Byline: Rockefeller St Benard

Rockefeller Without Borders attended the recent 20^th-anniversary celebrations of Cambodia’s famed Brigade 70 military unit. OK, we weren’t actually invited per se, but we did have a really good view into the celebrations after our favourite popcorn-cart lady let us stand on the roof of her rig to peek in on the action. There certainly is something about expensive machinery that makes people get all giddy. All those salutes, speeches and back slaps. But a military tank parade? Really?! I mean, it just feels so 20^th century. Judging by the way my popcorn lady suddenly dropped everything she was doing to stare at traffic, the truly powerful know how to unleash a Rolls-Royce parade when a proper 21^st-century statement needs to be made (according to my watch, zero caramel popcorn traded hands for at least a minute). Sure, maybe a Bentley parade could work just as well or, I don’t know, a small cavalcade of ultra-pimped-out village pick-ups minus windscreens and doors.

The great thing about those power machines – especially the vampy vixen village vehicle (alliteration is an excellent way to sex-up the word ‘car’, isn’t it?) – is that you don’t even need a licence plate to drive them (nor an actual driver’s licence, for that matter). Just get in and feel the intercourse-induced therapy of throbbing thrusts (theoretically upon your thighs, but whatever). The true oknhas know the real meaning of prestigious parades. Now that Rolls-Royce has opened a dealership in Phnom Penh, it’s time they amp up their marketing and implement a strategy I call ‘Only Oknha’. The concept is simple: if you have the cash to buy a Rolls, you want to be treated with the respect of someone who has the cash to buy a Rolls, but what if Rolls-Royce took that respect a big step further? What if you could become the Rolls? You and the Rolls merging in natural man-machine harmony. Yes, I am talking about you, exclusively wrapped in rich Rolls leather and goblets of dashboard gold, the purr of your proud pistons announcing your arrival as the streets part like Moses’ Red Sea.

Think about it: a Rolls-Royce named after YOU! As it stands now, the Rolls-Royce Phantom or Ghost or Silver Spur is hardly a name an oknha wants to be associated with. Phantom and Ghost? Ahhh, hello! And silver? C’mon, Rolls-Royce Inc! Oknhas don’t hawk cheap jewellery on Riverside! If streets can be named after oknhas, cars can, too. Except the big difference is that people disrespect streets with their litter, bad behaviour and stale urine. You can’t disrespect a car named The Rolls-Royce Oknha X (replace ‘X’ with oknha name of choice). Oh, OK. Go on, all you non-oknha readers: try it for yourself! Enter your name and see how it feels to BE that car. Really be that Rolls! We are talking about being one-of-a-kind here. You, only you. Who doesn’t want to be one-of-a-kind, right? I put that theory to test with my favourite popcorn lady who smiled and whispered: “Yes, I like that, bong. You can call me ‘Caramel’.” I chuckled (nervously), took a handful of caramel and continued watching the tanks on parade, dreaming about The Rolls-Royce Oknha Rockefeller St Bernard and the parting of my very own seas. Even a few murmurs along the Mekong will do…

The increased popularity of reality television in Cambodia is rather alarming. Not because Rockefeller dislikes reality TV. Not at all. In fact I love, among a long list of other things, watching people sing and dance their way to success. But labelling a show ‘reality’ is giving producers of these shows a free pass to make a programme about literally anything. That is dangerous. Even my faithful assistant Ricardo is in on it. Just yesterday he was telling me he would like to make a reality show about people who have great ideas about how to do absolutely nothing at work all day but skilfully make it look like they are actually doing a lot at work all day. He even has a name for this show: Working Well. Not sure if this idea of his should be cause for concern, but I do appreciate his creative thinking and want to encourage further investigation of what it takes to do nothing all day.

