Phnom Phen, Cambodia
As expected, a bottleneck forms at the top of the gangway. Unexpectedly, there’s no pushing or shoving, no anxious rush to get off. A general feeling of apprehension appears to be slowing our progress. Following the other passengers’ gaze, I look toward land. There I see what they’re looking at, what’s waiting for us.
At least two dozen touts are blocking our passage - vying for our attention. The first passengers to cross over are immediately pounced upon by these parasites who are now falling all over each other – claiming to offer the lowest taxi rate or represent the best guesthouse. Although this scene is standard fare on the S.E. Asian tourist / backpacker circuit, something is different here. Aggression. With the possible exception of Saigon, Vietnam, I’ve never witnessed more voracious attitudes or tenacious methods employed. In an attempt to secure a fare, many taxi drivers are physically taking bags from the most vulnerable looking travelers and placing them in their vehicles.
Putting on my best don’t-fuck-with-me-face, I step off the gangplank and am immediately besieged by a handful of touts.
It’s begun to drizzle and the rain is turning the riverbank into a giant mudslide – one that everyone is attempting to negotiate. The resulting scene is as to be expected – a complete clusterfuck.
My arrival in Cambodia’s capitol isn’t far from what I’d envisaged.
I don’t, however, believe what I see next – a friendly Khmer boy holding a name card that reads:
‘Mr. Phillipe’
Now this is more like it.
During the ensuing conversation, I learn that Star {see picture} has come to collect me, for free, and take me to Simon’s Guesthouse where beautiful rooms are available for the bargain price of $2 / night. Of course, all this sounds too good to be true but I find myself going along nonetheless. (I’ll later learn that his boss, the guesthouse owner, has a business relationship with the travel agent I booked my ferry ticket with).
Up the slope, into Star’s mid-80´s Camry, and we’re off. Soon I begin to suspect that he may not be the innocent-helpful-teenager-type I imagined. My first clue is his driving style. It isn’t so much purposefully reckless as it's totally absent minded. The thought that everyone in this country drives this way is quickly dispelled by the reactions we receive from other motorists:
- worried glances
- startled braking
- fist wagging
- angry horn bursts
Through it all Star coasts along complete detached.
Since we rarely exceed 40 km/hr, I’m not so much scared as I am perplexed by my driver – who I now find myself taking a long hard look at.
- Covering his left hand (the one I notice because it’s twitching) is a prison-quality tattoo of a broken heart.
- Running up both arms and down each leg are a series of minor cuts and burns.
- He’s perspiring heavily. The air conditioner is on full-blast.
Pulling to a stop at the end of a ratty alleyway, Star quits chain smoking for the first time since we’ve met and leads me, on foot, to the guesthouse. I’m surprised Simon’s does indeed have rooms for $2, relieved they are neat and clean, and amazed to find them attached to one of the nicest common areas I’ve yet come across.
I drop my bags and step into the large patio filled with hammocks, wicker furniture, and scores of potted tropical plants. While waiting for my veggie noodles and fried eggs, I find myself drawn into a conversation that manages to simultaneously repulse and fascinate me. The theme appears to be last night’s hooker experiences.
Tidge (Australian traveler), Tommy (American traveler), Murry (Scottish ex-pat), and a few others whose names I don’t bother committing to memory are swapping stories. As I’ve already begun to suspect, the foreigners in this city are a special breed. Of course, none of these characters are remotely attractive - the more I listen, the more I’m convinced they represent the residue of humanity. But their total openness in front of me, a complete stranger, is somehow endearing. I pull my chair a bit closer and listen to their seemingly endless adventures in Phnom Phen’s seemingly inexhaustible brothels.
I try, and fail, to imagine another situation in which a group of men could sit around and talk so freely about such exploits. After I’ve finished my meal and had my fill of conversation, I stand and state,
“Alright guys, have a good one, I’m headed to bed”
“It’s only 5 (PM) mate,” Tidge points out.
