spent the summer here as a photographer and was indeed one of those guys "running in the direction of the shots", as he explains himself. He has to sell his pictures for next to nothing to the Daily or - if he is lucky - to an agency. But he can live with the money he makes in winter with a slightly different job. The Alaskan manages research stations on Antarctica. Once he spent a whole winter at the South Pole station, where he was locked in with 26 other people from February to October. If temperature drops below -55 degrees Celsius, the planes don’t work anymore. So even in the biggest of emergencies, nobody could get out of that research station, that burns 2’000 liters of fuel a day, amongst other things for refrigerators. And you know what the biggest problem at the South Pole was? Computer games! Some want to sleep, others want to play... Tim certainly wants to find out something about life. That’s why he goes to Antarctica, that’s why he goes to Cambodia.
Pailin: Where communism and capitalism merge
There is something strange about the Cambodian way of extending visas. You have to do it in Phnom Penh at an office where the working hours could be those of our two cats during the day. "I’d like to get an extension for one month, please", I said when I didn’t know yet I was going to be here for three months. "All right", said the official, "this costs 30 US $ and takes 30 days to proceed". Extending your visa for 30 days takes 30 days? "Oh, we also have an express service where you can pick up your passport the next morning. But this costs 45 US $... (NB: Having said this, you normally don’t get overcharged in Cambodia). Well, I did this twice, and now there are only two weeks left and the most interesting destination is still ahead of me: Pailin, the former KR stronghold that became something of an autonomous province in 1996. This means: The flags and some of the uniforms have changed, but the KR are still in charge. Ieng Sary, number two after Pol Pot, lives there in peace.
I have to go through Battambang, Cambodia’s second largest city - the only one deserving this qualification except Phnom Penh. The boat ride from Siem Reap (why do it the normal way when there is an exceptional one) takes an incredible seven hours to cover the 100 kms or so - but it’s a lot of fun driving over the Tonle Sap. There is even another barang, Rebecca, a feminist, who does a study for her MA on domestic violence against women. There is something about feminists that I ... dislike ("Children? I’d like to kick them across the street"), but we end up spending half a night in a Battambang disco, sharing the hotel room and having a lot of interesting discussions. During the civil war, Battambang was the place to be for journalists. In the yearly "dry season offensive", the government tried to push the KR further into the jungle. And that’s where I want to go. Now Battambang is full of expats – it’s full of mines. Some Italian surgeons tell me horrible stories about mine victims they operate. Sometimes when there is a big explosion they have to decide who to treat first, second, third... and sometimes whom not to treat at all. I inquire about security in Pailin. "You can go", says one CARARE official, "and we’d like to hear from you when you’re back". Not a lot of foreigners go up there.
Hotel in Pailin: He's sleeping, his gun is there: so I can be reassured and go to my room.Khmer Rouge in his ancient KR uniform; Pailin.Maybe I should see a therapist back home. It might be better to get to the bottom of whatever my problem is instead of driving on a road where there are signs to the left and to the right saying "DANGER!! MINES!!", passing no less than six military checkpoints, and doing all of this in a cramped pickup taxi to meet some of the most extreme communist guerillas. Former guerillas, of course. But some of them didn’t even bother changing uniforms. Pailin in the hands of the KR, just that the war is finished. The town is basically a long very dusty road. Everything has a bit of the Wild West, and it is in the Wild West of Cambodia. A lot of people bear guns. But crime is reportedly rather rare, because there used to be only one penalty... But since Cambodia has luckily abolished the death penalty, they had to build a prison (but nobody could tell me where it was...). There are definitely more weapons here than are necessary for my personal well being. But believe it or not, even the presence of weapons is something you get used to. In my hotel, the owner always sleeps in the entrance hall under his mosquito net with his hand gun next to him. KR play pool (it seems to be the sport in Pailin; don’t ask me why) with their AK-47’s on the back. Once I play against a KR. Back in Battambang, and someone told me: "Be careful whom you piss off up there". As I don’t know who qualifies for being pissed off, I took it as a rule strictly not pissing anyone off, even that KR playing pool with me. He was clearly losing - and I am really bad. But nonetheless he was giving advice: "You have to learn, step by step", he keeps repeating. OK, step by step.
A real Casino amongst the toughest Communists in the world.Pailin gem stone dealer: Capitalism has its good sides.Next step: the casino. There is nothing more capitalist than a casino. There is nothing more communist than the Khmer Rouge. But it’s right here that a new casino has recently been opened, and you can loose as much money as you want. Even KR can occasionally be seen playing roulette. What a strange, contradictory place I spent my summer. Just once, I want to play blackjack, and once roulette. In less than five minutes, my money is gone.
A young boy absolutely wants to present me to his hopefully future girlfriend when he sees me sitting in a street restaurant. Not many people know a barang here. OK, why not... Pailin is clearly the place where I got the most attention in all of Cambodia. Walking up and down the dirt road means dozens of eyes fixed on you. But there is one resident foreigner (absent now), an American dealing with gem stones. Gem stones are the main source of income in Pailin. At one of the numerous traders, I behave as if I knew what I am doing, and finally the souvenir problem is solved. Diamonds from the Khmer Rouge.
But I have also something for the KR, a letter and an article published on Ieng Sary from a colleague of mine addressed to "His Excellency, Mr. Ieng Sary". He asked me to transmit it. According to his instructions, I ask for Mey Meak. I don’t have the slightest idea who this man is, except of course that he must be a KR. That's him - Mey Meak, personal secretary of Pol Pot during 13 years.I find him and hand over the envelope. He invites me to eat rice with him; a few days later, we will tour the whole province together. When I tell him that I write about traveling, he becomes more open: He’s building a guesthouse right now. Do the Westerners want toilets inside their rooms? What name should he give to his guesthouse? "Khmer Rouge guest house", I suggest, and he finds it very funny. The envelope is sent over to Ieng Sary directly by a motodop – he transmits his thanks. So I have done what I have promised to do. Nonetheless, I want to know who this Mey Meak is. Finally he shows me an article written about him: He was the personal secretary of Pol Pot from 1979 (after his loss of power) until 1992. He was in charge of propaganda. During "Democratic Kampuchea" (1975 – 1979), he was in charge of Pochentong airport, with only one flight per week to China and one every two weeks to North Korea - and of course he didn’t know anything about the genocide... I reluctantly try to ask more questions, but he doesn’t like investigators. He talked about living in the jungle, and he described Pol Pot - whom he saw almost daily - as a decent, kind, almost warm person who always listened carefully when someone else spoke. But Mey Meak's preferred topic is the future, not the past. Pailin will certainly become part of the tourist trail. Direct flights to Phnom Penh, a casino, honest gem stone traders, and then you can tell your great-grand-son that you have slept in the guest house of a former guerilla - perhaps the "Khmer Rouge guesthouse".
On my last night, there is a Buddhist festival, which supposedly should announce the end of the rainy season when the monks are allowed to leave their monasteries again. There is a destroyed temple on a hill in Pailin where I went a few times and looked over the area where the civil war went on for decades... Now I stroll through that other monastery and again enjoy the atmosphere. Barang, barang - I am the center of things, one more time.
Leaving Cambodia - My heart will go on
The day I left Cambodia via Battambang and Sisophon (NB: on the last "bush stop" it was a snake which watched me pissing), I have an ear jaw problem, but nonetheless the crossing of that border brings up some emotions. On the other side of the border: a perfect tar road and an air con bus to Bangkok. Why do I prefer Cambodia's crater roads? After 90 days, I was ready to leave. But already after my first week at home, I wanted to go back to Cambodia. It’s the magic. Either you feel it, or you don’t. There is nothing in between. I hope I could share some of it with you. Re-reading this report, I feel the negative impression it leaves is much too strong. I left out so many good sides. Angkor alone would be worth an article like this. The many invitations I got; the exchange of ideas with the locals, the good NGO people, researchers like David Roberts, the children I played with in Sihanoukville, the discos (Apsara-style rock dancing) of Rattanakiri ...
Amputees in the foreground, the peak of Khmer civilization in the background: Cambodian contradictions.
Every one of my trips had its song. First time Africa: "Shosholoza", the South African Rugby song everybody knew (they won the world championship). First time Mekong: "Hotel California", it was everywhere in the Karaoke bars of Vietnam. Second time Africa: "The gambler" from Kenny Rogers, one of the few tapes we had while driving our Beetle over the potholes. And finally, the soundtrack of my 90 Days in Cambodia is "My heart will go on" from Celine Dion. On my flight to Asia, they showed "Titanic". In the end, the guy from the third class dies. The woman from the first class survives. From now on, it will always remind me of my 90 days in Cambodia.

