We had gotten the wrong kind of Visas, so now we had to leave Cambodia for a reentry in order to get the proper, renewable Visa. We decided to take a few days off while we were at it and visit Saigon, or, more correctly, Ho Chi Minh City. Now, this is a very different story from Phnom Penh. Upon our entry we were warned about potential robbery, muggings of tourists and of being cheated by mischievous cab drivers. These warnings were repeated at our hotel up to a point where I hardly dared to take any money at all with me. We spend the first two hours in town rather tensely, constantly on the look-out for drive-by thieves making a grab for our cameras and bags. It sure is a more aggressive place. Traffic is as chaotic as in Cambodia, but even more dangerous. While the average Cambodian will ignore any rules and traffic-lights he will still honk, swerve or gently slow down at the last moment to avoid hitting you. In Saigon they prefer to kill you upon impact to avoid any questions about whose fault it was. Seriously, they don't honk and they sure as hell don't swerve around you or, heaven forbid, use their brakes at all. This had me yelling at drivers within the minute and wore Annette out to a point where she regretted to have come here in the first place. It was then that we discovered the pleasant side of this strange and bustling city. We were just going to sit down for a drink and a bit of rest, when I saw a restaurant called the Jasper's and even though Annette thought it looked a bit weird and out of place we went in. And suddenly we were back in the gentle arms of civilization again. Our friendly hostess spoke flawless English, the menu was bilingual and a proper menu, too, not a set of bad pictures of unidentifiable dishes; hell, there even was a wine menu! You do not realize how much you miss certain things until you see them again. Annette had the Tuna steak, and I had a traditional Vietnamese beef stew. Christ on a cracker, it was so delicious! Don't get me wrong here, I love the little bistros and strange cantinas we eat at in Cambodia. Last week we went to this really small place where only the locals eat, where nobody spoke even spoke one word of English and where the whole meal with drinks cost only 4 dollars. We had to point at the plates of the grimy workers at the next table to order our food, and it was lovely.
Still, we always make sure to top those meals off with a swig from my hip-flask and we both have spent our share of nights running to the restroom and returning with a pained look on our faces.
And now we're suddenly in this place, where the owner introduces himself as an expatriate Irishman, recommending the Marsbar-cheesecake and inquiring about where we come from and what we' re doing in south east Asia. Yes, we spent 50 Dollars there without even getting to the dessert menu because I didn't have enough cash on me, but we immediately promised to return for more. We never spent more than 10 dollars including a generous tip in Phnom Penh, and that's at the tourist's rate. But, man, it felt so good!
You rarely ever see a woman in heels or a business costume in Phnom Penh, and the fanciest shop in town is the Lucky Star Supermarket, a haven for super-rich Cambodians and tourists. It still is just a plain old supermarket, nothing fancy, but when I go shopping there I'm at my happy place. It's the only place where prices are fixed and not subject to negotiation. Whenever we buy something on a market our landlords ask us how much we payed and then shake their heads in pity, since we always get ripped off.
Saigon isn't all fancy places and big money, but most of it is. Sure, on the way home we saw an attempt to steal some guy' s bag, which he managed to ward off successfully, and nobody even turned their heads while the failed thieves casually rode off on their scooter, and when I watched a thriller on HBO at night at our hotel it took me a while to realize that the police sirens were coming from the street and not from the TV.
And even this felt like home to me and put a gentle smile on my face. I might be a snob, a fool and a spoiled child. But I love the ways and mistakes of our western civilization above all other ways of the world and even though I already feel richer for the experience of being in Cambodia, I'm not ashamed to admit that I miss home with all that wonderful decadent luxury and I intent to enjoy it for as long as I can. Sue me.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
On a Bender with the Veterans
Hot damn, it sure has been a while, hasn't it? It took me some time to recover sufficiently from the incident I'm about to describe for you. Our local boss had invited us to the Ancestor's Festival. For those who would like to know about the festival's roots, please check out http://wilckeweitweg.blogspot.com/ for further information.
Anyways, we first got picked up to visit the pagoda, and then went to the boss's summer cottage out in the country for a Cambodian barbecue. Annette went off to join the women in the preparations for the barbecue, and our boss was upstairs for business with some bigwigs from Europe. So, I was all on my own with the locals who didn't speak one bit English, smiling uneasily and feeling as out of place and useless as tits on a boar hog.
After a while I gathered my courage and sat down at the low table on the patio of the small house and shyly said my How-do-you-do in Cambodian. The old men gathered at the table nodded at me gravely and after a while one of them gestured to one of the girls to fetch me a glass, filled it with ice and beer and then raised his glass at me. I murmured "Cheers, gentlemen.", we clinked our glasses all around and drank. He then called for one of the boys, said something to him and then send him off with a not-too-gentle slap on the back.
