My Longest Walk

by Jim Barry

     Actually it was only about a quarter of a mile long and took only ten minutes to complete; yet it seemed endless. It was a walk about war, death, memories, guilt, pain, giving, receiving, and ultimately hope and redemption. I thought it would never end and still haven’t forgotten it.
     It took place last October in the nearly impregnable and the most spectacular northern jungles of the distant land of Cambodia. The four-hour bus ride from Phnom Penh, the capital of Cambodia, took me back eight hundred years to the ancient ruins of Angkor Wat. Built by an unknown people, and climbing in some parts more than five stories tall, they are guarded by a 200-foot wide moat.
     I gazed in disbelief at the surrounding jungle and the protected relics of this ancient society. Suddenly I found myself in the company of a twelve-year old self-appointed guide. He called himself Diem. I didn’t want a guide, especially a kid, but I couldn’t get away from him. Dressed in a black and red Michael Jordan basketball jersey with the number twenty-three stamped on the back, he was your typical aggressive, streetwise kid. When I realized that he wouldn’t go away we haggled and finally settled on a price of two bucks for the tour and together we crossed over the moat leading to the towering main gate. As we walked along I asked him the typical tourist questions.

     We stepped inside the main gate and looked at the ruins, which lay just a quarter of a mile before us. I had never seen anything quite like them and could hardly wait to get there. There was an intricately carved fifteen-foot wide stone walkway leading us to the ruins. Diem said, "Let’s go."
     I began that fateful walk oblivious to the people lining both sides of the walkway, stretching the length of it. Soon I couldn’t help noticing them. Their sheer numbers stunned me. They were everywhere; different sexes, ages, sizes, and shapes.
     Memories of Viet Nam broke over me like waves. As a bomb disposal officer there, I knew first hand the fate that they had suffered. The same fate that every soldier in that war feared - stepping on a land mine. The worst mines were called "Bouncing Betty’s". Once tripped, they would bounce waist high before exploding. If one listens closely, one can still hear the initial screams, the moans, and the ultimate silence of their victims. These peasants, mostly women and children, were victims of a different war from mine, one that took the lives of two million of their countrymen. Each sat there with their arms outstretched, hands cupped together, begging for alms. All were missing arms, legs or both. Many were blind, empty sockets where their eyes had been, their faces horribly maimed.
     They stared at me, even the blind ones, looking through me, penetrating me, piercing my soul. I felt naked, helpless. What could I do for them? As I walked the walk that day, I quickly gave out the few dollars I had in my pocket to relieve my guilt. When the money was all gone all I could do was look at them and try to convey, in a language that they could not understand, how sorry I was that I had nothing left to give them. I remember looking down at a wrinkled-faced badly scarred blind old woman whom I guess was about eighty. But who could tell? We just "stared" at each other. She finally tilted her head to the side as if making a last plea for money. I turned away, tears flooding my eyes. After a while I stopped looking. It was too hard. They were endless. The walk was endless. I found myself looking straight ahead, pretending to listen to my "guide" but the images were burned in my mind.

     Diem and I spent the morning touring the ruins. Later we shared lunch. He ordered lots of food, didn’t eat much. He discretely stuffed the food into his pants pockets. Watching me watching him, he finally blurted out "I’ll eat it later."
     There was something special about him that touched me. Underneath his tough, confident exterior there was a little boy full of life, quick moving, with a beautiful set of teeth and a great smile on his tan skinned face. But there was something else. I can’t describe it.
     As we talked that day frozen in the back of my mind was the long walk out. There was no other way to leave. I dreaded it. This time I looked neither right nor left, just stared straight ahead.
     Waiting for the bus, I asked Diem about his family."Well" he said in an accepting way, "My father left for the army but never came back. He’s dead I think. My mother stays at home with my four younger sisters." Suddenly I knew where the pockets full of food were going. I asked why he wasn’t in school that day. He replied "It cost $10 a month to go to school and I need a bike to ride the two hours each way." He laughed at the impossibility of it all. Here was a kid who had learned to converse in four languages, having guided tourists like me through the ruins, yet couldn’t read or write.
     I gave him his $2.00. There were no teary farewells, just a goodbye. He was off to hustle his next customer. As I climbed onto the bus the driver said, "I see you met Diem." We talked.
     That night resting in my one hundred and fifty dollar hotel room, I decided that although there was probably nothing I could do for those begging on that walk, there was something I could for that kid. On the bus to the airport the next day I gave the same driver ninety dollars for Diem’s first four months of schooling and his bike. The driver promised that he would write me when Diem was in school. Afterwards I thought " What a fool. I have just thrown away ninety dollars and for what?"
     I never heard a word until last week when a letter from the bus driver arrived asking me for the rest of the tuition. He wrote, "Dear Mr. Jim, please excuse that it took so long to write about the boy you met at Ankor Wat. The problem is I wait for this photo to show you as proof of his study." There was a picture of a smiling Diem at the blackboard with his teacher. Best deal I ever made.