Meet Pat

Pat's a skinny guy. I have the same adidas slides as him, and he wears a dress shirt most of the time untucked. On the day I met Pat, he was wearing fake Chanel and smile with some spaces between his teeth.

A friend had a friend who had friends who could take me and my friends up Bokor Mountain on the back of their motorbikes. Enter Pat: my moto driver for the day. 

He walked right up to me, stuck his hand out, told me his name and asked for mine. Pat's got great english, even though they didn't teach it when he was at school. I started off with some small talk, just to break the ice while I scooched super close to him as to ensure I didn't fall off to meet my death, and I didn't quite realise what small talk could mean. I asked Pat if he'd lived in Kampot his whole life. Since he was young, he said, but he was born in Phnom Penh. Then, when Pat was three, he was forced to leave by the Khmer Rouge. 

I dropped it there. I've seen so many tears fall so far since I've been here when questions around the genocide arise. It's never right to push, no matter how many books you've read or how much thought you've given it, it's never right to ask questions without permission or relationship. I've learnt that much. 

So I asked Pat the names of his kids and how old they were. He's got two boys, one is eight and the other just a few months old. Work's been quiet recently, which means it's been tough for Pat. Trying to support a family on a couple of dollars a day made by moto driving isn't particularly easy. He's got to make sure he's around too, his wife doesn't like it when he's not doing his bit with the baby. 

I asked him if his family was around to help. He told me they weren't. I, being stupid and having something of a failing in my short-term memory, asked him why. They were killed by Pol Pot. Then Pat started to talk some more. We'd climbed a solid windy few kilometres up Bokor at this point, so it was mostly me, Pat, and some pretty eerie clouds. 

His parents were killed when he was three. Pat's brother-in-law saved him, and brought him with him to Kampot. Pat lost his hero when his brother-in-law refused to serve in Pol Pot's army. He was killed, and that left Pat and a few of his siblings to be placed in a workers camp for children. His brothers and sisters would go off to work in the day, and three year old Pat would be left hidden in a hammock. As he got older, he'd forage for food. He'd find raw food sometimes, and they'd eat it as is. They couldn't risk the soldiers seeing the smoke from their fire. They'd be dead in a few minutes if they did. But avoiding smoke couldn't save Pat's brothers and sisters. Between them, they died of exhaustion or they were killed by soldiers for their weakness. 

Pat felt hope for the first time when he was seven. The regime ended. He went off to school, and then he finished and became a Tuk Tuk driver. Pat's been in the business much longer than I've been alive. He's safe, he knows how to take good care of people. He laughs even when he's telling me a sad story. He's brave. 

More than anything, Pat's impressive to me because he's still here. Still standing (or sitting on his moto).

So, if you ever find yourself in Kampot province Cambodia, I've got a name and a number for you. Pat's got some stories to tell and some places to show you. 

Pat having a chat at the abandoned casino.