In '66 and '7 they fought the Congo war;

with their fingers on their triggers: knee deep in gore.

For days and nights they battled the Bantu to their knees.

They killed to earn their living - and to help out the Congolese.

- Warren Zevon

"This is a Bouncing Betty - they hop up about this high off the ground and cut you right in half when they go off." Graham is showing me some mines that had recently been dug up on the grounds of the schoolyard down the road. "Now this is Willy Peter" he says, holding up a white phosporous bomb." I recollect this Captain once tossin' one of these down a hole to kill a rat, he put his foot on top of the hole and it burned right through his boot and about halfway up his body. We held him underwater but he kept jumpin' up and as soon as he hit the bloody air he'd re-ignite. He was screamin' and cryin' 'I'm on FIRE! I'm on FIRE!' poor bastard."

Graham is the proprieter of the Minefield beer bar on the outskirts of Siem Reap, Cambodia,the closest town to the 11th century Temples of Angkor, including the crowning achievement of the mighty Khmer Empire, Angkor Wat. At first glance, Graham seems like a cross between Lee Marvin and Mike Nomad, but whether it's the 9mm pistol in the shoulder holster under his left arm, the stories he tells, or just his general demeanor, it doesn't take long to realize that he's no actor or cartoon - he's for real. I have spent the past three days exploring the incredible temples; in the evenings I come to the Minefield and try to correlate Cambodia's intense and violent ancient past and nightmarish recent decades with the strange and dangerous present and future.

Since opening in July,1992 the Minefield has been the main UNTAC (United Nations Transitional Authority in Cambodia) watering hole in the area. They keep a large supply of beer on ice in a huge metal cooler and also offer shots of whiskey, tequila, vodka, rum or cognac. Two glass cases display berets, medals, ribbons and insignia from past and present UNTAC units. When the power isn't out, a cassette deck with removable speakers plays an eclectic mix of music brought from all over the world, plus strange Khmer pop music brought by the many waitresses. The interior of the large open room is white-washed but all available wall space has been filled with mines of all types, rifles, military stickers from about twenty countries, and obscene graffiti in as many languages, along with the red signs with a white skull and "Danger! Mines!" written in Khmer and English that are common in the rural areas. Two large wooden slabs make up the bar, which forms a right angle around the small enclosed room used as the kitchen. A hand-lettered piece of cardboard lists the menu: hamburger, cheeseburger, steak and chips (frenchfries) - all items wok-fried by a young Khmer boy. Everything is priced in U.S. dollars. The Cambodian currency - the riel - had dropped from 2600 to the dollar to 4000 that morning. A sign on one wall reads: "we take real money here - not riel money."

The building, upper-half open, lower-half enclosed with skirting topped by a counter and no doors, is of the type found at fairgrounds, beaches, and public parks throughout America. A definite transitory feeling is pervasive. These structures host wedding receptions, 4th of July parties, or fish fries, then sit empty awaiting the next occasion, weeks or maybe years later. The Minefield has the same air about it, an old pavillion in a forgotten park taken over for a season by a gang of toughs who spend every day there then eventually move on. Even though the place is busy now, it's easy to picture it empty, the big cooler in the back long since rolled away, the last beer sold, the huge chunks of ice melted. Now the Warren Zevon tape has ended and two German soldiers are laughing at a tune by The Butchers.

I went to America - What did you do there?

I drank the beer there - it was shit!

I went to America - What did you do there?

I drove on their autobaun - it was shit!

I went to America - What did you see there?

I saw Hogan's Heroes there - it was shit!

"Who put that on?" asks Bob, an American military observer who has just joined us at our table. "I don't talk to many Americans; there aren't many of us in the country and we're all spread out. Hell, I don't even get in here much. I work about an hour and a half from here, it's pretty remote, but I get to drive on one of the better roads in Cambodia - 'Bob's road.' I call it that because it was built with American tax dollars and since I'm the only American on it, I figure it's my road. So far I've gone through about three front ends, one differential, and bent the frame, but I haven't hit any mines. The trick is to stay off the road until after about 9:00 a.m. By then the mines have either been spotted or detonated."