Kambodscha: Königreich aus Tempeln und Schädeln

Gute Sicherheitslage erlaubt die Rückkehr der Touristen ins
Land der Khmer

Amerikanische Bomben, Landminen und Pol Pot ist das, was die Welt von
Kambodscha kennt. Doch das südostasiatische Land hat wahrlich mehr zu bieten,
zum Beispiel Angkor Wat, das grösste sakrale Bauwerk der Welt.

Eine Reise nach Kambodscha ist
heute zwar sicher, aber irgendwie noch immer ein bisschen verrückt. Gewiss, die
letzten Roten Khmer haben aufgegeben,
und die politische Lage hat sich nach den zweiten demokratischen Wahlen 1998
stabilisiert. Im ganzen war die Sicherheitslage in den letzten 30 Jahren noch
nie so gut. Und doch werde ich das Gefühl nicht los, dass sich hier, genau
hier, all dies abgespielt hat. Nirgends fehlt es an Erinnerungen an die
schreckliche Vergangenheit. Pol Pot
verwandelte Kambodscha zwischen 1975 und 1979 in ein Land ohne Geld, Städte und
Schulen. Nicht weniger als 1.7 Millionen Menschen bezahlten diesen radikalen
Steinzeitkommunismus mit ihrem Leben.


Mönch übt Englisch

Kaum eine Familie, die nicht jemanden an die Roten Khmer verloren hätte.
Auch der Vater von Sokha, dem Fahrer meines Motorradtaxis, starb unter Pol Pot.
Doch darüber möchte er nicht sprechen. Sonst lässt er aber keine Gelegenheit
aus, sein rudimentäres Englisch zu üben, während er mir stolz für sechs
US-Dollar pro Tag die Sehenswürdigkeiten der Hauptstadt Phnom
zeigt. Von Wat Phnom, einem Kloster auf einem kleinen Hügel, der Phnom
Penh den Namen gab, geht es zur prächtigen Silberpagode
neben dem Königspalast. Dort spricht mich Hoeung an, ein junger buddhistischer Mönch in oranger Robe. Auch er möchte Englisch üben
und lädt mich für Sonntag gleich in sein Provinzdörfchen ein, wo seit 1993
kein Ausländer mehr gesehen wurde. Dort bin ich innert Sekunden von Dutzenden
von Kindern umgeben, die nicht wissen, ob die Angst oder die Neugierde stärker
ist. Und Hoeung übertreibt an jenem Abend zum Abschied: „Diesen Tag werde ich
nie vergessen“.


Erinnerungen an Pol Pot

Unvergesslich ist zweifelsohne auch der nächste Halt von Sokha: die als
„Killing Fields“ bekanntgewordenen
ehemaligen Massengräber ausserhalb Phnom Penhs. In einem 25 Meter hohen
Glasturm sind als Mahnmal gegen den Völkermord Tausende von Schädel
aufeinandergetürmt. Fast scheint es mir, als seien ihre Geister noch immer präsent.
Ein anderer Ort des Schreckens auf dem Touristenpfad ist das „Tuol
Sleng Holocaust Museum“,
untergebracht in einer Sekundarschule, aus der
die Helfer Pol Pots ein Foltergefängnis gemacht hatten. Wer eine Brille trug,
war Verräter genug, um unter Elektroschocks gestehen zu müssen, für die CIA,
den KGB oder die Vietnamesen zu arbeiten. Von den Wänden starren mich vergrösserte
Passfotos an, Gesichter in Todesangst. Was ist das bloss für ein Land, in dem
Schädel genauso Touristenattraktion sind wie der Königspalast? Ein verrücktes
Land vielleicht, ein Land jedenfalls, das niemanden kalt lässt.


Das Reich der Khmer

Szenenwechsel: Früh morgens im Westen Kambodschas. Es ist noch kühl, Vögel
zwitschern, und man könnte meinen, dies sei der friedlichste Ort der Welt. Ein
40-jähriger Mann sitzt auf den steinernen Treppen von Angkor
, dem grössten Tempel der Welt, und spielt ein zweisaitiges Instrument.
Die ersten Touristen sind schon früh gekommen, um den Sonnenaufgang zu sehen.
Einige legen dem Musiker ein paar „Riel“
in den Hut. Doch dies ist nicht der friedlichste Ort; dies ist Kambodscha. Der
Mann spielt eine traurige Melodie: Eine der sieben Millionen Landminen
hat ihm beide Beine weggesprengt. Seine einzige Hoffnung sind nun die Touristen,
die endlich nach Kambodscha zurückkehren. Er zeigt ihnen seine verstümmelten
Beine, doch sie sind gekommen, um Tempel zu sehen.


