When deciding on a journey to anywhere in the world, the revelation factor should weigh heavily in the equation. How and what will I learn from this trip? Will the gap between tourist and local be narrow enough to affect me? Will it force me to re-evaluate the ordering of priorities in my life? Unfortunately, no matter how long I waited in Phnom Penh, that understanding never came.

The first impression of Cambodia - the scene out of the taxi window from the airport - is one of poverty. Of a country that has suffered for so long that it simply knows nothing other than privation. Beggars are everywhere. Trash piles act as local landmarks, and buildings crumble in a carbon-dioxide haze.

"You’ve come at the right time," the taxi driver is reassuring despite my dubious looks. We pass the bustle of the Russian markets, where locals come to hock their wares and tourists scout for keepsakes. "A few years ago, it was very dangerous, but now it’s safe. Please, tell your friends." I tell him that I will.

He drops me outside a guesthouse on Sisowath Quay. I thank him for his honesty and efficiency, but fail to keep my word to him. "Come to Cambodia but don’t expect to like it," was a by-line on postcards sent to friends. Smarting from the ragged edges of a country that refused to reveal a pleasant face. The streets are uneasy, even more so after dusk, and armed men in uniforms are everywhere. When I ask my guesthouse manager about their presence he sways his head. "The war," he replies in a way that discourages further queries.

The war in Cambodia was a long and vicious one. Two decades, at the very least. American forces, the Khmer themselves, the Vietnamese, the list goes on. It could be argued that the US military's disregard for Cambodia’s borders during the Vietnamese War, its policy of carpet bombing villages based on hearsay, and the eventual land invasion, were the most significant factors in creating a legacy of violence in Cambodia. Or you could go back even further and look at the highhanded French, proud and aloof in dealings with their acquisitions. Whatever the reason, bloody crime, banditry, and even rogue elements of the Khmer Rouge (Cambodian Reds) are still factors to be weary of when visiting Cambodia. Turmoil will long be a dominant image associated with the country.

An image that takes on many faces. Pol Pot, 1997, haggard and emaciated, awaiting trial in a jungle camp. His eventual death, some say by poisoning, early the following year. The United Nations’ brokered constitution. The subsequent elections of 1998. One billion dollars spent to ensure a "free and fair" farce. The ballot result never truly honoured, and a nation with two Prime Ministers - including the ruthless power monger Hun Sen, as the "second" Prime Minister - when the UN goes home.

But then there is the other side of the coin. The temples of Angkor. A sight so magnificent as to appear on the national flag. Truly one of the wonders of the world. The kind of place that elicits sighs of wonder from all but the most burned-out traveller. Even more amazing when you consider the majesty of the ruins - some beautifully restored, others not so lucky - represent only a fraction of their grandeur during the Angkorian period. The highpoint of Cambodian cultural history.

Phnom Penh emerged after the Angkorian era as the new capital. It’s the kind of city that would be easy to list as another of Cambodia’s famed ruins. Time has ravaged the town to the point where it trembles under a slight evening breeze. Once considered the classic French city of the Mekong River, Phnom Penh is now a mass of stained colonnades rising from piles of filth. Children play in the trash, landmines and marijuana are sold at the central market, and motos - motorbike taxis driven by grinning men - zoom around adding a choking ambience to the town. It’s easy to see why some people interpret the place as hell, and others focus on its fading old world charm. Either way comparisons beg to be made. And pairing Phnom Penh with the other great cities of ex-French Indochina - Saigon, Vientiane, Luang Prabang - is a sad endeavour. One which often results in a lonesome and dominant pro - the people.

The manager of the Pyco guesthouse, on the banks of the Tonle Sap river, is an example of the peoples’ hospitality. He muses over my request before recommending a restaurant four blocks away where the food is good and tailored to foreign tastes. "Follow this road, just walk straight." He is a doctor and has a gentleness which belies his knowledge of the underside of his town. "And please be careful, if I don’t see you tonight, I will see you in the next world."

I scurry to the nearest moto and point the driver in the direction of the restaurant. Recalling the continuously running axe-attack stories of the Bangkok Post and hoping that I don’t wind up as an "unwitting tourist" of its pages.

