The thin, gaunt clerk at the Ministry of Information was impressively nonchalant. He wore his thick black hair combed straight back. His large Khmer skull inhabited every inch of his face. His clothes seemed to flap against his body. I filled out a mimeographed form, showed him my passport, gave him a one inch photo taken in Bangkok, presented my newly minted CV, then pressed a folded American five dollar bill to his flat shiny palm. He said to return in two hours.
At 10am it was hot but I decided to walk and made my way through numerous side streets, trying hard to keep out of the sun. The wood stucco buildings
were old and beautiful and painted shades of blue or pink. I poked my head into various shops, waved to impeccably dressed children seated in a sweltering room as their teacher chalked Khmer script on a blackboard.
 
I found a post office and bought stamps and aerograms. I bought a phone card (made in Australia-by the by). At the appointed hour I returned to the office and located the clerk. “Here,” he said, and handed me an official laminated Media Pass. He smiled a wide broad yet diminutive smile. A survivor’s smile. Then he was gone.
 

Marc Levy        Then  and  Now
D 1/7 Cav '69-'70