Spice

“You imagined it. There’s nobody here,” said the youth.

“I’m sure I saw someone,” said the other, sounding indignant.

“Do you want to go further into the jungle and look?”

“Not likely. I don’t know what’s in there, maybe a wild animal. Come on let’s get back and catch up with the others.”

“Okay. Because you’re afraid, we will go,” mocked the other youth. They turned and ran back through the village and onto the track.

Ravuth trembled. He backed his way further into the thick foliage. The Khmer Rouge had been standing only inches from his face.

Ravuth returned to the village at sunset. He had been too afraid to move throughout the long, hot, humid day. Dazed and confused, he walked into the deserted village. Passing the smouldering corpses, he made his way to his home. Although the Khmer Rouge had burnt down some shacks and the communal hut, they had left his hut relatively unscathed. He went inside but nothing remained, having either been ransacked or took by his parents. Ravuth crouched down and wept. He stayed there throughout the night, wondering what had happened and what to do. Daybreak came, and as the room got lighter he saw the banana leaf box sticking out of a hole in a floorboard in a corner of the room. He realised that his parents must have been trying to hide it from the Khmer Rouge. He took the box and opened it. The strange plant was inside, along with a few small trinkets underneath the photographs of his family. He took out the photos and with tears in his eyes, stroked the individual images, wondering what was happening to them.

Ravuth felt alone, afraid and confused. He replaced the photographs in the box, left the hut, and wandered around the village searching for food, water, or useful items left behind. Passing the grisly remains, he went from hut to hut, scavenging and collecting anything useful. He found a machete, ate, and drank a little water. Wrapping food in a banana leaf, he collected water from rain-catching containers and filled gourds. His knowledge of edible plants and sources of fluid would assure his survival in the jungle terrain. Taking the box, machete, and other items he had found, Ravuth walked through the village and along the track that led to the road to Koh Kong.

Ravuth had been walking along the jungle track for two hours. He had trekked this route several times with his brother and father, but once Tu went onto the road along with the other villagers and rode away, the brothers would return to the village. He left the jungle, went to the unfamiliar road, and walked along the verges in case he came across any Khmer Rouge patrols. His long walk into the outskirts of town was uneventful, seeing neither traffic nor people. He saw several wooden homes along the roadside destroyed and plundered.

Making his way to the outskirts of Koh Kong town, Ravuth headed toward the town centre, which felt eerie without people. He continued for a few kilometres until he reached the border patrol hut. He hid behind the hut after seeing Khmer Rouge sitting against a newly constructed fence covering the border into Thailand.

The child soldiers lifeless features put a renewed fear into Ravuth. He crept away from the border post and walked back into the deserted town centre. Ravuth went inside a small abandoned café and replenished his food and water from the small scraps that remained. He sat and pondered his situation.

Night fell and Ravuth had still not figured out what to do. He heard a vehicle approaching. Terrified, he hid under a table as an old truck stopped in front of the café. Six Khmer Rouge came in and sat at a table.

Quaking with fear, Ravuth remained motionless as the young soldiers started up a small generator to illuminate the café and sat down. Ravuth trembled as he hid under a table in a dark corner of the café.

One soldier brought in several bottles of Mekong whisky and they drank.

Ravuth listened while the young Khmer Rouge bragged about their daily atrocities, who they had slaughtered, and descriptive details about how they did it. They spoke of their spoils of war and what items they had pilfered. One of them said something that Ravuth wanted to hear.

“My group went straight to *Choeung Ek, but we picked out the ones who will make young Khmer Rouge citizens and good fighting comrades,” he said.

“We rounded up four groups today, they went to the Koh Kong province commune to swell our ranks,” said another.

“Most of ours were undesirable old folk, so we disposed of them,” said a third, adding, “But we had fun re-educating them.” He grinned and showed the others his bloodstained machete.

The gruesome details between the boys went on for a short while; Ravuth then heard their voices slurring, and childish giggling as the strong whisky soon took effect on the youngsters.

Thirty minutes later, the Khmer Rouge staggered out of the café, got back into the vehicle, and it screeched away.

Ravuth came out from under the table. The lights were on, so he looked around the now silent cafe for any information on Koh Kong commune and Choeung Ek. He knew of neither, and unable to read or write, he found leaflets with pictures, which he placed into his box.

Staying in the cafe overnight, early the following morning, Ravuth trekked out of Koh Kong town and headed back to his jungle village to await his family. He didn’t realise he was followed until he neared a road outside Koh Kong and a voice behind him hollered, “You… Stop there!”

He turned around and a young Khmer Rouge girl pointed an automatic pistol at him as she tried to balance on the crossbar of a bicycle. “Come here!” she snapped.

Ravuth approached the grimy-faced girl who glared at him. Although she looked younger and smaller than Ravuth, looking into her eyes sent a cold chill down his spine.

“Why are you not with the others? Where is your village?” she snapped

Ravuth trembled, and with his hands together, pleaded, “I’m very sorry, I was left behind.”

The girl glared at Ravuth. “Follow me,” she snapped and got off her bike to turn it around.

