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Category: Penh-dacity

Penh-dacity:Bag man

Penh-dacity:Bag man

Desmond, an accidental expat, is on some kind of financial custodial duty for a friend, but another friend has said it’s OK for him to leave the bag with her and go on a boat trip because he might get lucky. Let’s see about that. Now read on in part five of our exclusive fiction series by Guillermo Wheremount.  

A quick exchange of texts with Nancy and the details were defined. The boat is called Rose Petal Flower Love of the River Mekong, the absolutely definitive leaving time is 5pm, he should bring something to drink, and she will be looking forward to seeing him there.

Desmond allowed some more medical drama (copper deficiency, narcolepsy, sexually transmitted lockjaw) to sweep past him as the slumbering part of the day drifted along, the time when the street calls reduce to less than once a minute, the traffic becomes more air-conditioned vehicles than bicyclists and the motodops snooze contentedly on bikes in the available shade. The gecko he had named Ernest sweetly slept upside down in the corner of the ceiling, away from the fan.

While he was choosing a new T-shirt for the afternoon, the sound of a heat-stricken northern Swedish dialect coming from the next room reminded him he wasn’t entirely alone and he wandered out of his room to check on them. They were dressed in what appeared to be matching outfits and were comparing between different photocopied editions of Lonely Planet.

“We will go out soon,” said the blonder of the two. “We find another place to stay; it was hot and hard to sleep wizout air-con. Normally we like air-con.” “No doubt.” Desmond was not a very domestic man, but he was starting to miss his living room. “Look, I gotta go soon, so… yeah, whatever.” But they were already on their feet and were exchanging maps. “Thank you, Dezmund,” said the less blonde and flashed the sort of smile that probably got rooms everywhere. “We leave you some Swedish snacks on top of the refrigerator for saying thank you.”

And with that they were off, stamping down the metal steps as if heading off for a special fjording weekend on the coast. Or are the fjords Norwegian? wondered Desmond, as he slipped into flip flops and looked about for his keys, and the bag, and the beers in the fridge… and the Swedish snacks for the hell of it as well, thinking they may come in handy.

On his way out he nodded at the landlord’s nephew, who was standing in the family doorway.

“Maybe today come fix water.”

“When?”

“Maybe after this afternoon.”

“Maybe? Or for sure?”

“Maybe. My friend call me.”

“Okay. Maybe I come back later.”

A familiar-looking motodop picked him up from right outside the door and, as they rode, Desmond thought of all the time he’d spent waiting for taxis, how many miles he’d run after rapidly departing buses and how many miles he’d walked after missing them… rather reminding him of the time he’d wasted in gyms just like the one he was pulling up in front of presently. Desmond fished in his pocket to pay the motodop, who U-turned in the narrow street, bought himself a small plastic bag of sugarcane juice from a vendor and sucked on the straw, not looking like he was going any place.

After peering through the glass into the gym and not seeing any Belindas, Desmond stood outside waiting, occasionally observing the indoor activities that looked strikingly like outdoor activities. In the going style, Pump Phnom Penh provided the opportunity to work oneself into a steaming sweat under the blast of air-conditioning, in front of floor-to-ceiling glass walls to show all the people outside just what you were doing. And, Desmond noted, just how you looked in bicycle shorts.

Even standing in the shade, sweat began to trickle from his neck and shoulders down his back. He wondered if the gym people would allow him to do something as sedentary as sit down inside, but from the layout it appeared they didn’t encourage people to use the cool interior to avoid sweat; quite the opposite. So he waited some more.

Soon he’d had enough, sensing that he needed to get across town before the boat and Nancy sailed away from him forever. Text: ‘Shiv man, it’s getting late. are you coming or what?’

‘Running late’ came the eventual response. ‘Various disasters. You can leave it there at the front desk.’

It was tempting, he thought, testing the weight of the bag again, but not tempting enough. And then another text.  –                                               Nancy. ‘Sorry for the spam but can everyone who is coming on the boat trip PLEASE come early we must leave at 5 at the latest don’t miss out.’

Shiv.

The choice was clear: Desmond signalled to the motodop and swung the bag conscientiously over his shoulders. “Riverside.”