The boy ran off and disappeared into a house 200 ft or so down the road. We sat in silence and waited. Quite frankly, I was scared of these guys, who apparently were veterans of the civil war. Their faces were scarred, one was missing most of his left arm, another was wearing an eye-patch and they neither smiled nor spoke. After a while the boy returned with a young man perhaps in his early 30s, who introduced himself as Henry, the local English teacher. Henry obviously wasn't too happy to serve as a translator, and politely refused the beer he was offered, opting for tea instead. This earned him a sneer from the eye-patch guy and a general round of contemptuous looks from the rest of the men. Finally Mr.Eye-patch asked him a question, which seemed to discomfit him even further. He struggled for a long time before he translated for me the old guy's 3 questions, which were why did I wear earrings, what did I think about Cambodia, and what did I think about the civil war and it's soldiers.
It didn't take any rocket science to know that I was in a tight spot. Tight, tight, tight. In order to buy some time I reached for the beer, filled all the glasses at the table, mine last, slowly raised it and started out with a careful praise of Cambodia, a country that was waking up after a long and dark night, rubbing it's eyes, new day rising, bloody bla-bla-bla, you can see where I was going. When he had translated that bit I saluted them with my glass and drained it in one go. Again, they nodded gravely with only the slightest hint of approval, the glasses were refilled, and another round of silence ensued. I then went on to answer the question about my earrings, saying that I had once been a foolish young man, forgetting the face of my father, acting rebellious, that I had since overcome this silliness, but had kept the earrings to remind me of my own mistakes. After our increasingly uncomfortable translator had finished explaining my answer, I didn't wait for any replies and went off on an elaborate speech about men and their mistakes, how they could never be undone, and how a man had to live with them. I paused for our shaky translator to do his work. The eyes of the men were all fixed on me, hard and not too kind indeed. I took a sip of my beer, and then said how there was no shame in any mistake or in those who committed them, but only in those who tried to deny their mistakes, or worse, in those who hadn't been there and now offered their shameless judgment and hindsight to those who had been there without the comfort and safety of these civilized times. By the time I had finished I was sweating like a hog. The teacher, ever more reluctantly translated the last bit, and again a moment of tense silence ensued. Finally, Mr Eye-patch got up, slowly walked up to me, and when I rose, clapped me on the shoulder, shook my hand and nodded approvingly. And then all hell broke loose. Within a few minutes I had to drain glass after glass of ice cold beer to salute each and every one of them, and then cheap Mekong whiskey was fetched and poured into the glasses. Our translator managed to quietly slink away, while I was cheered at and slapped on the back with all the glasses being constantly refilled. I was finally saved by Annette, who played the role of the angry wife surprisingly well, which got another round of laughter and winks and back-slapping from the guys.
"You owe me." was all she whispered in my ear while she carefully helped me into the backseat of the car.
We had to stop several times on the back for me to reimburse the cheap red-eye eating through my poor intestines. I spent the following two days as sick as a puppy on our bed, drinking only cold tea and carefully nibbling on dry bread-crusts. Our boss payed me a visit and chided me as heavily as Asian understatement would allow him to. I promised that I had sure learned my lesson and would from now on stick to the occasional beer in the evening and never to embarrass him again. He then said that I was forgiven since I was just a young grasshopper without the experience of his years, and reminded me to also apologize to my kind and forgiving wife. I'm not so sure about the forgiving part, but, hell, I sure thank the lord every day of my life that she keeps putting up with my shenanigans. I know that I'm one hell of a lucky guy, and I sure know that I haven't done much to deserve it.
Sela.
Anyways, we first got picked up to visit the pagoda, and then went to the boss's summer cottage out in the country for a Cambodian barbecue. Annette went off to join the women in the preparations for the barbecue, and our boss was upstairs for business with some bigwigs from Europe. So, I was all on my own with the locals who didn't speak one bit English, smiling uneasily and feeling as out of place and useless as tits on a boar hog.
After a while I gathered my courage and sat down at the low table on the patio of the small house and shyly said my How-do-you-do in Cambodian. The old men gathered at the table nodded at me gravely and after a while one of them gestured to one of the girls to fetch me a glass, filled it with ice and beer and then raised his glass at me. I murmured "Cheers, gentlemen.", we clinked our glasses all around and drank. He then called for one of the boys, said something to him and then send him off with a not-too-gentle slap on the back.
