It was getting to be midday when that black
SUV landed in my garden. Two artist friends, one small boy, a dog, and a woman whom
I not met before, exited from the vehicle. The equatorial sun was typically
hot, burning my arms. I welcomed my guests into my greened garden. I had no
idea who that woman might be- my friend’s lover perhaps, his wife (whom I have
never met) cousin, sister, the possibilities were endless. Later she was
introduced as to the artist. I was pleased to meet her, but still had
no idea who she was.
A conversation rolled out. I was trying to
publish my book of poems entitled Remembering
Whiteness and Other Poems, and one of those friends was offering
possibilities for that to happen. The female artist, had a book
project in mind for a charity that she worked with. She, it seemed, was
looking for a writer. It was a charity project. Charity projects frequently
mean no pay.
After an hour or two drinking local coffee
(consisting of very sharp coffee beans roasted with margarine and sugar, doused
with lashings of condensed milk and hot water, and a dash – perhaps a soupcon,
of evaporated milk) we chatted, perhaps even flirted a little as, in my
peripheral vision, I watched the dog and boy frolic in my garden. That artist tentatively
approached me about writing her book. I said that I should have to think about
it. Consider the time that I would have to spend. Way up the pros and cons.
Delve into the nuances - but I knew from that moment that she had mentioned
charity (and Cambodian children) – I was hooked - line, sinker, heart and all.
Over the following few weeks, the artist and I met a few more times. The idea for a book grew, as did a
relationship exterior to the book. She and I dashed down to Singapore (in
what turned out to be her black SUV), to meet with Bill Gentry – the founder
and managing director of the charity - Colors of Cambodia. Bill was a little
surprised. He eyed me up and down - like some prospective father-in-law, but
still gave his ok for me to be in on the project and…. we were set.
The shape of the book jelled - as did a
relationship between that artist and me. Within a short space of time, she and I
were on our way to that gem of green and lost cities - Cambodia. We had
research and interviews to do. We had photos for the book to take, people to
meet, schools to visit, villages to see and a whole country to absorb in a very
short space of time. Our skates were on, wheels were oiled, and we were ready
for the off………..
Perhaps it was the headiness of the
Cambodian air. Perhaps some glint of maddening sun prompting enchanting
romance, some glamour caste by a passing Apsara, for in a moment of dreamy
bliss (and in the back of a dusty tuk-tuk) I proposed to that artist,
and she, after a moment or two of heart-pounding worry – said yes! We got married there – in the gallery which
is Colors of Cambodia, in Siem Reap, Cambodia. Bill Gentry (founder and
managing director) was there and helped organise a very last minute wedding……and
that was but the beginning.
For the rest of that one solitary week, Mr
and Mrs me juggled our personal lives and performed the tasks necessary to pull
together the book which was to become - A Story of Colors of Cambodia. In a
frenzied whirl, we jumped in and out of ancient, rusting tuk-tuks – felt/tasted,
Khmer dust on our faces, in our mouths, in our hair, and secreted within our nostrils. It was the Cambodian dry season. Heat and
dust were everywhere, yet despite those minor inconveniences we interviewed
many of the key players in the story of the charity - Colors of Cambodia. In
hardly awoken mornings we visited Cambodian schools - where she and Bill
taught art to underprivileged Khmer children. In brisk paced afternoons, we
looked at smiling children faces, smeared with dust but very much alive and
beaming love. During those days I observed the stressed businessman Bill and the hard
working artist - singing, dancing and interacting with those Khmer children - in
a most transcendental way. It worked. Laughing, joyful children drew. They smiled
and drew some more. Bill and that artist were a huge hit. In each class in each
school we visited during that time - all children clamoured to be next to them,
as that energetic teaching duo fed off of the children’s love and natural innocence.
I was bemused, enchanted by those interactions between these two foreigners and
the Khmer children, and knew then that I had done the right thing in accepting
the artist’s offer for the book. It was life changing - it changed mine.
For more years than I care to admit, I had
wanted to visit Angkor Wat. It was on my bucket list next to Indonesia’s Borobudur
and India’s Taj Mahal and Khajuraho. Over time I had managed to get to just one
of those incredibly spiritual places – India’s Taj Mahal, during a tour of Rajasthan.
