The Spice

-Journey into the Unknown-

With his thoughts in turmoil, many things went through Ravuth’s mind. ‘Would I be able to find the village and are my family still alive? Maybe Oun now has a family of his own. Would they remember me?’ His stomach then churned and his eardrums popped as the plane descended.

2002. Cambodia felt unfamiliar to Ravuth Eggleton. He landed at Pochentong International Airport in Phnom Penh and after getting glares from the customs officials after looking at his UK passport, he caught a taxi into the city. He smiled as the warm air and familiar smells of Cambodia brought back fond memories as he looked out of the taxi’s window. They drove past large modern buildings and small open food restaurants filled with smiling Khmers eating and chatting.

He checked into a hotel recommended by the taxi driver on the Riverside. During the time Ravuth lived in Cambodia, apart from the short, unnerving visit to Koh Kong, he had never left his village, so knew nothing about the country he used to call home. Having been a long time since he had spoken Khmer, he struggled to speak or understand his native language as the taxi driver spoke to him.

Arriving mid-afternoon, he planned to visit the registry and records offices in the Council of Ministry buildings on Confederation de la Russie, but first, he wanted to get a taste of home. He left the hotel and went into the first open-air Cambodian restaurant, ordering plates of Cambodian food.

“Ahh,” Ravuth sighed with pleasure as he crunched on fresh Cambodian vegetables. He smiled, ‘Beats pot noodles’ he thought after living on Pot Noodles and any other dehydrated food that he could cook with his kettle in the B&B in England. He spent the rest of the day contacting various departments and making appointments for the following day.

Ravuth went out in the evening and strolled along the Riverside. The large, still, Basaac River glistened, and Ravuth watched the lights of small boats as they flitted back and forth. He had brought some pounds sterling with him and after the bank teller advised him to use US dollars instead of the Cambodian Reil, he exchanged his cash to USD. ‘I can use my bank card when that’s gone,’ he thought, hoping he had enough in his UK bank to cover any costs he might incur.

Tourists and locals walked up and down the pavement, while noisy tuk-tuks and moto-dop taxis drove up and down looking for customers. The noise of the city at night made Ravuth feel uncomfortable

He saw several Khmer and foreign-owned restaurants and watched Khmer touts and beggars approaching foreigners, who tried to ignore them. He sat in a restaurant, ordered a meal and a beer, and after finishing his food, returned to his hotel room and sifted through his information for the next day’s meetings. Realising the first obstacle he had to overcome was to find out his family name. Living in a small village, the family’s details were recorded at the local Sangkat (district council) and they issued family books to each family as a record. His father took care of all those details as none of the family could read or write. After spending the next day visiting different offices and achieving nothing, Ravuth soon realised that being unaware of his family name or his real date of birthproved to be a hurdle. 

Over the next few days going through the archives, his search came up fruitless. He spent the evenings walking along the Riverside and a few hours at an internet café before returning to his hotel. His week in Phnom Penh disheartened him because he had uncovered nothing and he'd hardly spoken to anyone. The Khmers seemed standoffish and cold toward him, considering him an outsider who had escaped the Khmer Rouge. The foreigners also ignored him, assuming he was a tout wanting to sell themKilling Fields tours or sexy massages. He felt alienated and lost and kept himself to himself, concentrating on his seemingly impossible quest. He looked at the records of the g******e museum at Tuol Sleng. Surprisingly, the Khmer Rouge that had controlled the central provinces kept meticulous records; including photographs of any unfortunate individual that came through the hellish place. Ravuth sifted through every photograph, knowing the demise of the individuals whose emaciated images now stared back at him. He felt relieved that his family were not amongst the victims of this nightmare. Ravuth had studied several articles on the website about the atrocities committed by Pol Pot and his indoctrinated band of murderers. Now that he was in Cambodia, the facts became a lot clearer and he realised that his parents were probably dead, but hoped Oun had survived. While alone in his hotel room, he tried to imagine how that terrifying period could have affected Oun, remembering his brother’s happy, smiling, grimy face as they played and went on adventures.

Haunted by the horrific images he had seen over the past few days, Ravuth spent long sleepless nights at the Phnom Penh hotel, with both happy memories of his childhood and turbulent and frightening thoughts about the possible demise of his family.

A woman administrator, who saw Ravuth’s daily pilgrimage to her offices, handed him a piece of paper, giving him information about the province offices where his family would have gone.

“Maybe they can help,” she said, “all the people from that area went to that commune to be processed. Perhaps they would know where your family were sent.” 

Ravuth looked at the address and cringed.

“Would you like me to make you an appointment?” asked the woman.

Although unnerved by the thought of returning to Koh Kong, Ravuth took a taxi to the border town the following morning for his appointment with the comune chairman.

