The warrior and the lion

by Emanuele Cidonelli (Niger)

Making a local connection Cambodia

As I was flying to Phnom Penh, I read an old Cambodian legend about a brave warrior who decided to defend his village from a giant lion armed with only a knife. The lion jumped on the man and left him barehanded, but the legend says, the warrior hit the beast with a mortal knee strike and the village was saved. From that day forward, the bokator, the art of killing the lion, became the most powerful weapon of Cambodia’s armies. In reality, once I arrived in Cambodia, I couldn’t find anyone who remembered about this legend. The winds of progress were already blowing across the country, but the memories of people were still trapped into more recent and less glorious stories. And yet, if you asked around about a man who had changed his destiny by the sole force of his limbs, you would certainly happen to hear the name of Eh Pouthong. Undisputed World Champion for over 15 years, only 10 defeats out of more than 250 matches attended, 90 KO inflicted and tens of movies starring his name, Eh Pouthong was the parable of a poor street kid becoming a world recognized champion of the free boxing art. When Seila, the young Cambodian boy I had met at the market, proposed me to meet Pouthong for a conversation, I could not take his offer for real. To me the guy was a god, the sort of celebrity I could imagine punching a sack in a corner of his Victorian villas in the centre of Phnom Penh, surrounded by a court of housemaids, assistants and security guards. And I was just a young filmmaker traveling the roads with a camera in the backpack, a passion for stories, and no clear idea on what to do with them. But Seila said: “Come to Cambodia Military Academy, tomorrow morning!” - and he repeated it with that Cambodian smile full of kindness one can’t ignore. On the day after there he was, right before me, Eh Pouthong, the champion of Cambodia, sitting bare-chested on an old leather armchair positioned outdoor in the dusty square of the Military Academy. A court of young freshmen doing push-ups on a large old straw mats, teen girls in motorbike shouting old songs, and few old men, keeping the chickens off the perimeter, moved around him and silently worshipped his presence. Everything and everyone but me. I couldn’t believe my own eyes, and I reckon that wasn’t a secret to my champion, because when I asked if could document his daily life with my camera for a week, he replied with his limited English: “Yes. You come stay at my house. My wife cooks good and we do karaoke. Meet me here tomorrow at 7am.” Those Cambodian smiles, one just can’t say no. Pouthong lived in the slum area of Khan Dongkor, few miles off the centre from the centre of Phnom Penh, sharing the same room with his wife, two children and a television. On the flat roof, a pink mosquito net was installed to host the poorest of his students, and the curious foreigners expecting to sleep in the Victorian Villa of a VIP. I spent my days following him and his family and wondering how he could find in such a life his pride of being a recognized world champion and a national hero. Meanwhile, Pouthong spent his entire days training young boys: at the academy, at the pagoda, at his own house… Only when the night would come down, we would go back to the house to play with his family and sing karaoke in my honour. “Bokator is the art of killing the lion. But today there are no lions in Cambodia.” On my last morning at his place, Pouthong had come up the roof while I was still sleepy. The sun was magnificently rising on the city right before us. But Pouthong was standing at the corner, looking down the dirty streets. “Look!” – he said. I went next to him and realised that he was following with his eyes a group of kids searching the dump for food. “This is my village, my friend. And that is my lion.”