CAMBODIA
CHILL REISSUE
martin bradley
Cambodia Chill Reissue Copyright © 2020 Martin Bradley Digital chap book published by The Blue Lotus Publishing, Colchester, England 2020
CAMBODIA
CHILL
martin bradley
In the beginning, sleepy early morning light descending to deluged fields intaglio etched rivulets bushes trees blue tarpaulin draped roots, safe against watery onslaught. Familiar dust strewn streets lined with bottled petrol and Ginsbergian boys slim brown tousled haired. Siem Reap early morning waking. Tuk tuk sir.
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I am all abuzz with being back. Cambodia stirs from resting. I am drinking cold sweet local coffee while the artist is planning yet another conquest of this magical town hearts minds perhaps even souls in her Dharma baby guise Jolie boots and big fake Buddhist smile. Pseudo monk orange leaping to embrace touches my forehead in worshipful stance
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uncommonly obese pot not full of Dharma chill but fresh dollars. Tuk tuk sir. Beat ghost in cheap Panama glides wraithlike practically antediluvian across our view, one more coffee arkoun, his washed up dope days now culturally last amidst curious new world antiquity. Khmer waitress smiles cheap smile for tourists and delivers American coffee while the artist sketches. Outside boy trembles bright coloured bird tree, Jostling pole,
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looking hollow eyed into shops schoolless in season of green and damp, fragile in an uncommon age. Tuk tuk sir. Back to Colors gallery seeing Phany, Ponleu, all grown, mature, not like the children from before, all talent and big eyes, now brandishing sleek iPhones, dudes talking teacher talk. Ponleu cool strands of beard relic amidst surreality of teaching gallery, Mira fan blowing gale as four Khmer children place book marks newly bought onto stands,
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red ties on left wrists, boy "Fly Emirates" assists, black and gold Buddha watches signalling peace, man. Tuk tuk sir. All awake at uncomfortable 4.40 am the artist wrapped against aircon cold still sleeping. Me writing in bathroom, whir of extractor, yesterday thoughts disturb sleep hammered brain having succumbed to intermittent naps, taking edge from that crack of dawn early start and the rainy day leaving me
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now wide awake, restless, as the artist and hundreds of tourists sleep before breakfast in this growing whiter but still tropical town. I struggle with thoughts, preparing for the day. Letting her sleep. Singaporean Foo in my mind as water colourist supreme, his sharing with eager Khmer minds. Founder absent, yet forever with us as guitar man, endless poet in the poem that is Colors of Cambodia in Siem Reap. Tuk tuk sir.
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Raggedy children clasp sugar cane juice, smiling lopsided smiles through innocent eyes. The compact gallery at Colors drips art into young minds with line wash shade and tones of existence. They are Dharma children awakening. Later, watching elegance of her showering, all sleek lines feline grace water reflecting her beauty lines skin glistening singing siren lure. Tuk tuk sir. Waiting on breakfast and rain kissing banana leaves monstrous
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grey concrete elephants dust be splattered small c.c motorcycles bare armed riders rush to work market home lovers still the artist sits opposite sculptured silhouetted by the brightening day. American not so pleasant breakfast at Moon Villa tries to hijack the day fails still desperate for coffee watch her load tuk tuk clothes for school. Book Cafe watching temple roofs red piercing heavens slight cloud sun rising blue sky promises beat jeep languishing relic from past no longer forgotten,
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shaven head Eminem wannabe lopes past Wat contrasting orange draped monk on Dana mission. Tuk tuk sir. Round breasted Khmers abreast Scoopys ponytails streaming. A cappuccino day, gamelan in air, rain gone, private delivery Phnom Penh Post coaster telling I heart Cambodia memories of Milton Glasser are you reading this James Merci to Mersea Siem Reap awakening. Life passing. Be hatted bearded European male pants
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past on bicycle in growing warmth cacophony supplanting gamelan Siem Reap modernising I shift to Wat seeking silence. Tuk tuk sir. Tuk tuk sir. Sauntering Psar Char squeezing past sellers of beef chicken pork eating yellow noodles pork fish sauce drinking iced local sweet coffee jump. Tuk tuk sir, Yes. Driver Sitha loading slippers. Thai. Zo school riding past yet more sellers of bottled petrol, convenient
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Molotov cocktails, down dirt track. School smiling faces headmaster waiting talking road repairs energy low need caffeine boost. More dust more heat. "Bong Bong, chop chop, coffee coffee" tiny glass not espresso local charcoal heated coffee laced in roadside market shack Thai creamer, driver Sitha smiles. Englishman, two glasses coffee filing a gap but still insufficient no time. Long mud track. Tuk tuk to sponsored children’s phoumi (village). Buffalo fields, egrets, long