 The journey took almost eight hours in an old Toyota corolla with the air conditioner not working and they stopped four times by the river crossing to await the floating pontoon to ferry them across. Although Ravuth felt uncomfortable, speaking with the driver throughout the journey, slowly his understanding of the Khmer language returned.

He went to see Ny Ngem, chairman of Dang Paeng Sangkat, the commune offices that covered the Koh Kong province during the Khmer Rouge period.

Ravuth and Ny’s English speaking assistant, Rom, went through records. The problem was that there were many unnamed villages and sporadic residences, so the only records that the Khmer Rouge had noted down were the number in the group and thier destination camp; unlike the meticulous records kept in Phnom Penh, these were sketchy. After a few days of mundane searching, Ravuth realised this was not the way forward and now fed up with having to pay the chairman daily coffee money, as he liked to call his back-handers. He felt he had no other choice but to pay, after noticing that ever since he arrived, the Cambodians did nothing without money, especially from foreigners, which he now was.

Although learning nothing with his time with Rom, it had been useful for Ravuth because they spoke Khmer, with Rom correcting his mistakes, and after a few days, his Khmer improved.

Large plush casinos had sprung up near the Thai/Cambodian border, so people now only passed through Koh Kong, the few guesthouses in the sleepy grimy town were mainly Khmer-owned and dingy. Ravuth stayed in a guesthouse near a market in the town centre. He didn’t feel comfortable or safe in Koh Kong and his room smelt damp and musty. Not wanting to venture out after finishing at the commune, he stayed in the guesthouse, where the owner stared at him with disdain as he served him cold Cambodian food.

Ravuth had used the same moto-dop taxi every day to travel the short distance to the offices. The driver was a cheerful young Cambodian called Tik, who had been hanging around at the guesthouse for the past few mornings. Ravuth hired Tik to take him to the offices and bring him back late afternoon. Ravuth had now been in Koh Kong for four days and knowing that he was wasting his time there, decided to return to Phnom Penh the following day.

“See you in the morning,” said Tik as he dropped him off at the guesthouse.

“Thanks Tik but tomorrow I want you to take me to the bus station,” said Ravuth.

Tik frowned and looking disappointed, asked, “You’re not leaving are you?” 

Ravuth nodded and said, “Yes, I haven’t found what I came here for.”

Tik never questioned why Ravuth was there, but seeing the disappointment in the old Cambodians face, he asked, “What are you looking for?”

Ravuth smiled and said, “My family. We were separated and I believe they were brought here many years ago.”

Tik smiled and said, “I know people who have lived here a long time. I will ask around. Have you got any photographs?”

Ravuth had made photocopies of his old photographs and handed Tik two A4 sheet’s with them on. Although the black and white prints were poor quality, he pointed at the figures.

“This is my mother, Rotha, that’s Tu, my father, and he is my younger brother, Oun.”

“You look a lot different now, Ravuth,” said Tik, who chuckled as he saw the young Ravuth’s grubby young face smiling back at him. Tik folded up the copies and put them in his pocket. “I will try to find out something before you leave,” he said, before driving away chuckling.

A creaky old fan squeaked as it slowly rotated, swirling hot muggy air around the small tatty guesthouse room. The dimly lit room made reading difficult for Ravuth. He spent a few hours going over more literature, discarding most of it as rubbish. There then came a knock on his door. It was Tik with another Khmer, who appeared of similar age to Ravuth.

“Ravuth, meet my father, Sok,” said Tik, introducing the Khmer man who greeted Ravuth.

They sat on the bed while Ravuth related his story to Sok. Ravuth noticed that Tik bore no similarities to his father. Sok was a short, chunky, hard-faced individual, who wore a large amount of gold jewellery around his neck and chunky gold and ruby rings on each finger, and spoke with a harsh, intimidating tone.

Sok pulled the folded copies from his shirt pocket, unfolded them, and said, “I remember this family… and the village they came from.” He looked at the sheet, pointed at the picture of Rotha, and said, “Yes, I know this woman and her husband and son. Your brother, he is about my age.”

Ravuth’s heart leapt as Sok continued, “I know their village… I will take you there tomorrow. Oh, but I will need to hire my friend’s Range Rover. He will want $500,” said Sok

Ravuth knew this was well over the odds, but didn’t care and said, “ Thanks, but I will need to go to the bank first, I don’t have enough money.”

“No problem,” said Sok and grinned.

A shiver went through Ravuth as Sok grinned. He looked into his menacing eyes that brought back terrifying memories of the last time he saw evil in a Cambodians eyes, but this man might have found his family so he ignored his instincts.

“Okay,” said Sok, “let’s celebrate.”

“Yes, yes, and thank you again,” said Ravuth with a beaming smile.