Then, over a laughingly British breakfast of nicely fried eggs, Cambodian
bacon, French style Baguette rolls and a passable Khmer coffee, I discovered
that she was taking me, and a group of advanced students from the Colors of
Cambodia gallery, to the expansive ancient Hindu complex of Angkor Wat. To say
I was thrilled was a massive understatement. It was the best holiday present
in the world that my (newly married) wife could have given me. She and the
students sketched and produced some very fetching water-colour paintings, while
I took photos and eventually sat, then began composing a poem which eventually became
Colors of Cambodia, and featured in
the book.
In that week, aside from teaching and
ogling at Cambodia, we generally got down to the business of the book. In the
warm evenings, when we were not observing the advanced students painting in the
gallery – we rested amidst the calls of romantic cats on tile roofs, and mulled
over the day’s events/recordings/observations. That became our holiday –
visits to captivating places, meeting intriguing peoples and seeing happy,
laughing children who wanted nothing more than to be loved and to be nurtured,
and who in return gave warmth, love and happiness.
Back in Malaysia, the artist busied herself with organising the sponsorship for the
book. There was a notion (born out of the idea that every penny should be for
the charity it was given for) that the – A Story of Colors of Cambodia, should
be entirely self-sufficient, and not rely upon any finance from the parent charity
Colors of Cambodia, or from its parent company Positronic. That effectively
meant that while I was busy collating the material I had gathered for writing, writing,
poring over countless photographs for inclusion into the book and wrestling
with design programmes, my new wife was even busier raising funds to support
the printing of the book - the book launch and just about everything else.
That black SUV fairly flew around our home city of Kuala Lumpur and, on occasions,
dashed down to Singapore so that we could liaise with Bill. Frail tyres became
punctured and air-cons refused to spread cool. Soothing music started to send
us to sleep, while rousing music interfered with the earnest conversations we
were having about publishing details. Breakfasts, lunches and dinners were
frequently grabbed on the run, with no opportunity to cook for ourselves,
except for the very rare occasion when I cooked pasta, or wasabi potato salad
for a monthly Damma meeting. One evening a month, we allowed ourselves the
luxury of a cheap bottle of red wine – but only after work had finished at 10pm,
and we were too tired to do any more.
At one point, due to severe frustration and
feeling neglected by my new spouse - I seriously considered posting my wife’s
hand phone – the one with the cute red rubber cover and bunny ears - to some
far-off destination – Poland perhaps, or Timbuktu, just so she could spend a
little more time with me – without that object being between us. But I didn’t.
I realised that these inconveniences were a necessary part of the process of
delivering the book. It was all about the book, and the Cambodian children who
were the ultimate recipients of all this hard work.
Meetings
came and went, as did deadlines. Temperatures rose both in and out of our
apartment – outside due to a thick fog haze settling over dusky Kuala Lumpur,
and inside due to acute differences of opinion over the designing of the book. The
book’s cover changed at least three times during this period. But, eventually,
all temperatures cooled and we were able to move on with the book writing and
design. My dear wife took a two week break to Europe, leaving me to write in
peace. That was heaven. No meetings for that week, no pressures other than my
self-imposed writing deadline. I really began to make writing progress.
Then, one fine equatorial day - that artist gave me the great news. She had managed to raise the entire amount
to print the book. We were both ecstatic. There were so many kind people who
believed in our project, and some had parted with large sums to enable the
project to move along. We shall always be grateful to those people, their
unselfish generosity, and the way they rallied around when the need was there.
Book editors appeared as if from nowhere,
helping hands stretched out to guide us and assist us with the creating of the
book, its editing and smoothing over the written and design cracks which were
inevitable with such a project. Always, at the back of our minds, was the
thought of the children we were doing all that for. It was for those Cambodian
children, in Siem Reap, who had difficulties attending school and/or who had no
access to art, school books, school bags, pens, pencils etc. Many had no school
uniforms either.
Eventually the writing was done. The book
designed, re-designed, and designed again. We were swept towards our printing
deadline, and the result the profusely illustrated book – A Story of Colors of
Cambodia. The book is not a full account of that charity, rather just a brief
insight through the eyes of one volunteer – the woman who became my
wife, in the gallery belonging to that charity – Colors of Cambodia.
Eight and one half years later and the bubble had burst. During the Covid 19 pandemic the woman whom I had pledged my life to turned her back on me. It was a very sad ending to that romance which began so full of hope. I will never forget the promises that were made and the hope engendered, but nothing lasts forever and I continue my life journey alone, back in Britain.
