Impact

17

Ford pulled the Land Cruiser up next to a row of battered motorbikes and eyed the hand-painted sign above the door of the small government office. In French and Khmer, the sign identified it as the Office of the Sub-Councilman of the District of Kampong Krabey, Commune of Svay Por. Ford stepped out into the heat, so great it rose in sheets around him, distorting the air.

"God help us," said Khon, squinting at the shabby, cinder block building. "I hope you brought a lot of dollars."

Ford patted his pocket.

They knocked on the wooden door. A voice called them in. The sub-councilman's office consisted of a single room, with cement walls and floor, freshly whitewashed, with a desk in the middle, facing the door, and two secretaries' desks flanking either side. Two metal chairs were placed in rigid formality in front of the desk. A back door led to an outhouse behind. The room stank of cigarettes.

The sub-councilman, a handsome man with a scar on his face, rose with a huge smile, displaying the biggest, whitest rack of teeth Ford had ever seen, which contrasted sharply with the man's olive drab shirt, sagging blue pants, and flip-flops. His neck was thick and fleshy, his face a shining mask of good cheer.

"Welcome! Welcome!" the councilman cried in English, his arms extended. His face wore an expression that would not have been out of place on someone who had just won the lottery. And maybe he had, thought Ford, thinking of the inevitable bribes to come.

Khon made an elaborate greeting in Khmer. Ford remained silent, thinking it best, as he usually did, to disguise his knowledge of the language.

"We speak English!" the man cried. "Sit down, please, my special friends!"

Ford and Khon seated themselves in the hard metal chairs.

"Hre min gnam sa!" The man screeched at one of his secretaries, who leapt up and rushed out, bowing twice as she passed.

"It is nice day, yes?" said the man, with another smile, folding his hands in front of him. Ford noticed he was missing both his thumbs.

"Very," said Khon.

"Very health here, in Kampong Krabey."

"It's quite healthy here," said Khon. "I noticed right away that you have fucking good air."

"Good air! Kampong Krabey District, good!"

Ford and Khon smiled, nodded agreeably.

The secretary came back, carrying three coconuts, their tops lopped off by a machete, straws stuck in them.

"Please!" said the official. They drank the coconut milk, which was still warm from hanging on the tree. Ford thought he had never tasted anything quite so good.

"Excellent," said Khon. "What fine hospitality you offer us in the Kampong Krabey District."

"Best coconut!" the man cried, sucking his so vigorously the straw made a gurgling sound. He thumped the empty husk down on the desk and belched. "What you need, friend?" the man asked, spreading his hands. "I give you anything."

"This is Mr. Kirk Mandrake," Khon said, "and he is an adventure tourist. I am Khon, his interpreter."

"Aveentah touist!" the official repeated, with a vigorous nod, clearly having no idea what it meant. "Good!"

"He wants to visit a ruined temple known as Nokor Pheas."

"I not know this temple."

"It's very deep in the jungle."

"Where is temple? In Kampong Krabey District?"

"No. It's beyond the district. We have to travel northeast through your district to get there."

The smile on his face cooled. "Beyond my district, nothing! Nobody! No temple!"

Khon rose and unrolled a map on the official's desk. "The temple is here, in the Phnom Ngue hills."

Now the smile vanished completely. "That is bad area. Very bad."

"My client, Mr. Mandrake, wishes to see the temple."

"You cannot go there. Too dangerous."

Khon went on as if he hadn't heard the official. "Mr. Mandrake will pay well for the permit. He also needs your help in marking the trails on our map. And of course we would wish to avoid land mines. You know the district and you have the land mine clearance maps."

"Too dangerous. I speak Khmer, so you understand. That okay, Mr. Mandrake, if I speak Khmer now?" Another brilliant smile.

"Of course."

He began speaking in Khmer and Ford listened closely. "Are you crazy?" the official said. "That area is infested with Khmer Rouge. They're just bandits now, gem smuggling and kidnapping for ransom. If they got their hands on your client, it would be a huge problem for me. You understand?"

"I understand," said Khon, responding in Khmer. "But my client is very anxious to see this ruin. He came all the way to Cambodia just for this. We'll be in and out--no lingering. Believe me, I know what I'm doing. I've guided people like him before. Just last month, I took some Americans to Banteay Chhmar."

"I cannot allow it."

"He will pay you well."

The official spread his hands. "What good is his money if I have to deal with a kidnapping? Of an American, no less? What would happen to my position here? The district is peaceful now, no problems, everyone's happy. It wasn't always like this, you know."

"Perhaps a large amount of money will compensate for the inconvenience."

There was a pause. "How much?"

"A hundred dollars."

The official threw up his hands. "Are you joking? Make it a thousand."

"A thousand? I will consult with my client."

Khon turned to Ford and said in English, "The permit is a thousand dollars."

Ford frowned. "That's a lot of money."

"Yes, but . . ." Khon shrugged.

Ford frowned, screwed up his brow, then nodded sharply. "All right. I'll pay."

The official piped up in Khmer, "And then one hundred dollars for access to the land mine clearance maps!"

Khon turned. "One hundred dollars more? Now you're the one who's joking!"

"Fifty then."

Khon spoke to Ford. "And another fifty dollars for the maps."

"What about the motorbikes? We need motorbikes," Ford said, feigning anger. "How much more is this going to cost?"

The haggling went on for another fifteen minutes, and finally it was done. One thousand, one hundred and forty dollars for the permit, maps, the rental of two motorbikes, gas, a few provisions, and safekeeping of the Land Cruiser while they were gone. Ford removed the money and gave it to the councilman, who took it with both hands, reverently, smiling whitely, and locked it in his desk.

Ford and Khon went outside and sat down in the shade of a jackfruit tree, awaiting the arrival of the rental motorbikes from a nearby village.

"You told me to bring five thousand dollars," said Ford. "That poor fellow had no idea what we were willing to pay."

"That man just earned two years' salary. He's happy, we're happy--why question the generosity of the gods?"

With a blatting sound, two motorbikes ridden by skinny teenagers arrived and wheezed and coughed to a stop.

Ford stared at the ancient bikes, held together with gaffing tape and baling wire. One had a bamboo cage rack strapped to the back, fouled with clots and streaks of dried pig's blood. "You've got to be kidding me."

Khon laughed. "What were you expecting, Harleys?"