With his thoughts in turmoil, many things went through Ravuth’s mind. ‘Would I be able to find the village and are my family still alive? Maybe Oun now has a family of his own. Would they remember me?’ His stomach then churned and his eardrums popped as the plane descended.

2002. Cambodia felt unfamiliar to Ravuth Eggleton. He landed at Pochentong International Airport in Phnom Penh and after getting glares from the customs officials after looking at his UK passport, he caught a taxi into the city. He smiled as the warm air and familiar smells of Cambodia brought back fond memories as he looked out of the taxi’s window. They drove past large modern buildings and small open food restaurants filled with smiling Khmers eating and chatting.

He checked into a hotel recommended by the taxi driver on the Riverside. During the time Ravuth lived in Cambodia, apart from the short, unnerving visit to Koh Kong, he had never left his village, so knew nothing about the country he used to call home. Having been a long time since he had spoken Khmer, he struggled to speak or understand his native language as the taxi driver spoke to him.

Arriving mid-afternoon, he planned to visit the registry and records offices in the Council of Ministry buildings on Confederation de la Russie, but first, he wanted to get a taste of home. He left the hotel and went into the first open-air Cambodian restaurant, ordering plates of Cambodian food.

“Ahh,” Ravuth sighed with pleasure as he crunched on fresh Cambodian vegetables. He smiled, ‘Beats pot noodles’ he thought after living on Pot Noodles and any other dehydrated food that he could cook with his kettle in the B&B in England. He spent the rest of the day contacting various departments and making appointments for the following day.

Ravuth went out in the evening and strolled along the Riverside. The large, still, Basaac River glistened, and Ravuth watched the lights of small boats as they flitted back and forth. He had brought some pounds sterling with him and after the bank teller advised him to use US dollars instead of the Cambodian Reil, he exchanged his cash to USD. ‘I can use my bank card when that’s gone,’ he thought, hoping he had enough in his UK bank to cover any costs he might incur.

Tourists and locals walked up and down the pavement, while noisy tuk-tuks and moto-dop taxis drove up and down looking for customers. The noise of the city at night made Ravuth feel uncomfortable

He saw several Khmer and foreign-owned restaurants and watched Khmer touts and beggars approaching foreigners, who tried to ignore them. He sat in a restaurant, ordered a meal and a beer, and after finishing his food, returned to his hotel room and sifted through his information for the next day’s meetings. Realising the first obstacle he had to overcome was to find out his family name. Living in a small village, the family’s details were recorded at the local Sangkat (district council) and they issued family books to each family as a record. His father took care of all those details as none of the family could read or write. After spending the next day visiting different offices and achieving nothing, Ravuth soon realised that being unaware of his family name or his real date of birthproved to be a hurdle. 

Over the next few days going through the archives, his search came up fruitless. He spent the evenings walking along the Riverside and a few hours at an internet café before returning to his hotel. His week in Phnom Penh disheartened him because he had uncovered nothing and he'd hardly spoken to anyone. The Khmers seemed standoffish and cold toward him, considering him an outsider who had escaped the Khmer Rouge. The foreigners also ignored him, assuming he was a tout wanting to sell themKilling Fields tours or sexy massages. He felt alienated and lost and kept himself to himself, concentrating on his seemingly impossible quest. He looked at the records of the g******e museum at Tuol Sleng. Surprisingly, the Khmer Rouge that had controlled the central provinces kept meticulous records; including photographs of any unfortunate individual that came through the hellish place. Ravuth sifted through every photograph, knowing the demise of the individuals whose emaciated images now stared back at him. He felt relieved that his family were not amongst the victims of this nightmare. Ravuth had studied several articles on the website about the atrocities committed by Pol Pot and his indoctrinated band of murderers. Now that he was in Cambodia, the facts became a lot clearer and he realised that his parents were probably dead, but hoped Oun had survived. While alone in his hotel room, he tried to imagine how that terrifying period could have affected Oun, remembering his brother’s happy, smiling, grimy face as they played and went on adventures.

Haunted by the horrific images he had seen over the past few days, Ravuth spent long sleepless nights at the Phnom Penh hotel, with both happy memories of his childhood and turbulent and frightening thoughts about the possible demise of his family.

A woman administrator, who saw Ravuth’s daily pilgrimage to her offices, handed him a piece of paper, giving him information about the province offices where his family would have gone.

“Maybe they can help,” she said, “all the people from that area went to that commune to be processed. Perhaps they would know where your family were sent.” 

Ravuth looked at the address and cringed.

“Would you like me to make you an appointment?” asked the woman.

Although unnerved by the thought of returning to Koh Kong, Ravuth took a taxi to the border town the following morning for his appointment with the comune chairman.