Continues next week  

 

Posted on February 6, 2014February 6, 2014Categories Penh-dacityLeave a comment on Penh-dacity:Bag man
Penh-dacity: Bag man

Penh-dacity: Bag man

Desmond, an accidental English-language expat, approximately Gen WTF, keeps himself afloat in Phnom Penh, day after day, week after week, without really knowing how. He drinks, he seeks companionship, he makes meagre attempts to engage with Cambodian culture that mostly amount to using motodops and giving directions in strangled Khmer. One otherwise unassuming weekend he gets drawn into the weird paranoid stench of the after-dark, hidden city and is almost forced to confront his limits, his demons, and his beer-drinking capacity. Cheer the good guys, boo the villains (if you can figure out which is which) in Penh-dacity: Bag Man, the fourth part of this exclusive fiction series by Guillermo Wheremount. 

Desmond, Phnom Penh expat of no fixed reputation, is engulfed in digital and brewed stimulation, wallowing in uncertain informal financial responsibility and considering a boat trip with a possible hook-up. He awaits the advice of a friend while watching a medical drama on DVD. Now read on.

This blood was definitely taken in the morning. Do you know why I can tell? The way the plasma curls around the nifting rod like milk in a properly made latte. You have much to learn, my young students.”

The reason Desmond was asking Belinda’s advice was that she was the first person he met when he arrived in Cambodia. He had arrived with great hopes, perhaps more personal than charitable, but with courage nonetheless. By some freak of nature he’d been hired to work for an NGO which, by a similar freak of nature, had ceased to exist while he was in transit in the airport in Riyadh wishing he’d not flown through Saudi Arabia and could have a beer.

“The question is, why should we take blood in the morning? Any ideas? You’d make extremely poor vampires. It’s a matter of the bromsk content.” 

Arriving in Phnom Penh without this knowledge, he had been swiftly brought up to speed by Belinda, who would have been his colleague. Instead she became his tour guide, chaperone, drinking partner, short-term financier and agony aunt.

“But honey, I won’t able to get away until early this evening, there’s a case that has just come in… I know. I miss you, too. Yes, and I miss that also. Yes, and that. I’ll text you later…”

Her message came, like a commercial break, at a critical point in the narrative of Dr Cranky, just when Desmond had started to follow the story. Apparently there had been a gas leak in the building when he was a baby… this could be important.

‘Belinda Theory 101: Fancied chances should be always followed, at least until 2am. After that nothing good happens. What money? Can you pay me back now?’

“Was it sulpuric nitrosate or nitrous sulphate? Think! There’s a very serious difference!” 

Dr Cranky’s frowning face faded into the background as Desmond replied.

‘Thx. Will provide extensive reporting if and when accomplished. The money is a custodial duty, but it may turn out to be an earner. Perhaps you could look after it for me this afternoon? The boat leaves at 5.’

The next reply seemed to take even longer than the first, but maybe it was the narrative. The disease that appeared to be diverting blood from the brain into the bile duct turned out to be a rare form of indigestion called Tungsten’s disease. Carl Tungsten was born in the poor section of Vienna in 1902, and was rescued from a fate worse than…

‘Gym at 3. Massage at 5. Cocktails at 7. Dinner at 9. After that it gets fuzzy. At least I hope it will. Does that help?’

“… will have to intubate with a number 7 fraxilator. Scalpel, please, nurse. No, not that one; the one with the corkscrew on the end.”  

‘Meet you at Pump at 4.45?’

“What’s going on? You’re operating on my son without my permission? Don’t you realise he’s got threadworm?” 

‘Sure. If I’m late you could leave it with Mr Rith, he’s pretty reliable.’

“If you hadn’t been spending all morning sexting with your not-very-secret lover, you’d have noticed from his chart that he had threadworm and was therefore unable to undergo surgery.” “You leave Clarinda out of this.” “Do you realise what could happen to this hospital if you…”

Then Belinda was back at him again: ‘This isn’t a Hank thing, is it?’

“Eureka! I’ve got to get back to the hospital. I just realised that if he’s got threadworm then the fruccipatory nerve will be inverted, leading to a reduced lymph count. It must be Fliscosity Syndrome!”

‘Sorta, yeah.’

‘He’s mad, you realise that, don’t you?’

‘Sorta, yeah.’

Continues next week  

 

 

 

Posted on January 30, 2014February 6, 2014Categories Penh-dacityLeave a comment on Penh-dacity: Bag man
Penh-dacity: Bag Man

Penh-dacity: Bag Man

Desmond, an accidental English-language expat, approximately Gen WTF, keeps himself afloat in Phnom Penh, day after day, week after week, without really knowing how. He drinks, he seeks companionship, he makes meagre attempts to engage with Cambodian culture that mostly amount to using motodops and giving directions in strangled Khmer. One otherwise unassuming weekend he gets drawn into the weird paranoid stench of the after-dark, hidden city and is almost forced to confront his limits, his demons, and his beer-drinking capacity. Cheer the good guys, boo the villains (if you can figure out which is which) in Penh-dacity: Bag Man, the third part of a new fiction series by Guillermo Wheremount.