Weltkulturerbe Angkor Wat

Einen Tempel wollen sie vor allem sehen: der dem Hinduismus gewidmete
Tempel „Angkor Wat“. Die Unesco hat das grösste sakrale Bauwerk der Welt
zum Weltkulturerbe erklärt. Von
Angkor aus regierten vom 9. bis 13. Jahrhundert die Khmer über ein Grossreich.
Die Ueberreste der Hauptstadt im Dschungel, die mit einer Million Einwohnern grösser
als jede Stadt Europas war, sind auf 200 Quadratkilometern verteilt. „Angkor
Wat“ war dabei wie eine Stadt in der Stadt, das spirituelle Zentrum der
Khmer-Herrscher. Die hölzernen Gebäude – etwa Wohnquartiere – sind längst
vermodert. Uebriggeblieben ist nur das Heilige, denn für das Heilige waren
Steine reserviert. Jeder Khmer ist
stolz auf „Angkor Wat“, auch wenn es für die meisten ein lebenslanger Traum
bleibt, die Silhouetten der fünf Türme je mit eigenen Augen zu sehen.
Kambodscha kannte wahrlich bessere Zeiten.


Symbiose: Natur und Kultur

Doch hofft das Land am Mekong, dass wieder bessere Zeiten kommen – mit
ausländischen Investoren und ausländischen Touristen. Dank der sehr deutlichen
Verbesserung der Sicherheitslage hat der Tourismus
dieses Jahr wieder angezogen. Von ihm profitiert zum Beispiel das fünfjährige
Mädchen, das mich seit geraumer Zeit begleitet und beständig fragt, ob ich
einen „cold drink“ wolle. Mit dem
Verkauf von kalten Getränken, Postkarten und der Sonne ausgesetzten Farbfilmen
ernährt sie ihre ganze Familie. Die Hitze sorgt dafür, dass ich nicht mehr
lange widerstehen kann. Mit einer Mineralwasserflasche in der Hand betrete ich
einen der magischen Orte Kambodschas: der dem Buddhismus gewidmete Tempel „Ta
. Bewusst wurde er so belassen, wie ihn 1860 die Franzosen wieder
entdeckt hatten. Riesige Würgfeigen haben sich in jahrhundertelanger Arbeit um
die Steinblöcke geschlungen und diese teilweise entzweigebrochen. Gleichzeitig
helfen die mächtigen Pflanzen aber auch, den Tempel vor dem Einbruch zu
bewahren. Eine seltene Symbiose zwischen Natur und Kultur, die nur noch durch
den Einbruch eines Monsunschauers übertroffen werden kann. Unbeschreibliche


Zurück in der Hauptstadt, zurück in der Realität: „Wanna shoot gun?“,
fragt mich jemand und meint damit eine Schiessanlage, in der man alles vom
Revolver bis zum raketenbetriebenen Granatenwerfer ausprobieren kann. Der blanke
Zynismus in einem Land, das ausser Waffen
nichts im Ueberfluss hat. Es ist eben doch alles ein bisschen verrückt.

und Text: Marcel Stoessel.

Unser Autor bereiste 1997 und 1998 während mehrerer Monate Kambodscha. Er war
bei den Parlamentswahlen im vergangenen Jahr als Internationaler Wahlbeobachter

Raketenwerfern schiessen und mit Kommunisten Roulette spielen

Den Khmer blieb in den letzten drei Jahrzehnten auch gar nichts erspart.
Erst war es die Verwicklung in den Vietnamkrieg,
dann der kommunistische Völkermord,
schliesslich zwei Jahrzehnte Bürgerkrieg
gegen die verbliebenen Roten Khmer. Wenn heute das südostasiatische Land zur
Ruhe gekommen ist und für Touristen wieder gefahrlos bereist werden kann, so
heisst dies noch nicht, dass Kambodscha ein normales Land geworden ist.

Das zeigt sich zum Beispiel, wenn man abends ausgeht. „Heart
of Darkness“
(Herz der Dunkelheit) heisst die populärste Bar Phnom Penhs,
benannt nach dem Roman Joseph Conrads. Hier treffe ich auf allerlei interessante
Ausländer. Mitarbeiter internationaler Hilfsorganisationen, Journalisten,
Rucksack- und andere Touristen, Bodyguards und Kriminelle trinken in entspannter
Atmosphäre ein Bier oder zwei, während eine Spinnenattrappe von der Decke
runterhängt und eine tote Schlange aus dem Schlangenwein starrt. Zehn Minuten
entfernt ist die teuerste Disco, vor der ein Schild darauf hinweist, die Waffen
abzugeben: „Absolutely no firearms“.

Mehr als genug Feuerwaffen gibt es dafür bei den beiden Schiessanlagen,
wo jederman(n) seinen Instinkten freien Lauf lassen kann. Die Preise in der günstigeren
Anlage: Revolver fünf Dollar, Kalaschnikow
acht Dollar, Handgranate zehn Dollar, B-40
(raketenbetriebener Granatenwerfer) 45 Dollar; Munition exklusive. Die
Instruktionen dauern jeweils etwa eine Minute, und der lokale Armeekommandant
liegt in der Hängematte, gleich neben einem heiligen buddhistischen Schrein. In
der teureren Anlage habe einer einmal für 1’200 Dollar geschossen, erzählt mir
ein Schweizer Angestellter….

Doch der Höhepunkt der bizarren Gegensätze Kambodschas ist Pailin,
die halbautonome Provinz der Roten Khmer
an der thailändischen Grenze. „Ehemalige Rote Khmer“ sind es heute natürlich,
doch einige haben nicht einmal die Uniform gewechselt. Aehnlich wie im Wilden
Westen (Pailin ist im Westen Kambodschas) tragen zahlreiche Männer Waffen, wenn
sie durch die staubige Hauptstrasse gehen oder abends Billard
spielen. Auch der Hotelbesitzer schläft (in der Eingangshalle) unter seinem
Moskitonetz stets neben einer Pistole. Zufällig treffe ich auf Mey
, der 13 Jahre der persönliche
Sekretär Pol Pots
war und hier – wie viele Rote Khmer – unbehelligt lebt.
Er sei gerade dabei, ein Gasthaus zu bauen. Auch Pailin möchte seinen
Tourismusaufschwung – der Handel mit Edelsteinen
und das Kasino sollen Devisen
einbringen. In letzterem kann man ab und zu auch gegen Rote Khmer Roulette
spielen, die seinerzeit das Geld abgeschafft haben. Mey Meak fragt mich, wie er
seine Unterkunft benennen solle, damit die Touristen zu ihm kämen. „Khmer
Rouge guesthouse“, antworte ich.