 The journey took almost eight hours in an old Toyota corolla with the air conditioner not working and they stopped four times by the river crossing to await the floating pontoon to ferry them across. Although Ravuth felt uncomfortable, speaking with the driver throughout the journey, slowly his understanding of the Khmer language returned.

He went to see Ny Ngem, chairman of Dang Paeng Sangkat, the commune offices that covered the Koh Kong province during the Khmer Rouge period.

Ravuth and Ny’s English speaking assistant, Rom, went through records. The problem was that there were many unnamed villages and sporadic residences, so the only records that the Khmer Rouge had noted down were the number in the group and thier destination camp; unlike the meticulous records kept in Phnom Penh, these were sketchy. After a few days of mundane searching, Ravuth realised this was not the way forward and now fed up with having to pay the chairman daily coffee money, as he liked to call his back-handers. He felt he had no other choice but to pay, after noticing that ever since he arrived, the Cambodians did nothing without money, especially from foreigners, which he now was.

Although learning nothing with his time with Rom, it had been useful for Ravuth because they spoke Khmer, with Rom correcting his mistakes, and after a few days, his Khmer improved.

Large plush casinos had sprung up near the Thai/Cambodian border, so people now only passed through Koh Kong, the few guesthouses in the sleepy grimy town were mainly Khmer-owned and dingy. Ravuth stayed in a guesthouse near a market in the town centre. He didn’t feel comfortable or safe in Koh Kong and his room smelt damp and musty. Not wanting to venture out after finishing at the commune, he stayed in the guesthouse, where the owner stared at him with disdain as he served him cold Cambodian food.

Ravuth had used the same moto-dop taxi every day to travel the short distance to the offices. The driver was a cheerful young Cambodian called Tik, who had been hanging around at the guesthouse for the past few mornings. Ravuth hired Tik to take him to the offices and bring him back late afternoon. Ravuth had now been in Koh Kong for four days and knowing that he was wasting his time there, decided to return to Phnom Penh the following day.

“See you in the morning,” said Tik as he dropped him off at the guesthouse.

“Thanks Tik but tomorrow I want you to take me to the bus station,” said Ravuth.

Tik frowned and looking disappointed, asked, “You’re not leaving are you?” 

Ravuth nodded and said, “Yes, I haven’t found what I came here for.”

Tik never questioned why Ravuth was there, but seeing the disappointment in the old Cambodians face, he asked, “What are you looking for?”

Ravuth smiled and said, “My family. We were separated and I believe they were brought here many years ago.”

Tik smiled and said, “I know people who have lived here a long time. I will ask around. Have you got any photographs?”

Ravuth had made photocopies of his old photographs and handed Tik two A4 sheet’s with them on. Although the black and white prints were poor quality, he pointed at the figures.

“This is my mother, Rotha, that’s Tu, my father, and he is my younger brother, Oun.”

“You look a lot different now, Ravuth,” said Tik, who chuckled as he saw the young Ravuth’s grubby young face smiling back at him. Tik folded up the copies and put them in his pocket. “I will try to find out something before you leave,” he said, before driving away chuckling.

A creaky old fan squeaked as it slowly rotated, swirling hot muggy air around the small tatty guesthouse room. The dimly lit room made reading difficult for Ravuth. He spent a few hours going over more literature, discarding most of it as rubbish. There then came a knock on his door. It was Tik with another Khmer, who appeared of similar age to Ravuth.

“Ravuth, meet my father, Sok,” said Tik, introducing the Khmer man who greeted Ravuth.

They sat on the bed while Ravuth related his story to Sok. Ravuth noticed that Tik bore no similarities to his father. Sok was a short, chunky, hard-faced individual, who wore a large amount of gold jewellery around his neck and chunky gold and ruby rings on each finger, and spoke with a harsh, intimidating tone.

Sok pulled the folded copies from his shirt pocket, unfolded them, and said, “I remember this family… and the village they came from.” He looked at the sheet, pointed at the picture of Rotha, and said, “Yes, I know this woman and her husband and son. Your brother, he is about my age.”

Ravuth’s heart leapt as Sok continued, “I know their village… I will take you there tomorrow. Oh, but I will need to hire my friend’s Range Rover. He will want $500,” said Sok

Ravuth knew this was well over the odds, but didn’t care and said, “ Thanks, but I will need to go to the bank first, I don’t have enough money.”

“No problem,” said Sok and grinned.

A shiver went through Ravuth as Sok grinned. He looked into his menacing eyes that brought back terrifying memories of the last time he saw evil in a Cambodians eyes, but this man might have found his family so he ignored his instincts.

“Okay,” said Sok, “let’s celebrate.”

“Yes, yes, and thank you again,” said Ravuth with a beaming smile.