By JT Thomas in Phnom Penh
Tuesday November 23rd, 2010-We (Stand Up For Rivers) did not get the news of the bridge stampede until this morning. Since then we have been in our own emotional motions of parting for disparate and distant points, some to the south for beach time. Some already headed toward the states and the snows of Colorado.
Cambodians on the other hand are moving a little more slowly today, shaking off the all general exhaustion of the water festival and letting the collective grief of last nights’ senseless deaths flow down the Tonle Sap and Mekong Rivers.
There is fresh debris floating along with the palm fronds and flowers in the water today, spiritual debris.
I opted to stay here in downtown Phnom Penh one more night and catch my breath and take the pulse of this city which I had only seen for a brief flash when I first arrived here in October and, until this morning, through the clouded lens of a festival weekend which was spectacular until mayhem erupted last night.
I arrived here in Phnom Penh on Friday morning in my sea kayak along with 7 other Stand Up Paddle Boarders (SUPS) after our 20-day venture down the Mekong River from the Laos border to understand the myriad of social and environmental issues this region faces with the prospect of main-stem dam development. Simultaneous with our arrival, millions of people poured in from the countryside and down the waterways to witness the Dragon boat races and partake in all of the festival music and mayhem.
To be honest, there were indeed millions of people here, but seemingly less than I expected and envisioned. I anticipated there to be a crushing wave of humanity all weekend, but it was all relatively navigable in comparison to some suffocating events I have attended in New York City, Mexico City and Delhi. So with the manageable sense of it all over the course of the weekend, I was especially shocked to hear about the stampede this morning.
For the last two hours I have been riding around with Black, a Cambodian Tuk Tuk driver who I met when I first arrived here in October. He speaks with a cartoonish Crocodile Dundee Aussie accent, plays John Denver at top volume as he puts through the tangled noodle of traffic that is classically Southeast Asian. And basically I could not help but to have summed him up as a caricature of the travel-kind you read about in Lonely Planet sidebars, but there was more hanging on his mind and I wanted to know about it.
I asked him to take me where tourists prefer to sidestep and we putted through the poorest and wealthiest neighborhoods while he editorialized about the corruption that provides government workers with ostentatious homes. Along the way we passed a new Thai- owned hospital where Cambodians, save for the elite, are not able to enter even in emergency. The doctors were outside smoking and having coffee in rattan lounge chairs in the shade beneath the valet awning and Black and I wondered about the 500+ people that were injured last night.
“No, they are not in THAT hospital”, said Black, and then he kick started the motorbike that powers the tuk tuk and we were off in a new direction of his choosing.
Black told me about his wife who lives in the countryside 80 km to the south to care for her aging parents. She lives there along with his children, one of whom who does not like the city, especially when it is crowded in festival antics. We then rounded a large complex that houses the National Tax headquarters, to which he pointed and explained that that is where he had to go get his Tuk Tuk permits and where he has to go again and again to pay the taxes that line the pockets of the rich. By the end of the block he was so preoccupied with the opportunity air his political laundry that he cut the motor and drifted down the block until we simply sat quietly beneath a giant flapping banner advertising Loft Rentals for a swanky new apartment building not far from the airport, all clad in gold-leaf spiked gates, modern corners and a shabby-chic profusion of curtains billowing from the open windows in what appeared to be vacant, pre-adorn apartments.
“Empty” said Black.
At that very moment I realized we within 10 blocs of where the Diamond Island bridge stampede had occurred. I am neither a tragedy-tourist or ambulance-chaser but I feel inclined to go pay my respects and bear witness to a place that will hence forth be a sad reminder of a beautifully festive weekend turned senselessly vile.
Black could not bear the thought of going there so I did not even begin to negotiate otherwise. I told him to double back and I could walk on my own from a central spot. We did so and I walked the streets watching people watch the loops of news footage from last night interspersed with the updates of the families looking for their lost ones, or more specifically, walking among the thousands of flip flops and shoes that blanket the fated bridge.
I paused and stood in a barber shop doorway as the collection of men cut hair and the male clients stared silently at the news. Older men stood side by side with their hands interlocked and held around their crones waists as the television news blared and blared and blared.
“Not since the Khmer Rouge have we had such a national tragedy” said Prime Minister Hun Sen earlier this morning from the same balcony from which he watched last night’s closing firework display.
When I returned to my guest house I approached Savorn who was bearing an obvious weight. “Did you hear?” she asked. “Two doors down, same business as here, the boy lost. My nephew”.
“Boat races - life dream,” explained Savorn. “They want to see Diamond Island - island made of diamonds.” And as the irony of her humor became intelligible to me through the broken english and the ballast of the topic I finally gleaned some of the Cambodian spirit, the one lifts up like a kite flown over the Mekong River in the late afternoon winds.
Tonight I will walk to the bridge and do what I could not do with my friend Black, a man who will drive his tuk tuk tonight to make a modest fare, most of which he can send home to his wife and children Most importantly, they are safely away in the countryside. “Yes I call them all night” from one of his many pre-paid cell phones. “They happy I was not there [at the bridge] and happy I am still here. Me too.”
Knowing he is alive is of course a relief. But I cannot imagine the Dragon Boat teams now headed home from upriver, some bearing the burden of returning without all of their community members. Some likely still do not know the fate of their their traveling family members and that tension is part of the tension that hangs here along the waterfront and across Cambodia.
UPDATE - 11-24-10
I spent the night after the tragedy at the North Diamond Island Bridge with the waves of those paying respects and making offerings.
If you want to understand a country perhaps watching them grieve is one of the most powerful ways to do so. And in a Buddhist nation, you quickly understand that strength and celebration come hand in hand with grief. Food is placed with candles and incense along the roadways and provided so that those passing from this life to the next phase are fortified for the spiritual journey.
What I saw are in the couple of photos I have attached.
Today is a national day of mourning in Cambodia. Back home it is Thanksgiving.
I am Thankful to be right where I am.
Peace.
JT Thomas was the official photographer with the Stand Up For Rivers Expedition. An account of their 20 day journey from O’Svay to Phnom Penh on The Mekong is available here. You can follow JT on his personal journal here.