I HAD not been to Cambodia for two years and was not prepared for the astonishing transformation. Then the sun beat down on a languid Phnom Penh decaying after 15 years of international isolation - there was no ''peace process'', there were no United Nations blue berets and white vehicles. It was a city of gentle anarchy, of bicycles and mopeds and silhouettes strolling at night down the centre of a road, lit by a single headlight.
Now the streets were a cataract of white vehicles, jeeps with flashing lights, Mercedes-Benzes with brocade seat covers, Suzukis with whores on call, bicycles with filing cabinets on delivery, elephants announcing Cambodia's first take-away pizza and, atthe margin, legless or armless young men in military green, like crabs awaiting their chance.
Watching them reminded me of the dream-like quality of Cambodia, a society whose fabric was torn apart and never repaired, whose trauma endures near the surface.
Suddenly, and for no apparent reason, the traffic swelled like an engulfing wave, spilling aside pedestrians and vendors. One of the human crabs was struck by a bicycle and raised his only fist. Someone screamed.
Open in their sorrow, the Cambodian people are often oblique in their fear; and the presence of fear is palpable now.
The skulls of Cambodia are famous; it is the internal bleeding foreigners cannot see.
Before they disappeared back into the jungle this month, the Khmer Rouge were back in Phnom Penh, the scene of their great crime. They had been brought back by the UN and given a second chance.