Phnom Penh Express Read Online Free PDF

it was only delivered by a minority, had scarred him permanently.
    When Phirun heard nostalgic stories about Cambodia from his parents, about Khmer culture before the war, certain values that were assiduously observed within his family even in exile, Phirun knew that one day he’d return to that fabled place where he might feel a sense of belonging. But he hadn’t found those old values his parents had spoken of yet in today’s Cambodia.
    With one smooth stroke he finishes shaving and wipes the foam off his chin.
    He had accepted Ratanak’s apologies, of course — everyone has their demons to confront — but they never really recovered the past connection they once felt. The unsavoury experience had shocked Phirun, for he had realised he
was
indeed different; he
wouldn’t
fit into Cambodian society as he’d hoped. He wasn’t even sure if he wanted to, for the hit-and-run culture of greed and quick money he’d been witnessing was a far cry from the picture of Cambodia his parents had painted.
    Phirun is feeling much better after his shower. He’s now reconciled to the idea of a healthy breakfast. He selects some fruit — an overripe papaya, a mango, a few small bananas and a quarter of a pineapple — and starts peeling them.
    Mulling over what Ratanak had said, he could understand his frustration. Cambodians had been dominated too often, and for too long. The last thing they want now is a horde of smart-ass overseas-bred Khmer treating them like dirt all over again. But then again, he had also heard a lot of good things about ‘his kind’.
    He’d been noticing how quite a few local Cambodians seemed to be starting to appreciate the straight-talking returning Khmers, a nice change from the corruption and cronyism of the happy few that tend to run the show. And when overseas Khmers return to Cambodia, they bring back a minimum of respect for the rule of law, rather than just the rule of money and intimidation.
    Phirun awakens from his reverie. He chops the peeled fruits and puts them in a bowl with plain yoghurt — his usual breakfast.
    But the fact remains, he concludes, whether local people loathe or love us, we’re not fully accepted yet. That much is clear.
    His mind drifts back to happy chocolates. He’s still tempted to continue with his experiments, despite Nina’s warning. Then he remembers his promise. Damn! He’s supposed to visit those officials today.
    Back up in his bedroom, Phirun selects a white formal shirt — the best he has — and his only tie. He knows that appearance is important to his people. Dressed up in his fanciest outfit, he takes the gift boxes from his old, third-hand fridge and arranges them on the kitchen table. Six visits, six gift boxes: perfect.
    When he loads them into his bag, something catches his eye. It’s part of a white label loosely attached to the side of one of the boxes. One of those labels that can be easily peeled from the packaging without damaging the box; it was probably left over by the transport company. But the odd thing is, it bears characters from a language he doesn’t recognise. At first glance he thinks the alien script might be Arabic, but the characters are too boxy for that. Upon more careful scrutiny he recognises it — it’s the same script that he saw in Antwerp every time he passed through the diamond quarter on his way to work. He saw it on the signboards of kosher food vendors, adorning the entrances to certain clothes shops, but mostly on diamond shop displays: it’s Hebrew.
    That’s odd, he thinks, he didn’t know that the Antwerp supplier was Jewish. It’s unheard of for them to venture into chocolate-making. Besides, this label must have been attached by the transport company not by the supplier, which, on reflection, makes it even stranger that it should be in Hebrew. He takes out a few other boxes and turns them over. It’s then he notices that all of the boxes are labelled. One bears the words
Tel Aviv
and
Israel
in Roman