Desmond has locked some fornicating Swedes in his apartment, taken possession of a heart-stoppingly large amount of money, and may still have a chance with someone who took his number last night. It’s been a busy morning so far. Now read on.

……

An old man struggled past the Running Dog, leaning heavily on a stick, every few steps stopping to spit absently towards the gutter. In the opposite direction, a coconut seller pulled his cart, singing his wares in an irritatingly perfect repetition.

New message. Nancy. Desmond finished his beer with a swig and opened the message. ‘Missed u last nite ☹ thinking boat trip at 5 with some people, r u up? xx Nancy (from Humdinger).’ Hmm.

He slid his phone into his pocket, paid the bill, picked up the backpack – surprisingly, he realised, the weight of a two-year-old child – and eased as casually as he could into the street, sweating just a little more than usual. Ignoring the calls from the motodops, he walked, regretting the beers, at least the second one, and trying to concentrate on the problem at hand.

After a block or so it seemed the best thing to do would be to have one of those box-set weekends where you ignore the rest of the world and consume several series of television while lying completely still apart from visiting the fridge for more beer. He peeled down to the riverside and into the nearest DVD shop, where he grabbed all eight seasons of the medical drama Dr Cranky, five seasons of the cops and robbers show On The Side Of The Angels, and a complete box of the legal comedy drama In Litigation We Trust. He’d just add it to the invoice, he figured.

Then he treated himself to a tuk tuk back home. Status update: ‘More hungover now than when I woke up but feeling important.’ By the time he was crossing Monivong, five likes, two responses: ‘treasure that feeling, it’ll be gone tomorrow’; ‘I was feeling important, but then Important got out of bed and I felt Grumpy.’

Armed with beers and visual entertainment, he struggled through the front gate and was picking his way between the sniffing dogs and randomly parked motorbikes towards the staircase when the nephew of the landlord appeared; the English-speaking one, naked from the waist up and belly scratching, in the doorway. Behind him a television flickered and blared while granny stared blankly towards the street.
“Maybe today come fix water.”
The shower head had been leaking for several weeks. Approaches had been made, negotiations had set in. Landlords everywhere: so tight they squeak when they walk. Now it was down to timing.
“What time?”
“Maybe after this afternoon.”
“Maybe? Or for sure?”
“Maybe. My friend call me.”
Landlords everywhere: I’ve got a mate…
“Okay. I’ll be home.”
“You not home okay, you leave key.”
Whatever. Upstairs, put down bag, put down beers, fish for keys. Three more likes, another response: ‘I always thought you were a dwarf.’

Swedes asleep, no signs of attempted escape or cabin fever so far. Beer placed in fridge. Laptop found under pile of laundry. AC on, headphones in, DVD started, beer open. Two more likes, three more morning-caffeine-inspired responses, each sillier than the last. The brain of Desmond commences to operate on a higher plane.

Oh shit how did I get into this what if I lose the bag jesus where did he get a shitload of money why me I guess I’m trustworthy not such a bad fellow buy my share of rounds what the hell so shall I stay in until I get his message? What about this Nancy bird, wouldn’t mind a boat trip screw the shower hell I should ask Belinda he didn’t say don’t tell anyone…

New message, to Belinda: ‘Need advice. Conflicting priorities. Large amount of money to look after for a few days. Invited on boat trip by random connect from last nite. Fancy my chances. Your thoughts in 140 characters or less.’

Two more likes, one more response, conversation heading swiftly sideways. Waiting for Belinda. Waiting for Belinda. Waiting for Belinda.
New message, to Belinda:‘Well?’

Continues next week  

 

Posted on January 22, 2014February 6, 2014Categories Penh-dacityLeave a comment on Penh-dacity: Bag Man
Penh-dacity: Bag man

Penh-dacity: Bag man

Desmond, an accidental English-language expat, approximately Gen WTF, keeps himself afloat in Phnom Penh, day after day, week after week, without really knowing how. He drinks, he seeks companionship, he makes meagre attempts to engage with Cambodian culture that mostly amount to using motodops and giving directions in strangled Khmer. One otherwise unassuming weekend he gets drawn into the weird paranoid stench of the after-dark, hidden city and is almost forced to confront his limits, his demons, and his beer-drinking capacity. Cheer the good guys, boo the villains (if you can figure out which is which) in the second part of this exclusive fiction series by Guillermo Wheremount.