Ravuth felt terrified and saw four more Khmer Rouge approaching on bicycles. He panicked, took the machete from his waistband, and hacked at the girl’s arm with all his might. The girl could not react to protect herself as she struggled with the bicycle’s handlebars. She squealed in pain as the blade tore deep into her flesh, hitting bone. She dropped the pistol and Ravuth pushed her away from the bicycle, stuffed his machete into his waistband, got on her bike, and peddled across hardened paddy fields. Heading towards the Cardamom Mountains and the safety of the jungle, bullets whistled past him as he peddled for his life.

Peddling for what seemed like an eternity, and no longer hearing gunshots, Ravuth stopped at the outskirts of the jungle, pushed the bike into the foliage, and hid behind a clump of trees. He peered out to see if he could see his pursuers. Ravuth saw four small dots in the distance, still heading towards him. He had a good head start but knew that he must get to safety within the dense foliage. Ravuth ran through the jungle, finding small tracks that he followed until he got into thick, rugged, impassable terrain.

‘They would never find me now,’ he thought and ran into the dense undergrowth.

Exhausted, Ravuth had been running through this unfamiliar section of the jungle for over three hours. Coming into a clearing with a thick treetop canopy and a little light penetrating through, he hid there, knowing he would be safe and could spot any pursuers, he sat at the base of a giant Dipterocarp tree on the lookout.

Ravuth stayed there for two days, living off the bountiful vegetation surrounding him. Realising that he had eluded his pursuers, he tried to find his village.

Ravuth felt safe in the jungle and trekked throughout the night while the moon shone overhead. He rested throughout the hot, humid days, trapping and foraging early evening until sunset.

Without directions to follow, unlike around his village, where he knew most of the tracks, trails, and familiar vegetation, he was lost. On the dawn of the tenth day, he came out from behind a row of trees onto flat open ground. An embankment dropped into a shallow valley, where he saw a large corral, surrounded by a wire mesh fence.

There were several rows of canvas bivouacs, along with a few military field canvas tents ranging in size. Ravuth saw people ambling around behind the fence; some groups were cooking on open wood fires. Ravuth could smell the aromas of Cambodian food, which made his mouth water.

‘This must be one of the places that the Khmer Rouge had been talking about. I wonder if my family’s here?’ he thought. Creeping around the wire mesh fence, he watched the camp’s inhabitants until reaching a gated area at the front. Ravuth felt exposed in the open, so he hid in a dark corner and observed.

Ravuth saw several military vehicles and soldiers come and go throughout the day. He noticed that the military personnel were not Khmer Rouge. They were older and dressed in camouflage uniforms. He went back and forth along the perimeter fence, watching the goings-on within the camp. He occasionally clambered back up the embankment to get a better view from the jungle but could see none of his family or his fellow villagers. Night fell, so he edged his way along the fence, found a clear spot, and using his hands, dug a small trench underneath the wire fence. He pulled himself through and crept towards the closest tent. Ravuth crouched down, looked ahead, picked out a spot and...

“Who are you?” said a man’s voice behind him in an unfamiliar language, “stand up, and turn around.”

Ravuth, enveloped in bright light from behind him and feeling terrified because he was unable to understand the man's instruction, he instinctively stood, spun around, and became dazzled by the light.

*Appendix

-Chapter Two-

The Baking Phenomenon

“The Baker of the Year Award goes to...,” the master of ceremonies announced and paused for effect as he glanced at the name written on the back of a gold-coloured card. “For the third consecutive year,” he faced the audience and smiled. “The pâtissier representing the Avalon Hotel,” he again paused and announced, “Mr Ben Bakewell!”

He applauded along with the audience in the plush Park Lane Hilton conference suite. Many cheered while a few mumbled as a man in an ill-fitting suit sauntered towards the stage.

“Well done Cake,” said the M.C. as the baker stepped onto the platform and shook his hand.

Although Cake had won this prestigious award three years in succession, he still felt awkward as he held up the small crystal effigy. His acceptance speech echoed those from previous years. “Thanks,” he mumbled into the microphone, blushed, farted, left the stage, and rushed over to the table to join his colleagues.

The awards ceremony was almost over, much to the relief of Cake. Several food critics were on the stage discussing the various dishes that won prizes. Cake loathed these events and considered the food critics’ idiots, incapable of boiling an egg and they didn’t belong in the industry. Even though he always received rave reviews from them. One described his *Avalon Nest Egg to be an explosion of flawless flavours creating an oral orgasm and said every dish Cake created tasted perfect.

However, Cake always felt they were average and considered his food lacked something, but unable to figure out what it was.

Cake arrived home at around 11:00 pm, after a long commute through the capital city. Jade had already arrived back from her five-day jaunt to Lincoln. Cake, excited to see her, wanted to find out how their bakery was progressing. He flopped into an easy chair in the living room while Jade fetched him a glass of wine, and they got cosy. He handed her the cheque for winning the competition and she smiled and showed him video footage of the work in progress.

Benjamin Bakewell, known as Cake for as long as he could remember, had an impeccable reputation within the culinary world. Every top chef and high-end dining establishment knew of Cake. He had held the top position as head pâtissier at the Avalon for three years. His signature cakes and pastries were the envy of every top chef, and not only unique in their preparation but also difficult to replicate. Many tried, but failed.