It began when I stumbled upon a dusty book at the guesthouse hidden behind piles of well worn Lonley Planets.
An unreadable front cover, I inquisitively opened the brown marked, ruffled pages. As the text opened out I felt a sudden gust of cold wind against my right cheek. The pages began independently flicking over as if the book wanted to reveal something.
One by one they moved, until the breeze, quite abruptly, ceased.
Splayed out in my palms were pages 49 and 50 of a chapter on the historic National Museum of Cambodia.
Hesitating momentarily to capture my focus I began to read.....
There was an artists sketch of the impressive building from the outside which had been drawn at sunset. There were exterior square pillars soaring up to support the ornate roof and huge teak shutters on its many flat sides.
Surrounded by tall trees I noticed many canons in the museum grounds facing outwards at 45 degrees. The oriental style roof had many interlocking parts and covered in tiles that resembled fishes scales. At each point in the roof, dragon-like horns whisped upwards creating a sharp silhouetted contrast against the sky.
It was both beautiful and haunting. I noticed something else in the sky too. Was it a flock of birds coming home to roost? I nudged my nose close to the centre of the book. It was something else...
On page 50 the book read,
"The National Museum is home to many thousands of bats which depart their roof home each evening in vast, black, moving clouds seeking their hosts."
I closed the book filled with a mixture of spirited adventure, nervousness and excitement. I love bats. In Enfield I had my own colony in the loft. Cute little beggers. These would just be the same.........right??
My flat cotton cap turned backwards and camera hung over my shoulder I hopped on to a motorbike with instructions to take me directly to the museum. It was 17.00.
On the way, the driver seemed concerned that the museum was closing. Using my hands to demonstrate, I attempted to show a bat with my hands.
"Ahhh, butterfly," he said confidently.
"No, No," I replied, continuing my flapping hand motions and saying, "bat, bat," more loudly as if it would make any difference.
Finally as we neared the Museum gates, the driver turned his head round to me and taking a hand from the handlebars pointed at his canine teeth. "yes, bat, bat," I nodded. He had understood, but his face looked oddly contorted. Did he know something I didn't?
All the bgates except this one were closed and as the last tourists left the grounds the sun had already began to doze low in the sky.
Walking around the main building I encountered two men in an open wooden workshed surrounded by tropical plants. One was watching TV in a hammock another was sat crossed legged and bare chested on top of a wooden table. He had something in his hand. Stone artifacts lay everywhere. They spoke no English but the one on the table beckoned me over. As I drew closer I noticed many purple, circular bruises on his chest and back.
He was drinking a dark liquid in the cut-out base of a water bottle. I had no idea what it was but I took a sip. It was definitely alchoholic and had strong medicinal notes to it. Taking the bottle from his hand I read something in English about a cure for urinary tract infections. He poured more and gesticulated that he wanted me to down the lot. His friend cheered in the background as I took a large gulp and passed the bizzare concoction back to him. He was insistent though, and not happy until I had drank the lot.
It was now 18.00 and getting quite dark. The workmen had put six fingers up and pointed to their watches so I waited, my camera all set, for the bats.
Wandering around the building, past the writhing trees to the rear. Nothing stirred. Just the odd swallow swooping to grab a hapless insect.
It was 18.30 and still nothing. I continued to mess around with my camera and walk slowly around the building my eyes fixed high to the roof.
By 19.00 I found a man locking up and asked him if he knew anything about the bats. "Gone," he said. "What?" "Gone to mountains." The man pointed in the direction of the old temple on the hill. My eyes followed his finger and I saw the temple. It was then, that I felt an eerie breeze against my cheek.
Turning round to thank the man I noticed he had vanished..
I exited the museum and walked serveral streets to the old temple on the hill. It was 20.00.
It was so dark now that the sky was only a few shades lighter than the top of the trees. I stared up at two huge trees that seemed to sway at the top even when there was no wind. Then, from out of the blue I saw one. A creature so large it could have been mistaken for a heron. Its shape though, was unmistakeable. It was MASSIVE.
Two silent flyers circled above me, watching. I heard them chattering about me with others as they returned to the tree tops. Shrieks followed. I became edgy. Did these beasts attack?
Moving my camera switches at waist height I caught a glimpse of a policeman with his bike by the base of the trees. He was watching me too. Not realising what was going on anymore, I began taking photos in rapid succession, hoping to capture one in flight. They were fast despite their size, their bodies had sharp, distinct outlines, so different to birds. Some squabbled noisily for space high above my head their voices like ringwraithes, forever in torment.
It was 21.00 and I left. Over a beer I discovered the irony. You see, Cambodians eat bats. Though illegal, they are steamed and consumed asa delicacy (especially in the north.)
It seems that in Phnom Penh their consumption is much less tolerated for I found that the polieman at the base of the trees was a permanent fixture. A kind of bat patrol.
I was content to shoot them with my camera.