Desmond has locked some fornicating Swedes in his apartment, recovered a text from last night and had a call from trouble-causing Hank so he’s heading for Riverside – and he’s only been awake for 25 minutes. Now read on.

…..

The Running Dog was an elegantly seedy bar a couple of blocks back from the river, run by a bald, chain-smoking Belgian named Philippe and his dog, Rex, who treated his staff like princesses but refused to serve Spaniards (Basques and Catalans excepted). The red, stained walls were decorated with vintage propaganda posters and movie stills. Desmond sat outside with a beer, smelling the morning garbage, waiting for Hank.

He and Hank had a strange history. Desmond struggled to remember whether he had ever seen him in daylight. They had first met in Happy Joy Club, a now disappeared bar that Hank loved precisely because he claimed it had the saddest-looking bar girls in the city. “Pure misery! In the Happy Joy Club! It’s too banal, too perfect!”

Desmond had shuffled in one midnight soon after arriving in the city and they had struck up an acquaintance at the bar, Hank holding forth on a variety of subjects from phone companies to contraception and answering Desmond’s new-arrival questions with a blend of fantasy, mythology and rumour. The older man’s English Colonial façade, fenestrated with thick glasses, suggested gargoyles dangling from the walls of a Norman castle and yet he was able to blend into the crowd faultlessly. Perhaps it was the white suit that one always thought of him wearing, even though he never did.

They ran into each other every few weeks and loosely called each other friends. More than once they had stumbled down Street 51 at dawn in pursuit of the next one. The beer, like all morning beers, was going down disturbingly quickly. ‘Heading 4 Squalor, see u there?  xx Nancy.’ Options/new contact: Nancy; saved.

“Desi!” Hank was coming from the north, his ambling walk suggesting that he was swinging a cane, though of course he was not. He sat himself down and ordered with a flick of his wrist. “How are you, my dear man?”

“Been better. Been worse.” “Excellent,” said Hank and simultaneously there was the swift appearance of a tall glass of ice filled with two strange-coloured liqueurs arranging themselves around each other. “Ahhh,” he sighed at the first sip. Inspired, Desmond ordered another draught.

Time stopped. Hank farted quietly and gave a little smile. The two men gazed at each other through sunglasses in masculine indifference. A motodop rolled to a stop and sat astride his machine, sucking at a straw stuck into a small plastic bag of undefined liquid. “I need your assistance, Desi,” said Hank suddenly. “I hope I can count on you.”

“Sure, whatever, man. What’s up?” “I’ve got to go to Bangkok on business for a couple of days and I need you to look after this.” Hank nonchalantly patted the backpack he had casually dropped between their cane recliners. “I don’t want to leave it in my apartment. Not even in the safe. And I can’t take it with me.”

“Sure,” said Desmond. Then after a beat it occurred to him to ask: “What’s in it?” Their voices had instinctively dropped low.

“Some money.”

“How much?”

“You don’t want to know. “

“I don’t?”

Hank turned and lowered his glasses like a Bond villain. One of the old, classic ones, nondescriptly handsome but acting poorly. “You don’t. A heart-stoppingly large amount of money.”

It got quiet again. More drinking. The bag was black with grey trim, sturdy but still portable. An unassuming padlock hung from the zipper carelessly, hardly worth noticing.  “I’m just going to get up and walk down the street shortly. I’ll call you in a couple of days. I know this may inconvenience you a little, but remember that if I can afford to leave this behind with you, I can afford to pay you handsomely for your time.” Again, the lowering of the glasses. It was less dramatic this time, but just as effective in keeping Desmond quiet.

Hank pulled himself up out of the recliner, drained the last from his glass, rolled the ice cubes in his mouth and spat them into the street, and then with a step or two and a “Tuk-tuk, sir?” was gone.

Leaving Desmond alone with the remains of his beer and a heart-stoppingly large amount of money.  Then the phone buzzed at him. New message. Nancy.
Continues next week  

 

Posted on January 17, 2014February 6, 2014Categories Penh-dacityLeave a comment on Penh-dacity: Bag man
Penh-Dacity: Bag man

Penh-Dacity: Bag man

Something was definitely wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Desmond lay with his eyes closed and tried to focus on what it was. The oceanic wash of sound clinked and clanked with building noise, running children, street vendors, barking dogs, but nothing unusual in the first scan.