Tägliche Flugverbindungen nach Phnom Penh und Siem Reap (Angkor) bestehen ab
Bangkok. Visum: Wird bei der Ankunft
an den Flughäfen ausgestellt (20 US $). Hotellerie:
Gut ausgebaut (alle Preislagen) aufgrund der UNO-Präsenz 1992/93. Restaurants:
Gute asiatische und westliche Küche an den Touristenorten. Transport:
Am sichersten sind Inlandflüge, für Abenteurer gibt es Bootsfahrten auf dem
Tonle Sap und dem Mekong. Beste Reisezeit:
Ganzjährig problemlos bereisbar, Trockenzeit November bis Februar. Gesundheit:
Ueber eine Malariaprophylaxe sollten Sie mit einem Tropenarzt sprechen. Sicherheit:
Vorsicht nachts in Phnom Penh (Überfälle); ohne Führer nie einen Weg
verlassen (Landminen). 

Africa in a Beetle

We were in a National Park half the size of Switzerland. We met a culture where people clap their hands to greet each other. We dived in between coral reefs that are some of the most beautiful in the world. But the guiding thread of our 1997 journey through Zimbabwe, Zambia, Malawi and Mozambique was the mode of transport: a VW Beetle a.d. 1974. This is the story that made it three million times into newspapers, magazines and radio stations: Africa in a Beetle.

Randburg, South Africa, 0 kms. It’s green, just reconditioned and has nearly our age. A forest green 1974 VW Beetle shines inside the workshop. On that first day Africa has us back we have already  looked at many cars. There are no motorways where we want to go, or they are undeserving their name. The choice boils down to: old, unreliable and cheap (old pickup); old, unreliable and expensive (old four-wheel-drive); or new, reliable and expensive (everything else). In the end we go for old, reliable and pricewise somewhere in the middle: a Volkswagen 1600 (Beetle), 1974 model, reconditioned 1997, changes hands for 6,400 Swiss francs. We are told it is light (good for sandy roads), air-cooled, with back mounted engine as well as benefitting from rear wheel drive (also good for sand), and it is an unlikely highjacking target. Thanks to our friends Ken and Angela  Self who live in South Africa the administrative challenges (currency, insurance, road worthy test) are solved within two days.
Then the Beetle goes north. In it, spares, camping equipment and two young Swiss who have just purchased their very first car. An idea that is as mad as it is spontanious becomes reality: Africa in a Beetle.
Lion in Hwange National Park
Beitbridge, Zimbabwe, 672 kms. We are on our way to the ‘real Africa’, off the beaten tourist track. We have just crossed the Limpopo and have thus entered Zimbabwe. The border looks like chaos, but within an hour we are on the other side.
Main Camp, Zimbabwe, 1557 kms. Near the entrance to the Hwange National Park we are greeted by a sign: ‘Give way to elephants’. Welcome to Africa!
Even on the way to the inexpensive Main Camp we meet elephants and giraffes. In the evening dances are performed by the park’s own primary school which we are going to visit the next day. In the whole of Zimbabwe ecology is on the curriculum from class one.
Giraffe in Hwange National ParkThe next day: the biggest (125 kms) and so far best game drive we’ve had. At around 9.50 am, a time when few animals are to be seen because of the heat, we come across four obstructions on the road. Are they tree trunks, the kind of thing we will have to move out of the way frequently from now on? No, they are three male and one female lion lying peacefully on the dirt road. The magnificent cats do not seem to feel disturbed by our presence – and we are the only ones that could disturb them. Later an elephant literally crosses our path.
View from Sinamatella CampSinamatella Camp, Zimbabwe, 1773 kms. From this fantastic camp we can see Africa as it was 150 years ago. A fantastic indescribable view – one of the best in Africa – gives the impression of total wilderness all around. For around 13,000 square kilometres that is indeed the case. For lunch we sit outside and watch squirrels drinking out of a water container labelled ‘animals only’.
We have a close encounter with an elephant as we cross the bush early one morning on a ‘game walk’ accompanied by an armed ranger. We are actually  looking for the lion that was heard in the night. Instead we find the elephant. ‘He sees us, but he doesn’t smell us’, says the official. We don’t know what he means by that. But when the thick-skinned animal starts wagging its ears, we know. 3.5 tons (in comparison: the Beetle is 790 kgs) are coming rapidly our way. During out retreat to the back of a tree I quickly press the shutter again.
Charging elephantOne would wish an elephant would run over the bureaucrat in charge of  the organisation of the accommodation in the parks. If you haven’t booked in the Central Booking Office in Harare you have to queue up every day at 5 pm (an ideal time for game viewing) to find out if you still have a room the next day. Thanks to an unofficial (illegal) telephone call to Harare we beat the system pre-book the rest of our stay in Hwange..
Shumba Picnic Site, Zimbabwe, 1815 kms. A night in our tent at  Shumba Picnic Site. We are the only people for miles around. In the evening we have a barbecue, in the morning we are woken up by thousands of singing birds. We observe buffaloes, hippos, impalas and many elephants. ‘Buddy’ as we have now named our Beetle is still doing very well, even if we have acquired the first panel in in Bulawayo. The roads deteriorate.
A little preview of what's ahead of our Beetle; Hwange National Park near Nantwich Camp.Nantwich Camp, Zimbabwe, 2198 kms. In ‘Robin’s Camp’ you heat your own water on a woodburner. We just wanted to drive quickly through the Hwange Park; now we have been here ten days. Postcard Africa: acacias, then bush, then grass again… Fewer animals in this part of the park.
‘Nantwich’ then is the only camp without a fence. In the evening Sandra barbecues the buffalo meat we have bought from some hunters. As I am looking outside with my head lamp, I am spotting two eyes: a hyena is after the meat. We flee into the house, and it takes a while for our heartbeat to normalise…
Victoria Falls from an unusual perspectiveLivingstone, Zambia, 2324 kms. We are crossing one of the most spectacular border crossings in the world, a 111 meter bridge over the Zambezi. ‘You are now entering Zambia’ it says in the middle of the big viaduct. To our left the mighty Victoria falls thunder downhill, on our right some tourists try a bungee-jump. The Beetle glistens in the African sun. Livingstone is still a piece of real Africa, whereas Victoria Falls on the Zimbabwe side tries to be anything, just not  Africa. Bungee-jumping, Free Fall, River Rafting (two years ago, we were also on the adrenaline trip) – businesses owned by whites while the blacks have been driven away into the suburbs. Overnight stay at ‘Tatenda’, the only black tour operator in town, inexpensive and friendly. Don’t forget to say hello from Marcel and Sandra if you go there. Before we cross the border, we ask for the panel beater and the key master. The first one beats out the panel, or to be more exact, changes the shape of it, while the latter tells us we don’t actually need a new lock, the car would be safe, even in Zambia.
In Livingstone there is still something like a local population that greets us – like everywhere in Zambia- with exceptional friendliness. We spend the first night under a mosquito net on a tree platform. Another tree house, the so-called ‘lookout tree’ which offers a most unique view of the falls is in such a desolate state that even climbing up to it would be life-threatening.
View from Livingstone Island - that's where the mighty Vic Falls drop down more than 100 meters.For Sandra’s birthday we (I…) splash out on our most expensive lunch ever in the probably most bizarre place you can have lunch: on Livingstone Island, in the middle of Victoria Falls, only a few metres from where the Falls go down  more than a hundred metres. In the motorboat I am asking  the driver what he would do in case of an engine breakdown…’We often test the engine’ he says, ‘and it’s always worked so far’. On the island there is champagne a discretion.
By now we have decided we would travel to the remote Western  Zambia. ‘You’ll trash your car’, comments an arrogant employee of Jolly Boy’s Backpacker’s Lodge dryly. ‘You won’t get any further than Sesheke’. We will send him a postcard later on.
Wooden bridge in Western Zambia - to be checked on foot before crossing.Sesheke, Zambia, 2909 kms. Western Zambia is the first major challenge for our Beetle. With literally the last drop of petrol we reach the only service station for 300 kms, a BP service station. ‘This week we don’t have fuel’, a smiling youth is welcoming us, ’maybe next week’. ‘Maybe next week’ in Africa means: ‘definitely not next week either’. The only solution is the Caprivi strip in Namibia. We are driving to Namibia to buy petrol. At the border the first offer for the Beetle. No, we still need her. Back in Zambia the roads get progressively worse, first tar with the occasional pothole, then potholes with occasional tar, then only corrugated iron with occasional sandy gaps which remind us that we are moving towards a stretch of the Kalahari desert.
Somewhere in Western Zambia, 3020 kms. One of the sandy bits was our downfall: we’re stuck. Thanks to a beginner’s mistake of mine (I tried to reverse…) we are digging ourselves in deeper. It is 12 pm somewhere in western Zambia. To our east   the Zambezi, habitat for a few crocodiles and to be crossed by humans only by ferry, to our west, much, much more to the west, Angola. Vehicles hardly ever pass here. Merely irritating tsetse flies keep us company while we are trying  to dig out the car. Sandra develops a surprising amount of energy for digging. After a few hours we are as desert-coloured as the Beetle. At last help arrives. Ten rather lively Zambians carry the 790 kg vehicle back onto the bush road. I am so excited I even forget to take a photo.
Sandra developed an incredibly amount of energy digging out the Beetle in the Kalahari desert. I had to take a rest in the shadow first.... from where I took this photo that has been published almost three million times so far - to Sandra's great pleasure, of course.
We’re in high spirits now. From now on speed is the secret as soon as it gets sandy. Third gear, full throttle and the Beetle swims until the familiar corrugated iron shakes its bones again.
The legend. 
Maziba Bay, Zambia, 3042 kms. Our self-confidence is unshakeable now that we have passed five kilometres of fine sand without getting stuck even once and without hitting a single tree while negotiating a corner. The latter is a distinct possibility since the sand is so deep that the Beetle only reacts with a few seconds’ delay – much like a boat. Obviously sand gets into the pedals and the throttle stays down. The involuntary speed-governor is almost welcome: slowing down would almost certainly mean getting stuck again. Maybe we should not have listened to the Zambian up there who said ‘no problem’? The man probably only drives a bicycle. Sandra is covering her face with her hands at every corner. At the bottom of the hill the South-African co-owner Andre is greeting us with the unforgettable words: ’I have never seen a Volkswagen down here!’
A few nights in the tent, a trip to the Sioma Falls, a trip in a canoe as well as one in Andre’s ultralight aeroplane, driven with our reserve fuel. Good food, strange people (some of them racists) who live here almost as hermits.
In this remote area of Zambia the Zambezi still looks much the way it did when Livingstone was here. Only most of the animals have become extinct thanks to the poaching. Still, if it were not for the Victoria Falls 300 kms away the Sioma Falls would almost certainly be a big tourist attraction. This way we have them all to ourselves.
It can only be described as a miracle that we manage to get  up the said sand road again. Or maybe there is much truth in the Beetle legend.
Sioma Mission 
Sioma, Zambia, 3048 kms. Sioma’s secondary school is being built for ten years, for the last two years without any visible progress. Empty promises from the Government. Even more serious is the situation in the mission hospital: not enough drugs for the number one killer, malaria. The rooms look like you would get sick here not better. We leave our spare pack of ‘Lariam’ in the hospital. ‘God bless you’ says the Italian sister as we are leaving.
Restaurant without drinks in Sioma, Western Zambia.The fact that there is nothing to drink in the ‘restaurant’ seems a mere trifle. A trifle not without cause as we are about to discover for ourselves: the main supply line has been interrupted.
Kalongola Ferry Point, Zambia, 3135 kms. A suspicously large number of vehicles are waiting for the ferry, the only way back to civilisation. They have been waiting for three days. Once again the ferry has broken down and is being repaired with all the enthusiasm of a school detention. There is overtime pay to be had at the weekend so why not use the whole weekend? Spare parts are being transported by canoe to and fro. Most the stranded would have something urgent to do on the other side. We, on the other side,   keep our composure, pitch our tent and buy two live chickens for supper.

