The Ugly American (16 page)

"Oh, nothing. It's just an expression of anger," Tom said. "I could give you a lot of formal answers, but the simple fact is that I just like people and chickens, and besides I wanted to get away from the farm for a year or so."

It was inadequate, but it was the truth. For years Tom had had a dream made up of things so soft and intangible that he had never been able to discuss it. Because of this dream he had never married; and because of this dream he had come to Cambodia. When he was a small boy, Tom had discovered that certain words meant enchantment to him. Words like "cinnamon," or "saffron," or "Malacca Straits," or "Hindu" or "Zamboanga" had magic in them. They suggested strange countries, mysterious reaches of green water, smells that he had never yet smelled, and people he had never yet seen. Later, when he learned what the words meant, he wanted to see the places and things for which the words stood. As he grew older he collected other words and stored them deep in his mind. "Raffles Hotel,"

"monsoon season,"

"upland plantations,"

"mahogany forests,"

"rice paddies,"

"Yellow River,"—hundreds of names of places and objects of the Far East. He even learned the meanings of very unusual words like "paryanka," which is one of the sitting positions in the Buddhist faith. In fact, as he talked to the headman, he was sitting in precisely that posture, and he was fully aware that the headman attached great significance to it.

"Look, old man, it's very hard for me to talk of these things," Tom said. "I do not use words very well. But for many years I wanted to see a country like this. So I came and saw it."

"And do you like it?" the headman asked.

"Yes, I like it very much," Tom said. He realized that he had almost said he loved it. "I like the people in the villages, but I do not like the officials in Phnom Penh. And I do not like the ways of the Americans that work for my mission or in our embassy."

"I do not know these people; but I think that I and my people like a fellow like you very much," the headman said shyly, but firmly.

Tom had been in Cambodia long enough to know that he had just been paid a tremendous compliment. It was one of the happiest nights that he ever spent in Cambodia, or, for that matter, anywhere else.

Two weeks later Tom appeared in Phnom Penh for the yearly conference which appraised the results of the American Aid Mission to Cambodia. Tom was not happy. For eighteen months he had been slogging through the jungles and he had formed some definite impressions about what the village people needed. His reports were received by Mission headquarters, but action never seemed to be taken on them. Tom wanted to import a few thousand Rhode Island Reds and other breeds of poultry to improve the Cambodian stock. Tom did not delude himself. He agreed at the staff meetings that the road from Phnom Penh to the new sea town of Konponga Som would be valuable for the country. He also agreed that the massive canal building program would be useful. He had no objections to the ambitious military plans which the Mission supported. But he kept insisting to everyone who would listen that most of the millions of people in Cambodia lived off the land, and anything that would help them to live better—even to the extent of a few more eggs a day—was the thing to do.

The day before the conference began, Tom met with all the American agricultural experts, the Cambodian experts, and four French officials to review the work of the year and decide what recommendations to make to the conference. Tom listened to a proposal for a new canal to cost two and a half million dollars, and to another proposal to replace eighteen square miles of mangrove swamp with a mechanized farm. He listened while an American expert proposed the importation of two hundred thousand tons of commercial fertilizer per year for four years. Then the chairman of the conference nodded at Tom.

"My recommendation won't sound like much after the money we've been kicking around this table," Tom said with a grin. "I want to do two little things that won't cost much, but will sure as hell help the chicken and egg production of Cambodia. First, I want to bring in a few thousand American chickens and roosters to improve the native stock. Second, I want a couple thousand dollars to develop a machine which could be used to pulverize and treat sugar cane tops so that they could be used for chicken feed and for cattle..."

"Tom, you told us this last year," the chairman said wearily. "What our two governments want is something big, that really helps people right away."

"Now, look. Three million people in Cambodia live in villages and what they eat depends on what they can raise themselves," Tom said, and anger started to rise in his chest. "A big source of protein and meat is chicken and eggs. Oh sure, they can get fish, but not everyone lives near enough. . . ."

"Okay, okay, Tom," the chairman said irritably. "We've heard that before, and we've made recommendations. The higher-ups haven't moved on them, and I think we ought to give them up and concentrate on really important things." Tom's face turned red and his back started to arch like an angry bull's. In his mind he saw clearly the thousands of villagers he had talked to. He remembered their friendliness, their gratitude, their ignorance, their willingness to learn, the pathetic condition of their chickens, the scarcity of their eggs. Suddenly he felt, with a pang of guilt, that he was not representing his people well. Only later did he come to ask himself why they were
his
people. Tom smashed his fists on the table, and the entire group looked up with startled faces.

"Now, listen, goddamn it," he roared. "You people have been sitting on your asses here in Phnom Penh and you never get out to see a real person. I'm telling you right now that if we could increase the egg production of this country two hundred per cent we would do as much to help the average Cambodian as we would by building that damn expensive highway or that canal. Now, I'm not going to ask you chair-borne commandos or the officers here what you think.
They'll
agree with me." Tom turned and pointed an angry finger at the Chief of the Cambodian Aid Committee.

The Cambodian looked at Tom, then glanced quickly around the table. He looked down into his hands, and for several seconds he did not speak.

"Well, come on, tell us what you think," Tom insisted angrily. "You know how the people in the villages live. You know how damn long it will take anything from those highways or canals to improve their living standards. What about my chickens?"

"I consider chicken and egg production to be very important," the Cambodian said carefully.

Tom swung around in triumph.

"There, I told you!"

"Now don't get excited, Tom. I'd like to know what our friend thinks is most important," the chairman said. "If we have money to develop either the mechanized farms or a chicken program, which would you support?"