And there it was, just under the shush of the air conditioner: the distinct sound of humping. Rising and falling and rising and falling. And it was coming from the living room.

The morning sun had risen onto his face, warming him into the gradual waking up that would take a good hour or so to be finally formed, and he cursed it. The curtain next to the bed was not entirely drawn, allowing the brightness of the day to rush in and disrupt the precious last hours of sleep.

So Desmond lay awake listening to the indiscreet noises, which sounded more like National Geographic than porn, and wondered why that was so, why the heavy breathing was not encouraging his old fella to respond, why he was more pissed off than turned on. It was probably because the sun had yanked him into an awareness of his need to pee. Also, as he began to piece the previous evening together, he realised it was plain bad manners.

He had been very charming at Humdinger and the Swede had seemed quite flirtatious herself. A little young for his taste, perhaps, but still. And then when they found each other again in the Squalor he had been only too glad to offer his sofa to a young lady in distress. And of course it wasn’t until they were all in a tuk tuk together that he realised there was a boyfriend included. A little revenge was extracted by buying beers from the mini mart on the way home, and insisting on staying up late to drink them all and watch a Black Books DVD while the Swedes were uncomfortably falling asleep. Screw ’em, it’s a free room.

But that’s just bad manners, isn’t it, to bonk on the couch when the guesthouse is overbooked and someone is nice enough to provide some alternative accommodation?  Under a threatening cloud of impotent defiance, Desmond roused himself from the bed, threw on some clothes and emerged from his room into the bordello, crossed to the bathroom and pissed loudly with the door open as the moans and grunts continued to escalate. Then he grabbed the keys and left, locking the door behind him. That’ll teach them.

On his way down the stairs, Desmond wondered whether to head towards the stinky canal for coffee, where it was better and cheaper but sometimes overwhelmingly smelly, or in the other direction and try his luck.

He wound up in a mini mart on a busy road, sitting at the window with a Red Bull, flicking through his phone and remembering more of the plot. There had been an American girl. Kathy? Karen? There had been kissing. And… shit, that was who he thought he found at Squalor. Kathleen? Klara? He scanned through the Ks in his contacts and found nothing. In the inbox, from an unrecognised number: ‘Heading 4 Squalor, see u there? xx Nancy.’  The phone buzzed angrily, making him jump. Hank. This could be trouble. It usually was.
“Desi, man!”
“What up, Hank?”
“Look man, can I meet you?  I gotta ask something.”
“Sure, I…”
“The Running Dog, twenty minutes.”
Then the screen was abruptly returned to ‘Heading 4 Squalor, see u there?  xx Nancy.’
He considered the Swedes, but only for a moment, before flagging down a moto and heading for the riverside.
Continues next week  

 

Posted on January 9, 2014February 6, 2014Categories Penh-dacityLeave a comment on Penh-Dacity: Bag man
Best of Phnom Penh 2012: THE VERDICT

Best of Phnom Penh 2012: THE VERDICT

THE VERDICT Cambodia’s capital has been weighed, it has been measured, and it has not in the least bit been found wanting. In what world could anywhere possibly beat Phnom Penh? So here it is: the absolute Best Of 2012 – the city’s finest arts & entertainment; people and places, and eats and treats – as voted for by YOU. 

Best place to meet gangsters

St Tropez

No evening in Phnom Penh is complete without spending time in the company of the city’s high-rolling gangsters. We’re not talking rinky-dink small-timers here; we’re talking about the Lexus-Rolex-Moet crowd. If that’s how you get your kicks, St Tropez is the place for you. Saunter around in stilettos for three minutes and you’ll be invited to partake of beverages with Japanese businessmen with – as most mothers would have it – ‘more money than sense’. They may look like teddy bears on the outside, but under their suits lie wonderlands of yakuza tattoos. Trust us, we speak from experience. Don’t forget to check your firearms at the entrance.

Best junior genius

Reaksmey Yean

The man, the myth, the afro: fast becoming something of a local celebrity, self-proclaimed arts advocate Reaksmey is involved in just about every cultural event the city has. When he’s not inspiring his Battambang-based arts collective Trotchaek Pneik, you’ll find him co-organising cultural festivals, or sharing pearls of wisdom on art and revolution from Singapore to Slovenia. As the city’s first Khmer curator, based in Equinox’s informal gallery space, it’s probably safe to say that Reaksmey and his ‘fro may just be the face of the future.