“Yeah I know but I’m still hurting from last night. My innocent ‘lets grab a beer’ idea turned into a few more beers, a bunch of tequila shots, some dancing on the bar with the owner’s girlfriend, and a near all out brawl. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow. In fact, my buddy Rick, who’s still up in San Reep, will be joining me then. He may have a clearer picture of what actually happened.”
As I drift off to sleep I wonder what the following day – my first real day in Phnom Phen – will hold. From what I’ve seen, it may very well live up to it’s reputation as the Wild Wild West of S.E. Asia – a place where anything goes – a case study of what can happen when people live without normal societal restraints.
The following morning is spent wandering around town, killing time until Rick shows. Much to my chagrin, nothing remotely freaky happens on the street, at the food-stalls, or in the Internet cafe. When he finally turns up, I’m ready to head out and look for trouble. Luckily, so is he.
Our first stop is Happy Herbs Pizza – a national landmark noted even in the guidebooks. Its fame stems from the happy ‘herbs’ used in the sauce. Not sure what to expect, we throw caution to the wind and order two 'very happy' pizzas. As hoped for, they arrive riddled through and through with Ganja. Rick suspects there may also be some shrooms in the sauce but I’m not so sure. When finished, before the THC or Fungus has a chance to take hold, we decide to retreat to the Foreign Correspondents’ Club – just a block away.
By now, the sun’s setting, the heat’s letting up, and it’s turning into a nice evening. We’re in the touristy part of town so the shoeshine kids, the newspaper sellers, the trinket hawkers, and the other hustlers are out in full force. Luckily, their energy is diluted by Average-Joe-Cambodian, headed home after a hard day’s work.
When we reach the Foreign Correspondents’ Club, things are becoming a bit weird. We attribute our paranoia, mostly, to the fact that we don’t know if we’ll be permitted to stay. Rumor has it that only journalists and card-carrying members of the press are allowed in. It’s a very nice place, full of distinguished looking folks. Although we’ve pulled our finest clothes from the bottom of our packs, we probably look like what we are – wrinkled vagabonds.
As luck would have it, we get in and are allowed to roam around. By now, basic tasks like standing have become challenging but the decorations are so interesting I persevere on principle. Framed articles from the New York Times, Herald Tribune, Boston Globe, etc. adorn the walls – each recounting a piece of Cambodia’s all too horrifying, all too recent past. One in particular recounts how Vietnamese, American, and Khmer (in particular) forces wiped out nearly 20% of the population from 1973-1993. Jesus, I say to no one in particular; it’s a wonder this place isn’t even more fucked up.
While pondering this, I become aware that I’ve lost Rick. A quick scan of the premises turns up nothing but paranoia. Fuck, they’ve probably discovered we don’t belong here and have thrown him out. Maybe they are holding him? Just as I’m preparing to flee, I catch sight of Rick kicking back in a large leather armchair by the porch.
“What’s up my man? How ya doing?”
“Pretty good, it’s just difficult being around people right. I actually feel alert and mentally focused but my body’s tingling all over and I seem to have lost control of my motor skills. I’d really like to just chill here and relax – ya know?”
“Yhep”
“We’ve got a pretty cute waitress. I’ve ordered some coffee.”
“Perfect.”
Rick’s a buddy from San Francisco {See Picture} who just began traveling the world. As I’ve recently learned, his plans hinge on the US Government’s Unemployment Agency's belief that he's currently in the States gamefully seeking employment. During the two weeks we’ve traveled together, his raw enthusiasm has provided a nice counterweight to my road weary cynicism and we’ve become better travel companions than I could have imagined.