Speaking of inspiring, a couple of Cambodia’s recent success stories might just be the catalyst for some really inspiring reality programming one day. Namely Sorn Seavmey, the teenage taekwondo gold medal winner who was handed the keys to the government, and the two reformed computer hackers who are now employed by the government. Pretty simple to summarise where I see their skills being put to use on television:the former is famous for kicking ass and the latter two for exposing ass. Reality television likes a lot of both; I shall let you decide what you want to tune into. We probably have America to blame for our lust for this kind of television. Somehow they have created hugely successful programmes that feature such things as hillbillies hunting ducks, kids named Boo Boo, and the trials and tribulations of a Los Angeles family with marginal talent who use TV to promote their marginal talent (thus sticking close to the definition of ‘reality’, I suppose).

It would be irresponsible of Rockefeller Without Borders to not suggest a few ideas for responsible reality television. Shows that will speak to the nation in ways an American show would not (or could not). The first idea I’m currently working on would feature tuk tuk drivers who can read minds. I know they are out there! I am specifically referring to those drivers who know exactly when you do NOT need a tuk tuk. I Won’t Ask Because I Can Tell would immediately have a wide audience – and yes, probably also inspire a community of more likeminded mind readers.

Then there is the competitive reality show featuring daring moto drivers who have no fear of trying to carry cargo that goes way beyond their actual carrying capacity. I Dare You To Carry That would be an instant hit with anyone who has ever thought about carrying, I don’t know, a massive plate glass window and two passengers while weaving through traffic on Monivong. OK, I admit it: he will forever be my moto carrying hero. And kids, just because I labelled him a ‘hero’ does not in any way mean I’m encouraging you to try that one on your own. That driver was a trained professional!

Finally, this show is probably going to be slightly harder to produce, but I’m now in discussions with a small team of writers who swear it can be done (you see, reality television does cure delusional behaviour!). I’m talking, of course, about Canine Chorus, the show that finds street dogs who can bark in rhythmical ambient tones at 3am thereby promoting deep sleep and really fantastic dreams. Auditions have already started in my neighbourhood. I’m hopeful that cantankerous one with the monthly litter will turn her skills at terrorising street scavengers into a tune that will make even the construction workers feel like they are resting on a bed of feathers. You are so right, Ricardo: with reality television, we are all ‘Working Well’.

With the refugee deal between Cambodia and Australia now officially complete, a lot of questions surround‘what now’? Rockefeller Without Borders has been following this story closely and would like to assure those critics whom Australian Immigration Minister Scott Morrison labeled the “chardonnay chorus” that everything will be just fine. In fact, if you would prefer to be labeled the ‘Shiraz chorus’ or even something non-alcoholic, he’d be fine with that too. With $35 million on the table to help ensure the smooth delivery of these homeless people to our shores, it doesn’t take a math whiz to figure out that kind of cash can certainly throw a good ‘welcome to the neighbourhood’ party. We might even invite Mr Morrison. Doubtful he could attend, though; he’ll surely be too busy helping the new arrivals pack for their voyage from the Australian-run detention centre on the Pacific island of Nauru (“Five pairs of clean underwear, people, and don’t forget a good hat and some sunscreen.)It is important to remember this is a ‘voluntary resettlement’, so nobody will be forced to go anywhere. Some of the refugees are reportedly excited at the prospects; within minutes of the signing, popular Google searches from Nauru registered things like: ‘Fun stuff to do in Australia when you’re actually going to Cambodia.’

I remember when I moved into an oldflat in unnamed Western country(hint: a place with lots of people called Billor Kathleen), my neighbours – including Bill and Kathleen – all stopped by with baked goods to welcome me. It goes without saying that the same will be done for the first refugee arrivals to Cambodia later this year. It might not be baked goods, though. It could be dried buffalo meat. Remember, these people have survived on little more than Nauru fish for months (which, of course, goes great with chardonnay, so please understand Mr Morrison’s logic); they will appreciate a goody bag loaded with buffalo jerky from Street 19 and a few scones from Java Café – bought after 8pm of course (50% discount, people! We are not going to do anything questionable with this repatriation money; all receipts accounted for).

The great news is none of these Naurunians will arrive on Cambodian soil without first getting a series of lessons froma team of officials sent to the island to teach them aboutCambodia, the culture, the language and the people – and, I assume, the rules against cheating on history and geography tests. As for the numbers of arrivals, Mr Morrison clearly drank too much chardonnay when he said there would be 1,000 who would happily take up the offer. A number that differs rather wildly from the ‘hundred or something’that the Cambodian Interior Ministry has stated.