Best empty threat

Election weekend alcohol ban

Out of a desire for sober and rational decision making during the commune elections, the powers that be ordered a country-wide ban on the sale and consumption of alcohol from midnight June 2 (a Friday) to midnight June 4 (a Sunday). Surely, this wouldn’t impact the foreign community, non-citizens who can’t vote anyway, right? The answer is yes and no. Shops did not sell any booze whatsoever… to people who weren’t regulars. Expatriate watering-holes didn’t serve any alcohol either… unless it was in a coffee cup, or the venue’s doors and windows were tinted black. With some patrons embracing the occasion by bar-hopping in 1920s gangster attire, it was a wonderful party for everyone who risked… well, not a whole lot, as it turned out.

Best friend we’ve lost this year

The badly subtitled channel

As anyone who’s bought DVDs locally knows, it’s common practice in the bootlegging industry to use translation software to get new releases out as fast as possible. Fair enough. Luckily for us, these movies are translated from English to Chinese and then back into English again, often with hilarious results. Up until quite recently, bold and brazen television pirates have aired these subtitled films, filling our living rooms with laughter and joy. These great interpretations of the language are brought to you by the people who translate the famous line “I’m as mad as hell and I’m not gonna take this any more” from The Network as “ANGRY IS NO MORE!” Of course, we could just buy DVDs at the Russian Market and turn on closed captioning, but it just isn’t the same. We miss you, buddy.

Best place to feel better about yourself

Walkabout

If Charles Bukowski, the American poet and novelist infamous for boozing and whoring (think Hemingway in the slums of Los Angeles), were alive today and stumbled into Walkabout on Street 51, he’d probably take a look around, consider it far too seedy, and leave quietly and quickly. Home to dead-beats, scoundrels, miscreants, loose women, and drinks which cost more than they should, Walkabout is a ‘sports bar’ open 24 hours a day which serves greasy Western food to greasy Western people. For maximum feel-better-about-yourself effect, it’s best to go in the pre-noon daylight hours when you can’t tell whether people are waking up with beer or simply haven’t slept yet. You’ll leave with a smile on your face, a tune in your heart, and wildly renewed self-esteem.

Best bandwagon jumping

Angry Birds Foreign Language School

In the rural depths of Banteay Meanchey province, language schools have been dropping like flies for want of students – until July when Yem Nary came up with a sure-fire way to lure in young learners: tricking them into thinking the school was an arcade! “I had an idea that if I created a school and gave it a strange name to attract the children, then they would ask their parents to study at my school,” she explained. Inspiring cries of ‘This has gone too far!’, Angry Birds Foreign Language School was born. At $2.50 per month, one can only hope the education lives up to the standard set by its name.

Best supernatural phenomenon

King Father goes to the Moon

King Father Norodom Sihanouk may have recently left this world, but the move is just one more step on his continuing cosmic journey. As if by way of assurance, the King Father took a brief pit stop shortly after his passing to smile down upon his people from the Moon. In the days since, the man noted by the Guinness Book of World Records as having held the greatest number of political titles has assumed the posts of Prime Minister of the Moon, King of the Moon, Emperor of the Moon, and Big Lunar Kahuna. Asked by reporters if he had any final words, the King Father simply requested that he be sent his golf clubs.

Best Cambodian politician cowering in self-exile

Sam Rainsy

In Buddhism’s 134 worlds of hell, surely there is one reserved for fast-talking politicians who run their mouth and then run away, leaving their followers to take the fall. Sam Rainsy has officially crossed the ruling party three times – twice for defamation, once for racial incitement and destruction of property – and each time, rather than sack up and face the bull, the Phnom Penh city slicker has fled to France, where he speaks in solemn tones about fighting the system. By contrast, his security chief, Srun Vong Vannak, did 18 months in T-3. Outspoken gadflies Cheam Channy, Khem Sokha and Mom Sonando (yet again) have all stood with the courage of their convictions and done prison time instead of cowering safely ensconced in the cafes of the Champs-Élysées. Rainsy, if he ever hopes to regain his Champion of Democracy status, might need to do the same.