The boy ran off and disappeared into a house 200 ft or so down the road. We sat in silence and waited. Quite frankly, I was scared of these guys, who apparently were veterans of the civil war. Their faces were scarred, one was missing most of his left arm, another was wearing an eye-patch and they neither smiled nor spoke. After a while the boy returned with a young man perhaps in his early 30s, who introduced himself as Henry, the local English teacher. Henry obviously wasn't too happy to serve as a translator, and politely refused the beer he was offered, opting for tea instead. This earned him a sneer from the eye-patch guy and a general round of contemptuous looks from the rest of the men. Finally Mr.Eye-patch asked him a question, which seemed to discomfit him even further. He struggled for a long time before he translated for me the old guy's 3 questions, which were why did I wear earrings, what did I think about Cambodia, and what did I think about the civil war and it's soldiers.
It didn't take any rocket science to know that I was in a tight spot. Tight, tight, tight. In order to buy some time I reached for the beer, filled all the glasses at the table, mine last, slowly raised it and started out with a careful praise of Cambodia, a country that was waking up after a long and dark night, rubbing it's eyes, new day rising, bloody bla-bla-bla, you can see where I was going. When he had translated that bit I saluted them with my glass and drained it in one go. Again, they nodded gravely with only the slightest hint of approval, the glasses were refilled, and another round of silence ensued. I then went on to answer the question about my earrings, saying that I had once been a foolish young man, forgetting the face of my father, acting rebellious, that I had since overcome this silliness, but had kept the earrings to remind me of my own mistakes. After our increasingly uncomfortable translator had finished explaining my answer, I didn't wait for any replies and went off on an elaborate speech about men and their mistakes, how they could never be undone, and how a man had to live with them. I paused for our shaky translator to do his work. The eyes of the men were all fixed on me, hard and not too kind indeed. I took a sip of my beer, and then said how there was no shame in any mistake or in those who committed them, but only in those who tried to deny their mistakes, or worse, in those who hadn't been there and now offered their shameless judgment and hindsight to those who had been there without the comfort and safety of these civilized times. By the time I had finished I was sweating like a hog. The teacher, ever more reluctantly translated the last bit, and again a moment of tense silence ensued. Finally, Mr Eye-patch got up, slowly walked up to me, and when I rose, clapped me on the shoulder, shook my hand and nodded approvingly. And then all hell broke loose. Within a few minutes I had to drain glass after glass of ice cold beer to salute each and every one of them, and then cheap Mekong whiskey was fetched and poured into the glasses. Our translator managed to quietly slink away, while I was cheered at and slapped on the back with all the glasses being constantly refilled. I was finally saved by Annette, who played the role of the angry wife surprisingly well, which got another round of laughter and winks and back-slapping from the guys.
"You owe me." was all she whispered in my ear while she carefully helped me into the backseat of the car.
We had to stop several times on the back for me to reimburse the cheap red-eye eating through my poor intestines. I spent the following two days as sick as a puppy on our bed, drinking only cold tea and carefully nibbling on dry bread-crusts. Our boss payed me a visit and chided me as heavily as Asian understatement would allow him to. I promised that I had sure learned my lesson and would from now on stick to the occasional beer in the evening and never to embarrass him again. He then said that I was forgiven since I was just a young grasshopper without the experience of his years, and reminded me to also apologize to my kind and forgiving wife. I'm not so sure about the forgiving part, but, hell, I sure thank the lord every day of my life that she keeps putting up with my shenanigans. I know that I'm one hell of a lucky guy, and I sure know that I haven't done much to deserve it.
Sela.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
The Terrors of Angkor Wat
Angkor Wat is actually more than the central temple that we all know from countless comic book adventures and treasure hunt movies. It´s a giant area of wild forest and parks filled with many temples, pyramids and small villages. All of them very, very old. Very old indeed. It´s located in the tourist ridden town of Siem Riep, about 6 hours north of Phnom Penh by car or by bus on a badly worn out, much frequented road that leads through endless fields of rice and through little shanty towns along the roadside. The busride was one long nightmare of projectile vomitting, moaning and sweating. Since I was wearing my SeaBands (c) I for once was not carsick, but with half of the bus puking their guts out this wasn´t much of a comfort to me. We were picked up by our designated TuckTuck driver at the bus station, went to our small, cheap hotel, showered and went straight to the Angkor Wat park in a stream of hundreds of other tourist to watch the sunset from the famous sunset hill pyramid. Inside the park we first had to climb a steep hill for about half an hour or so. The heat was excruciating and soon I was sweating like a hog and swearing like a sailor. At the top of the hill we had to walk around to the east side of the pyramid and then get in line for the final ascend. Hot damn, it was the narrowest, steepest set of stairs I had ever encountered. They went up at an angle of almost 90° and were so worn out that you had to climb them like a ladder. Since there were hundreds of people waiting to climb up there was absolutely no turning back once you started to climb the 45 ft to the top. Many of those struggling to climb up were really old and rather shaky on their feet and constanly threatened to slip and fall. Guards with long bamboo brooms kept a close watch on the masses, always ready to prod anybody back against the steep wall, should they start to fall off or slip. This was rather painful, but you had no time to complain or even think about it. All you really could focus on was getting to the narrow platform alive. But once you got there things really got out of hand. There were no railings up there, only another steep set of stairs leading back down on the west side, and hundreds of people clinging on for dear life, clutching there cameras or each other, screaming and crying and trying not to fall off and tumble down those stone walls. The descent was even worse, since you had to look down to find a safe footing and look up to avoid having people tread on your fingers. I was shaking all over by the time we got back down, and felt like kissing the ground. Annette asked me for the little hipflask of gin that I always carry with me as a digestive and took a long swig.
