Never drink and bong

04/09/08

Hi folks, it’s been a while. I have been busy with wine, women and song. Well to be honest I have just been busy with experiencing Cambodia. After I did all the tourist stuff like the Royal Palace, the Killing Fields and S-21 (the jail Pol Pot kept prisoners in before the extermination camp) it was time to get drunk and see a bit of the local scene or at least the scene with the ex-pats.
I had a few drinks one night in a bar called ‘Liquid’, I got talking to a bar girl called Nowouch, I fell instantly in love with her. She was very funny with a killer smile and a great sense of humour. She finished work early and played pool with me for about two hours. As the bar was closing I waited for the inevitable question you hear around these here parts; ‘I go home with you?’. The question never came, as the bar was closing she said goodnight to me and that she hoped she would see me again tomorrow night. Deeper and deeper I fell into the hopeless abyss called love.
That was nearly two weeks ago. To this day I have not laid eyes on Nowouch since then. She has been out sick from work. I called the next day and the staff told me she was sick. I called the next night; still no sign. I didn’t bother the next night. The following night I called determined not to seem interested. I never asked about her but a barman told me that she was still out sick. Oh well, such is life.
During the day I frequented a bar/restaurant called The Herb Cafe. Customers have free WiFi internet access. I would frequent this bar to read my emails from friends and family while I hoped and prayed for a decent hamburger or taco (no joy). One day, an intellectual looking guy sitting at the next table asked if my Lonely Planet was the up to date one. From there we got talking and had a few beers. Tony is Australian and is lined up to do 18 month’s work in a northern province of Cambodia as an NGO. Tony has been travelling for years now and as far as I can see has basically been all over the world. He has regaled me with stories of been stuck in a bus for three days on a road that was cut off at both ends in the Himalayas, stories of being mugged in Vietnam, Cambodia etc. Tony spent four weeks learning to speak Khymer. For his last week he had to put up with me keeping him up late drinking beer instead of studying.
Tony is a really interesting bloke, to me, at times he reminds me of Rolf Harris. I hope he doesn’t mind me saying that. It is meant in the best possible way. He wears glasses and has a small goatee beard. Also his laugh really reminds me of Mr. Harris.
I thought that maybe I had seen enough of Phnom Penh and that I would move on to Siem Reap. Tony said that he was going to the beach resort of Siranhoukville for the weekend. I jumped at the chance to go somewhere else. On the Friday morning we met up and got the bus to the south west of the country. Just travelling on the bus alone was an experience. Looking out at the changing landscape from crazy city to country rice fields was a pleasure I can’t describe in words. We drove through two provinces’ before we got to the town of Siranhoukville. Think of all the Vietnam war movies you have seen or the film called the Killing Fields. Basically any of them, if you can picture them then you have an idea of what I was looking at but in glorious reality vision. For all its poverty and dirty streets and open sewerage it is truly a beautiful country.
When we got there we were accosted by the usual tuk-tuk and moto drivers. No problem to Tony, he answered them in Khymer and they left us alone. We walked down the road to a place he had stayed in before. He was welcomed with open arms; obviously they remembered him.
The landlord is Swedish and a bit of chef. The night we called was buffet night. All you could eat for three dollars. A huge spread was laid on and at the appointed time (just as Tony predicted) a large swath of ex-pats arrived and attacked the food like a plague of locusts. Once the food was finished they cleared and the beer garden was empty again save for one Paddy and one Aussie.
We did a pub crawl around the town, deciding to leave the beach resort until the following night. I noticed that there is a disproportionate amount of Aussie bars around the town. I did find one Irish bar called the ‘Darby O’Gill’. The pub was not as bad as the name. We got talking to three Irish girls who were travelling around pretty much like myself but a bit more planned out with a proper itinerary. One of the girls is from Sandymount and used to go with a fellow from Coolevin in Ballybrack. Small world. The bar man is from Mayo and recommended that before I go home I should buy $180 worth of Viagra. I could make up to 2000 euro at home on the black market with them. I said I would think about it.
The second day there we decided to walk down the beach for a few miles and then settle into a bar with a few drinks and quietly read our books. Wow, such intellectuals! After a few gin and tonics and three chapters of Douglas Adams’s biography for me we decided it was best to walk back to the main part of the beach before it got dark. As we strolled purposefully back I noticed the sand was pockmarked with thousands of small holes. Soon I realised the reason for the holes. As the sun was setting hundreds of small crabs ran frantically back and forth around the shore, actively avoiding our bare feet. Just before darkness came I tried to take a photo of the horizon with a boat in the middle ground. It was one of the few times I wished I had a better camera. My poor attempt at capturing the sunset can be seen in the photo above.