Along Sisowath Quay, the Banana Leaf Cafe’s airy design and easy atmosphere make it an ideal place to sample the local bia. A young waitress, whose beauty has more in common with the peoples of the subcontinent than South-East Asia, greets me with joined hands. Suor Sdei. She smiles self-consciously and lingers after bringing a round of Angkor beer. I ask her name and she answers, "Annie, I am nineteen and was born in Phnom Penh." Etiquette demands a compliment about her hometown. Pleasantries to expedite cultural exchange. But my initial experience has been unsettling and I fall back on, "This is really cold beer." The coward’s way out.

Later in the evening an elephant walks into the bar and swishes its trunk around the locals. I reach for my camera but decide the flash may agitate the hungry beast. The trainer sits between its flapping ears and taps rhythm with his spike. Annie finds an overripe bunch of bananas behind the bar and offers them to the elephant. He eats them and meanders to the next watering hole. Doing the rounds of the restaurant district, looking for a free feed.

"He comes in here every night. He works hard all day, you can see how much he looks forward to walking down here." Annie brings more beer and starts talking about the troubles she has seen. "A few years ago no one could walk on the street. There was a lot of trouble, and I had to stay home. My father said it was too dangerous. But now everything is better. There is no violence and there won’t be again."

The following day I make the trip to the Killing Fields of Choeung Ek. The most notorious scar of Pol Pot’s regime. From 1975 to 1979 millions of Cambodians were killed in the name of social experimentation. The exact number is difficult to confirm because of the genocidal chaos that gripped the country. Those deemed parasites by the Khmer Rouge - intellectuals, city-dwellers, bi-linguists, spectacle wearers, women and children - were liquidated in the name of revolution. The Western poweres were too shell-shocked from their Vietnamese debacle to consider intervention. And the UN was paralysed without the support of its main power broker. The atrocities that happened are unimaginable. They ended with a Vietnamese invasion and more warfare fuelled by guns and money from countries as diverse as China, Thailand and the United States.

Choeung Ek is now a verdant pasture surrounded by trees and ditches and dominated by a white mausoleum. The tomb contains the skulls of nearly nine thousand Khmer. Taken mostly from the prison of S-21. Women and children were included in the slaughter, often bludgeoned to death against trees. Those same trees with the dented bark and placards that tell a fraction of the story. It is this name, the Killing Fields, that springs readily to mind when Cambodia is mentioned. And it is from here that much of the nation’s pain emanates.

A young girl approaches and offers a piece of uncooked meat. She seems disappointed when I refuse. She smiles and demands the attention of my camera, whose lens has already taken the mausoleum’s surface gleam. I return her smile and offer a retractable pencil. Again being caught off guard and breaking another sacred tourist convention. Never give pencils to children. She seems taken by the gift and runs to explore it with two friends. They laugh and play in such a way that I momentarily forget the weight of history. And am distracted with watching a new generation laugh in the shadow of their forebearers’ torment.

"I went to the Killing Fields today. How can you say that will never happen again? Hun Sen is a mad man, and so many people jostle for power in this country. They’re always ready to sell each other out. And you think that it won’t happen again." Annie smiles and places two Angkors on the table. She is more confident than the day of our first meeting. But she still carries that timidness which is an endearing quality of the Khmer. "How can you be so sure?"

She takes no time offering her answer. Speaking with such measured tones that my latest cultural insensitivity goes unnoticed. "Because the world is watching now. The rest of the world won’t let that happen again. Even the Americans this time. Everything will be alright."

I leave for Siem Reap and the temples of Angkor the next day. Cruising along the river of Tonle Sap, the capital becomes that bit clearer. People like me are tainted by fear and the inability to comprehend the horrors that have been. But the Khmer have their minds set to the future. Every day that there is a lack of unrest is a day that leads to better things. Put enough of these days together and maybe things will be different. A future that will regain some of the glory of the long, lost past. Children laughing and young women philosophising. For those with the courage there may be revelations in Phnom Penh. For those, like Annie, with the courage to strain and see.
(featured June 2003)