Anyway, let’s not bicker over numbers and instead start planning that great welcoming party.  We have 35 million bucks, baby! Surely when the news gets back to Nauru that we’re planning something special, all those tanning and fishing doubters will book their place on the good ship Resettlement without even giving it a secondthought. Call me selfish, but I just hope they show some gratitude for the welcoming. Yes, gifts of any sort would be nice. I can see the souvenir now: ‘My refugee friend came from Nauru and all I got was this lousy t-shirt.’

Gotta go, trying to write an appropriate welcoming tune for our didn’t-quite-make-it-to-Australia Naurunians; a song to be sung by our fun-loving Australian expat community that will make it feel like they’ve landed in Canberra, not Cambodia. Now I just need a clever word for the chorus that rhymes with‘fair dinkum’.

The Rockefeller Without Borders charter clearly states that ‘we must keep up with everything that has anything to do with anything (and everything)’. As such, we here at ‘The Rock’ (any similarities with the Phnom Penh karaoke bar of the same name are purely coincidental) intelligently carry a smartphone and regularly inject titanium-grade bionics into our thumbs, giving us the ability to type and browse at warp speed.

But despite our high-pace race to know and grow, I, Rockefeller, am often reminded that we are already way ahead on things that others can only pretend to know. Yes, I am sharing the love right now, Cambodia. We, the Cambodia family (pause and hug the stranger next to you), are beating the big tech companies at their own game. We know more than they know! (#WKMTTK). To understand this, look no further than the mega-sized monoliths called Google and Baidu. Companies so cashed up, their CEOs’ monthly lunch budgets would provide us all with a lifetime supply of free amok.

Among their many egregious boasts has been the shameless promotion of the so-called ‘self-driving car’. Self-drive: sit back and let the vehicle drive itself, or, as Baidu says, “Unless the driver chooses to take over.” Apparently we can expect to see these cars on the streets very soon. Ah, excuse me, big tech corporation know-it-alls: those self-driving cars have been on the streets of Phnom Penh for years! We are the self-driving masters and we have no need to ever let anything such as an actual driver take over. Why should we?

Let’s start with some basic questions to prove just how far ahead we are. How will one of those fancy Google self-driving-thingy-things understand a red light and stop? Exactly! It won’t. We discovered this before there even was something called ‘Google’. Way ahead of you! How will a policeman’s presence at intersections help ease congestion for those Baidu fancy-schmancy mystery machines? Yup, no way! And, my word, how will the Googley-Baidoogly offering ever completely ignore crosswalks, motorcycles, bicycles, ambulances, cart vendors, street dogs and street signs all while talking on a phone, watching television and balancing a toddler on your lap? To quote Arthur Fonzarelli: “Exactamundo!” Never gonna happen.

We already have the proven self-driving technology in Cambodia and those high-paid Silicon Valley sharks need only take one lap of Monivong at 5pm to see just how advanced our self-driving supremacy really is. And not only do we drive without having to take over the actual driving, we park without having to worry about what we actually park over. Our self-driving cars know a great space when they see one; effortlessly steering unobstructed into those pesky pedestrian pathways called sidewalks (otherwise known as ‘a waste of valuable space that we should be grateful cars are willing to take from us’).

Go on, say it, dear people of Cambodia: our cars have eyes! They are human. You Google-Baidutechy bullies have not made a human car. And until you do, your supposedly self-driving drones of the driveway will be about as useful in Cambodia as the Slanket – which, by the way, at least allows you to operate a television remote control while lounging on the sofa draped in a warm fuzzy blanket ($99 each: sofa, remote control and lounging abilities not included; to order, contact Ricardo during normal office hours).

