If an emu shat on your head, you wouldn’t wipe it off with a sheet of A4, right? When it comes to dealing with those expats championing ad nauseum the local squirtatious methods of post-latrine hygiene, we’ve all heard analogies featuring an unfortunate fauna-faeces-human union followed by spiel on the lunacy of processed tree-pulp for the overprivileged. Am I also expected to dry my eyes with a water pistol when being bored to tears?
So, the great bum-gun debate of the ‘Bodge: wadded serviettes versus water streams. Trodden your custom Beaut’ Shoes in BKK poodle-doo? Where’s my copy of last week’s Advisor? Only joking. But then rinsing a spot of dog shite off your boot with a splash from the tap shouldn’t leave you nursing a nasty case of bacterial vaginosis or ballanital chancroids.
And there’s the sweaty crux: the admixing of communal hose-water with moist privates in a sticky-as-shit climate is predictably going to cause some unpleasant issues downstairs. Except for perhaps some of the patrons of Street 104, who among us would genuinely consider converting their crotch into a walking Petri-dish if it were put to them like that?
So, while male-misleading wet spots on couch cushions and chance encounters with water pressure enough to blast the clit off a moo-cow are certainly concerns, there are genuine issues that itchy trips to the corner store for counterfeit antibiotics aren’t going to fix.
There are also some words that I can barely bring myself to utter: ‘yeast’ and ‘discharge’ springing vividly to mind. But I have it on good authority from a super happy midget mate o’ mine that local expat lady folk are remedially abandoning knickers altogether (say ‘Hey!’ for me if you see him hanging around the Sorya escalators). On a personal note, I’d imagined it would be a permanent deal when my pimply arse finally buggered off with my pubescence.
Toilet paper is our friend, especially the variety with dolphins and sea shells inexplicably printed on it. Only clowns choose to ride unicycles when there’s a Honda on offer. Yet this all said, I’m actually a proponent of the bum gun. You see, I’m of a convoluted East-meets-West routine that employs both water and roll. Fancy that. I just don’t feel the need to tell everyone about it. Well, didn’t until the Advisor offered me a can of Mr Potato chips to do precisely that.
The thing is I can’t help but notice a recent rapid-fire righteousness strafing the country’s restrooms, and suddenly it seems as though, in Cambodian expat circles, Kleenex is the Idi Amin of anal cleanliness. Graffiti addendum to a polite sign at one well-known expat haunt: ‘Just take away the paper and the idiots won’t block the toilet.’
OK, but note to publicans: I want to drink beer and you want to sell it to me. You also don’t want your dunny blocked. Fair enough.
But while some may think me prudish when it comes to my orificial effluence, how can you ever be sure if you’re upwind or downwind of a grizzly bear when leaving your scat-scent in an uncovered wastebasket? Bins with lids, please. And then maybe idiots won’t block your toilets. But, really, why such hostile latrinalia from punters not facing the plumbing bill?
The desire to be more local loiters in the shady netherworld of psychology, but that we expats all newly arrived in Cambodia at some point is a metaphysical fact. Ask Stephen Hawking. Bum-gun snobbery and dodgy street-food dining seem to be the favourite domains of the desperate-to-be-more-local crowd – subjects that tend to go hand in hand in the end. But I expect some of this fascism by arse-blasting enthusiasts is coming from those who may have once waded in with their own trepidation.
I’m comfortable enough to admit I still haven’t mastered the provincial pork-and-rice bus-stop squat with mosquito-breeding scoop bucket. Do you take off your pants entirely? And then what, bust out a downward-dog to outmanoeuvre Newton?
I plan my trips accordingly. Staying in Phnom Penh? Sure, brave the plea-sakou and pretend to be super local. But on the bus to Monduls tomorrow? Mac ‘n’ cheese tonight, please…