The Khemara Restaurant was one of the main places in Phnom Penh where barangs went to socialize, swap news and information, and even eat and drink. It was craftily arranged with a dividing partition down the middle as you walked in. To the left sat the teachers, mostly French and ‘English’, a few journalists and photographers (like Al Rockoff), and a miscellaneous group which Newsweek amusingly termed ‘counterculture expatriates’. On the right sat the Air America pilots and the odd character who might fit in with them – like the “Snake Lady”, a statuesque blonde beautiful Scandinavian trans-gender giant who systematically demolished the pilots at arm-wrestling. Foreigners from the diplomatic community generally did not frequent the Khemara.

 

Then there were the girls who often dropped in to amuse the customers. Unique among them was Annih. While the other girls were brash, noisy and full of fun, Annih was quiet, gentle, charming, and had a heart of gold. She was also courageous; it was astounding on one occasion to see the way she stood up to a hulking drunken pilot who was blocking the doorway and daring anyone to challenge him. She did so successfully, with a little help from a short black gentleman versed in the arts of Judo and street fighting.

 

Annih once took me to meet her family. They lived in a crumbling shack at the back of the market. There was no father, and the mother had lost her mind. She squatted in a corner and rambled incoherently. Annih had half a dozen brothers and sisters, and she supported the whole family. Once I asked her, knowing that the Khmer Rouge were coming closer and the end was near, if she would escape if she had the chance. I actually had some half-arsed idea in the back of my mind that I could marry her to get her out to Thailand…and what then? Of course, she said she had to stay, she could never leave her family.

 

Five years later, on the Thai border, my friend Naoki Mabuchi met one of the girls from the Khemara. She told him that Annih was dead.