"You go ahead and write about this one. No one´s going to believe it anyways." she said. Then we went back down, jumped into our tucktuck and went back to the hotel for a bit of rest before our dinner.
Our driver recommended a buffet style restaurant on the main drag of Siem Riep with traditional dancers and music. I didn´t feel too crazy about it, but Annette insisted that we had to go to a really touristy place just once and I reluctantly agreed. Inside it was filled with couples aged about 40 to 60 from all over the western and asian world. We ordered some beer and went to check out the buffet. Man, it was just sad. 90% of all dishes were deepfried and cold, and the rest was just piles of junkfood that would put even the lowliest fastfood chain to shame. While Annette fought with a bunch of crazy ladys from sweden over the only warm dishes I went back to the table and got stinking drunk. Then the lights were dimmed, an announcer said something incomprehensible in asian english and the traditional dances started. The 5 tone music was hurting my ears and the dancers looked like they were wearing little eiffeltowers on their head and moved like they were just as drunk as me. When the anouncer finally came back onto the stage I climbed onto the table and yelled "Any of you guys know how to do the time warp?". Everyone turned to look at me, some of them smiling uneasily, most of them frowning. In my dazed and confused state I tried to raise my glass in a salute, but instead spilled most of my beer on a burly bearded guy from Holland. He froze for a moment, then turned around and started to rage and jabber and move towards me.I heard something like "Chottverdammter Moff!" as I began to climb off the table and move towards the door. One of his friends was trying to hold him back. "Please listen to your husband, sir! Violance can never be the answer!" I said, when 4 strong hands suddenly lifted me up and bounced me out the door, chicago style. Outside at the curb I slowly got up and made sure the dutch madman wasn´t following me. Inside the restaurant I saw Annette engaged in agitated discussion with several parties, including the owners of the place. Finally, she rushed on out right past me into our waiting tucktuck and said to the driver "Mr.Loutas won´t be joining us." and off they went, leaving me standing in the middle of Siem Riep with no idea where our hotel was or what it was even called. Well, at least I was only slightly bruised and still had some money on me. A bunch of young Australians hollered at me from across the street, so I went over there to see what the deal was.
Apperently they hadn´t even been admitted to the restaurant in the first place for being too drunk, and they really loved the way I had come sailing out of there. They had bought some cheap local beer at a supermarket across the street and had decided to spend the night singing and drinking Aussie-style on the plaza. Since I had nowhere to go I decided to join them. It was also quite obvious that these young gentlemen were in need of some adult supervision. After two hours of professional beer consumption they wouldn´t let us into the supermarket for a refill, and the security guards told us to move along. We said our goodbyes and each went our way. After another hour of restless drunken wandering I finally found the hotel, woke the nightclerk and stumbled up to our room. Unfortunately Annette had accidentally locked the room and didn´t seem to hear me knocking, so I just curled up in front of the door, until the maid found me the next morning and let me into the room. I had a monstrous hangover but tried not to show it to atone for last night´s little mishap. Annette didn´t say a whole lot for most of the morning, and nothing to me,but after we had checked out the first few temples she finally came around, if only because I bravely fought off all the locals in the park who tried to sells us everything you could think of from catalogues to drinks to souvenirs to guide tours. Finally it got too much even for me when we reached the wall of lepers where there was a whole plaza of little sales booths and tucktucks all rushing up to us and the other tourists trying to make a fast buck. "Nothing, I want nothing!" I yelled but they just said "2 dollar for nothing! Good price!". When I had to sneeze and couldn´t find a tissue a woman yelled "5 dollar for khmer hanky! 5 dollar! You need! 5 Dollar! Good prize for Mr.Handsome."
I had just gotten back on Annette´s good side, but it was simply too much for my hung-over head. I pulled some snot from my nose, held it up to her and yelled "German Nosegold! Freshly mined! 10 Dollar! Good price! You buy! You need!". When the crowd retreated in disgust and fear I started after them and chased them towards their sales stands. "What good is nose gold if I can´t share it with the common people? Good price! Good bargain!". An officer of the tourist police finally stopped me and asked me what the commotion was about. I told him that it was just me spreading the wealth, nothing more.