Someone asks if he feels safe out in the countryside or if he ever runs into the DK. "I see those guys all the time. They're all over my area. It's almost impossible to negotiate with them; they do things their own way and things can happen fast. You really need to know the language. Sometimes interpreters will change what you say to aviod confrontations and you think things are settled when they aren't. In most bargaining situations one guy says 10 and the other says 1, both working toward 4 or 6, but with the DK they say 10 and you say 1, then you're shot for lack of respect. They've got their own rules, but so far we've gotten along."

The NADK, or National Army of Democratic Kampuchea, is the new name for the Khmer Rouge, who ruled the country after they toppled the American backed Lon Nol Government in April 1975. During their four-year reign of terror they tortured and killed at least one million Cambodians (and caused the deaths of at least that many more due to starvation and disease). The Khmer Rouge also claimed part of southern Vietnam as their own, repeatedly crossing the border and murdering Vietnamese villagers until the Vietnamese army invaded Cambodia in late 1978. In January 1979 the Vietnamese captured Phnom Penh and the Khmer Rouge fled to the mountains along the Thai border. Today, the NADK are Cambodia's most powerful political party although they have refused to participate in the U.N.-sponsored elections to be held here in May. Still controlled by Pol Pot and fronted by "nominal leader" Khieu Samphan, the NADK's platform blames all the problems of the current society on the ethnic Vietnamese "invaders" living in Cambodia and the "puppet government" of Hung Sen and Heng Samren (both former Khmer Rouge officers who defected to the Vietnamese in 1977 and 1978). The government itself blames Pol Pot and the "Pol Potites" or "The Pol Pot Clique" for the atrocities committed in the 1970s in all official statements, never mentioning the Khmer Rouge. All this seems very Orwellian.

The DK routinely mine the major roadways, maiming and killing the civilian population, and have attacked several villages populated by ethnic Vietnamese, murdering over a hundred people in March alone. In February "50 suspected DK guerillas" rode through the town of Siem Reap, firing rocket launchers and AK-47's, killing three people and wounding eight more before stealing several thousand dollars worth of artifacts from a warehouse where they had been placed for safekeeping after being taken from the nearby ruins.

Bob orders another round and relaxes a little as the Butchers tape is replaced with one by Carlos Santana. "The people here though, the regular villagers you meet, are always nice, and you see people doing stuff that you know their great-grandparents did the same way and nothing has changed that. The living conditions here can be very primitive. That's the reason you see this kind of thing - " He gestures across the road where two Khmer women have collected a large pile of garbage - mostly plastic - and have set it on fire. A cloud of black smoke starts to rise, obscuring the treeline on the other side of the large empty field. A jeep full of Bangladesi soldiers all armed with machine guns drives past. "For generations everything that these people came in contact with, they could throw it on the ground and it would break down, but now they're getting all these plastic and non bio-degradable items and they don't have any way to deal with them. I've got to admit that I am happy to see these," he says, picking up a bottle of purified water off the table. These bottles are widely available all over Cambodia and empties can be seen everywhere, including most burn piles. "The water here is bad news&emdash;never drink it," continues Bob. "Plus you can get a rash from head to toe just taking a shower. I've had it a few times and see kids with it a lot. If Calamine Lotion doesn't help, then you know that's it." Jeff, a writer and "civilian observer" who lives in Phnom Penh, asks Bob about medical care in his area. "Oh man, there is next to nothing. If I get hurt, I know I'll probably never make it to a hospital."

Jeeps and landrovers begin to skid into the gravel lot, signaling the end of a going-away party in town for an outgoing unit. Instantly the bar is completely full, the waitresses are all busy, and steaks are sizzling in the wok. About this time the power goes out, plunging the place into pitch-blackness. Cursing, Graham gets up and heads outside to the back area and soon the sounds and then the smells of a gas generator fill the air. In the front of the building, someone pulls a jeep up to the doorway and aims the headlights inside. Behind the bar, Graham switches the curcuits over and the lights flicker, then stay on. The tape deck doesn't fare as well and, not bieng able to adjust to the constant surges and power fluctuations from the generator, the playing speed of the tape is constantly varied, creating a nightmarish effect. After the tape deck is unplugged, a group at the bar starts to sing bawdy hymns, eliciting groans from most of the growing crowd.

One of our UNTAC companions, a Bulgarian, gets up to go work the midnight shift monitoring a team in the field. "I sit by the radio and read a book unless they need help out there. My job only happens if something else happens," he says, then takes off down the road to UNTAC headquarters.

