Mr. Borat

I walk back to my tuktuk, pensive after visiting the killing fields from the Khmer Rouge genocide. Borat, my driver, waves. “What’s next?” He pulls out a colorful map pointing out tourist spots: museums, temples, a market. But after this morning, all my friend and I want to do is immerse ourselves in the actual culture.
Borat suggests lunch. “What do YOU like to eat?” I ask. He hesitates, then winks and revs his tuktuk. “I know a place. Cheap, cheap.” Sitting next to other drivers escaping the midday heat, we dip hungrily into aromatic broth, rice, chicken, and potatoes.

We ask Borat what he does on Sundays. He's amazed. “No one's ever asked what I like to do." He can't believe we’re not his average tourists. "I want to work. But if no one wants tuktuk, I watch kickboxing.”
“Kickboxing!”
“You like it?” he's incredulous. We nod, excited. He shrugs. “I take care of you. We must negotiate price.” I pitch a number. Becca adds, “And we’ll buy you beer!” He laughs. “Deal!"

The match is underway when we arrive at the Cambodian Television Network arena, and we follow Borat into the loud, crowded bleachers. It’s exhilarating!

All too quickly, the match is over. A guard informs us there’s to be a pop concert soon, so we head inside. The studio fills with chattering teens and picnicking families. Once, I look up and see Becca and I in the TV camera. Borat laughs. “You are exotic—on Cambodian National TV!”

Later, we swap stories over pitchers of Angkor beer. Borat’s parents were killed by the Khmer Rouge, but he refuses to dwell on it. I ask if he earns enough to support his wife and 3 kids—he’s optimistic. His brown eyes twinkle. We laugh late into the night.

In the morning Borat is waiting for us, all smiles. “My wife thanks you for sending me home drunk with money in my pocket!” Goodbyes are sad, but he assures us he has notified a friend in Siem Riep. We settle in for the ride.

Hours later we’re greeted with a smile and a sign: “Welcome Ms. Rebecca–Mr. Borat.”