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winding potholed road, real muddy water not blues man, Khmer cycling woman carrying bamboo, children catching fish in sparkling green padi. Frog trap phoumi, leaping into unknown leads to frog rice. Cambodian market rice delivered to sponsored Cambodian student families. The artist sketches opposite pink lean-to, line by line capturing essence of rurality, simplicity. Sun blessed dappled baby sucking sweet mother milk in silence of Cambodian
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rural idyll satiating raw id/ego of sunshine child. TV aerial pricks incongruously into rural sky. Padi calm. Pink dress girl carrying baby cycles under yellow-as-the-sun morning glory, papaya, banana. Cockerel squawks. Boy pisses on path, emaciated mynah pecking path, flies. Noon heat cloud fleckled sky, white butterfly heaven. Three children two dogs play padi water. Motorcycle family, marketing, return. Padi farmer abandons field. Raises
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mobile phone brown skin walking talking naked feet bringing dark footsteps to rural path. Padi breeze cools, dragonflies dance descending, rising, gentle air-borne apsaras. Small naked girl runs squealing. Two bitches chase. Brown black younger dog collapses submits to older. Sniffs younger head to toe. Satisfied returns to post. Black dog hesitantly walks home. Morning Nai Khmer restaurant electric absent, sweat slowly, two eggs bacon bread iced coffee, shock
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sun bounces from land cruiser. Tuk tuk sir. Coconuts chopped splash juice into dry air. Hello batman tuk tuk flying Batman insignia driver Bruce Wayne, not Caped Crusader. It's a tourist jungle, Siem Reap. Aircon van travels sleepy dusty road out from Siem Reap, rushing past sleeping golden Buddha, sleepy sandy cows, endless padi stretching forever green into my soul. Fresh fires cook bamboo tubes stuffed with sticky rice, buffalo herders, ephemeral phallic haystacks
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pointing pornographically to skyline. Van motion bringing sleep, tired traveller dozes in orange T-shirt, backpack tightly clutched. Cambodian People's Party evident, not so rouge. Change track. Sodden earth not yellow but reddened, Thai Kubota RT 120 plough-tractor pulls simple trailer, takes three 50 kg sacks of rice with Chinese travellers, Khmer teachers, and one white man over track cratered by rain, revealing laterite, Muscovy ducks, emaciated hens, acres of
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emerald rice, rural stilt houses, naked children playing, benignly blue water alias, wondrously white flowers, perfectly pink lotus, beautiful Buddha grace. Thirty minute bounce, toss, trundle past blue white clothed school children, effort driven bicycles, elderly Khmer napping 'neath huts blearily watching ploughtractor procession. At rural Siem Reap school, children file awaiting uniform, shoes, equipment, clothes happily munching dry biscuits. Boy
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in striped pullover, not pyjamas, looks sadly on. The green vista calls to the pleasantness of the day, flat padi, thinking under blue sky, wishing on white clouds. Rose brand rice eked out between students for their families (yam bai), weighed out forever in fairness. Under tree mother in green sarong, green top, white hat, waits for laden child soon to come. Children line up once more for official sponsorship photo, keeping records straight. One child delves into her newly given
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bag, pulls out trousers, striped top, hugs them ever so preciously to her slight chest, smiles the biggest smile ever, smiles of happiness, smiles of gratitude, smiles of sweet contentment, love, harmony. Another measures jeans against her thin legs now knowing they will eventually fill the space, eyes the rice in the clear plastic bag, the artist smiles too. Stuffs her new belongings into her Snow White backpack, eyes the boy beside her and his Ben 10 bag.
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Tuk tuk sir. In the evening, slightly rested from the heat and the day's giving we rest at L’Osteria Alley west Siem Reap. Sea bass, roasted veg with smoked roasted cheese, followed by tiramisu brings smiles to our faces as I treat that hard working artist in that ancient town. Jazz leaks from the restaurant into the mystic Cambodian chill. And the artist, her sleek black hair braided and now slightly peppered white, cools from the heat, she is elegant
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in that alley, radiating amidst the smell of rosemary and Holy basil, love, joy and peace, Dharma baby in all her good deedness, child sponsoring, giving, special way. The artist sits opposite, content as she loves Siem Reap in all it's roughness and incompleteness, in all its years and transgressions, tumbling stone, burning heat, Colors and colours and complications. Tuk tuk sir.
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And, in the end, trouser belt removing, shoes off, computer tablet in separate plastic carrier moving slowly through metal detector, photographed, and quizzed I am in the departure lounge longing for what was, but is no longer home. Arriving early to palm oil plantations, finger printing, I am welcomed back to an uncertain future.
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The End
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Other chap books in this series
Malim Nawar Morning 2014
Remembering Whiteness 2015
Being here now 2020
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Thank you for reading this prose poem. I hope that you enjoyed it. The Blue Lotus will be publishing more digital chap books in the future