Angor Wat at dusk

At the Poipet border crossing, the asphalt deteriorated to dirt and the air-conditioned minibus was replaced with an open truck. The difference between Thailand and Cambodia was immediate. Between here and Siem Reap lay 150 kilometres of notoriously unpredictable roads, dilapidated military bridges and dubious looking checkpoints, at which our driver passed money to fatigued soldiers. Palm trees randomly littered the flat untamed terrain and even the monsoon sky could not dampen the exhilaration inspired by its wildness.

At each village we were welcomed by hordes of half naked children screaming 'hello' and furiously waving their tiny hands until we were well out of sight. The elders lounged calmly in hammocks beneath the palms and eyed us with bemused interest. The villages were backward - without electricity, telephones or fresh water - yet immaculately kept. Beneath each stilted hut, firewood was piled high and tethered livestock dozed nonchalantly. In this remote war-ravaged country, an untouched agrarian idyll languidly subsisted, ignorant of a thousand years of technological progress.

I spent over a year in Cambodia, mostly in the capital Phnom Penh. It was a simple and uncongested place, alternatively gripped by the fierce sun and washed out by the monsoon rains. Few buildings exceeded three storeys, the outdoor markets thrived, and swarms of small, antiquated motorcycles buzzed about the city's treacherous streets in place of cars. On every street corner I found the juxtaposition of beauty and ugliness. Kindness and cruelty stood out like the mine-strewn temples in the jungle. It was a country of extremes, inhabited by the friendliest and deadliest people I had ever met. Always well groomed and neatly dressed, they were enviably beautiful. Short and slender with dark, unblemished skin and large doe eyes, the Khmers retained the freshness of youth well into their forties. They seemed incapable of suppressing a smile whenever I passed them, exposing irregular teeth without shame, but a smile could disguise a killer's past or hide nothing but the unlimited affection of a natural friend. In a country with such a tragic past it was impossible to tell.

Bored with the easy life, I had left the West intent on adventure, and Phnom Penh provided a perfect backdrop. I lodged in a simple two-roomed apartment with a Khmer family who adopted me as one of their own. They were poor but expended their time without charge. The grand, domineering mother cooked for me every day and her youngest offspring swept my floor and watered my plants. There were six children in all but only the eldest, Youen, spoke English. He was twenty, a student at the Faculty of Law, and became my closest friend. When he was not studying or playing football in the street we traded stories and discussed the virtues of Asian women.

During my stay, Cambodia celebrated its first year of political stability in fifty years. It remained desperately impoverished although small pockets of optimism were noticeable, particularly in those with a vested interest in the future. Small businessmen in Phnom Penh, men with prospects, insisted on the durability of the peace; aid continued to pour in from abroad, and the economy was expected to re-accelerate after the regional meltdown and domestic coup of 1997 had sent investors scurrying.

'Thirty years of civil war had left them cynical'

However, others were less optimistic. Thirty years of civil war had left them cynical about how to prosper in Cambodia. Hard work seldom seemed to pay the same dividends as nepotism and extortion. For Youen, peace and stability were strange phenomena, and without confidence in his own future, he was sceptical that they would last. He was paranoid that Cambodia would be devoured, province by province, until nothing remained, and angrily accused Thailand and Vietnam of stealing Cambodian land and culture.

Although in 1979 Vietnam had liberated Cambodia from the Khmer Rouge, there was a particularly dangerous tone in Youen's voice when it was mentioned in conversation. Tens of thousands of settlers had followed in the wake of the tanks and the Khmers' antipathy toward these uninvited settlers, who had flourished under the protection of their troops throughout the 1980s, was almost universal. Youen's national pride, tempered by the current state of the country, was nonetheless intense and he often showed me an illustrated book that predated Pol Pot's genocidal reign. It emphasized the power and prosperity of the Angkorian Empire, manifested in the spectacular temple complex near Siem Reap, which just five hundred years earlier had ruled vast swathes of South East Asia.

"I want to fight and die for my country"

One night, while we were sitting together in the dirt lane outside his house sharing mugs of rice wine and listening to the street dogs, Youen spoke to me in confidence; "Jame" he said omitting the 's' as all Khmers did, "You know, you can not tell my mother this, but if we have problem with Vietnam, you know, I promise Jame, I want to fight and die for my country." Although there was nothing inherently original in his patriotism, it was a radical and refreshing departure from the political and national apathy that I had encountered at home, and despite his diminutive stature I knew Youen would be among the first to volunteer. His friendliness may have seemed almost unconditional yet he would never have grown his hair and marched for peace. He represented a generation raised in conflict that was bitterly compelled to accept its impoverished inheritance.

Such pride came less naturally to those who had endured the terror of Pol Potism. The older generation were less inclined to outbursts of nationalism, having witnessed the needless self-destruction of their once affluent nation. The elderly were marked by humility and submissiveness, particularly in the villages, and it was almost embarrassing to be welcomed into a community and fed with the finest food it could afford, as if I were a visiting dignitary. When I offered thanks for such regal treatment they insisted tearfully that it was their honour and apologised in advance if the food was not to my taste. They considered the presence of a foreigner among them a blessing, yet such priceless and unaffected generosity remained difficult to comprehend.

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