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his door because of the lake water stacked up against it. When he finally succeeds, he sends a thick, rip-
pling wave coursing across the courtyard. On the veranda above, two blazed-out kids watch a Hollywood
movie on DVD, smoking yet another bowl.
“Maybe they should call this place 'the chilling fields,'” I say to Rebecca. “ You're going to hell,” she
says, taking my hand and leading me back toward civilization. The gin and tonic I later order at the Raffles
Hotel—in an attempt to wash all tang of backpacker from my system—costs enough to house one of those
stoned rangers in a fleabag hostel for a full two weeks.
As for the other class of tourist we've noticed here . . . How can I put this most delicately? They are
pedophiles.
Just yesterday, on the TV in our hotel room, we saw a news report about yet another European pedophile
getting arrested in Southeast Asia. It seems to happen all the time. I suppose they're attracted by the warm
climate, the low cost of living, and the destitute, easily exploitable youth.
Granted, I can't prove that the western men we've been seeing around Phnom Penh are pedophiles. They
could be honest businessmen drawn to an emerging market. But my gosh, if ever anyone looked like a
pedophile, it's these dudes we've been seeing lounging by the pool at our hotel and prowling the nearby
shopping mall food court where the kids hang out. These guys have their own sort of uniform: dandruffy
hair; thick plastic eyeglasses; socks with sandals; and nervous, darting eyes.
Back home in D.C., Rebecca and I will sometimes play the old “punch-buggy” game when we happen to
spot a Volkswagen Beetle. There are very few cars in Cambodia, so it's harder to play the game here. But
at one point, as we walk down a Phnom Penh street, Rebecca jabs my shoulder. “Punch-pedophile,” she
whispers. I look up just as we pass another sketchy-looking dude slithering his way toward the shopping
mall.
IT'S a six-hour bus ride to Siem Reap, home of the famed temple complex known as Angkor Wat. The
passengers on the bus seem evenly split between western tourists and locals. A TV hanging from the bus
ceiling shows a bizarre Chinese spy movie, dubbed into Khmer. Rain has turned the roadway into mush,
and the bus driver swerves to miss cows, water buffalos, and bicyclists slogging through the mud alongside
the road.
We tour Angkor Wat the next day on the back of a “remorquemoto.” This is an ordinary motorbike rigged
to tow a specially fitted carriage. (Though similar, it is not to be confused with the Thai “tuk-tuk” or Indian
“auto-rickshaw,” which are integral three-wheeled vehicles—not motorbikes with towing harnesses.) Our
remorque driver, Darith, says he rents his vehicle from a central clearinghouse for two dollars per day, and
then lets the tourist hotels book him out at twelve dollars per day. Subtracting his fuel costs, and the hotel's
fat take, he takes home about one or two bucks each night. But that's before tips. A single generous tourist
will sometimes more than double Darith's weekly income with a folded bill.
Which gives you some idea of how vital the tourism industry is to Siem Reap. With Cambodia emerging
from its dark past, this UNESCO World Heritage site has blossomed into a trendy destination. Older, richer
tourists have begun to flood in alongside the backpackers. Projections suggest that soon, Angkor Wat will
host 3 million visitors each year.
Walking through these temples, hidden behind the vines of a misty jungle, it's easy to feel like an archae-
ologist stumbling upon a lost civilization. But as happens with anything wonderful that everyone wants to
see, it's not enough simply to see it. There also needs to be a gift shop, and a nice upscale restaurant, and a
five-star room to sleep in. Luxury hotels are encircling Siem Reap like the vines encircling the temples. A
fancy golf course is now under construction at the edge of town.
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