When we’re not out looking for trouble, we tend to pass the time playing chess or discussing politics. Although we’re closely matched chess adversaries, we couldn’t be more different when it comes to politics. Rick describes himself as a cross between a fiscally conservative Republican and a Libertarian. (Something tells me his unemployment scam doesn't gels with these affiliations)
Moments after our coffee arrives we inevitably fall into our usual Bill Clinton (I love him; Rick thinks he’s a slimy bastard) vs. George W. Bush (Rick adores him; I find him a dangerously incompetent nit wit) discussion. The problem with Rick is that he’s smart and ultra informed in a Rush Limbaugh sort of way. Luckily, I’m arguing on the side of the truth and, as such, don’t need to develop convoluted logic to cover my weak spots. Plus, I’m always holding a Trump Card for moments when it seems I may be down and out – the Environment.
After debating the National Missile Defense System and the Bush Administration’s reaction to the Chinese spy plane crisis, we decide to table our differences and bid the Foreign Correspondents’ Club good-bye. With 3 cups of coffee surging through my veins, I feel capable of moving.
Outside it’s pitch black and getting darker. Things have changed big time. These streets, which were pulsing with life only a few hours ago, have become downright frightening, spooky even. It’s as if anyone even remotely related to Average-Joe-Cambodian has gone home, abandoned the night to the freaks and weirdoes.
A one-legged man hobbles toward us with an outstretched hand. I think he’s missing a large part of his hand or at least a few fingers but I can’t bring myself to look at his stump. Instead, I fake right, stutter step left, and am by him. Now I’m face to face with the Elephant Man’s little sister.
At this point I begin to question my desire to extend the evening. I have half a mind (Angelic) to give up, throw in the towel, and return home safely. The other half of my mind (Demonic) realizes that this being my last night in Phnom Phen, it’s now or never – it understands that, for some reason, I have to make it count, justify all of it by pushing things just a bit further.
One thing’s for sure; I want away from this freak street ASAP. Following Rick’s lead, I hop onto the back of an awaiting motorcycle-taxi. Before my driver has the chance to fire up and pull out, the girls on an adjacent scooter inform me that, should I be so inclined, it’s $5 each or $8 for them both. Before I have the opportunity to fully comprehend their offer or to decide what I want to do with the evening, we’re off – weaving in and out of traffic – speeding toward the Heart of Darkness.
And so I find myself seated next to Rick, saddled up to the bar, throwing back a jumbo Tiger beer. At first glance, I’m a bit disappointed. The infamous Heart of Darkness Bar has no discernable link to Conrad’s novel or Ford Coppola’s epic. It appears to be little more than a cavernous box of a space with a pool table, a bar, and few tables haphazardly strewn about. Orange and Black are the predominant colors – giving the place a Haloween-ish feel. This may be intended, I reason, judging by the all-female staff’s attire (tennis pro, sultry stripper, bondage and pleather S&M gal, etc, etc). It’s a safe bet that most of the employees do more than tend bar and fetch drinks.
My attention now turns to the patrons - who aren’t that far from the sort you’d find in a second tier stateside strip club. The vast majority are older men of European descent – men who have clearly passed their prime. There are a few Caucasian women in the joint but they are probably here to fulfill their curiosity or along to humor their boyfriends / spouses.
Strangely, there are very few guys under 30 but this is a good thing because, while we’re far from impossibly attractive, we’re definitely the cream of the crop tonight.
The beer, my first of the night, is ice cold and delicious. It’s not doing much to counteract my happy herbal buzz but I’m not sure I want it to. I’m pretty content just kicking it and taking in the scene, which, I’m beginning to gather, has nothing to do with the decorations and everything to do with the employees. From what I can tell, none are the dried up abused type you’d imagine or even the juvenile junkies you’d fear. Instead, they appear attractive and energetic – to have been selected for their actual enjoyment of the job, or at the very least, their skill at faking it. Regardless, they couldn’t possibly have spent the day chained up in the basement.
