boviscopophobia

kampot, cambodia

or, the fear of appearing to be a cow. this is not in reference to any products promoted by our dear ms. craig, nor does this have to do with insecurities regarding rumination. the fear of appearing bovine is in reference to being one of a pliable herd. the late great david foster wallace coined the term in reference to a similar circumstance to which i felt myself belonging yesterday.

the basics: a tour. two vans. one national park. thirty people. thirty tourists, rather. the thing is that it tucked into that price point just so and saved me a good hour of negotiation with tuk tuks and stubborn maps, so i was fine with it. one day. what could possibly go wrong?

it was less discomfort than farce. what i was hoping would be an opportunity to learn about some flora and fauna and maybe even get some cool air on my limbs turned into an informal field study in group behavior. the first stop was a nice lookout on the town and river below. rolling fog, green fields, cocks' crows and all that morning stuff found on page one of narnia novels. also a great opportunity for the four french long hairs to whip out their cigarettes and have a little chat. it took all my resolve not to say, "shhhhhhh! this cambodian guy is trying to tell us about pepper."

another van trip and we were up to the former king sihanouk's decaying digs. there was some dry history to begin this portion of the lecture, but just as the story started heating up, so did the sexual tension between a young dutch couple. standing right across our little listening circle from me, it was hard to pay attention to the accounts of khmer rouge genocide while he of the angkor beer tank top and she of the body a la romanian gymnast tussled and teased back and forth. i was there to learn about killing, not to watch some eurotrash cuddling.

by the time we reached the next stop it was apparent that the tour would be of the tour. by which i mean that the national park had been sold to some chinese developer who would be converting the whole mountaintop into a casino and condominiums. the stately manor we were waiting to see was covered in scaffolding. the temples we visited were serenaded by jackhammers from the ubiquitous construction sites. there was going to be a golf course. they even drove us to a room where there was a twenty-square meter miniature construction of what the area would look like in a few years time. it was like the replica model from the attic in beetlejuice, except it only contained the brutally capitalistic part of town. they may as well have built a reflecting pool for us to gather and sob at the last whispers of the wind on this pristine forest.

the day had no real saving grace. if i stretch myself, i will say that i eventually overcame my boviscopophobia in part by the realization that i was among good people. i had a better conversation with an older australian gentleman about a recent book we both read than anyone at my previous backpackers could offer. i found solidarity with a less publicly-affectionate dutch couple at our mutual disgust over the development of a formerly beautiful plot of land. and i think most of us got a good laugh after an initial scare when that russian guy did not hurt himself after that two-meter fall. what an idiot.

and if i had to be on a tour for the day, at least i got a waterfall. if they say that religion and sport are the opiate for the masses, then waterfalls are the oxycontin for the tourist. and even if there was rain but no cascade down those rocks over there; and even if we had been manipulated by our respective agents into believing we would see something real this day; and even if we all would have been better off just sitting with a good book by the river, at least i had this experience. and a group to share it with. i can just see us watching that disappointing, thin trickling water after a long day of cramming into vans with sliding doors and humming along to the traveler's anthem:

tell me we're going to a waterfall, and i'll march to bataan,
tell me this place has meaning, and i will snap its photo,
tell me this is how you live and always have and bound to change by the time my friends get here.
and if you truly pinky-swear-cross-your-heart-and-hope-to-die promise that i'll be the last to see the way it really was, then i'll take one green t-shirt in an extra large.

all together now.