He actually smiled gently, told me to drop the bugger, which I did and then explained to me that since I didn´t have a prospectors liscense I wasn´t allowed to go mining, and without a special permit it was also forbidden to sell any goods on the parks premises. He then let me off with a warning.
I found Annette standing by a tree, one hand on her hip, the other shading her forehead, looking down and slowly shaking her head. We soon went back to the hotel and called it a day.
The next two days I managed to keep a low profile, and the ride back was uneventful, except for the general sweating, vomiting and crying. Coming back to our apartment actually felt like coming home.
I guess I´m slowly adapting to this strange but beautyful country.
Stay tuned.
"You go ahead and write about this one. No one´s going to believe it anyways." she said. Then we went back down, jumped into our tucktuck and went back to the hotel for a bit of rest before our dinner.
Our driver recommended a buffet style restaurant on the main drag of Siem Riep with traditional dancers and music. I didn´t feel too crazy about it, but Annette insisted that we had to go to a really touristy place just once and I reluctantly agreed. Inside it was filled with couples aged about 40 to 60 from all over the western and asian world. We ordered some beer and went to check out the buffet. Man, it was just sad. 90% of all dishes were deepfried and cold, and the rest was just piles of junkfood that would put even the lowliest fastfood chain to shame. While Annette fought with a bunch of crazy ladys from sweden over the only warm dishes I went back to the table and got stinking drunk. Then the lights were dimmed, an announcer said something incomprehensible in asian english and the traditional dances started. The 5 tone music was hurting my ears and the dancers looked like they were wearing little eiffeltowers on their head and moved like they were just as drunk as me. When the anouncer finally came back onto the stage I climbed onto the table and yelled "Any of you guys know how to do the time warp?". Everyone turned to look at me, some of them smiling uneasily, most of them frowning. In my dazed and confused state I tried to raise my glass in a salute, but instead spilled most of my beer on a burly bearded guy from Holland. He froze for a moment, then turned around and started to rage and jabber and move towards me.I heard something like "Chottverdammter Moff!" as I began to climb off the table and move towards the door. One of his friends was trying to hold him back. "Please listen to your husband, sir! Violance can never be the answer!" I said, when 4 strong hands suddenly lifted me up and bounced me out the door, chicago style. Outside at the curb I slowly got up and made sure the dutch madman wasn´t following me. Inside the restaurant I saw Annette engaged in agitated discussion with several parties, including the owners of the place. Finally, she rushed on out right past me into our waiting tucktuck and said to the driver "Mr.Loutas won´t be joining us." and off they went, leaving me standing in the middle of Siem Riep with no idea where our hotel was or what it was even called. Well, at least I was only slightly bruised and still had some money on me. A bunch of young Australians hollered at me from across the street, so I went over there to see what the deal was.
Apperently they hadn´t even been admitted to the restaurant in the first place for being too drunk, and they really loved the way I had come sailing out of there. They had bought some cheap local beer at a supermarket across the street and had decided to spend the night singing and drinking Aussie-style on the plaza. Since I had nowhere to go I decided to join them. It was also quite obvious that these young gentlemen were in need of some adult supervision. After two hours of professional beer consumption they wouldn´t let us into the supermarket for a refill, and the security guards told us to move along. We said our goodbyes and each went our way. After another hour of restless drunken wandering I finally found the hotel, woke the nightclerk and stumbled up to our room. Unfortunately Annette had accidentally locked the room and didn´t seem to hear me knocking, so I just curled up in front of the door, until the maid found me the next morning and let me into the room. I had a monstrous hangover but tried not to show it to atone for last night´s little mishap. Annette didn´t say a whole lot for most of the morning, and nothing to me,but after we had checked out the first few temples she finally came around, if only because I bravely fought off all the locals in the park who tried to sells us everything you could think of from catalogues to drinks to souvenirs to guide tours. Finally it got too much even for me when we reached the wall of lepers where there was a whole plaza of little sales booths and tucktucks all rushing up to us and the other tourists trying to make a fast buck. "Nothing, I want nothing!" I yelled but they just said "2 dollar for nothing! Good price!". When I had to sneeze and couldn´t find a tissue a woman yelled "5 dollar for khmer hanky! 5 dollar! You need! 5 Dollar! Good prize for Mr.Handsome."
I had just gotten back on Annette´s good side, but it was simply too much for my hung-over head. I pulled some snot from my nose, held it up to her and yelled "German Nosegold! Freshly mined! 10 Dollar! Good price! You buy! You need!". When the crowd retreated in disgust and fear I started after them and chased them towards their sales stands. "What good is nose gold if I can´t share it with the common people? Good price! Good bargain!". An officer of the tourist police finally stopped me and asked me what the commotion was about. I told him that it was just me spreading the wealth, nothing more.
