Our hero (or anti-hero, if you prefer – things being all postmodern/postcolonial and such) Desmond has been drinking and vomiting and being interrogated on a sunset boat cruise on the Tonle Sap with a bunch of drunken expats and backpackers… which normally would be just his kind of thing. But he’s carrying an important backpack belonging to his friend Hank and the interrogation is by an American journalist. She’s still asking what he’s doing later, so he maintains his optimism. Now read on for the eighth part of our exclusive fiction series by Guillermo Wheremount.
The Phnom Penh night had fallen, the riverside had exploded into twinkly lights and Sisowath Quay was a lithe shining serpent of traffic. The Rose Petal Flower Love of the River Mekong surged its way back to the dock and the evening cruise was over. The beer T-shirts and ankle tattoos and nose rings all drunkenly balanced their way down the narrow plank and headed up to the tuk tuks.
Desmond followed, having been assured everyone was going for barbecue, and he was definitely in favour of this, his stomach being fuller of beer than anything else. By using the dubious old trick taught him by his grandfather (“Just run with the flow of the crowd, keep yourself behind the loudest voice,”) Desmond found himself wedged into a tuk tuk with a minor United Nations of passengers – some kind of African, two kinds of Europeans, a South American and Clarissa from Seattle, while one strident Canadian aggressively negotiated the driver down from three dollars to two.
They disembarked a few blocks later at a barbecue restaurant that spilled out into the pavement, where previously arrived tuk tuks had already deposited a seething mass of limbs and haircuts and armpits onto a collection of small plastic chairs around a hastily arranged long table for two-dozen oversized diners. Desmond settled in somewhere a few too many seats away from Clarissa, the bag between his knees, and poured beer into a glass of ice.
“But I really wanted an authentic experience, you know?” “Yes, I’m taking lessons from a lovely little man…” “I’m sorry. Can I see the vegetarian menu? Is the soup made with animal stock or…?” “Try Russian market.” “No, I don’t want to buy any of your books, thank you. And you should be getting a good night’s sleep so you can concentrate at school tomorrow.” “Hey, do we know if the lettuce is organic?” “So I’m looking for a place on my own, you know, but I don’t like the idea of having a whole family living downstairs and watching me all the time.”
“I can’t decide whether to go to Sihanoukville or Siem Reap next.” “You shouldn’t visit orphanages, you know, it’s bad, I read about it…” “And it was so cheap!” “Yes, but this one is different; it’s run by a proper NGO.” “Have you tried spiders yet?” “Has anyone found diet tonic water anywhere? I keep looking and it doesn’t seem to be stocked by anyone.” “Really? Can you give me an introduction? I’d love to visit. You know, for a really authentic experience.”
Not soon enough, Desmond saw a familiar face across the street and there was a chance to show how integrated he was with the local population. With a quick ‘I’ll be back’ glance at Clarissa, which she didn’t even notice, he ambled over and soksabayed Vuthy, Hank’s regular tuk tuk driver, who had more than once been his transport home in the middle of the night.
“Hello my friend,” said the broadly smiling driver from the back seat of the vehicle. “Did you eat yet?” “Not yet. Just waiting for my friends to order. First they want to talk.” “You drink beer instead!” “Yes, good idea. How are you?” Vuthy raised his arms above his head in some kind of stretching gesture. “Oh my goodness, not so good today. No people, no money. Mr Hank, he have a bag just like that one.” “Yes, he asked me to look after it while he’s in Bangkok.” “When he go Bangkok?” “This afternoon.” “No, he no go Bangkok today. I just take him visit his girlfriend at X-Ray-X Bar.” “Really?”
The ground began to move under Desmond’s feet, spinning into a new orientation where he was being deceived and, as Clarissa had pointed out, possibly being placed in grave danger. Or maybe it was the Scandinavian snacks coming in a second wave. “Maybe at 5 o’clock. Maybe he still there. I take you there?” “No, it’s OK. I’ll call him. Thanks,” Desmond said weakly and turned away.
He stood in the middle of the street, waiting for Hank to pick up. No answer. And again. And again. Slowly Desmond began to move, stumbling into a slow-motion montage-like state, as if it was at the conclusion of 55 minutes’ worth of a major television drama series finale, walking expressively to the soundtrack of a throbbingly emotional vocal overlaid with slide guitar and a quivering saxophone and bonus gospel choir… defying his guardian angels to save him as he went.
The blurt of the horn of an SUV nudged him off the middle of the road, closer to the pavement, but otherwise he continued dazed trudging in a daze, into the night.
Continues next week