Tom knew the question was unfair. The Cambodian government was firmly committed to the mechanized farms, and the expert could not express an honest opinion without violating government policy. When the Cambodian spoke, he did not look up from his hands, and his voice was very low.

"I would have to support the mechanized farms," the Cambodian said.

The chairman turned to Tom and shrugged.

Tom knew that he should keep quiet, but he could not. He felt as if the villagers were his constituents, and if he didn't speak for them now, he would have betrayed their trust.

"I'm going to say something just once, and then I'm through," he said, his voice, unsteady, low, and dangerous. The chairman's head came up sharply. "If we don't get this damn chicken appropriation before the conference, I'm going to resign and go back to Washington, and raise hell. Unless you fellows get out into the sticks, you won't know what the score is. There are a lot of congressmen who know about chickens and farming, and I think I can persuade them you're making a big mistake."

It was a threat, and no one at the table misread it. The chairman stared at Tom while he quickly calculated how his own superiors might react if they were approached by Tom. He decided that they'd stand firm; and that in any case, they could rally more support among congressmen than Tom. He smiled.

"Okay, Tom, if that's the way you want it. As of this moment, I accept your resignation unless you want to reconsider."

Everyone in the room was silent. The Cambodians were not only silent, but deeply embarrassed. The Americans only watched curiously. They had seen this kind of thing happen before.

Tom got up, looked once more around the table, and left the room.

Two weeks later Tom was ready to fly home. He had already written letters to congressmen from agricultural states and outlined his complaint. He had not yet had replies, but there had not been time for airmail to make the round trip. He firmly intended to fly to Washington and put his case before them personally.

The day before he left Tom had a visitor—a high-ranking French diplomat. The Frenchman explained that he had followed Tom's work carefully and had heard excellent reports from the villages which Tom had visited. He regretted that Tom had had a difference of opinion with the American chief. Tom listened impassively.

"As an indication of our gratitude, would you allow us to route your trip home in such a way that you could visit the rest of the Far Eastern countries, India, the Middle East, and France and England?" the diplomat asked him smoothly. "I understand that you flew here over the Pacific—so you would have traveled around the world by the time you return home. As you know, Cambodia pays for such trips out of counterpart funds. We would be delighted to have you take this trip. We are embarrassed over your dilemma, and it would be gracious of you to accept."

Tom was both bored and suspicious. He wanted only to return to the United States as quickly as possible, and he had long ago discovered that when diplomats make a concrete proposal they usually have some firm objective in mind. As Tom was trying to make up his mind, the Frenchman showed how well he understood American personality.

"I have always felt, sir, that you have great sympathy for Asian countries and peoples," the diplomat said softly. "The trip I'm suggesting would give you a chance to see the magnificent old temples in Bangkok. You could stop off in Indonesia, and I'm sure our diplomatic people in India could arrange for you to see much of that country. It would be a wonderful opportunity. I can tell you from personal experience that there is no sight more stirring than the Taj Mahal in full moonlight." For Tom it was irresistible. All the exotic words, the suggestions of exotic scenes welled up in his mind. In another five minutes he had agreed, and arrangements were made for Tom to fly to Paris via Air France.

The trip home started very well. The special Air France plane carried a reduced passenger load, so that they could be given luxury service. The first meal Tom ate aboard the plane consisted of a generous slice of
pate de foie gras,
a tiny loaf of French bread, a bottle of champagne, and a large pat of fresh butter which had had his name impressed on it—and that was only the beginning. Later he had a huge steak with Bearnaise sauce, with which he was served a half-bottle of a magnificent Chambertin; a spinach soufflé delicately flavored with fresh butter and crushed garlic; and for dessert, Brie and crackers.

At Jakarta in Indonesia, Tom was met by a French Embassy official, and a French merchant. Arrangements had been made for Tom to spend several nights at the embassy residence, and they had outlined an itinerary for him while he was there, of which Tom approved eagerly. That afternoon they took him to a tiny village on the outskirts of Jakarta. Even after the beauty of Cambodia, Tom was staggered. The village was like a jewel. Magnificent flowers in more colors than he had ever seen before poured over fences, hung from trees, and climbed up the walls of the native huts. In the largest of the huts, a troupe of Balinese dancing girls were performing. The girls were tiny, and naked to the waist. Behind their ears they wore large red flowers which were like flames against their jet black hair. The sarong-like wraps they wore emphasized their incredible muscular control. For three hours Tom sat transfixed watching the girls dance. The graceful girls seemed utterly boneless. Their bodies flowed into impossible positions, then dissolved into entirely different stances. They danced to an unearthly music played by a line of Indonesian musicians. Tom was very close to tears when he left. He hadn't thought about Cambodia the entire afternoon; and some of the fine edge of his anger had disappeared.

That night in the Embassy he was served a banquet in nineteenth-century Indonesian style—a
rijsttafel.
There were twelve people present; Tom and the ambassador were the only white men. First an Indonesian boy brought each guest a huge bowl of boiled rice. Then a procession of servants carried in condiments to be put on top of the rice, each of which was more succulent than the last. When it was time to eat Tom faced a mound of rice almost buried under dozens of fragrant preparations. One of the servants kept his glass full of good strong beer. The moment they started to eat, two girls from the dancing troupe came into the room. They did not dance, but played two tiny stringed instruments which made a high, piercing sound. At first this music was almost unbearably shrill, but after a while took on practically heavenly purity and precision. Both the food and the music were like something from another world, and Tom several times had to shake off a sense of unreality. It was, he thought, the closest he had ever come to his boyhood dream.