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Of course, that was before I shook hands with a dead man. Before two heartsick peasants begged me to find their missing daughters. And before I learned the Khmer words for "help me" and "motherfer. Yes, I definitely thought this would be an elevating assortment of words, a triumph of the human spirit with lots of pretty prose and a bright, happy ending.
An emotional shot in the arm. Tonic for a world forever going wrong. But that was before this. Before I ventured halfway around the planet to drink from a half-empty glass of half-curdled joy, before I discovered that a tale too inspiring to be true -- Cambodian refugee escapes the Killing Fields, comes to America, takes hope and baseball back to his homeland and yeah, someone already is filming a documentary -- is probably too deranged to make up.
The chicken is my first mate. Maybe dinner. I'm not really sure. About anything. I'm sitting in a ramshackle wooden skiff that's floating -- barely -- down a reedy marsh running through central Cambodia, where the temples beckon and the dirty, shoeless children seem to outnumber everything except the brightly colored land-mine warning signs.
Around me are an interpreter and a "fixer" and the aforementioned bird by my feet, plucked and stuffed into a black plastic garbage bag, talons up. The sun hangs low in the hazy late-November sky. We're heading south, possibly north, on our way to speak with a man who has bad things to say about another man whose supposed good works and assumed good motives are the reason I'm here.
