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Why taking drugs in Cambodia is a bad idea

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One morning a few years ago I was in bed in Upstate New York texting with a private investigator friend of mine. I stopped texting, and called him right then. Distill it, do some chemistry to it—you end up with Molly. You could write a book about that. I was already in the middle of writing a second novel. But I found myself thinking about what he said now and again. A few weeks later, I drove down to New York to meet my editor for the first time. We ate lunch in what felt like a very glamorous Manhattan restaurant. Midway through the meal, he asked if I had any ideas for the second book. A look passed over his face; it made me trail off mid-sentence. It was just a micro-gesture, but it showed concern. My only thought at the outset had been to set the book in prison. I licked my lips. I was thinking of doing a story about the people who harvest the chemical over there, and maybe, track the people who move the drugs from Southeast Asia, to the US—maybe some Israelis, or something—and then you have the people in San Francisco that sell it. A mixture of thought and improvisation. But I think you should do the second one. I found myself nodding, too. A feeling of dread filled my stomach. What was I thinking? And Israelis? Suddenly the Aryan Brotherhood seemed easy. Two months later, in the middle of winter, I took a train back down to New York. I was jumping on a plane the next day to fly to Bangkok. From there, I planned to make my way to Cambodia. I was going to spend the next month learning how Cambodians lived. Trust me, I know how stupid this sounds. We talked about the trip. That would change everything. I would have total freedom of movement. The idea of renting a motorcycle was a daunting one. The few moto-taxis I took did nothing to ease my fear. Now I was in a rental shop in Bangkok looking at one. It was a neon green, cc dirt bike. I told the owner that I needed another day to think about it. The next day, back at the shop, I tried to set up the GPS unit that came with the bike. I must have looked like a crazy person. After being guided to a nearby mall and taught how to swap out a sim card, I was technically ready to go. Emotionally, I was as scared as I could remember feeling. I felt so scared I wanted to cry. Left Side. You drive on the other side of the street in Thailand. I needed to remember that. The ride out of Bangkok was insane. I was swept up in a sea of taxis, buses, cars, and scooters. It was 90 degrees out. Sweat was pouring down my face, my back, my butt, my hands. Even though my motorcycle was small, it was bigger than all the scooters around me. Within seconds there would be ten scooters backed up behind me. My adrenalin, my blood pressure, my heart—everything was out of control. It took nearly two hours to make it out of Bangkok. I ended up in Chachoengsao, an industrial town. While I was walking around looking for food, I stumbled upon some kind of a party. Too shy to approach, I just lurked in the shadows and watched. In the morning I went to a Buddhist Temple and prayed to Buddha to show me how to write this novel. I was desperate. I spent the next day making my way to the Poi Pet border crossing. The drive meandered through beautiful farmland. There was no sign of tourists anywhere. I ate Pad Thai at a country gas station and rode by farmers and water buffaloes. The border crossing itself was hectic—it was hot, crowded, and windy that day. People were hand carrying huge trailers stacked impossibly high with merchandise. I was directed from one person to the next, and finally ended up in the small windowless office of a Cambodian government official. Instead, he asked a straightforward but confusing question. The man seemed to take pity on me. Do you understand? Poi Pet, on the Cambodian side of the border, felt different than Thailand. Trucks, cars, and tractors, were driving in all directions. The air itself seemed more polluted. Within the first few minutes, I saw a man jump off his scooter in front of me and run back a few yards. I drove away from the border and into Cambodia as fast as I could. There were fires burning in the fields on both sides of the highway. There was trash all along the road. It felt post-apocalyptic. For the next few weeks I drove around Cambodia on the bike. I met incredibly generous locals who took me into their homes and introduced me to their families. They were wonderful. They showed me how they lived, what they ate, where they went to school. They talked to me about their religious beliefs. They talked to me about believing in ghosts. I made it through Siem Reap, Battambang, and Krakor. I sat on corners and watched people. I ate Cambodian food and drank Cambodian beer. I read an Alan Furst book. There is nothing that can prepare you for driving in Cambodia. On a two-lane highway, if a bus is coming at you, and another bus passes that one, you are expected to somehow get off the road. This would happen approximately every forty-five minutes, or so. I saw people driving scooters with huge live pigs tied down on the back of their bike. It is a cliche about Cambodia, but you really do see as many as six people sometimes on one scooter. The major highways turn from concrete to dirt without notice. There are craters on the sides of the roads. It is, of course, grossly privileged