A L S O _T O D A Y Mondo Weirdo Nude beaches of the week Favorite nude beaches around the world R E C E N T L Y Tour en Irlande By David Moore Tour de France: Pomp and pedaling in Ireland (07/16/98) Bad news from a black coast: Part Two By Moritz Thomsen Part Two of Moritz Thomsen's unpublished memoir (07/15/98) Bad news from a black coast By Moritz Thomsen Moritz Thomsen in Ecuador: Exclusive excerpts from his unpublished memoir (07/14/98) The saddest gringo: Moritz Thomsen in exile By Pat Joseph An unforgettable encounter with the legendary writer shortly before his death (07/14/98) Dancing in the streets By Ethan Zindler Dancing in the streets -- Paris celebrates the World Cup (07/13/98) Browse the Wanderlust Feature archives		COUPED UP IN CAMBODIA | PAGE 1, 2 - - - - - - - - - - Normal life continued for about six hours after the bus ride. We got to Kompong Som and checked into what passes for a luxury hotel. We strolled across the street to the beach, which one shares with white cows and child vendors. The kids come running at you as soon as your foot hits the sand, hellbent on charming you or harassing you into buying some of the boiled quail eggs they balance on trays on their heads. (Why, yes, being on a beach always sets up a craving in me for boiled eggs.) Anyway, the waves weren't great, but the water was a tonic and the air was clear and I became happily engrossed in a three-pound autobiography of Georgia O'Keefe for a couple of hours. It was for Georgia that I'd forsaken the Power Bar, my running shoes and a pair of jeans when packing. After we'd eaten our share of eggs and damaged our skin a bit, we returned to the hotel. Chris got into the shower and I availed myself of one of the perks in our $35/night room: the television. I switched through a couple of unspeakably bad Japanese soap operas, then came to CNN. At first I didn't realize it was CNN, because the camera was showing a street in Phnom Penh, a street right near our house. Then the reporter's voice said, "This is the scene from a hotel room here in Cambodia's capital. Once known as the Pearl of the Orient, today this city is under siege. There's fighting on the streets and many residents have fled the city. At the moment, the situation is such that we are unable to leave our hotel." "Chris, we're on TV," I yelled, wondering as I heard the sound of my voice how it was that it came out sounding like a shark had me by the leg. Chris came racing from the shower, lathered up thoroughly enough to star in a commercial for some new bath product: Lather a Go Go or something. The reporter was explaining that Hun Sen's troops had attacked those of the prince, and that the situation was grave. He was predicting an all-out fight for power. Though friends in the States think me adventurous by virtue of the fact that I've lived abroad for long periods of time, I am by no means a brave person. I'm just an American woman with a liberal arts degree best used outside of the United States, a person who enjoys living in cultures where afternoon naps are the norm. Not only am I not brave, I'm the giggly-when-nervous type, the kind of person who needs to be slapped across the face in order to bring me back to my senses. Chris got to see that at least a dozen times over the next several days. I was nervous, I was giggly and we were trapped. And I am ashamed to say this, but from almost the first moment that we realized that we were in a serious situation, I became obsessed with clothing. More specifically, with the clothing I hadn't brought. "These poor people are screwed," Chris said, looking at the screen. "Chris," I said, "the only thing I brought for shoes is one pair of sandals." "How could the embassies have been so wrong?" Chris wondered. "What if we have to run? Chris, I can't run in these sandals." "I wonder if the market is still open. We need to get some food," Chris said. I placed my hands on his shoulders and said, "Do you think I could get a pair of sneakers in my size there?" The news from the market vendors was as grim as their faces. A doctor friend in Phnom Penh had told me that any Cambodian over the age of 25 -- that is, anyone old enough to remember Pol Pot times -- probably suffers from at least a mild form of post-traumatic stress syndrome. I wondered how the Cambodian people could stand this latest tear in the gossamer-thin fabric of peace. They relayed the news to us in short, resigned sentences. The only road back to Phnom Penh, they said, was closed. The fighting would spread, they told us. Stay inside, one woman said. As we bought crackers and peanut butter, I thought about how I never eat peanut butter in my everyday life, but how it now seemed like the thing to have. Despite being an asthmatic, I seriously considered buying cigarettes. What if I had to go before a firing squad, or face hours of being interrogated? Wouldn't I want a cigarette for that? Didn't cigarettes become an accepted currency during times of political unrest? We met up with two friends from Phnom Penh, Barbara, an American, and Emily, a Filipina. Both had lived in Cambodia for a long time. I looked into their bag: peanut butter and crackers. Cigarettes for Emily. I joked with them about wishing I had sneakers. Emily