Just imagine there was something to buy at the ferry point where we are stuck.

Mongu, Zambia, 3278 kms. The story so far: In Senega, on the other side of the ferry we meet with the nephew of the Prime Minister of Barotseland (West Zambia), which had been independent until 1964. The king (Litunga) and his Prime Minister still exercise power mainly based on old customs and sort out many local matters. The nephew asks us – since we are going north anyway – to take a present to his uncle: six coca-cola bottles and a personal letter.
Market in Mongu.The story: We are being shipped by canoe from Mongu, the ‘centre’ of West Zambia to one of the two capitals, Lealui. It is the capital that the king resides in during the dry season. After more than three hours in the canoe and a hike of about one and a half kilometres we arrive at a few huts. Is this supposed to be the capital? Our two Zambian boatsmen don’t know where to put themselves for pride and awe. As everywhere in Western Zambia the Lozi clap hands for a greeting and we show our respect by clapping too.
Timidly we ask for the prime minister. We are being shown to a concrete building where about ten elderly people are holding a court of law. In the middle are sitting  two people who have a disagreement (for example about land ownership). They have sometimes travelled here on foot for several days. In order not to disturb the proceedings we simply join the queue until we are seated on those two chairs surrounded by the eldest in Lealui, Zambia.
‘What is your mission?’, one of them asks, surprised to see two whites here. I am telling him that we have a present and a letter and only the best of intentions. While I am saying this I try to look at everyone at the same time because I don’t want them to know that I don’t even know which one the prime minister is.
Maxwell Mututwa, the Litunga's Prime Minister, in his house.He makes himself known: An old man, rather hard of hearing, asks me enthusiastically to give him the present. I am pulling  the cola bottles from the backpack. Now he is so full of joy that he cancels the rest of the hearings for today. He has two VIP’s from Switzerland, he announces.
As we walk through the ‘capital’ with the premier the people literally throw themselves onto the ground. And clap. We clap, too.
In his house there are luxury goods like a fridge. A photograph on the wall shows him at No. 10, Downing Street where he was once a guest in happier times. While he lectures us for several hours on the reasons why Barotseland must under all circumstances become independent again (we have to promise to petition our own prime minister in this matter), more people keep knocking and receive instructions from him. The situation becomes even more surreal as I suffer from diarrhoea and find myself forced to use the prime minister’s toilet twice – a hole in the ground. When I come back he tells us that president Chiluba called him yesterday. Some weeks later we read that the prime minister was in Singapore with the President.