By now, two employees who can only be described as Naughty School Girls are inching closer to us – gyrating to the 80’s pop blaring from the underpowered sound system. Unlike their place of employment, these ladies have put effort into their appearance. Identically matched in tight white Oxfords, plaid skirts, white socks, and pigtails, they strike quite a pose. To top it off, they’re pretty good dancers and seem to have taken a liking to Rick and me. Soon enough they are next to us, rubbing against us, attempting to communicate. Thing is, they have an odd way of conveying their thoughts – sign language or, more accurately, some primitive attempt at it. No sounds whatsoever come from their mouths. Whether they are truly unable to speak or have developed this strategy as a competitive advantage, it really doesn’t matter. Either way it’s deranged – totally whacked. Worse still, I find myself mentally undressing this 5 foot 7, super leggy, all but 19 year old girl standing in front of me – the mute/dumb one suggestively tugging at the white socks she’s slowly pulling up to her knees.
The pizza, combined with the beers I’ve sucked down, seem to have dissolved my focus, broken my resolve. My Angel screams out,
“Come on Philippe! Wake up and get out of here!”
Knowing she’s right, I start to motivate. The trick, I realize, is to quit drinking, find the bartender, pay up before –
“Thank you”
Rick’s gotten another jumbo beer and has been kind enough to get me one too.
“Cheers Bro”
“Cheers”
When I turn back to the Catholic School Girl Temptress, the illusion is broken. I’m now borderline bored by her little pantomime routine so I shift my attention back to the bar – but the danger is still there – in fact, it’s everywhere. By now, girls clearly outnumber the patrons and more are streaming through the door every second. (I’ll later learn that these entrepreneurs have left their primary places of employment <go-go clubs, restaurants, brothels> to do a little freelancing in quasi-legitimate spots like this). Bar owners are all too happy to let these independent contractors mill around. Once they enter the establishment, drinks sales skyrocket as the men who are all but assured success gather the liquid courage to try.
Scores of girls looking to have sex for a couple of dollars creates an energy that goes way beyond anything I have ever witnessed. Two girls who’ve been competing for Rick appear to be seconds away from throwing blows.
Rock Stars don’t have it this good!
This is great! I mean this is bad, very very bad. Jesus, I have to get out of here soon – the moment I finish my drink I’m outta here, gone.
This is when I notice her noticing me. Porn Goddess is walking toward me, holding my gaze. Her confidence is a bit unnerving.
Her eyes have plans.
Naughty School Girl doesn’t even put up a fight – she knows she’s out-classed. This girl would intimidate Heidi Klum. She radiates Sex. Pheromones spill from her pores. If she were to reside in the States, chances are good she’d be dating Lenny Kravitz.
For the first time this evening my mind is blank – blood is rushing to other parts. I can’t just run out of here. For some reason I have to impress this woman – make her understand just how cool I am. But I’m nervous.
Holding my composure I try to chat her up. Her English is perfect and her comments surprisingly witty. The more we talk the more I’m impressed. Are we flirting?
There is no way this girl is a hooker. She’s probably a Khmer super model or an actual film star who’s dropped by, for the first time, to have drinks with friends. Yeah, that’s it. I can tell these things.
She says “Philippe”
She says “Listen”
She says “I like you”
She says “Come here”
Each time she speaks, she leans ever so close and whispers in my ear. Her breath makes me think of her mouth makes me think of her moaning/singing/screaming/ my name.
Bubble baths, belly laughs, butterflies, walks in the park, pillow fights, headboards, sweat, stand up showers...
My thoughts branch into a flow chart of the possibilities.
The angel on my shoulder has let things go to far. Instead of a pinch, she kicks me, hard. “Wake the hell up Stupid. Do you have any idea how prevalent AIDS is here in Cambodia? Well, do you?? It’s beginning to give Haiti a run for its money!”
"Ok, ok", I acknowledge, "you’re right".
Glancing to Rick for some support, I realize I’m on my own. He’s grinning from ear to ear, locked into some sort of patty-cake game with an Asian Anna Kornakova.
”Alright, Alright, I’m going to do the right thing, be a man, and end it like one.”
Marshalling my forces, I look my little Porn Goddess in the eye and deliver my most sincere line of the evening.
“There is nothing I’d rather do that sex you up...but...it’s just not going to happen.”
“Why”
- Because there is a real possibility I’d like it too much.