Best radio DJ

Mom Sonando

Mom Sonando, the 71-year-old owner of Beehive Radio and an unrelenting critic of the status quo, is nothing if not a bee in the establishment’s bonnet – so much so that he is currently doing a 20-year stretch for ‘insurrection’ and ‘inciting people to take up weapons against the state’, charges everyone from the US State Department on down call absolute bullshit. Mom was abroad, in fact, when the court announced the charges, which carried a maximum 30-year sentence. He came home anyway, an old man willing to die in prison for the truths he held in his heart. After an arrest in 2003, Mom Sonando told journalists: “They blame me for broadcasting an opinion of a listener which turned out to be untrue. But if I have to go to jail to allow people to express their opinion, I am happy.”

Best dive bar

Zeppelin Cafe

The closest thing to genuine rock ’n’ roll vintage as Phnom Penh will ever likely get, the Zeppelin Cafe is a power-chord time warp stuck on overdrive in rock music’s greatest decade. It’s like classic rock radio came to life in the form of a smoke-stained dive bar in Phnom Penh. Genuine Kiss and Sex Pistols posters adorn the walls. A rebel flag, with a skull and the words ‘Lynyrd Skynyrd’ hand-painted across it, hangs from the shop-house terrace. Cocktails start at $1.50 and wine is admiringly overpriced. Yet the defining glory of any true dive bar is a surly bar owner. The Zeppelin has Jun, as famous for his legendary collection of rock vinyl as he is for his unwillingness to play requests. Jimi Hendrix. Black Sabbath. Led Zeppelin. Cheap Trick. Deep Purple. The list of all-time greats is endless. Just don’t ask for Stairway to Heaven, or any song, for that matter. It’s Jun’s bar. Not yours.

Best tourist scam

Motorbike rental and theft

This category, incredibly, seems to have more genuine entries than the Kingdom has residents. The motorbike rental scam works like this: unsuspecting punter rocks up to the local Crappy Crappy moto-rental joint, plunks down his or her passport and rents a crappy moto with the stipulation that punter is responsible for replacing said crappy moto – at vendor-friendly inflated prices – in the event of loss or theft. Vendor gives punter a cheap lock and key for protection. Punter rides off into the sunset. Vendor stooges, who also have a key to the lock, follow in hot pursuit. Come morning, it’s bye-bye moto, bye-bye money. Hello, sucker.

Best street corner to score dope

Street 178 and Sisowath Quay

More than a few sketchy street corners in town could take the prize here, but the boys at the corner of Street 178 and Sisowath win on account of sheer unabashed ballsiness. “Buy ganja,” some tuk-tuk driver screams across the street to passing foreigners. “Buy skunk,” another one offers to a well-dressed middle-aged couple who, judging by the perplexed look on their faces, have absolutely no idea what he is talking about. “I’m going to call the police,” steamed one finally fed-up shop owner. “I am the police,” the drug dealer replied. “You want to buy ganja?”

Best place to lose your life savings

Naga Casino

Let’s face it, if you were a cashed-up zillionaire with stacks of money to burn, what better place to burn it than Naga Casino? Unlike the second-rate dens that line the streets in Bavet, Nago Casino has all kinds of class. The Aristocrat Wine & Cigar Bar sells Cubans by the box, and its list of single malts would temp Mother Teresa in for a tipple. Kick the lights at Darlin Darlin, the place’s contrived (hey, it’s a casino) opium-den disco, where dancing and semi-private lounges await. Then, when you’re ready to truly burn it, Naga’s 7,000-square-metre ‘gaming floor’ is waiting mercilessly to take your every last penny. Go ahead. Game on.

Best place to see a fight

CTN Boxing Arena

Of course by ‘fight’, we mean by people who actually know what they are doing. Not a couple of gin-soaked back-packers suffering the hallucination that Cambodia turned them into John Wayne (or for die-hard fans, John Wayne Parr, if you like). At the CTN boxing arena, intimacy, action and high-energy fans combine to create an unparalleled stage for witnessing the Kun Khmer blood sport. The arena is small, holding at most 1,500 fans, but no seat is more than a few metres from the ring. Because of the intimacy, on Sunday afternoons, when the country’s best fighters are slugging it out, the thundering, white-noise roars of the crowd are intoxicating, and a palpable rush of mob frenzy courses through the aisles.