said, "Well, you never know with this place. It's a crazy country. Bad karma." I handed Chris a carton of Marlboros and headed off to look at the men's shoes. I'm not really a group person, but even I know that, in a crisis, it's best not to hole up in one's room with a lot of peanut butter and a carton of cigarettes. There were about 30 expatriates now marooned in Kompong Som. While the Cambodians closed up the market and hurried home, we found each other and organized a meeting. A Frenchman from the United Nations took charge, asking us to write down our names, nationalities and addresses on a clipboard -- the universal symbol of authority -- that he'd brought with him. He promised to pass our names on to his superiors. I looked at the clipboard when it reached me and was touched at the sight of the names, the thought of the families -- in Korea, France, Australia, Poland, Austria -- that would now be full of worry for their crazy loved ones in Cambodia. Discussions centered on what our options were. Try to convoy back to Phnom Penh once the road was re-opened? Wait for rescue helicopters that were rumored to be a possibility? Investigate the idea of chartering a Thai fishing boat to take us to Thailand? The Frenchman, Jean-Pierre was his name, suggested we continue to meet a couple of times a day. I thought he made a lot of sense for a man wearing teeny-tiny white corduroy shorts. That night, several of us ate at a neighborhood restaurant, where my thoughts again turned to fashion. Next time I'm in a coup, I thought, I'm bringing a belt, and maybe even elasticized waist shorts. Edgy as I was, I felt like I was burning calories faster than an adolescent boy in need of Ritalin. Food was already becoming harder to get. Our Vietnamese fish soup was a gray pool of stray fish parts. I longed for my Power Bar. Talk turned to books, and Emily and I discovered that we'd both recently read the same one. It had gone into disturbing detail about the treatment Vietnamese boat people received in the hands of Thai pirates. "I'm not getting on a Thai fishing boat," Emily said. "Why not?" Chris asked. "Listen, I read the book, too," I said. "Thai pirates are the worst." Chris looked like he'd sell me for a bottle of rum. "When did you become an expert on pirates? You've never even met a pirate." Emily and I looked at each other. The book had detailed robberies, rapes and possible cannibalism. We were in silent agreement: no Thai fishing boat for us. The next morning, Jean-Pierre, his shorts whiter than ever, had news. The prince had left the country and was on his way to Paris. Then he said, "Eet iz finis. He will lose." Someone pointed out that the prince's troops were still fighting. The Frenchman shook his head. "Eet iz like Gen. George Patton said." He then looked at us, the Americans, as if expecting that we could quote Patton on command. We shrugged our shoulders, so Jean-Pierre went on. "An army iz like a strand of spaghetti. Eet cannot be pushed. Eet must be pulled." Everyone seemed to consider that for a moment. Then one of the Australian kids in the group, a leather-skinned, heavily pierced backpacker who I thought was too stoned to know what was actually going on around him, said, "Well, mate, that's either really profound or really stupid." The meeting ended on that ambiguous note. I walked across the street to the beach with Barbara. We tried to ignore the egg-pushing kids and looked at the water. "Wanna go for a swim?" I asked her. "You know, it's funny, but I have no desire to put my bathing suit on," she said. I knew what she meant. Truckloads of soldiers were arriving in town, and my instinct was to stay as clothed as possible. It seemed dumb to be displaying cleavage or a little thigh when there were lots of power-drunk armed men around. We agreed that our situation felt a little like "Gilligan's Island," and that the best look for a coup was the down-to-earth practicality of, say, Mary Ann, rather than the womanly glamour of Ginger. It turned out that Jean-Pierre was right. The prince's army, minus its leader/spaghetti puller, retreated. By Tuesday, Hun Sen's forces were in control of the capital. On Wednesday, word came that the road to Phnom Penh was re-opened. Those expatriates with cars made plans to convoy back. The rest of us would take the first bus out. The Cambodians who ran the hotel where we'd been staying were adamant in maintaining that we were making a mistake. They insisted we not get on the bus, telling us that there were bandit soldiers along the route back to the city, that we were sure to be robbed, or worse. But we'd been marooned for five days, we were almost out of money and definitely low on nerve. Thailand and Australia had ordered all of their citizens evacuated from Cambodia. If there was to be an evacuation of Americans, we certainly didn't want to miss it. The heat the morning of our departure was, as usual, brutal. When Raymond Chandler wrote, "The heat rolled in like a fat lady into the sauna," he could have been describing Cambodia. Imagine you're wedged into a bus seat made for compact Asian bodies with said fat lady perched on your knees. Make it a steamy July day and add the smell of your own sweaty fear into the mix. Pass the