- Because all this is way too easy and would likely spin wildly out of control.
- Because I don’t want to wind up like one of the brothel-bunch back at Simon’s Guesthouse.
- Because, years from now, I don’t want my parents to bring my 90 pound, HIV riddled frame back to the States so that I can begin the latest drug cocktail.
I consider telling her all this but of course I don’t. Where would the fun be? Instead, I raise an eyebrow for effect, motion for her to come closer, and whisper,
“Because you’d like it too much.”
Judging by her expression, I guess this is a new one for her.
Pretty satisfied with myself, I lean back, take a slow sip of my beer, and watch her.
I’m so witty.
Her response makes it clear that my point isn’t all that clever, that I’ve underestimated her, or both. In a confident, competent, voice she replies,
“You wanna bet”
Jesus, she’s just found my weak spot – touched my competitive nerve.
Disgusted with the job the Devil’s done thus far, Colonel Kurtz rears his ugly head.
“This is obscene! You’re pathetic! The Horror! The Horror! How dare you stand around playing these panzie ass word games with this nubile young sex machine? What the hell kind of man are you?”
Instead of helping me finesse my way out of the situation, he’s encouraging me to consider the possibilities, which are now snapping through my head like cheap porn flash cards. He’s imagining something similar to Angel Heart’s Roark / Bonnet chicken blood scene.
“Do you realize that for the price of a McDonald's Extra-Value Meal, you could, right now, be locked in a sweaty coital embrace with this WOMAN? Hell, instead of Super-Sizing, I’ll bet you could convince the two mute girls to come along and watch!!”
As Kurtz and the Angel battle it out, I do what any man faced with such a situation would – order another drink.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Umph…Uhh…Urgh!!
Dry lips smack.
Crusty eyes open slowly and look around.
My mind races to focus / remember / understand.
I’m in a room…my bags are here…it’s Simons Guesthouse…I’m a bit hungover but alone – Yes Alone and thus still STD free! Hallelulja!! Good God Almighty!!!
Jesus H. Christ, that was a close one!
{Sorry, no pictures - I didn't think to bring out my camera}
Over breakfast I learn Rick’s in the same boat – The S.S. Frustration. Our sobriety combined with last night’s all too close call negates anything remotely involving girls. So what next?
Some sort of violence of course.
Notions of a Hemingway-ish fight are immediately disregarded. Who the hell knows what could happen in a society as lawless as this?
No, instead we settle on a trip to the Russian Market and ‘The Range’.
Like so many other places in Phnom Phen, this one has it’s own freaky twist – virtually anything can be picked up for the right price. For the hell of it I begin to look for, and price, the most interesting items I can find:
- CDs (from Miles Davis to Morcheeba) = $2
- Pig Heart = $1.40
- Used Motorcycle Frame = $25
- Handcuffs = $6
- Lunch for 2 = 66 cents
- Embroidered Table cloth = $4
- Faux North Face Full Size Backpack = $10
- Landmine (used for fishing) = $15
A fluency in Khmer coupled with a methodical inspection would undoubtedly turn up items far more bizarre than our loose and lazy search but it’s time to go.
Off to ‘The Range’.
A few kilometers past the airport, our taxi pulls into a functioning Cambodian Paratrooper Base. It looks a bit like the P.O.W. camp Rambo visits in First Blood Part II. As we enter the firing range, two highly aggressive Dobermans tethered to a flimsy looking stake greet us. Covering a sidewall and strewn about in a seemingly careless manner are the ‘toys’ we’ve come to play with. Seeing as there’s no one around, we’re not sure what to do. Nothing’s ever entirely clear in Cambodia; that’s part of this place’s charm.
As I’m about to pick up a K57 (Russian Tank Mounted Machine Gun), Boontin, the paratrooper apparently in charge, emerges from a back room, introduces himself, and guides us over to the waiting area. All of 25 years old {See Picture}, he’s super fit and dressed in dark fatigues. Luckily, for us, he possesses a friendly disposition and speaks English fluently.