Near Kaoma, Zambia, 3457 kms. Anti-poaching control. Do you have any firearms in the vehicle? Ammunition? A brief glance at our back seat – full of luggage, covered by our towels. Thank you, carry on, and as everywhere: ‘Thumbs up’.
Stuck in the sand again - in the middle of a national park with no people. 
Near Itezhi-Tezhi, Zambia, 4156 kms. ‘You want to drive that thing into the Park?’ enquires the envious owner of a Landrover. That is precisely what we want to do, drive into the Kafue National Park, half the size of Switzerland. With  fuel for 800 kms, food for four to five days and drinking water for the same amount of days we start this latest adventure. For several hundred kilometers everything goes well. In the north ‘Busanga Trails’ runs three excellent camps. During a single game drive we see no less than eight lions. The variety of antelopes is hard to describee. Only the elephant population has not recovered from the years of poaching. Never before have we seen so many hippos as here at ‘Hippo Pool’. Kafue is indeed the real, wild and romantic Africa.
In the deserted south of the park the back wheels are again stuck deep in sand. If we can manage these critical four kilometers we can manage the whole distance to ‘Nanzhila Plains’ we were told. Well, we didn’t manage. The National Park has the distinct disadvantage of lions, hyenas, and buffaloes running around as casually as your cat does in your living room. Theoretically it is not even allowed to leave your vehicle. Camping out in the wilds in Kafue National Park.
Practically we have not much hope of the TCS (Swiss breakdown service) passing by and therefore have to make plans. Collect firewood, camp outside, tomorrow I walk by myself, carefully of course… If I’m not back by four o’clock…It is an unpleasant situation, the only one (before our journey home)  that brings us very close to tears. We went too far. Apart from wild animals there are also poachers here that do not hesitate to shoot. Just when the Robinson Crusoe feeling was starting to take over we see a car! They are hunters – thank god no poachers. They help us, but we still have to spend the night in the bush. During toothbrushing our headlamps peer nervously out into the wild. Are those not two eyes?

Lusaka, Zambia, 4528 kms. Zambias capital seems a stronghold of civilisation with things liek showers (after a few days they even carry water) and supermarkets. We give our Beetle a break, too, and have a new horn fitted. An unnoticed pothole had muted the old one…
Market near Cairo road, Lusaka.During our stay in Lusaka we are neither robbed nor murdered, both of which had been prophesied to us. Even in the neighbourhood of the infamous Cairo Road we feel quite safe even though I might have second thoughts about asking the guys from the Soweto Market to babysit my little daughter. The private security guards in front of every shop in town deter even car thiefs.
We dive into Lusaka’s night-life with Jetty, a Zambian who works for an American AIDS project. It is dominated by the Zairan rumba – and of course ‘Mos’ -beer. More detailed memories escape us. The Zambians meet us with more friendliness, openness and warmth than we have found in any other African country so far. And these people more than make up for the poor infrastructure. We already know now that we will always remember them.
Only two big streets in Zambia...After stocking up on supplies we drive to the crossroads where the only two major roads of the entire country meet: the Great North Road and the Great East Road. We turn right.

Mfuwe, Zambia, 5808 kms. Some of the potholes on the Great East Road could have swallowed up our entire car without too much trouble. The state of the road is as up and down as my adrenaline levels during the journey. Sometimes it looks almost like a real road, so we accelerate, 70 kmph, even 80, after all, we would like to get there today, please, 90 kmph – then out of the blue a road section that reminds us of a bomb site or a moon landscape – hit the brakes!
On top of that, a bush fire helps to stop any boredom setting in. Seeing it licking across half of the road is a good moment to consider that we have 75 litres of spare fuel on board. And being surrounded by fire altogether only leaves one option: go for it! Passing through we feel the flames and keep the fire extinguisher ready.
Baby elephant in South Luangwa National Park.Change of scenery: Game viewing  in the South Luangwa National Park. Turning the engine off seems to startle the elephants every time, but they carry on chewing unimpressed when the vintage motor rattles loudly. Sometimes we can observe them close up, while making sure the car is in reverse gear just in case any of the beasts feelling disturbed after all…
Do YOU look better after weeks in the bush?The South Luangwa now has one of the highest densities of elephants in Africa. In other areas, too, the park can compete with all the important national parks. Herds of buffaloes two to three hundred strong are not uncommon. Lions and leopards, too, can be observed. While in South Africa you will find at least five cars around every lion, the reverse is sometimes the case. We can recommend particularily two activities:
Firstly, game walks. For several hours we walk through the bush led by two competent guides. We observe two lions trying to attack a buffalo but the buffalo drives them off with the help of his herd. We hold our breaths. As we drive back to the Wildlife Camp two tyres burst. Spare tyres we have, but not with us. An extended game walk.
Leopard on a night drive in South Luangwa National ParkSecondly, night drives: controversial but unforgettable. Powerful lights light up the night. A magnificent leopard lies on its back under a tree and seems entirely unperturbed by us. If you have your own car you should also visit the south of the Luangwa valley. It is very scenic and for observing wildlife it can easily compete with the central part of the valley.
The Wildlife Camp is more pleasant than the Flatdogs, but we are severely disappointed by the German owner, Anke, who cancels the promised drive to the practically deserted North Luangwa Park, we hear along the grapevine that she does not earn enough out of two people.
The 120 kilometer road from Chipata down to Mfuwe resembles a dead-end road  into the bush more than the road to one of the main attractions of the country. At times the gear jumps out at only 20 kmph, the road is so bumpy. On the way back we pass no less than four broken-down vehicles. Of course we ask if we could help. And yes, of course we are married but we are still working on the children.

