Ghost Train to the Eastern Star

We had pulled away from the bamboo pier and out of the inlet and were about a quarter of a mile into the lake when the boat slewed and tipped sharply and almost slid us into the water. There were howls from people down below, trapped in the cabin. The boat had snagged on a mud bank and yawed. For about fifteen minutes the slanted boat did not move but only sent up mud and bubbles from the churning screws.

"This might be a long trip," Mark said.

But after we got under way once again, the boat went fast. The only other snag was a mud bank in the middle of the lake, out of sight of land, another slew and swerve and delay.

In stretches of the lake, floating villages were whole water-world communities of houseboats and buoyant huts, an economy of water people enclosed by the perimeters of their nets and bobbing net floats.

These fishing communities looked self-sufficient, orderly, and discreetly territorial, far from government intrusion and regulation. Even before Pol Pot, the government in Cambodia, whether French colonial rule or American puppetry, had brought nothing but war and destruction, torture and death. Left to themselves, in the middle of this lake, the Cambodian water people functioned perfectly.

Sitting side by side on the roof of the boat, using our small duffle bags as cushions, Mark and I talked about Angkor and what we'd seen.

"I did something in Siem Reap I've never done before in my life," Mark said.

"What a great opening," I said.

"No, seriously," he said. "I had a tuk-tuk driver—my wheelman. He only had one eye, he's twenty-five, lives with his aunt—really nice kid. You know how it is. You spend a few days with these guys and you hear their story.

"His name was Sar. He didn't talk much about his past, just about his future. He had it all mapped out. His aim was to be an accountant. Ever heard anyone say that? 'I want to be a doctor,' yes. Or an airline pilot. Or an astronaut. But an accountant? So it seemed to me he was on the level. He had been to high school and done some courses, but to get his accountant's degree he needed college.

"He told me that there's a certain man in Siem Reap who's a well-known teacher of accounting and economics. This tuk-tuk driver Sar wanted him as a mentor and teacher. 'So what's the plan, Sar?' I asked him.

"'The plan is that I earn enough money as a tuk-tuk driver to pay for my education. I live with my aunt. I study with this man. I get an accountant's degree and then a job in Siem Reap. All the new hotels need accountants. New businesses also need them. It's a perfect plan. But one thing—it's impossible.'

"He's staring at me with his good eye, and he's smiling. I asked him why it's impossible.

"'Because I rent this motorbike. I can't make enough each day to pay rent and save money. So I'll go on driving, and first I'll make enough to buy a motorbike. Then I'll use the bike to make money, and I'll save some of that. When I have enough, I'll study to be an accountant. But that time is far away.'

"I said, 'Good for you.' He took me to Angkor. He took me around town. I kept thinking about his plan. And by the way, he didn't ask me for money. I paid him the usual, ten dollars a day.

"Couple of days went by. I kept waking up at night—couldn't sleep. I was thinking about Sar and his plan. I also thought how, when I was sixteen, my father kicked me out of the house—'Get out of here. I don't want you.' My father was a complete bastard. A man in the neighborhood took me in and treated me as his son. He's my real father. He was a Navy SEAL. If he hadn't done that, I would have become a druggie, on the street, a lost soul. That helping hand made the difference. I thought about that a lot.

"Next day I met Sar as usual. I said, 'Let's go to the motorbike dealer.' I got all the prices and compared them. I put down eleven hundred dollars and he got the motorbike, a Suzuki 110—just what he needs to be a tuk-tuk driver in Siem Reap and make some money.

"I said, 'Okay, now it's up to you. It's not impossible anymore.' And I gave him my e-mail address. We'll see what happens. It might be interesting.

"Hey, it was the last of my money, but I didn't really need it. It might make the whole difference between success or failure in his life."

"That's a good story," I said. He wasn't boasting. It had just happened and he was still ruminating about it. He was a nice guy with a good heart, not a wealthy man but a hard-working mate on an Alaskan ferry, nearing retirement, with a modest income. He seemed something of a loner, but I could see he was energized by his good deed and eager to see how it would all turn out.

When I told him about my experience with the rickshaw driver in Mandalay, he said, "The great thing is, it's not like foreign aid. Every dollar is being used. No middlemen!"