Cambodia has had its share of citizens come forward claiming to be the relatives of famous singers or members of the Royal family who were killed by the Khmer Rouge. Fortunately those individuals are often revealed as the imposters that they are. We at Rockefeller Without Borders are frequently contacted by people with their own claims. Few as mysterious as the man who called himself Modeerf de Parc III, however. “How can I help you, Mr de Parc?” I asked, wondering if this was a Dutch accent I was hearing over the phone. “Well, I understand you are a man of the people, Rockefeller,” he replied, sounding more French now. “So, as a man of the people, I want you to help me reclaim something that is mine. My great grandfather’s, actually.” I very quickly informed this stranger that Rockefeller Without Borders will not get involved in the following: 1) Repossessing pythons that can pick winning lottery numbers; 2) Repossessing organs for donors who have changed their minds and want them back (kidney the most popular); 3) Removing sun bears from karaoke bars (K-pop is actually really great for the bears’ wellbeing). “No, no, Mr Rockefeller; it’s much more important than that,” de Parc replied, insensitive to pythons that have finally been accepted into society. “Meet me at 4pm today. I will text you the location.”
After cryptic conversations like that, I always consult Miss Savy, the kind lady with the scales who can tell me my fortune simply by how much I weigh today. “Oh, this is not good,” she said, as I stood staring down at the same number as last week. “What do you mean?” I demanded. “I weigh exactly the same!” Then Miss Savy laughed and said: “Backwards thinking… backwards thinking,” nudging me off the scales for the next awaiting client. I quickly departed, vowing never to return. My phone beeped (the first few bars of a K-pop hit, if you really must know); “Modeerf de Parc III. See you at 4pm as agreed.” You want vague and cryptic text messages de Parc, I raged, try this on for size, hitting send on “OMG LMK.” Immediately he replies: “Backwards. See you later.”

Rockefeller rarely gets paranoid, but now Miss Savy was scaring me. Mastered a Dutch accent have we, Miss Savy? I returned to the office to find Ricardo standing in front of the mirror taking a selfie. “Just read a disturbing report, boss,” he said, trying to find the right angle in the mirror for said selfie, snapping away freely at least a dozen times. “Selfies make you more lonely,” the report said. “They’re right. I feel like I hardly know myself anymore. Thought the mirror might help… you know, add an extra me. Could be good for loneliness.” I pondered the immediate removal of his mobile phone in office privileges; instead I informed him that the study was done by Dr Parsons, a divorced, single man with 12 friends on Facebook who lives by himself in a tiny studio apartment without windows. That didn’t seem to help Ricardo, hopelessly flicking through his photos of Ricardo. “Ever met a Mr Modeerf de Parc III?” I asked, holding up my phone message for the selfied one. “Modeerf de Parc? What kind of backwards name is that?!” laughed Ricardo. No, no, not you too, Ricardo… Not you too, excusing myself and promising, at the very least, to cut down on caffeine. “Where you going, boss?” shouted Ricardo. “Freedom Park with Modeerf de Parc?!” I put the brakes on everything but my hand reaching into my pocket for my phone; there it was in mind-bending backwards black and white: Freedom ed Parc. “The French-Dutch-whatever stranger wants his park back!” I shouted, slightly confused by the ‘ed’, getting laughter and a wave from Miss Savy at the scales. Perhaps it was ‘freedomed’? Set free like the once barbed-wired protest park.

Anyway, the game was up for Imposter Parc. I reached him on the third ring. “So you think your Great Grandfather owns Freedom Park, huh?” He laughed, congratulating me on my discovery, adding: “I don’t think, Rockefeller, I know.” It was time for me to give him (and Miss Savy and Ricardo) some backwards medicine. “You do realise that Parc spelt backwards is ‘Crap’, Mr Freedomed one? And that’s how I feel about this claim of yours. My involvement ends immediately.” I vaguely heard him begin to weep. “Why must you be so difficult, Rockefeller?” he cried. “This park… it is not crap… stop insulting me. I want it back… for my family.” Suddenly repossessing kidneys seemed a lot easier (not to mention rewarding); I made a mental note to scratch that one off my never-do list and add “backwards talking park crapping freedom rapping” instead. I returned to the office and friended Dr Parsons on Facebook, suddenly not feeling so alone.