to complain about the condition of Cambodian roads, let alone the craters you see from the road. A common way of understanding the scale of this is to point out that more bombs were dropped than the Allied Forces dropped in all of World War II. According to one study , we dropped 2,, tons of ordinance. There is a convincing argument that these bombings contributed to the creation of the Khmer Rouge. The number of deaths from these bombing raids is disputed, but it could have been in the hundreds of thousands. We know that the American bombing campaign drove a rural population into the cities. This effectively cut off the supply of food. People began to starve. A large segment of the population became radicalized and what had been a small insurgency gained strength. The Cambodian genocide followed. It is one of the great dark marks in human history. So yes, the roads are not good, and there is a trash collection problem. By the time I made it to Phnom Penh, the capital, I was feeling pretty confident on the bike. I spent a week there talking to journalists, NGO workers, and Cambodian students about everyday things like politics, religion, food, education. We talked about the problems of the country, too: corruption, drugs, illegal logging, smuggling, prostitution, and violence. Eventually I rode the motorcycle down to Koh Kong. In a lawless country, Koh Kong may be the most lawless province. The Cardamom Mountains make it rugged and difficult to police. There were parts of the area that even in the s were still controlled by the Khmer Rouge. The tree I was interested in, the one that produced safrole oil—the Meah Prew Phnom— grew in those mountains. This was the culmination of my trip. The statue smelled like licorice, or more accurately, like sassafras. People in Phnom Penh had put me in touch with a man who worked for an NGO tasked with stopping illegal loggers. His group had been known to make busts on large safrole oil operations in the middle of the jungle. I found articles about them blowing up distilleries with explosives. They were the exact people I needed to talk to. We met, incongruously, at an ice cream shop. In reality, he looked more like a gangster than an environmentalist. His looks were deceiving. Their job was as dangerous as it gets. It was daytime when we met, but he ordered a whiskey they served whiskey in this ice cream shop. I ordered a beer. Stumbling for questions, I asked him what his qualifications were. He said he came from a certain neighborhood in a certain city and these were all the qualifications he needed. After a few days of hanging in the city he took me on a patrol in the jungle. He was just one member of the patrol group, the others were Cambodian soldiers—four of them. They had machine guns on their backs. Now, I was riding into the jungle with machine-gun carrying Cambodian soldiers. Soon though, we were stopping cars and searching them. Well, they were. I was standing by watching. I found these searches a little disturbing. But I wanted to see reality, and this was it. Around nightfall, we arrived in a small village in the middle of the Cardamom Mountains. And I never did get to see an actual Meah Prew Phnom tree. Still, I felt a little bit closer to being ready to write about the jungle. By the time I made it back to Bangkok, I was a veritable motorcycle racer. I zipped through traffic, leading the packs of bikes, winding through buses. It felt amazing. I flew back to the US a few days later, and began working on the book. I wrote the San Francisco section first. And then, I wrote my story of the Cambodian loggers who harvested the safrole oil to make the drugs. When I was done with a draft, I thought the Cambodian section was the strongest. In my mind, the whole book existed for it. It was only connected by the drugs. The Cambodians never interacted with any of the other characters in the book. It felt disconnected. It was around that time that I entered the beautiful stage of novel writing known as Spectacular Panic. I remember one freezing walk, surrounded by dirty snow and leafless trees, where I felt absolutely sure I would never find a way to write the thing. For a month, I remained blocked. I asked a friend for advice and he told me to exercise. I went to a yoga class and started to write the new ending that same day. It went pretty smoothly from there. The readers were right. I was trying to fit a story onto an idea, instead of allowing the story to follow its natural course. In the end, I took the Cambodian section, what was a third of the book, and boiled it down and distilled it, like safrole oil, into three pages. A month in Cambodia for three pages. But those three pages, in my humble and biased opinion, are the heart and core of the book. Created by Grove Atlantic and Electric Literature. Sign Up For Our Newsletters. How to Pitch Lit Hub. Advertisers: Contact Us. Privacy Policy. For the past decade, Literary Hub has brought you the best of the book world for free—no paywall. But our future relies on you. By Patrick Hoffman. Remove Ads. Article continues after advertisement. Patrick Hoffman Patrick Hoffman has worked for over a decade as a private investigator, and as an investigator for the San Francisco public defenders office. Support Lit Hub. Join our community of readers. Close to the Lithub Daily Thank you for subscribing! Read More. Dismiss without supporting Lit Hub.

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