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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. Cook is my protagonist. And possibly my Kurtz.