On both of the waiting room tables are laminated menus {See Picture} and a selection of soft drinks and beers. Considering what we’re about to do, something tells me that alcohol may not be a wise choice.
Sipping an Orange Fanta, I scan the menu and become immediately discouraged. Their signature special, what we came here for, is priced roughly ten times higher than expected. When you’re spending $2 / night on lodging, $400 is way out of your ballpark – for anything.
Not to worry, bargaining is part of the deal over here.
For the next 5 or so minutes, Boontin and I negotiate. Zig Ziggler would be proud – I employ every one of his influencing techniques. Unfortunately, Boontin has a price floor and can’t be convinced to move below it.
$200. That’s $100 to fire the Bazooka and $100 for them to drag out a live cow as the target (no shit). Even with his generous discount, $200 is way out of our consideration set.
“Shit dude, what do you want to do? I didn’t come all the way out here just to turn around.”
Back to the menu where I settle on an AK-47, a 25-round clip, and a paper target for $20 (see picture). Rick has opted for the free beer. He’s noticeably disappointed by the Bazooka price spike and claims to have shot most of the other guns. The AK’s a lot of fun and has quite a kick (about that of a 12-gauge for EACH shot) but when it’s all said and done, thoughts of my little Porn Goddess still dance through my head.
Back to the menu where I find a grenade for the bargain price of $20. The thought of handling a live hand grenade is a bit scary but it’s a once in a lifetime opportunity – one that can only enhance whatever story I end up writing.
On our walk to where ever we’ll be playing with the thing, I explain to Boontin that I’m very attached to my limbs. In response, he unscrews the timing device (pin, fuse, and spoon), separating it from the grenade’s core and tosses it to me (See Picture). This is not the assurance I was seeking. Since he appears (appeared) to be a pretty sharp guy and because he’s holding the dangerous looking part of the apparatus (the core) I gather, correctly, that in this state, the thing is unarmed and harmless.
a.) Thrown it back – doubtful
b.) Dropped it and run – maybe
c.) Jumped on it like a hero – fuck no
d.) Cried and peed on myself – probably
“This thing’s only got a 5 second fuse. Do you want to experience the effects of shrapnel as the grenade explodes above the water?”
“Nope”
“Ok then”
I start to perspire heavily, my hands are wet rags.
“It’s also important that you hold the grenade and spoon firmly. When you pull the pin, nothing will happen as long as your grip is good. Once you release/throw it, the spoon will ‘pop’ away from the grenade, ignite the fuse, and start the 5-second countdown. Got it?”
“I think so.”
“Good.”
I wipe my right hand on my shorts, look Boontin in the eye, and take the thing from him. My breath is quick and heavy. My heart is pounding through my chest.
If I think about this too much I may well psyche myself out and fuck it all up. If I do fuck it up, my only wish is that I die – immediately.
Two deep breaths and another look into Boontin’s eyes. I pull the pin; throw the fucking thing into the pond (See Picture), run like a girl, and wait. After what feels like an eternity, the ground shakes with an enormous thud. The sound is all bass and it’s massive, invasive; it vibrates through my body like I can only imagine a shockwave could.
I uncover my eyes and stare at the water. A few bubbles and a slight disturbance – not unlike an Olympic diver’s wake – can be seen. But that’s all.
Surely something more is going to happen. Something needs to happen, something huge, something out of The A-Team – water exploding and flying through the air / a massive depth charge scene emptying out the pond – maybe an errant piece of shrapnel that gets close, but not too close, just close enough to tear off a nearby tree limb.
Somehow I feel cheated.
Then I look at my hands (trembling) and my shirt (soaked with sweat and stuck to my chest).
My Angel uses this opportunity to inform me that:
1.) Colonel Kurtz has been beaten to a pulp and cried uncle.
2.) Beginning now, there will be some major changes in my behavior.
3.) We’re going to start by getting the hell out of Phnom Phen.
Cheers My Friends,
Philippe