He actually smiled gently, told me to drop the bugger, which I did and then explained to me that since I didn´t have a prospectors liscense I wasn´t allowed to go mining, and without a special permit it was also forbidden to sell any goods on the parks premises. He then let me off with a warning.
I found Annette standing by a tree, one hand on her hip, the other shading her forehead, looking down and slowly shaking her head. We soon went back to the hotel and called it a day.
The next two days I managed to keep a low profile, and the ride back was uneventful, except for the general sweating, vomiting and crying. Coming back to our apartment actually felt like coming home.
I guess I´m slowly adapting to this strange but beautyful country.
Stay tuned.
Monday, September 12, 2011
Trying out the local cuisine
The first few days we stuck to our local bistro, where we live and waited until the ladies had found their brother, who would slouch up to our table and ask :"Chicken or beef?". Beer and cola are both internationally understood, and when one beer was empty I'd just raise a finger, say "Muy attitt" (one more) and that's that.
At the shopping mall (you heard right!) we even dared to order at the Lucky Burger (Proudly Cambodian Owned) and at the all new all exciting Kentucky Fried Chicken. (Colonel!)
But today was our first day at the office. My job, by the way, is to classify and evaluate the available stock of handguns and assault rifles of THE ORGANIZATION. This is done online, the actual guns are locked up in the basement. Can't wait to get my hands on that Heckler&Koch HK35. It needs a serious overhaul, but the HK35 is practically indestructible, so I'm quite confident that I can fix her.
Never mind.Where was I? Right, first day, office, lunch break. OK, so we checked out several restaurants before deciding on the Vietnamese "Nhà Vệ Sinh". It looked clean enough, there was plenty of business and even though the waiter didn't speak English the menu had pretty little pictures of the food with numbers on it. We first successfully ordered the drinks, and then went on to study the menu. Since I couldn't decide and Annette started to be impatient I finally made a "whatever" gesture towards the waiter, who smiled and nodded and disappeared into the kitchen. After a while they first served Annette's fried fish with lemongrass sauce, which looked and tasted just fine. Annette was just halfway through her meal, when suddenly the kitchen doors burst open and four heavyset waiters appeared with burning fireworks in their hands and carrying on their broad shoulders what appeared to be a fried piglet garnished with chili, rice and vegetables. They walked around the table chanting "Heo con! Heo con! Heo con!" which is Vietnamese for piglet. Everybody else in the restaurant got up, cheered and clapped their hands rhythmically and looked at me expectantly. Annette almost choked on her fish, she had to laugh so hard. I just shot her a sideways glance and joined in with the chanting. Finally, the tray was slammed down on our table and a little boy wearing just a little apron knelt before me and offered me a sort of sickle knife. When I reached for the handle the whole room fell silent. I started to break a sweat. All eyes in the room were on me. I took some time to inspect the blade carefully. The tension was unbelievable. Finally, when I couldn't stand it anymore I muttered "What the hell", raised the sickle above my head and just chopped down. And again. And again. And again. Things became a bit blurred after this. When I finally regained consciousness I was covered in pieces of the pig's skin and fat. The Piglet was basically mashed. Another moment of silence ensued. Then the whole room burst out cheering, the waiters fill mashed piglet into bowls and passed them around the room, the first one of course for me. People walked up to me, clapped me on the shoulders and cheered and stuffed themselves with mashed piglet. Annette just shook her head, finished her meal, left a couple of dollars on the table and left for the office. After the last bone fragment was picked clean I payed a lot less then you would expect, said my goodbyes and went home to shower up. My landlord met me on the stairs, looked me up and down and asked "Heo con?"
When I affirmed this he nodded approvingly, clapped me on the shoulder and went on his way.
Next time I'll just have the chicken.
At the shopping mall (you heard right!) we even dared to order at the Lucky Burger (Proudly Cambodian Owned) and at the all new all exciting Kentucky Fried Chicken. (Colonel!)
But today was our first day at the office. My job, by the way, is to classify and evaluate the available stock of handguns and assault rifles of THE ORGANIZATION. This is done online, the actual guns are locked up in the basement. Can't wait to get my hands on that Heckler&Koch HK35. It needs a serious overhaul, but the HK35 is practically indestructible, so I'm quite confident that I can fix her.
