So I’ve been thinking about moving to Mondulkiri. One of those humble, cottage-type set-ups in the forest with a pet goat and freshly planted beer garden. But now I’m wondering if being overwhelmed by mould would be considered a quietly noble death. Not from, like, internal yeast or anything. No, no. Wall mould.
Can you pre-medicate against the threat of fungification? It’s too hot here to be hammock-bound in an ebola-chic hazchem suit, and attempting to scrub at it would be like headbutting a hornets’ nest – all those angry, activated air-borne spores buzzing about, looking for a landing site in my lungs. Safer to just pop down to the friendly Chinese pill emporium and purchase some chemical prophylactics.
The problem is my Mandarin is a little rusty. And the last English-labelled imports I bought had ‘Only to be sold in Cambodia and Bangladesh’ written on the back, which is rather counterproductive for a packet of anti-anxiety drugs. I suppose I could just blind-select a pick ‘n’ mix goodie bag and one of the random meds might keep me mould-safe, while my mouth fills with foamy blood-bubbles from an imploding liver. Surely can’t do any greater hepatic harm than whatever I do to it myself most days of the week.
And while I’m there I can pick up some extra mystery packs to empty into a lucky dip bowl for the guests at my cottage-warming party. The Cialis Dude might fortuitously hit it off with the Rohypnol Chick. Though I can picture it now: the boring guy next to me complaining that his expectorant hasn’t come on, just before Immunosuppressant Girl dampens the vibe by dying on the spot from my unattended black-rot.
It’s easy to forget the pharmaceutical luxuries of life in Cambodia. Australian Customs recently fined me for some un-prescribed sleeping pills stowed away in my luggage. I considered swallowing the evidence, but if those bullied-kid officials are willing to stick a finger up your arse while you’re conscious, image what they might get up to if you were knocked out on a bucketful of benzos. Cambodia, on the other hand, cleverly offers up prescription-free candy shops to counter its incompetent medical care.
But the pharma free-for-all can become a bit of a problem when coupled with an expat paranoia over the exotic third-world pathogens lurking alongside the country’s first-world internet access. Since residing in the Kingdom I’ve been self-diagnosed and do-it-yourself treated for an embarrassing case of restless-leg syndrome, encephalitic West Nile Virus, an anaplastic astrocytoma or two, and a suspected clump of ingrown oesophagus-cilia which was really a soggy grain of basmati that had spelunked its way to that mysterious cavern at the back of the tonsil-flaps before being finally hacked to safety.
I also once symptom-clicked myself to a positive gout verdict after my full-blooded Khmer doctor helpfully diagnosed a steadily ballooning leg as muscle cramp. That imperialistic cankle, however, turned out to be a genuinely life-threatening potential thromboembolism that required urgent staring down with a series of blood-thinning beer towers and a special pair of stockings. My own mini-Oktoberfest.
It also earned me an ultrasound. And naturally, when the sonographer’s back was turned for a sec to fetch me a lollipop, I of course rubbed my belly in lube to take a peek at my inner pulp-mass of post-masticated Mr Potato Chips. That’s when I met Patrick, the Postcolonial Tape-worm. The internet suggests Patrick’s ammonia-laced effluent may be causing my paranoia, while in the very same breath stating that he’s almost certainly been laying little egg sacs in my neo-cortex.
But the biggest issue with self-diagnostic websites is that I always fit the profile, no matter what I type in; smoking contributes to absolutely every conceivable ailment, while irritability and irregular bowel movements are almost universal symptoms. One second I’m annoyed that I can’t take a shit, and a few key-strokes later, all signs point to sudden infant death syndrome.
Stress is another all-too-common factor. Smoking and stress. Causes everything. But one can’t help getting worked up reading such scaremongering and so you light up to deal with the tension and sure enough you’re soon coughing away in confirmation of that suspected tuberculosis contraction. You just can’t escape the self-fulfilling psychosomatic suggestiveness of it all. Are you suffering from uterus pain? Gee, digital doc, now that you mention it…
According to the Victims of Mould Support Group on Facebook, exposure can lead to suicidal thoughts. But it’s not like my musings on succumbing to wall-scum mean I plan on feeding myself to the stuff for the sake of some aesthetically fatalistic Shakespearian departure. Then I wonder if such a death has ever been recorded among the many trillions to date. I could invent a new death. They would have to pick ‘other’ on the computer at the morgue until IT came by. Sacrificing my life in the name of invention sounds quietly noble.