Back at the main enclave of bars we could relax again and sip on a few cold beers. We went to one bar where there was just two western girls sitting together at the bar. No one else was there. We sat at the bar too. They promptly left. Lesbians, everywhere you go. As we sipped our drinks and talked about the classics of British comedy I noticed that every now again one of the two Cambodian bar men would disappear below the bar for a minute. This continued for perhaps five minutes before curiosity got the better of me and I stretched over the bar to have a look. I was met with a cheeky smile and the barman smoking a bong. I smiled back and was promptly offered a smoke. I gratefully accepted. After inhaling I asked what the name of the exotic tobacco was. ‘Skunk’, I was informed. Quite nice to be honest. We moved to another bar and the night wore on as we drank more and more. I got talking to the bar man and ended up getting the job of DJ. It was my responsibility to keep the songs coming on the PC.
Eventually Tony decided to go back to the guest house. I, on the other hand, being a total hedonist decided to stay; as they were still serving plus I had an important DJ job to perform. At some stage the barman rolled a joint and passed it around the few remaining customers. It has been over twenty years since I have felt so sick as I did that night. I could not move from the bar, my legs were immobile. I prayed that no one would try to move me for fear that I would throw up all over the place. I managed to get to the loo at some stage and puke all my internal organs out onto the floor beside the squat down toilet.
Eventually I was moved to a chair and left to sleep it off. I would like to say a big thank you very much to one of the customers, his name is Steve and he made sure to look after me at this stage. His picture is on the website, he is the guy with the red tee-shirt that reads ‘Same Same’. When I awoke in the chair on the beach staring at the sea, Steve was there and brought me back to his digs. I slept on his extra bed for the rest of the day and then had to work out where I was staying. As I got into the tuk-tuk to take me back to my digs I was offered a bag of grass for purchase. I declined and did my best to stop from vomiting all over again.
On what was to be our last night in town, Tony and I went back down to the beach. We went back to the bar where I had made a fool of myself and was promptly greeted with smiles and ‘no problem, no problem, happens all the time’. No sign of Steve but the barman was friendly and showed no signs of being angry at me. As the night wore on Tony and I crawled through other bars, speaking to ladies, Tony practising his Khymer and I watching all that was going on around us. At one stage we got separated as Tony spoke to one lady and I spoke to another. I met Steve on his way home; he was totally wasted and all heart-broken over some girl. I got him to the bar and bought him a bottle of water; I was glad to do some little thing as a form of thank you.
The Cambodian lady I got talking to ended up driving me home at seven o’clock the next morning. She stayed in the hotel with me and then drove me around Sihanoukville on her motorbike. She found it extremely funny that she had met a man that couldn’t drive a motorbike. She took fits of giggles driving me around; I of course played up to this, working the old farang charm. After this she brought me to a temple because, as she explained, she had to speak to Buddha. Before entering the temple she went to a stall and bought some candles, tinned fruit, sweets and flowers. This was all wrapped up with an elastic band with 1000 riels added to boot. We then entered the temple and sat with five other Cambodians in front of a monk. The goods she had bought were placed on a plate and both herself and I had to hand the plate to the monk. This monk sat before us basking in the light of sheer reverence from my Cambodian counterparts. I for one couldn’t believe he had the audacity to sit there taking a deep pull from his cigarette. He spoke to my friend first and then turned to me. He asked me if I was her father or uncle. Cheeky bastard! She is twenty seven, I’m thirty eight. I think it was monastery humour and that he obviously doesn’t get out much. He asked me about where I came from and then explained what he was about to do.
As the Cambodians (including my friend) waited in anticipation he blessed the water he had before him in a bowl and then proceeded to shower us with the water. Obviously I was an old hand at this by now. I held my head low and sat through the soaking. Afterwards the others took the bowl from him and proceeded to wash their heads with the water. I sat with my friend and watched him light another cigarette, he offered me a fag and I accepted. My friend was thrilled with this even though she had spent the previous night trying to talk me into stopping smoking.