Never mind.Where was I? Right, first day, office, lunch break. OK, so we checked out several restaurants before deciding on the Vietnamese "Nhà Vệ Sinh". It looked clean enough, there was plenty of business and even though the waiter didn't speak English the menu had pretty little pictures of the food with numbers on it. We first successfully ordered the drinks, and then went on to study the menu. Since I couldn't decide and Annette started to be impatient I finally made a "whatever" gesture towards the waiter, who smiled and nodded and disappeared into the kitchen. After a while they first served Annette's fried fish with lemongrass sauce, which looked and tasted just fine. Annette was just halfway through her meal, when suddenly the kitchen doors burst open and four heavyset waiters appeared with burning fireworks in their hands and carrying on their broad shoulders what appeared to be a fried piglet garnished with chili, rice and vegetables. They walked around the table chanting "Heo con! Heo con! Heo con!" which is Vietnamese for piglet. Everybody else in the restaurant got up, cheered and clapped their hands rhythmically and looked at me expectantly. Annette almost choked on her fish, she had to laugh so hard. I just shot her a sideways glance and joined in with the chanting. Finally, the tray was slammed down on our table and a little boy wearing just a little apron knelt before me and offered me a sort of sickle knife. When I reached for the handle the whole room fell silent. I started to break a sweat. All eyes in the room were on me. I took some time to inspect the blade carefully. The tension was unbelievable. Finally, when I couldn't stand it anymore I muttered "What the hell", raised the sickle above my head and just chopped down. And again. And again. And again. Things became a bit blurred after this. When I finally regained consciousness I was covered in pieces of the pig's skin and fat. The Piglet was basically mashed. Another moment of silence ensued. Then the whole room burst out cheering, the waiters fill mashed piglet into bowls and passed them around the room, the first one of course for me. People walked up to me, clapped me on the shoulders and cheered and stuffed themselves with mashed piglet. Annette just shook her head, finished her meal, left a couple of dollars on the table and left for the office. After the last bone fragment was picked clean I payed a lot less then you would expect, said my goodbyes and went home to shower up. My landlord met me on the stairs, looked me up and down and asked "Heo con?"
When I affirmed this he nodded approvingly, clapped me on the shoulder and went on his way.
Next time I'll just have the chicken.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
intermission
I have to leave the road of Gonzo-style rants here for one post and say a few words about the wonderful and kind people in this country. Yes, they will of course try to charge you more than the usual price, but hell, we are filthy rich compared to them, and they are always truly friendly and open. If you smile and say "No thanx" they smile back and laugh and wave at you.
Sure, if you hit the places where the tourists are, they will try harder and more frequently, but still always politely.
And the folks we're staying with, well, I can't even begin to describe their kindness and friendly curiosity.
The same goes for the people at COMPED where we work. I just finished reading Mr.Hengs Biography from the time of the civil war and the Terror of the Khmer Rouge, and it had me weeping. To see this man sitting in front of you with fever in his office, smiling, kind, trying to see to our every need, putting all his effort and heart and strength into the Projects, pffff, sorry, I'm for once can't find words to express how much this impresses me. It's a truly humbling experience, putting my life into new perspective.
You all know how I love to rant, to exaggerate and to express things in terms of sheer madness.
And I think you will agree that it makes for good entertainment. But for once I feel the need to make sure that this is understood as Gonzo, a style of fictional factual journalism, designed to entertain and express those inexpressible emotions and things that mere facts could never convey.
Selah.
Well, let's not get all preachy here. We are, after all, professionals. Just pretend that this was written by my good twin brother who never drinks nor swears and knows that even little white lies make dear Jesus weep.
Hallebaba. Keep those homefires burning. We will see you on the other side.
Sure, if you hit the places where the tourists are, they will try harder and more frequently, but still always politely.
And the folks we're staying with, well, I can't even begin to describe their kindness and friendly curiosity.
The same goes for the people at COMPED where we work. I just finished reading Mr.Hengs Biography from the time of the civil war and the Terror of the Khmer Rouge, and it had me weeping. To see this man sitting in front of you with fever in his office, smiling, kind, trying to see to our every need, putting all his effort and heart and strength into the Projects, pffff, sorry, I'm for once can't find words to express how much this impresses me. It's a truly humbling experience, putting my life into new perspective.
You all know how I love to rant, to exaggerate and to express things in terms of sheer madness.
And I think you will agree that it makes for good entertainment. But for once I feel the need to make sure that this is understood as Gonzo, a style of fictional factual journalism, designed to entertain and express those inexpressible emotions and things that mere facts could never convey.
Selah.
Well, let's not get all preachy here. We are, after all, professionals. Just pretend that this was written by my good twin brother who never drinks nor swears and knows that even little white lies make dear Jesus weep.
Hallebaba. Keep those homefires burning. We will see you on the other side.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Into the heart of darkness
So, here we are. Again. Phew.