Chipata, Zambia, 6061 kms. We are sad to be leaving Zambia soon. One last night at the camp site of the Wildlife Conservation Society in Chipata. In the bar in the evenings the local foreigners and the Zambian middle and upper classes meet. One man is from West Zambia and finds it hard to believe that we met the Prime Minister of Barotseland. As recently as last year, he insisted, we would have been shot only for showing up there. It turns out to be an inexpensive evening: The people here are so pleased with these two young Swiss  with their VW Beetle and their mad stories that the beer and food supply is ample without our help.

The friendliest border post of the world.The border into Malawi, 6079 kms. The Zambian side of the border (picture) is probably the friendliest border crossing in the whole of Africa. The Malawians, however, are less than enthusiastic about our arrival. It takes half a day before the precious visa stamps adorn our passports. No more visa at the border, you have to queue up for one in the capital Lilongwe. The official who bullied us there discharges us with the words: ’You will not like Malawi.’
In Lilongwe – where we visit among other things a tobacco auction hall – we discuss earnestly the option of dropping Mozambique and instead visit Zambia once more – we really miss it. The vote goes for Mozambique, just. Sandra does not feel well for the first time.

Forest Rest House, Malawi, 6606 kms. An unforgettable trip is neither ‘sight seeing’ nor luxury accomodation. It is Joseph, for example, the friendly caretaker of the Forest Rest House between Lilongwe and Mzuzu. The 38 year-old man provides accomodation (approximately US$ 3) that he could easily demand $ 100 for. A wonderful, tastefully furnished wooden house in the middle of the forest. The shower resembles a turkish bath. He learnt his trade from the British woman who previously owned the house. Whatever one’s attitude towards British colonial rule, this man clearly has style. He’s a fantastic cook and lights a fire for us in the evening. He simply treats us like royalty and assures us that God will make sure we will have children, as ‘He’s the boss’.

Livingstonia Mission, Malawi.Livingstonia Mission, Malawi, 6830 kms. At 2000 metres above sea level the British missionaries had found refuge from the malaria here. For us it means negotiating twenty horrible S-bends. At the top there is only one other car, a Landrover reminiscent of an expedition. It belongs to two drop-outs, Chris and Estelle. ‘I am definitely not a tourist’, Chris answers my question and them muses: ‘I live in this Landrover, I’d say.’ For more than six years by now. During this time he has been several times to all African countries except Sierra Leone, Angola, Lybia, Liberia and the Cape Verde Islands. He travelled completely on his own in the Landrover for a full year. He never caught malaria once and it was always others that got shot by the Tuareg in Algeria. Chris made the interesting observation that the first time he saw the Tuareg they were riding on camels – machine guns in their hands – guns and the second time they were already on motor bikes – still with machine guns in their hands. Oh yes, and if we have no hot water in Stone House (where the first missionaries used to sleep)  he would always have some in his bush shower. Chris and Estelle now want to get married, up on top of that mountain.
A  boy washes the car in exchange for the privilege of a ride. I drive him through Livingstonia and tell all his friends I am the new taxi driver. His familiy invite me for lunch. An opportunity for the numerous siblings of getting a good look at me.

Getting a glance at the foreigner in Livingstonia Mission.     


How can we dance when the earth is turning? How can we sleep when our tent is burning?Nyika Plateau, Malawi, 7028 kms. Horse-riding on the Nyika Plateau. And a last night in Zambia, without border controls, on the Zambian side of the plateau. There we accidentally cause a bush fire which destroys a quarter of our tent. ‘Let it burn’ is the reply of the fire police, having rushed here on their bicycles.

Nkhata Bay,Overloaded boat at Nkhata Bay, Malawi. Malawi, 7303 kms. Nice little town, nice beach at the big Malawi Lake, but we can’t quite warm to this country. Rather irritating are also the countless backpackers that steal their way through the country and display the most remarkable ignorance. One German backpacker for example tells us how he asks for everything to be put on his bill and then disappears from the hotel early in the morning. And well, this mission, it doesn’t really appeal to him that much. Dope (Malawi gold), beer and sex seem to be the main reasons for a visit to Malawi. The latter incidentally applies to women too. Despite an HIV rate of up to 80% there are shocking scenes to be witnessed on the beach. A 35 year-old woman in the arms of a 14 year-old boy. The first senses youthful stamina, the latter a lottery win.

Nhkotakota, Malawi, 7539 kms. Malawi may not represent the greatest of adventures but we still get surprises. Suddenly the sky turns black over Malawi Lake. Millions of seaflies are being blown inland by the wind – a remarkable spectacle of nature. The Malawi people wield baskets and turn the flies into a sort of pie. When the flies reach us they hail down onto our Beetle and thousands are stuck to her.
A little later hundreds of people are dancing happily on the streets. A village celebrates the successful circumcision of ten boys who can legitimately call them men now. The chief himself welcomes us and soon all the attention is diverted to this unusual round thing in the shape of a…beetle!
Everyone wants us to take their address as our number plate ‘BTL 886 GP’ stands not only for Beetle but also for Gauteng Province and that represents the dream of a better life in a big city.

Senga Bay, Malawi, 7635 kms. A roadblock. Insurance documents! Horn! Wipers (average rainy days in September: 0)! Neutral gear (for whatever)! And if we could possibly spare some salt, they are just cooking. One official asks me for ‘papers’. As I hand him the bundle of documents he says: ’Only two’. Which of the two, he doesn’t care.
On the way to Cape McClear 
Cape McClear, Malawi, 7843 kms. On the way to the tourist village of Cape McClear we cross a small river – and thus add another true story to the stock of stories to be related to the grandchildren..
Suddenly my travel partner Sandra runs a temperature of 40 degrees centigrade. The first doctor is absent, the second one a few kilometers down the road is not there at the moment. When will he be back? In six weeks… Another 80 kilometers further, a hospital. ‘You’ve got malaria’ – the lab assistant says, clearly bored.  Malaria is a daily business here in Malawi. Surprisingly, we get the drugs for free.
On the way back to Cape McClear the potholes are now demanding a sacrifice. It happens to be our clutch cable. Now ‘Herbie’ is out of the ballgame. Sandra is supposed to take the pills as soon as possible and rest afterwards. A four-wheel-drive full of British tourists stops. ‘Any problems?’ one of them wants to know. ‘Two’, I say, ‘the car is broken, and she’s got malaria.’
The diving course in Lake Malawi gave us Billharzia, but also some unforgettable experiences.They give Sandra a lift while I push the car with the help of one of the locals several kilometers to the nearest ‘bush mechanic’. He indeed fixes the problem within an hour. And thanks to early treatment Sandra is also better the next day. We continue our diving course at Lake Divers (PADI basic course $150 – very professional). The underwater world will become our hobby during the rest of the journey.
Traditional dancer 
Blantyre, Malawi, 8464 kms. On our way across the Zomba Plateau it rains – in the middle of the dry season. Sandra sees another doctor. Later we will learn that she caught Bilharzia. (Contrary to what the tourism industry wants to be true, Lake Malawi is not Bilharzia free.) And a dose of typhoid. We still decide to go ahead for Mozambique.