Best hidden bar

Bar Sito

Chicago mob boss Al Capone would have appreciated a place like this. Dark wood panelling; exposed brickwork and a subterranean ambience evoke the spirit of Prohibition in 1930s America. It was a time when square-jawed gangsters roamed the streets armed with Thompson submachine guns, while anti-prohibitionists, known as ‘wets’, swarmed speakeasies in defiance of the nationwide ban on booze. These high-class hang-outs were more often than not owned by the likes of the man called Scarface and reeked of the indulgence that went hand-in-hand with criminal enterprise. Such is Bar Sito, Spanish for ‘small bar’ – the newest creation by the brains behind Chinese House and Botanico. But be warned: finding your way into Bar Sito is almost as hard as finding your way out of Alcatraz. It’s tucked away on the Phnom Penh equivalent of Platform 9¾ in the King’s Cross Station of JK Rowling’s Harry Potter novels. Navigate by standing with your back to the doors of Wine Warehouse at #32 Street 240 then turning to your right. Take a few paces and you’ll pass an arts space called Mosaic Gallery. Beyond its far edge you’ll see a small walkway that snakes off to the right. Follow it. When you’re directly in front of the Japanese furniture shop, turn to your right: on the heavy looking wooden door now in front of you you’ll see a discreet metal plaque that reads ‘Bar Sito’. Bada bing.

Best rebel with a cause

HRH Princess Soma Norodom

Dwarfed by tropical topiary that has been manicured by the hands of 100 gardeners, the figure perched on a tiny bridge fidgets in front of the camera. “Is this OK?” She inclines her head slightly and a delicate diamante tiara, borrowed from her seamstress especially for the photo shoot, slides with a ‘plop’ into the fishpond below. Soma “Please don’t call me ‘Princess’” Norodom spent her formative years in Long Beach, California, her royal lineage a closely guarded secret. In 2010, she gave up a flourishing media career in the US to come home and take care of her dying father. Here, this impossibly charming royal rebel has hosted a progressive English-language radio talk show; become a popular conduit for an establishment many consider outmoded, and striven to challenge the status-quo in the most constructive ways possible. Naysayers would do well to remember the words of Theodore Roosevelt: “It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly; who errs and comes short again and again; because there is not effort without error and shortcomings; but who does actually strive to do the deed; who knows the great enthusiasm, the great devotion, who spends himself in a worthy cause, who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement and who at the worst, if he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly.”

Best place to get injured in a mosh pit

Sliten6ix and Anti-Fate gigs

The meat-grinder is completely without mercy, devouring all flesh that strays into its gravitational pull. Bodies are sucked violently into the vortex, necks whipping back and forth like striking cobras. Clenched fists flail the air, showering high arcs of sweat. In the epicentre of this churning maelstrom, to the visceral screech of Cambodia’s first and only deathcore band, a trio of black-clad teens has linked arms, and is dancing – of all things – the can-can. This is moshing, Sliten6ix style (the ‘6’ refers to ‘five individual souls conjoining together and creating one metal soul’; the ‘sliten’ means ‘slit and sewn’). They’re the vanguard of Phnom Penh’s new metal militia and when they’re sharing the stage (most often at Sharky’s and Equinox) with all-Khmer punk rockers The Anti-Fate, they catalyse what is quite possibly the country’s only Wall Of Death. Watching headbangers smash full-bore into each other is nothing if not a spectacular spectator sport, but know this: stray too close and you could sustain serious injury. \m/

Best comeuppance

Duch’s life sentence

Within the clinical white walls of the Extraordinary Chambers of the Courts of Cambodia, S-21 prison chief Kaing Guek Eav, alias Duch, took the stand. For a brief moment his eyes locked with those of Rob Hamill, whose big brother Kerry was tortured to death at the notorious Khmer Rouge interrogation centre in 1978. “He challenged me: it was more than a feeling,” says Hamill, who came here in 2009 to retrace his brother’s final steps before delivering one of the tribunal’s most incendiary testimonies. “The judges came in, we stood up and I looked across the courtroom and he was just staring at me. We stared at each other for about 10 seconds. I felt that was quite a challenging thing to do, for someone who was supposedly remorseful and seeking forgiveness. It intrigued me. For me, trying to forgive, it didn’t bode well.” When Duch’s sentence was reduced from 30 years to 19 for time served, it got worse: the man who presided over as many as 17,000 executions could one day walk free. And worse: he later appealed. In February judges at the UN-backed court not only rejected that appeal but increased the sentence from 35 years to life imprisonment. Now that’s karma.

 

 

Posted on November 8, 2012June 6, 2014Categories Penh-dacityLeave a comment on Best of Phnom Penh 2012: THE VERDICT

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