I seriously wonder, will I ever be able to properly explain myself in this climate? Do you know these hot towels they offer you on long distance flights? Small, steaming hot, damp pieces of cloth? This is what the air around here feels on a cool night. During the day the humidity and temperature get to a point where you want to hit the sauna to cool off for a bit. Acts like changing your clothes or showering become completely symbolic, meaning that you remain a smelly, sticky, dripping swamp thing no matter what you do.
Ooops. I wasn't going to complain again.
My good old friend and partner in crime Mr.Roadrancher found my first entry a bit whiny, so I shall try my best to put a positive spin on things for y'all from here on.
Our residence is located off the tourist center where the white man roams. We live in a small room above a restaurant, opposite to a market for agricultural goods. The really good news is that we have a decent toilet to ourselves, even though it took me a while to realize that the little hose hooked up to the side of the loo is in fact the substitute for toilet paper. Paper to wipe ones behind is an absurd concept to the locals, good for a laugh but not to be taken seriously. Even though our room is rather small - just enough room for a bed and a closet - the place comes with a generous colonial style terrace, from where you can watch the 24 hour madness down below. And madness it is. On our first day it took us about 15 minutes to cross a 4 lane street, and it wasn't even rush hour yet. You sincerely would not believe what passes for traffic around here. Really, you have no fucking idea. Yes, I know I tend to exaggerate a bit every now and then, but in this case I can't even begin to ballpark the situation. There simply are no rules whatsoever. People can't even decide on the side of the street they're driving on, and traffic lights are just decoration. On the plus side it makes for a lot of excitement and quite a few of near death experiences.
Cheery enough for you, Mr. Roadrancher?
Selah.
Anchor Beer is both delicious and affordable at 55 US cents a can, which is about 2200 Riel, the local play money. There's of course the usual bunch of merchants, tour guides and beggars trying to make a buck off of the tourists, but since I took to grabbing them by the shoulders and singing arias in Italian to them they have become wary of the smiling white man with the many earrings. Their Asian ways forbid them to push me away, so they just tend to stand there in my stinking embrace and smile uneasily, until I allow them to slink away.
So, here we are. Again. Will I ever be able to properly explain myself in this climate? Will I ever feel clean, or even dry again? Will I ever pass solid stool again? Find out in our next exciting episode of Fear & Loathing in Cambodia!
"Days. What are days for? To wake us up. To put between the endless night." - Laurie Anderson.
I seriously wonder, will I ever be able to properly explain myself in this climate? Do you know these hot towels they offer you on long distance flights? Small, steaming hot, damp pieces of cloth? This is what the air around here feels on a cool night. During the day the humidity and temperature get to a point where you want to hit the sauna to cool off for a bit. Acts like changing your clothes or showering become completely symbolic, meaning that you remain a smelly, sticky, dripping swamp thing no matter what you do.
Ooops. I wasn't going to complain again.
My good old friend and partner in crime Mr.Roadrancher found my first entry a bit whiny, so I shall try my best to put a positive spin on things for y'all from here on.
Our residence is located off the tourist center where the white man roams. We live in a small room above a restaurant, opposite to a market for agricultural goods. The really good news is that we have a decent toilet to ourselves, even though it took me a while to realize that the little hose hooked up to the side of the loo is in fact the substitute for toilet paper. Paper to wipe ones behind is an absurd concept to the locals, good for a laugh but not to be taken seriously. Even though our room is rather small - just enough room for a bed and a closet - the place comes with a generous colonial style terrace, from where you can watch the 24 hour madness down below. And madness it is. On our first day it took us about 15 minutes to cross a 4 lane street, and it wasn't even rush hour yet. You sincerely would not believe what passes for traffic around here. Really, you have no fucking idea. Yes, I know I tend to exaggerate a bit every now and then, but in this case I can't even begin to ballpark the situation. There simply are no rules whatsoever. People can't even decide on the side of the street they're driving on, and traffic lights are just decoration. On the plus side it makes for a lot of excitement and quite a few of near death experiences.
Cheery enough for you, Mr. Roadrancher?
Selah.
Anchor Beer is both delicious and affordable at 55 US cents a can, which is about 2200 Riel, the local play money. There's of course the usual bunch of merchants, tour guides and beggars trying to make a buck off of the tourists, but since I took to grabbing them by the shoulders and singing arias in Italian to them they have become wary of the smiling white man with the many earrings. Their Asian ways forbid them to push me away, so they just tend to stand there in my stinking embrace and smile uneasily, until I allow them to slink away.
So, here we are. Again. Will I ever be able to properly explain myself in this climate? Will I ever feel clean, or even dry again? Will I ever pass solid stool again? Find out in our next exciting episode of Fear & Loathing in Cambodia!
"Days. What are days for? To wake us up. To put between the endless night." - Laurie Anderson.
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