Je me promenais.
A droite, à gauche, tout droit.
quatre heures à tirer dans Surathani.
Le bus de nuit m’avait déposé au port à neuf heures du mat.
Le bateau pour Kopangan n’arriverait pas avant plusieures heures.
Surathani, la belle ville du sud, porte d’entrée des iles paradisiaques.
J’avais déja fait mon p’tit dej, bu plein de cafés.
Je cherchais maintenant un endroit tranquille oú fumer un bout.
Après un bout de temps qui passe sans que je m’en apercoive.
Je me retrouve devant une jolie petite plage, sorte de jetée.
Je descend les escaliers en pierre qui menent à la plage.
Quelques barques sont ancrées là. Deux, trois petits bateaux de pèche.
Peut etre l’endroit tranquille que je cherchais.
Je m’éloigne un peu, regarde autour de moi. J’allume.
C’est vraiment joli et calme..
Le bourgeois
We don’t know why.
We really don’t know why.
Why he chose Cambodia!
Why he chose cloud 9.
But anyway, he was there.
He had just been dropped here by a motorcycle.
He was there. Get up.
Everybody torn in the space cake, in the hammocks.
We were looking at him.
Something unusual in all this.
No bag, suitcase, or anything with him.
Apart from his bourgeois clothes that were supposed to cost an armored car.
He looked naked.
He had lost everything.
That asshole had gotten out of a taxi.
He wanted to check the condition of a hotel.
He left everything in the taxi.
Suitcase, bag, passport, American express. Loaded the guy.
The asshole.
The taxi had run out.
And now he was there.
Scared, he looked around.
He had probably never heard of a slum,
Never seen poverty, starving people, half genocide.
Stacked there like dogs, eyes emptied by despair.
The place he came from, his world, it didn’t exist.
Sanjie, the owner of Cloud 9, look at the guy, assess the potential quickly done.
He gives her a room, a page on the book of the counter.
All eyes follow him. We watch him look at his room on stilts, made of bamboo, all straw,
on the lake that serves as a puppet.
He’s going to cry! Run! Jump into the lake!
The next day, he’s still here. He’s getting out of his room. Always fringed like a lord.
On the terrace, the hammocks are all occupied and everyone is still torn.
In Phnom Penh, cams are not expensive.
He sits where there is room, his eyes in a vacuum.
Five minutes, he gets up and goes to the counter. You have to eat well, no!
Nari watches it coming, she has never seen an alien, a specimen of the French bourgeoisie.
He asks if he can have a curry, swears, swears on his head that he will pay as soon as he can.
Nari is good and generous, she has known hunger in the Khmer Rouge camps.
He comes back to sit with his bowl of curry.
Enjoy! Enjoy your meal! Echo! Echo, Echo. Everyone started. Try to rip the bourgeois.
Shocked, with a reassured shy smile, he eats.
Eat, finished. A while, a little long.
He makes up his mind and slowly approaches a table. Ask if he can put his golden ass on a chair.
Of course he can.
This guy is curious, asks questions to everyone, wants to know where we come from, how we live next to this misery.
It is not the misery that I love, but the wretched, the humble, those who survive as they can.
Those who have not eaten for days, but who give their bowl of rice to a more miserable man than themselves.
Three days already. Life goes on at Cloud 9, the hammocks torn up like all the occupants of the terrace.
In fact, this guy, we think he’s pretty nice, a kindness in his look and his way.
Nice too and generous with our neighbors, the poor.
The bourgeois are like pigs…
He wanted to emancipate himself from his parents, from the 16th arrondissement, from the holidays in Saint-Tropez.
In Phnom Penh, he’s drooling, fucking.
He arranged with a motorcycle, swears, swears on his head that he will tatati, tatata, as soon as everything is arranged.
Motodob’s evaluating the guy’s clothes, a job that might make two, three dollars.
He’s rushing. Head for the French Consulate. The bank.
The return. Dark face. A month before receiving the money!
A month in this slum, in the middle of misery. How’s he gonna do it?
The bourgeois are like pigs…
Weird guy. I said his look, a vision.
Same motorcycle. The same promise. The same hopes.
He rushes to the French school. Two hours pass.
When he comes back, his rich clothes are starting to look really dirty, but he doesn’t care.
His eyes are shiny, wet.
Walking to the terrace with a quick step, he asks if he can put his still golden ass down.
He’s telling us. French teacher. It’s going to be two hours a day, five dollars an hour.
His first act is to pay for his motorcycle, fat. The driver is almost crying.
He earned a month’s salary from this weird guy wearing weird clothes.
The family’s going to eat.
The looks at him are different now. Some respect. Friendship, perhaps.
He doesn’t ask anymore. We invite his golden ass to sit with us.
He is even offered a few illegal substances that he shamelessly refuses.
His face is safe and reassured. He’s confident here.
He tells us about his life as a bourgeois, only money, money, money. Never a second of misery, sadness.
Eating for life, never thinking of shrimp and khmers? Don’t give a fuck.
The bourgeois are like pigs…
Space cakes, hammocks. Through a fog.
Khmer students learn French.
We see him come home proudly every day from his school. We look for it, we wait for it.
He changed gait, went to Orussey Market, used the second-hand department store, to refurbish his wardrobe.
He likes to talk to the poor, tell them stories, listen to theirs. He’s crying. Sometimes.
Hug people. Like a transfer of hope.
He came for a week, slammed his money.
He ended up as a teacher in a shantytown in Phnom Penh.
The month has passed.
Back from the bank, relieved, but a little sad
He picked up a bundle of travelers checks thick like a bunch of cigarettes.
There you go. He said goodbye. We told him see you soon, we hope.
He walks across the terrace and asks Nari if he can kiss her. Nari is good and generous.
He swears, swears he will never forget her.
The motodob’s here, ready. People on the doorsteps, in the windows.
They want to see him, smile at him.
He goes up behind, wipes his eyes. The motorcycle leaves, he’s gone.
We look at the empty place with a bit of sadness, as if we will miss him.
Weird guy.
All the freaky people make the beauty of the world.