An age we could wander. Critics

I arrived in Cambodia during April 1993, the first free elections since Pol Pot were drawing closer. Cambodia's scorching sun, high humidity, and political heat were tipping the scale. In an attempt to halt the democratic process, Khmer Rouge had started to carry out a series of attacks on Vietnamese civilians and UN workers alike.

The Cambodian capital Pnom Pehn had become a shell of its former self. Entire 'suburbs' abandoned, left derelict, reclaimed by the jungle, it's diminished population concentrated around a few small areas surrounding the heart of Pnom Pehn.

Here, in the heart of the city, lay an enclave of UN workers and journalists. At the hub, a small, simple, sparsely furnished bar. It became the epicenter for 'journos' who traded information over a breakfast french baguettes and cream cheese, strong black coffee, and fruits. If a bomb had gone off somewhere in the city, or a skirmish had occured in the provinces, this was the place to get all the details.
By mid morning anyone heading out to cover an assignment had already moved out, for those who remained the heat would begin to produce damp sweat patches on their shirts. The breakfast remains would be cleared, more coffee would be served, and also ice cold imported Chinese beer. Bust mostly they served the beer. TsingTao moi. Lots of Tsing Tao.

Frank was a French photojournalist, working on an assignment covering Medicine Sans Frontiers. The children, his critics.

Camera Canon AE1, 35mm SLR. Ilford FP4 125

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