CAMBODIA

CHILL

martin bradley

Cambodia Chill
copyright 2014 Martin Bradley
ebook published by Dusun (non profit
Kuala Lumpur 2014
free download

publishers)

CAMBODIA

CHILL

a prose poem

martin bradley

In the beginning,
sleepy early morning
flight descending
to deluged fields
intaglio etched
rivulets bushes trees
blue tarpaulin draped
roofs, 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. Honey B
all abuzz with being
back. Cambodia stirs

from resting. We are

drinking cold sweet
local coffee B girl
planning yet another
conquest of this
magical town hearts
minds perhaps even
souls in her Dhamma
Baby guise Jolie boots
and big Buddhist smile.
Pseudo monk orange
leaping to embrace
touches my forehead
in fake worshipful
stance uncommonly
obese pot not full
of Dhamma 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 lost
amidst curious new
world antiquity. Khmer
waitress smiles cheap
smile for tourists
and delivers American
coffee while B
girl sketches GP-K7
Signature. Outside
boy trembles bright
coloured bird tree,
jostling pole, looking
hollow eyed into

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shops schooless 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

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book marks newly

bought onto stands, 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. B
girl wrapped against
air-con cold still
sleeping. Me writing
in bathroom, whir of
extractor, yesterday
thoughts disturb
sleep hammered brain
having succumbed to
intermittent naps,

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taking edge from that

crack of dawn early
start and the rainy
day leaving me now
wide awake, restless,
as she, my partner 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. Chinese Foo
in my mind as water
colourist supreme,
his sharing with
eager Khmer minds.
American Bill absent,

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yet forever with us as

founder, guitar man,
endless poet in the
poem that is Colors of
Cambodia in Siem Reap.
Tuk tuk sir. 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 Dhamma
children awakening.
Later, watching
elegance of her

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showering, all sleek

lines feline grace
water reflecting her
beauty lines skin
glistening singing
siren lure. Waiting
on breakfast fine
rain kissing banana
leaves monstrous grey
concrete elephants
dust be splattered
small c.c motorcycles
bare armed riders
rush to work market
home lovers still
she sits opposite
sculptured silhouetted
by the brightening
day. American not so

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pleasant breakfast
at Moon Villa tries to
hijack the day fails
still desperate for
coffee watch her load
tuk tuk clothes for
school. New Leaf Book
Cafe watching temple
roofs red piercing
heavens slight cloud
sun rising blue sky
promises beat jeep
languishing relic
from past no longer
forgotten, shaven head
Eminem wannabe lopes
past Wat contrasting
orange draped monk on
Dana mission. Tuk tuk

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sir. Round breasted

Khmers abreast Scoopys
ponytails streaming.
A cappuccino day, tuk
tuk sir, 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 past on bicycle
in growing warmth
cacophony supplanting

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gamelan Siem Reap

modernising I shift to
Wat seeking silence.
Tuk tuk sir.
Tuk tuk sir.
Sauntering old
market 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 expresso local
charcoal heated coffee
laced in roadside
market shack, Thai
creamer, driver Sitha
smiles. Englishman,
two glasses coffee
filling a gap but
still insufficient no

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time. Long mud track.

Tuk tuk to sponsored
childrens phoumi
(village). Buffalo
fields, egrets, long
winding potholed
road, real muddy water
not blues singer,
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.

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B girl sketching
opposite pink lean-to,
line by line capturing
essence of rurality,
simplicity. Sun blessed
dappled baby sucking
sweet mother milk in
silence of Cambodian
rural idyll satiating
raw id/ego of sunshine
child. TV arial pricks
incongruously into
rural sky. Padi calm.
Pink dress girl
carrying baby cycles
under yellow-as-thesun morning glory,
papaya, banana.
Cockerel squawks.

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Boy pisses on path,

emancipated mynah
pecking path flys.
Noon heat cloud
flecked sky, white
butterfly heaven.
Three children two
dogs play padi water.
Motorcycle family,
marketing, return.
Padi farmer abandons
field. Raises mobile
phone brown skin
walking talking naked
feet bringing dark
footsteps to rural
path. Padi breeze cools,
dragonflies dance
descending rising,

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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 sun
bounces from land
cruiser. Tuk tuk sir.

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Coconuts chopped
splash juice into dry
air. Hello batman tuk
tuk flying Batman
insignia driver Bruce
Wayne, not Caped
Crusader. Its a tourist
jungle, Siem Reap.
Air-con 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

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rice, buffalo herders,

ephemeral phallic
haystacks pointing
pornographically to
skyline. Van motion
bringing sleep, tired
Chinese traveller
dozes in orange
T-shirt, backpack
tightly clutched.
Cambodian Peoples
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

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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 emerald rice,
rural stilt houses,
naked children
playing, benignly
blue water lilies,
wondrously white
flowers, perfectly
pink lotus, beautiful
Buddha grace. Thirty
minute bounce, toss,
trundle past blue

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white clothed school

children, effort
driven bicycles,
elderly Khmer napping
Neath huts blearily
watching ploughtractor procession.
At rural Siem Reap
school, children file
awaiting uniforms,
shoes, equipment,
clothes happily
munching dry biscuits.
Boy in striped
pullover, not pyjamas,
looks sadly on. The
green vista calls
to the pleasantness
of the day, flat

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padi, thinking under

blue sky, wishing on
white clouds. Rose
brand rice eked out
between students for
their families (Numbi),
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 bag, pulls out

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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,
she smiles too. Stuffs
her new belongings
into her Snow White

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backpack, eyes the boy

beside her and his Ben
10 bag. Tuk tuk sir. In
the evening, slightly
rested from the heat
and the days giving
we rest at LOsteria,
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 B
girl in that ancient
town. Jazz leaks from
the restaurant into
the mystic Cambodian
chill.

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And, my love, her sleek

black hair braided and
now slightly peppered
white, cools from the
heat, she is elegant in
that alley, radiating
love amidst the smell
of rosemary and Holy
basil, love, joy and
peace, Dhamma Baby in
all her good deedness,
child sponsoring, love
giving, special way.
She sits opposite and
I love her in every
way I can and in
every way I cannot
with my foibles and
weaknesses. I love her

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as she loves Siem Reap

in all its 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 we are in
the departure lounge
longing for home
in no negative way.
Arriving early to
palm oil plantations,
finger printing, we are
welcomed back home.

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the end

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Thank you for reading

this prose poem. I hope
that you enjoyed it. Dusun
will be publishing more
short works in the coming
months
Martin Bradley

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dusun
quarterly
e-journal of Asian Arts and Culture

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