Cambodian Book of the Dead by Tom Vater Page B

parts. That’s why we’re here and not at home.”
    Pete beamed at his breakfast companions.
    â€œBut in contrast to the overcrowded, unfriendly beaches in Thailand, Kep is stunningly beautiful and quiet, just totally fucking idyllic. We have a few hours of electricity a day, no traffic, no disco, no Internet. And on top of that, Kep has plenty of traces of this country’s sad history, something you Germans usually go for, no?”
    Maier had gotten tired of the Englishman’s jokes and had withdrawn into himself. “Two world wars and one world cup” appeared to define Pete’s idea of Germans. He was hardly unique. Southeast Asia was a favourite destination for the UK’s piratical and lawless white trash underclass. But the little red-haired, wrinkled man had still not finished.
    â€œJust one thing, mate, a friendly piece of advice. People who get too curious about how things work in Cambodia, people who ask too many questions, are in danger of giving the impression that they might not be around for the reasons they say they are. If Tep gets this impression of visitors, it can have really heavy consequences for them. It’s better to let life roll along at its natural pace down there and to roll with it, then most questions will be answered anyway. I’m sure you understand me.”
    â€œI must be lucky then that I let life roll at its natural pace last night.” Maier laughed.
    Pete reached across the table and slapped Maier’s shoulder like an old friend. “You’re a fun guy to be around, Maier. That’s why my advice comes flowing your way. Our community down there in Kep is so small that every newcomer is looked at, like under a magnifying glass. It’s just a local reflex. We don’t mean anything by it. And anyway, you come with the best of references.”
    Maier looked across at Carissa. Was this skinny little Englishman threatening him or was it all just talk? Maier did not want to fall in love with his old colleague again, but now he was worried and that was never a good sign. The detective rarely worried. Worries made life, this short and meaningless journey of suffering and emptiness, more complicated. The Buddha had been right about most things.
    But Maier had no time to philosophise. The young waitress of the Pink Turtle appeared with a tray, loaded with three whiskeys, on the rocks.
    Just like the freebooter he was, Pete had remembered the most important thing of all. “I know, Maier, you don’t like drinking beer. I already noticed that. It makes you very likeable somehow. Let’s drink Jack Daniels to the man who doesn’t like beer! Cheers.”
    Maier did not like whiskey much either, but he lifted his glass. He was on duty.
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    ON THE BEACH
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    Maier was the day’s first drinker in the Last Filling Station. The ramshackle bar stood on the edge of a beach in a palm orchard, a few hundred metres west of what was left of Kep-sur-Mer. More than a hundred villas slowly crumbled into the brush along the coast towards the Vietnamese border. Kep was a ghost town about to be reconquered by the jungle. Even the Angkor Hotel, near the crab market, was in a pitiful condition, its pockmarked walls protected by downwardly mobile shards of sheet metal. Maier had taken a room right under the roof. During the night, the rain had roared all around him, loud enough to drown out the noise of the television, which, powered by a car battery, had run at top volume in what passed as a lobby until dawn. Just as well all good roads in the world led to a bar. And the Last Filling Station was special. It was the only bar in Kep, and in the mornings, it served the desperate.
    â€œThis town has seen better days.”
    â€œIt has. But the impression of total collapse is misleading, buddy. Kep has had a demanding history and it ain’t done yet.”
    The old American behind the counter gave a friendly nod and lit a joint. The