It was a bright day. And very hot. I pulled a sweat soaked bandana from
around my neck and made a pretty ineffectual job of wiping my face. I needed
to get out of the sun for a while and give my shoulder a break from the
unaccustomed weight of my camera bag. I'd been sitting behind a radio
editor's desk for too long, not enough assignments in the field practicing
my primary trade.
A group of soldiers were standing idle under the shade of some trees
along the side of the broad avenue. I moved across and joined them. They
paid me little attention, I was just one of about a score of journalists
wandering around on that furnace hot morning. Just us and the soldiers.
Relieved of my camera bag's weight I sat down on the curb and pulled out
a packet of local cigarettes. A soldier, a boy in uniform really, sidled
over and sat down too. He made a gesture towards the cigarettes, I offered
him a smoke and we lit up. Smoking in silence for a minute, the soldier
unclipped his canteen and offered me a drink of water. Warm and of
undetermined origin, it was welcome non-the-less.
His M-16 rifle lay on the ground between us. I looked at it and then at
him. Had he used it recently I wondered? Across the avenue a German camera
crew were filming a burned out bus, counting the bullet holes stitched along
its side. There were a lot of burned out busses and cars. There were also a
lot of bullet holes.
In what must have been one of the most efficient clean up operations
ever, the avenue had been swept clean of debris. At the far end near the
park I could see a block of wrecked buildings, destroyed by arsonists.
Wrecked vehicles lined the side of the avenue. Apart from these obvious
clues of catastrophic events, everything else was swept clean and eerily
quiet. A main thoroughfare, this avenue was usually jam packed with
bumper-to-bumper traffic. The only things moving on that morning were the
occasional armoured vehicle and overburdened journalists, sweltering under a
cloudless sky.
The M-16 looked freshly cleaned. But then so did the soldier. His
fatigues didn't look like they'd been slept in. He saw me looking and smiled
broadly. An open, friendly smile. Did this kid fire into the air or into the
crowds? Did he fire his weapon at all? He crushed out the butt of his
cigarette and got up. He offered me another drink, I accepted and thanked
him. Was I sharing a smoke and drink with a murdering thug, a killer of
civilians who would normally look to him for protection?
I reluctantly hauled myself to my feet. I had to make my way across town
to a university campus where the last demonstrations were taking place. It
was May 20, 1992. Bangkok. Black May.
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