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352 pages, Hardcover
First published March 15, 2016






This is a goddamn war.

The Cambodia theme song starts playing:
“Moto? Moto?”
“. . . need a ride?”
“. . . want a girl?”
“. . . come and eat—”
“. . . anywhere you want—”
“. . . where you go, handsome guy?”
“. . . she very pretty—”
It’s not even death, death was something that happened long ago. Cambodia is what remains:
the place of the skull . . .
. . . Dried bones in salt earth . . .
. . . Sun on black water . . .
. . . Rivers of mud . . .
No shelter.
How could I expect the journey to end anywhere but here?


When the door opens, the heat slams into me like a fist, a physical blow – then gives way, suffocating and wet. I have stepped into the maw of something, I am breathing its air. Metal steps down to the tarmac, still glistening from the monsoon. The runway is a narrow ribbon of black; beyond, darkness and wet grass. In the distance, hot wind whips a row of palms against a sky of looming violet cloud. Lightning in the distance flashes red, like a scar. Cambodia.
God, God, why do I do this to myself? I knew, I must have known, what waited here – did I really think I could steer my way past all the bitter, sharp and poisonous things that give this place its reputation? And yet I let myself be drawn, again and again, to these… these excrescences of death. It only took a week for them to get me to the torture chamber.
Cambo only existed for her through the lens of those places we created: a world built to reflect us back at ourselves, a world of poverty and deference. She thought she was lost, that she had fallen outside of history – guess that was what she wanted. But history goes on. Even here, where so many have tried to end it.
I always knew who I was, and I knew that I was going somewhere. Then I came here, where there is no history. No stories left, just skulls in nameless piles. No traditions, their keepers were murdered. No time, or if there is, it is not a river but the sea, vast and gray and on every side the same. Here I am neither measured against the past nor connected to the future, for past and future are interchangeable. Here, I am free.