beer, indeed. I sat across from Anna, a large Austrian woman with hair a Kool-Aid shade of red. She owned an antique shop in Vienna and had been touring the Cambodian countryside in search of things to ship back to Austria when the coup took place. I was impressed by her calm throughout the last several days. When I'd commented on that to her, she'd opened the purse that never left her side and taken out a silver flask. "Whiskey," she'd smiled. "Got your passport?" I asked her. She nodded and patted her ample breast. "Where's your money?" I asked. Again, the patting of the breasts. I'd been thinking along the same lines myself. As we packed that morning, I'd slid my cash into one bra cup, my passport into the other. But then the thought came: If the need arose, could I easily extract the passport? I imagined nothing would quite equal the embarrassment of having to fumble around in my bra while a teenage boy carrying an AK-47 looked on. And I certainly didn't want some soldier boy -- however Calvin Klein slim and appealing -- to decide to help me with such a task. So I'd spent five minutes sitting on the bed, practicing a quick withdrawal of the passport. I now felt pretty confident, knowing I could grab the corner of the passport and bring it out into the open air with the smooth quickness of a gunslinger. The Korean woman in our group had her hair tucked up in a baseball cap. There hadn't been any water that morning, and I was longing for that product that sprays powder into your hair and then would have you believe it's clean. From now on, I vowed, if there's even a chance of getting caught up in political unrest, I'm bringing along a baseball cap. I thought back to the times when my mother told me to bring a dime on a date in case things started to go badly and I had to call her and ask her to get into the Valiant with her hair in pin curls, house dress with the third button from the top missing, and come and get me because some boy wanted to go to third base while I preferred to go bowling. Mom, I thought, things are really going badly. I hated the idea of dying on a bus with Pringles scattered around me, a half-eaten loaf of bread on my lap. Still, we loaded our backpacks with food because we didn't know how long the trip would take. We'd brought along bottles of beer, too. Because we were scared and wanted to steady our nerves. Because we welcomed the diversion of passing a bottle around from hand to hand, mouth to mouth, cold sores be damned. I should live so long to get a cold sore, I remember thinking. The villagers I'd seen a few days before were hiding inside their houses. The roads were deserted. Before we were out of town, we passed trucks full of soldiers, some boyish and innocent, some old and ravaged, all of them heavily armed and poker-faced. A man with the build of a sumo wrestler sat next to our driver. At every roadblock -- and there were many -- the driver kept the motor running as our oversized emissary lumbered off the bus. He handed soldiers stacks of money large enough to be someone's Monopoly winnings. Then he hustled back on board, and we'd be off to the next roadblock. Twice, the bribes didn't work. Twice, soldiers boarded the bus and walked up and down the aisle and looked into our faces. I looked back at skinny boys who carried guns that seemed too big for them. "Don't look," the Korean man next to me whispered. One soldier patted down bags. Another asked to see our passports. One, slender and shirtless, cigarette hanging from his mouth, pointed at the Korean woman and said something in Khmer. There was some nervous rustling while someone translated. Then the woman handed the soldier her baseball cap. The soldier took it and smiled. Good Lord, I thought, I hope he doesn't like my shirt. As we got closer to the city, we looked out the windows at the damage. The term "war-torn" suddenly made sense to me: Plate glass in buildings was shattered, metal gates in front of homes were full of rat-a-tat-tat bullet holes, street lights were leveled, market stalls emptied. When the bus finally arrived at the station in Phnom Penh, distraught Cambodian co-workers were waiting for us. "This is the end of our democracy," one of them said. I could not think of a comforting response. A week later, American aid workers were evacuated from Cambodia. We waited for hours at the heavily shelled airport in lines that seemed never to move. At last we were redirected to a gate and told to have our passports ready. I held my magical navy-blue charm aloft as if wielding a crucifix in the face of a vampire. "To Bangkok," the gate attendant yelled as he motioned us forward. Yes, to Bangkok, I thought. I'm wearing my running shoes, and I'm ready to go. SALON | July 17, 1998 Rosemary Berkeley is a freelance writer. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - R E L A T E D_.S A L O N_.S T O R I E S Letter From Jakarta An American expatriate reports on the recent civil unrest in Indonesia. By Jeff Pulice Part One When all hell breaks loose, what's an expat to do? May 22, 1998 Part Two Expats drink, rumors run amok, Habibie has an amazing week. May 29, 1998 Part Three When expats flee, foreign guys become very attractive -- and other bits of wisdom. June 11, 1998