Jeff leans over and motions toward the doorway, "What do you think is going on over here?" Silhouetted in the jeep's headlights a French Foriegn Legionnaire is smiling and gesturing at one of the waitresses who shakes her head and laughs then leaves and returns with another waitress who also shakes her head but writes something on a piece of paper. This causes the Legionnaire to laugh and shake his head while writing his own message. "Some kind of transaction, maybe not cheeseburgers," I reply.

Graham returns and is given an epaulet, "Got just the place for that," he says. Then, using a huge knife, he removes the screws from the door of one of the trophy cases and secures the epaulet to the felt covered back wall of the case with "tacks" that came out of a recently defused mine.

Looking back towards the Frenchman, I see him give some money to yet another waitress, who, before leading him out through the back, gives the money to another woman who has been sitting in the corner all evening. This is all very low-key and discreet compared to the bar-girl scenes in Bangkok or Phnom Penh. In the past few days in Phnom Penh I saw bars where 100% of the patrons were Westerners and the bar girls wore leopard-skin outfits ala' Jane of "Me Tarzan&endash;You Jane" fame, and the "street of a thousand flowers," a two-kilometer-long stretch of road on the edge of Phnom Penh bordered by dozens of shacks. Outside each shack were at least eight girls, some simply waiting, others more competitive. I was pulled off the back of a motorcycle at one point and barely escaped with my pants. In the Minefield the most aggressive proposition a customer might receive is an enigmatic stare.

I ask Graham where he had been before opening the Minefield, perhaps running a pub in Kuwait? "Hell no!" he replies "I was over on the Thai-Cambodian border for six or seven years at a place called Site 8."

"No way you're with the U.N. What was it, freelance?"

"More or less." This is a startling revelation: Site 8 -the most infamous Khmer Rouge controlled refugee camp. That could only mean that Graham had been working with the Khmer Rouge when anti-Vietnamese sentiment in Thailand and the United States provided them with financial and military aid and a renewed legitimacy, at least partially accounting for their revival and current strength.

A journalist sitting nearby joins the conversation, saying that she had visited Site 8, "It was very strange. They wouldn't allow us to photograph anything or anyone including the children."

"That's 'cause of the bloody Vietnamese. You've got a nice photo of a smiling little girl, they look at it, see a hill in the background maybe a couple trees…'Hey, I know where that is,' and then here comes the bombs."

"So are you still in contact with any of them?" she asks. "Is this bar safe?"

"I would think not," replies Graham, smiling. "I didn't make any long-lasting friendships in the DK. You talk to these bastards who might seem nice, but you can't help but think that they've got a lot of blood on their hands or they wouldn't be where they are."

"So what were you doing over there all that time?"

"Teaching them English," says Graham, laughing.

I notice that the Frenchman has returned. Before leaving with his friends, who are waiting in the parking lot gunning the engine of their land rover, he winks at the girl, and taking off his beret fans his crotch with it while wiping his brow with his other hand. Graham is writing on the bar with a large blue felt-tip marker: "PEACE&emdash;THROUGH SUPERIOR FIREPOWER." "That's the only way you'll ever see peace in this bloody country," he says. "What I'd do is clear a plot of land about the size of a football field and then drop bombs on it for an hour or so, invite the Khmer Rouge to watch. Just give them something to think about, let them know what they're really up against. I bet half of them would go home that same day."

I decide to go home myself, and am joined by Jeff and his cousin Monte, who is here visiting Jeff and for a "holiday in Cambodia." We wave away the moto-taxi drivers who are waiting on the edges of the parking area and begin the dark walk into Siem Reap. After a few blocks they turn to cross the river and leave me to walk the remaining kilometer to my hotel alone. The streets of Siem Reap are completely deserted and there isn't an electric light in sight. The sugar palms that line the road are riddled with bullet holes. Outside the doors of the hotels, guards are asleep on cots covered by mosquito nets. My walk is lit by the moon and the uncountable thousands of stars. Passing the CPP (Cambodian People's Party) offices, I notice their display boards on the sidewalk. In Cambodia the opposition party isn't accused of kiting checks or sexual harassment, but brutal murder, complete with color photos of the victims. Somewhere, a long way off, a dog is barking, but other than this the town is shrouded in an eerie silence. Even the insects along the banks of the Siem Reap river are quiet. Soon it will be dawn in Cambodia, but what the new day will bring is anyone's guess.

Jeff Huch, Phnom Penh 1993