WILLIAM
“Waiting for cars. Closed. One-hour,” the bus driver, wearing a pair of tanned slacks and a light yellow, short-sleeved shirt, announced.
Outside the window panes, I saw a single filed line, more SUV’s than there were buses, parked along the mountain. The passengers, mostly foreigners, stood with their tour guides and drivers, by the roadside. The foreigners wore shorts, hiking boots and wrapped their Sony and Canon cameras around their necks. The tour guides and drivers, all men, were dressed in the gho, a robe like attire that hit their knees, an outfit essential to the tourism industry in Bhutan. Some opened the top part of their robe, letting the sleeves hang by their waists and revealing the T-shirt they wore underneath.
I turned on the portable fan, the size of my palm, and held it close to my neck. While I was packing for this trip, Sophia took it out of my suitcase and insisted that I keep it in my pocket.
Just as I walked over to the only three restaurants by the roadside, hugging the cliff of the mountain, I felt my phone vibrate.
Sophia: Miss you dad. I’m safe!
Boss: Change: guesthouse B. Familiarize yourself in two days. Day three, Bumtang.
SOPHIA
At the outdoor lobby of my hotel, I sat on the damp seat cushion, waiting for the tour van. Sweat drops were already on my back, chest, and above my lips from the one block walk I just took to get breakfast, a bowl of noodles in tender beef broth, from vendors parked on bicycles by the curbside. To show respect, I wore a dark top and the sampot I had purchased in Cambodia, an ankle length dress, decorated with elephants over a rectangular pattern, that covered the shorts I wore underneath.
The van, labeled with Killing Fields and Tuol Sleng S-21 Prison, arrived outside my hotel just as I was counting the bills in my pocket. These two places were used by Cambodia’s then leader, Pol Pot to torture and kill almost 2 to 3 million Cambodian people. It was an autogenocide, genocide against its own people, that happened over forty years ago, during the 1970’s.
Our first stop was S-21 Prison, which used to be a high school. By its entrance, we waited on line, underneath an overhead sprinkler that puffed out warm water, landing on my cheekbones and the tip of my nose.
“One audio tour.” I handed in 3 one dollar bills, took the audio device, similar to a Walkman, from the staff and stepped into the school yard, leaving the year 2020 and stepped into 40 years ago.
Towards my left was a row of classrooms, barricaded by bars and sharp wires. This was the place that murdered about 25% of Cambodia’s population. Where were their bones, spirits and ashes?
Inside the classrooms, the walls were pale yellow. Some areas had cracked paint; other areas had stains of dark red and brown. Was that dried blood? On the wall in every room, there was a 4 by 2 feet picture that showed a body, with a blurred face – the victims who died in the space.
“If you feel that you need to take a break, there are white benches outside,” the gentle female voice from the audio guide said. In the courtyard, all the seats on the white benches, made of cement, were taken. Most of the visitors wore dark sunglasses, making it hard for me to see their eyes, their pupils, and their thoughts. And similar to my outfit, no one wore bright colors.
As I took a pause from the audio tour, I heard sighs around me and nothing else. No voices, only movement of the feet. Perhaps forty years ago, in this courtyard, I would have heard screams, cries for help, the viciousness of humanity, and a wish that this was a nightmare, unreal, that could somehow be changed by waking up.
Two survivors of the autogenocide sat at the exit of this former torture center. One was selling a book he wrote. Some visitors asked to take a photo of him; some requested his autograph. I observed the other survivor, a man who looked to be a grandpa. His eyes – they were similar to the wonders of a child – soft and innocent. I saw no bruise. No open wound. No resentment. Perhaps those who survived traumatic experiences eventually reset to the beginning of time. They forget. They forgave. They chose to continue their lives. They moved forward.
I had to meet the other survivor of this autogenocide, who managed to escape. She lived in Bumtang, a region in the central part of Bhutan, where my dad was right now, for research.
WILLIAM
The three restaurants were all one story tall, made of pine wood, mud and painted in cotton white. A seating area was outside, filled with wood tables and chairs, underneath a tent made with weaved cloth. Flies circled the tables, which was bare, with no menus or utensils. Description of dishes were written on a blackboard stationed by the pole, supporting the tent.
I took out a tissue and wiped off the droppings of chili oil and pink rice, dotted on the chair.
“Cigarette?” a foreigner from my bus sat down and asked. He looked between the ages of 30 to 35, 5 feet 7 inches and probably 140 pounds, with a piercing on the left ear.
“No smoking in this country,” I said.
“The locals do it,” he said, “secretly.” He took out a cigarette, lit it and took an inhale.
“Ice water. Please,” I told the staff, dressed in a kira, a one-piece dress that fell to the floor, and a high V-neck blouse, embroidered in neon pink with teal colored cuffs.
“Sir. No ice. Here,” she said.
“Soda then,” I said, pulled out my wallet and placed 1000 ngultrum on the table.
She walked into the restaurant, stepped back out with a glass and a soda bottle, and placed them on the table. Her hands looked like they had been cooking food and washing dishes for years.
The soda was warm. The sweetness tasted like sugar cane instead of corn syrup.
A few feet away, I saw bathroom signs, written in English and the country’s national language, Dzongkha, that pointed towards the bottom of a hill. Walking down a pavement filled with pebbles, I passed by a few ants, who were also on their way down. The closer I got to the restroom that had the “MEN,” sign, the stronger the smell of feces.
The roof of the hut, where the bathroom was, was made of mud and dried grass. There were two stalls, separated by a belly level wall, made of cement. One stall was empty while the other had three adult sized cows. I did my business, shook, and left.
“Hey buddy. Cigarette?” I asked the foreigner with the ear piercing.
“Changed your mind, sir?” His back was arched as he took the last puff of his.
“No,” I took one, lit it, took a long inhale, and waited for the cigarette to burn. Releasing my lips, I exhaled the stale smoke, moved the cigarette towards my legs, trying to let it override the smell of feces on my body.
The soda bottle was still on the table and the 1000 ngultrum was gone.
Incoming vibration.
Boss: Kelly is down. Plan as is.
One more vibration.
Sophia: Dad! Call me when you’re off tonight! I booked a flight to Bhutan. See you soon!