By this stage my bus back to Phnom Penh had long since departed, Tony along with it. I stayed another night and jokingly suggested to my friend that she come back to Phnom Penh with me. She readily accepted. We have been living together in Cambodia’s capital ever since.
I haven’t mentioned her name yet because it took me nearly three days to get it right. You can see a picture of her above with my hat on. I spent three days mispronouncing it until I finally got it right. I asked her to write it down but unfortunately she can neither read nor write as she left school at a very early stage. At first is sounded like Jack Straw, then Jen Shaw and then a multitude of other variations. Eventually I discovered that she had her name written on her mobile phone. It is Jethro! I never thought I would see the day when I could say I shared a bed with someone called Jethro. To be fair I’m not sure that that is the correct spelling of her name as it seems to be pronounced more like JenStraw.
Anyhoo, now that Jethro was back in the big city I was sure that she would know people and show me around the place. She did indeed have a friend who ran a restaurant. We decided to visit her friend that evening and have a good feed. I was looking forward to a good juicy steak. When we arrived I was a bit unsettled to find that the restaurant was one of the open markets that all the Cambodians eat at. No problem, I said to myself, I am going to see the real Cambodia. I was introduced to her friend Anis and we sat at one of the plastic garden tables and chairs. A small cooking pan replete with gas cylinder was put on the table. It was fired up and a large lump of margarine was placed on the plate to melt.
All about me Cambodians chatted together and got stuck into their dinner, showing incredible dexterity with their chopsticks. All around the floor was rubbish, empty beer cans, used tissues and the odd cockroach. Drinks were served in warm cans with a bucket of ice to place in your glass. The beers served to our table were called ABC beer and were basically a bad imitation of Guinness. My stomach started to turn in on itself. Next came the food. The plate was by now roasting hot and upon it was placed some pork that had been sitting on a plate all day in the hot Cambodian weather. Along with the pork were prawns and small fully-formed squid. Now I know that a lot you guys like seafood; I on the other hand would rather be disembowelled than have to actually eat seafood. I had read somewhere that it was extremely bad manners to refuse food in Cambodia that has been put on your plate. Two squid and four prawns where put on my plate.
I sat there staring at them. The blood had obviously left my face because Jethro asked me if I was okay. Using the incredible power of mime, (at which I have become quite adept) I explained that I was allergic to seafood (a lie). I was therefore content to get away with eating the cooked pork. Things improved somewhat when I asked if I could have some Anchor beer and was promptly handed four warm cans with a bucket of ice.
The whole experience was very strange for me. As I said it was like an open market plan and as we ate and chatted, both small children and very old people came and stood in front of me begging for money. Whatever about giving a few quid to an old person I won’t give a child some money as that encourages them to continue begging rather than doing something more productive to get by in life. If you ignore them long enough they go away. But it is so hard to ignore them. The old people lived through the Red Khymer regime and I wondered if they had any direct experience of it. The kids are just so beautiful and I automatically think of my nieces and nephew. I just can’t picture them walking around the streets, hungry and begging. It chills my blood to be honest.
After some time I noticed that the place had started to empty as everyone went home. It was then I saw the kids eating the scraps left on the plates on the tables. The adults who were begging didn’t do the same. They directly asked people for the scraps of food leftover. An old woman came to our table with a small plastic bag. Jethro emptied the remains of our meal into the old woman’s bag. The old woman bent low and raised her hands in prayer towards us. This is the traditional Cambodian gesture of thanks. At that stage I felt like weeping to be perfectly honest with you folks. We don’t know how fucking lucky we are at home, we truly don’t.
I really enjoyed Thailand but Cambodia has been a real eye opener. I have sat in bars and been approached by women looking to sleep with me for a few dollars. When you have a few beers on you it is both exciting and flattering to have some beautiful woman shower you with affection as if you are the centre of the universe. Thankfully I can manage to sit back and look at the situation from a different angle, even when drunk. Some of these girls who are looking to play pool with me and have a good time seriously can’t be more than fourteen years of age. I know that Cambodians are naturally small in stature but if you sit back and look, some of them are definitely too young to be doing what they have been pushed into doing. It’s a sad state of affairs and all the beautiful paddy fields and scenery is not going to make any fucking difference.
Cambodia has come through a very black time in its recent history and is slowly on its way up. I for one hope to see it get stronger and better because when I see the beautiful smiles on the faces of these people all I want for them is to have the same standard of living that I have been lucky enough to have experienced.
Won’t leave it so long for the next blog folks.