Desmond, an accidental English-language expat, approximately Gen WTF, came to Phnom Penh to work at an NGO that went belly-up while he was in the air, and he now keeps himself afloat in the city, day after day, week after week, without really knowing how. After borrowing too much money from too many acquaintances, he has finally landed himself a job. Will he find himself, or will he continue to search for reverse in this borrowed car of a life he’s stalled in? Is the answer really in the bottom of the next glass, or what? Watch from the sidelines as Desmond gives 110% commitment in Penh-dacity II: Bong, James Bong. Now read on.
Snuck: a bar, with fresh-looking paintwork. To the left of the main doorway, you can see an abandoned plastic bag that once held sugarcane juice sprawled limply in the breezeless street, the straw pointing awkwardly into a bright sky that was as oppressive as it was clear. Inside, the high-ceilinged interior suggested airiness but failed to deliver. Draped across the counter, both staff sprawled limply in sack-like orange-brown uniforms, in front of smartphones, only their thumbs and eyeballs moving.
Desmond, resplendent in short-sleeved white shirt and red-and-blue striped tie, descended into the bar in a wobbly fashion, wondering as he often did these days when it was the promised mango rains would come so that these temperatures could be pulled down to a reasonable level, somewhere at least slightly above Living Hell.
He took his usual seat under the best of the air-conditioners and sweated quietly to himself, absently rearranging icons on his own smartphone. The ancient unit was mostly ineffective, but it made a cool-sounding whooshing noise that was better than nothing. Eventually he gathered some strength and raised a question that had begun to occur to him since sitting down.
“Where is Bong Phany?” Sophea ignored him but Sopheak managed to peep: “He go drink shop, no have Ricard.” The heat silenced all further comment. Desmond calculated how much effort it would take to encourage Sopheak to make him Coca-with-lots-of-ice or whether to do it himself. On the other hand, Phany would be back shortly.
Since his last adventures in these pages, our hero had found himself suffering even more acute cashflow and debt issues. On more than one occasion he’d had to exit a bar when he saw one of his creditors. Then the building he was living in was suddenly turned into a building site, with barefoot skinny labourers padding up and down the stairs from 6am, seven days a week, to hang from bamboo scaffolding tied loosely into place in order to put build an extra floor or two into the vacant space above his apartment. Desperate, he took up an offer from his mentor-of-a-kind Hank, a mysterious figure who, among other things, part-owned a recently opened bar.
Desmond’s mission, that he chose to accept, was to be live-in security and staff overseer in exchange for a paltry monthly wage, a limited bar tab, free wifi and an air-conditioned apartment. The apartment turned out to be an empty room with a smelly mattress and a view of a brick wall, but it did have an air-conditioner, which was actually far better than the ones in the bar. His job, in the end, didn’t amount to much more than sleeping on the premises, because Phany did everything already.
Desmond subtly tried to tell this to Hank after a few weeks in the position. “Yes, I know, Desi old bean, I know. The place runs itself. But Sambath is very keen on having a big-nose on the ground. Says it encourages other big-noses to come in. You’ll be surprised how much you learn, I’ll wager. Just keep on, put on the tie every day and sit there for a few hours and jump whenever Sambath says jump.” Sambath, Hank’s partner, as Desmond had already found, liked to say jump. Five-foot-nothing worth of muscle, he lived on Red Bull and rice, was well connected and privately funded. He was decisive about all matters, forgot everything immediately after it was agreed, and lit up every room with his constantly surprised ‘Ha!’ laugh.
Back in the present, Desmond’s phone burped. Belinda, his first Phnom Penh friend and confidante, was resuming their efforts to arrange to meet, which had been going on for weeks now. ‘Tonight definitely maybe,’ he tapped in reply. ‘But in this town of course who knows what might happen.’
And that, of course, was the moment when Sambath walked in and who knows what did happen. Sophea and Sopheak slowly slithered into a standing position as the big boss walked straight up to the counter followed by a tall, gold-chained, tousled-haired, somewhat stooped and unshaven individual. “Hey, Mr Desi-mond. Come over here, you meet my new friend, big star man.”
Slowly slithering himself, Desmond crossed the room, allowing himself some curiosity. “Here, this is Mr Desi-mond, my man with a right hand. He run this whole place!” said Sambath to the stranger. The stranger looked about him, unimpressed. “Mr Desi-mond, this James Bong.” “James Bond?” queried Desmond. “Bonne. James Bonne,” said James Bonne, testily.
Continues next week