Tete, Mozambique, 8703 kms. The Malawi border official assumes we work for the Red Cross when he sees our red passports with the white cross on them. Apart from that the farewell is as friendly as the greeting three weeks earlier. But on the other side in Mozambique we evoke pleasure: ‘The year before last we had another Beetle here’ the friendly border official smiles at us and makes us feel that Mozambique is now just as safe as its neighbouring countries. We cross the Zambezi for the second time – we have come full circle.
Sometimes we could see out of no windowTo our great surprise we find brand new roads in Mozambique. They seem ghostly at times because they are so little used. At the first police control a smart officer all in white: ’7kmph over the speed limit – you can pay in Zim-Dollars, Malawi Kwacha or Meticais’ – we had bought cigarettes in the vain hope that they can be bribed…
Despite dire poverty the people greet us with incredible joy. Stopping in a village we are immediately surrounded by dozens of children and nearly as many adults and at times can’t even see out of our windows. Our lack of knowledge of Portuguese does little to help the communication but the people try very hard and are happy to have visitors again in their country that was destroyed by civil war.

On the way to Chimoio.Chimoio, Mozambique, 9096 kms. This town in the Harare – Beira corridor will be forever remembered by us as the ‘Coca-Cola town’. The lemonade manufacturer has put up a factory here to supply the young and the rich of North Mozambique with the sweetened water. Not only do they seem to employ half the town, they also appear to have bought half the town. From shop window to playground: ‘Drink Coca-Cola’. Very friendly people.
Something we would never have thought possible in our wildest dreams is perfectly normal here: We can walk back to our hotel on foot, through the back streets- in Mozambique!
Light tower in Beira, Mozambique. 
Beira, Mozambique, 9332 kms. The motorway to Beira looks just like in Switzerland – perfect. A romantic lighthouse near a shipwreck. In the restaurant we meet two very interesting people: a German who just crossed the whole of Africa on his motorbike and just happened to be in Zaire when everybody else was trying to leave the country and a Swiss drop-out, a former delegate of the ICRC who bought the golf club in Beira and turned it into a bar/disco/restaurant.

Vilancoulos, Mozambique, 9899 kms. We park the Beetle for a week and clear off to the islands of the Bazaruto National Park. It was not quite so easy. ‘Mr. Rex Mr. Rex’, everybody says as we ask how to travel to the Bazaruto Islands. Finally we find the villa of the American multi-millionaire who owns one of the islands. He happens to be on the island. We radio: ‘Magaruque Magaruque Magaruque Vilanculos’ – he’ll collect us by boat tomorrow, we hear him reply in German, Swiss German at that. He has travelled quite a bit himself actually… He also recommends that we should spend all our money on his island.
Spending money is not hard to do in the Bazaruto National Park. Even on the more reasonable island Magaruque we spend US$467 all told for two days (including boat transfer). Not enough, states Mr. Rex, disappointed that we are not staying longer. There would also be a tax for parking our car next to his villa. $5 per day. When I refuse to pay this sum later as it had not been agreed, his housekeeper locks me in his estate.
Bazaruto Island, Bazaruto National Park, MozambiqueApart from the western highway robbers that have a keen eye on our money the place is paradise. It looks as if the civil war never happened: phantastic beaches reaching for miles and not a soul to be seen apart from a few fishermen. What they cath decides what there is for dinner. A diving trip at Two Mile Reefs near Benguela will always stay in our memories as will the phantastic food at Bazaruto Lodge. Small wooden sailboats travel between the five islands and the mainland. Only the bill prevents us from staying longer.
Benguela Lodge is the best accomodation by far, very tasteful with baskets and other objects decorating the walls.
Their catch decides what is being served for dinner on the islands of Bazaruto National Park.Some two kilometers from the Lodge a former employee has staged a revolt against ‘big business’: accomodation for backpackers. He even resisted the offer of money in order to stop him from trading, he tells us. Travellers come by ‘dhow’ – sailboats instead of the speedboats and bring less money, but more time with them.
Never in the world have I seen such beautiful beaches as the ones in Bazaruto National Park.

Morrungulo, Mozambique, 10153 kms. We would love to come back to Mozambique to see the re-opened National Parks and above all the north of the country, still largely untouched by tourism. This time, though, we have no choice other than to follow the sea. But then quite honestly, there are worse places indeed to end a journey like this one.
At this point, the Beetle has become used to everything.The thirteen kilometres down to Morrungulo are lined with palm trees: a palm tree avenue. Morrungulo is more of a camp than a village. 40 kilometeres to the south and 20 to the north there is nothing but virgin beach. The water is rather wild, the atmosphere romantic. The only nuisance are South Africans who have bought four-wheel drive cars on credit and feel they have to show them off on the beach.
The best Peri Peri Chicken of the whole of Mozambique is for sale on the main road just past the turning for Morrungulo – and he has dozens of different beers in stock, too.
When there is no electricity, hand work can still make sure gasoline flows.... 
Barra, Mozambique, 10349 kms. Indescribable beaches here, too, indescribable underwater worlds, indescribable drives through Mozambique. The roads are very good but the pedestrians are a little reluctant to share the tarmac with the motorised traffic. For decades, they had ruled the roads. Very few vehicles, sometimes almost ghostly, colossal, a phantastic experience. In between times the starter cable comes loose, an old problem that we can fix ourselves by now: jack up on the right, take off back wheel, crawl underneath, reconnect dangling cable, and hey, the Beetle starts again…

Maputo, Mozambique, 10937 kms. The capital of Mozambique, once among the most beautiful cities in the world, is our last stop before returning to South Africa. A city, incidentally, which is full of Beetles! We join a 24 hour party called ‘Feira Popular’ and celebrate our adventure which we already know we will be the only ones to ever really understand.

Ad to sell the Beetle. Randburg, South Africa, 11598 kms. Three months and 1025 litres of petrol later we end up where we started. The now treasured Beetle has carried us across sand roads, potholes and creaking wooden bridges, and has even crossed a small river. Now we have to sell her, not without, it has to be said, shedding a small tear. She changes hands for 4600 Swiss Francs to an employee of the French embassy. Ken, who sold the car for us did not point out to the buyer where exactly she has been…

Text and photos: Marcel Stoessel

I would like to thank Ken and Angela Self, two exceptionally nice people who helped us to buy and sell the car and assisted us in many other ways.. „It’s so easy to give”, Ken said – and I am impressed to hear that in a world where egoism has definately taken over. I would also like to thank all black and white Africans – especially the Zambians – for the legendary hospitality they live up to.

Nkosi Sikeleli Afrika