Tuesday 31st January 2012 It’s Karaoke Jim, but not as we know it...

I am settling into a routine now, but I probably need to look at revising it. I work from 8am to 6pm with that lovely 90-minute lunch break, then have a swim (every other night, I want to do it EVERY night) then go and find something to eat. I really, really should get some proper food into my apartment so I can cook for myself. There’s even the option of eating dinner / tea in the works canteen, but first of all, I wouldn’t be able to swim for at least another hour, preferring to eat AFTER swimming, and secondly, I like variety in my diet. Much as I am impressed by the culinary skills of the Korean lady who cooks for us on site, I don’t know if I can stomach fish, kimshi and rice twice a day, every day.  I could go swimming at lunch time, of course. I need to consider what the most efficient and cheapest option is.

I have just about finished reading through the contract documents for this job and have a good sense of what is going on. I get the feeling my client wants me to get stuck in and start writing letters to their client. The Project Manager invited me into his office for a cup of coffee and we spend half an hour going through the main issues of the job and what he thinks I should look at. His English is decent, but heavy-accented, so I struggle to understand everything he tells me. I think I get the gist of it, and will be able to double-check with the main guy I work with, who has very good English and understands the Western mindset, having studied in Australia. He has even given himself a Western name, which he uses when talking to use round-eyed white folk. For the purposes of this blog, we’ll call him Arthur.

 I often feel embarrassed that we Brits have it so easy when it comes to language. We get away with using our mother tongue in most cases, whilst other nationalities make more effort to learn at least one other language. I know a bit of French, a little German and a tiny bit of Arabic and Mandarin, but I wouldn’t say I’m fluent in a foreign language at all.

At the end of the coffee meeting, the PM asks me if I want to go for dinner tonight. Of course, say I. I won’t get to go swimming, but it saves me having to worry about how I’m going to feed myself this evening. The rest of the afternoon is spent starting a few drafts of letters, and before long it’s nearly 6pm. I pop back to my apartment to slip into something more comfortable (a more spacious pair of trousers is always useful when going to dinner) and then we are off. Tonight we are joined by Arthur and another department manager, who has one of the two very common names in Korean society, but is known by his other initials. Let’s call him DC. We are driven in one of the pool cars to the Phnom Penh hotel where I stayed my first night and make our way through the lobby, past the bar and into a Japanese restaurant. There are no little private booths here, but some of the tables are sunken into a recess with the legless chairs to sit on again.

I let the PM do the ordering for us, although I get to choose which kind of fish I want, so I plump for the fried salmon. Sake is requested as well, and the waiters bring a huge brown bottle of the stuff to show us. I hope we aren’t going to be drinking a full one.

So we eat and drink and the sake doesn’t take long to get us all talking freely. DC is a very talkative man who talks slowly and deliberately with some impressive knowledge of English vocabulary. We talk about our families, our situations, the different cultures of the UK and Korea, the Koreans’ love of golf, and of course the job we are working on. I realise that the PM is making an effort to get me integrated with his team of managers and engineers. I’m sure it’s useful for everyone involved.

The bento box-style meals aren’t as substantial as the meals we had last week, but they do the job. There is definitely more sake flowing tonight, however, and the chatty man DC startles me when he starts swearing expansively and quite loudly.  Apparently he watches a lot of UK TV programmes and has learned some choice words and phrases. There are a few “wankers”, “bastards” and “fuck offs” echoing round the room and I am thankful that there aren’t many in the restaurant. I laugh along with the other guys.

The meal is finished by just after 8pm, and there seems to be desire to carry on with the socialising, so we head for a Swiss/Austrian/German restaurant not far from where the project and my apartment is. It is quite a pricey place, so any ideas I had of coming here on a regular basis are soon discounted. We take a table on the covered patio area at the front of the restaurant and bottles of German beer are ordered along with a portion of snails and apple strudel.

DC, the man I am now calling the chatty man, now asks us all what we think the best thing in the world is. I say my kids are to me, and even manage not to choke up when I mention them. The other two guys don’t answer his question. They seem to know what’s coming. DC stands up, raises his arms and shouts, “Cunt! The best thing in the world!”

I don’t know where to put myself. I think I must at least be blushing, but can’t help laughing. I try to tell DC that this word is the worst in the English language for most people, but it doesn’t deter him. I am once again thankful that there isn’t anyone else in our immediate vicinity to hear this astonishing verbal assault.

We leave the Swiss restaurant after one or two drinks and the PM says it is time for him to head home. The rest of us head back to my apartment complex, where I assume I will be dropped off and that will be that. I am wrong. Arthur says we could go and visit one of the other Korean chaps who is staying in the complex and have a couple of drinks with them, and gets on his mobile to arrange it. Who am I to argue?

Within a few minutes we are in one of the other apartments (on the same floor as mine, as it happens), and I am invited to sit down and given a can of beer. There are maybe three other Koreans and a Chinese man (I think) in there with me, along with DC and Arthur. Some Nick Faldo Shiraz appears as if by magic and DC proceeds to put it down his neck at an impressive rate. Some very strange snack items appear on the table within a few more moments, including what look like dried octopus tentacles. I try one out of curiosity, and take about half an hour to finish it. Rubber is less rubbery than this stuff. I stick to the more recognisable corn/potato-based snackage from that point.

DC is now quite, quite drunk. He is knocking things over as he waves his arms around and lolling his head about. He keeps butting in on conversations when I ask questions or other people ask me something, so he keeps getting told to be quiet and he shuts up for ten seconds before launching into another tirade or playing some loud music in his i-Phone. Some of the other guys are shier than the ones I went for dinner with, and sit away from the table, observing the bizarre group dynamics that are developing.

With the wine, beer and a last dreg of vodka vanquished, our host claps his hands, indicating it’s time to break up the party. I am just starting to get into it as well. Again I assume that the night is over and it’s time to head for bed. Well, it is around 10.30pm, so it makes sense. Ah, sense. Where did you go when I needed you?

As we leave, the host hands me a carrier bag with a few cans of locally-brewed beer in. I feel slightly awkward, since this is completely the opposite of what I’d expect. I’m used to bringing drinks to a social occasion at someone else’s place, not taking them away when I leave. Anyway, DC is pretty much carried to the lifts and presumably to the waiting car outside and, just as I start to make my way towards my apartment, Arthur asks me if I fancy one more drink. I agree, on the proviso that it’s just the one drink, and we are joined by one of the other quieter Korean chaps called LC who was in the apartment with us and head off in a company car to add another new experience to my catalogue.

We arrive at a K-TV club. It’s basically a Karaoke club, with small rooms for private parties. I have seen similar before when I was in Taiwan, but there was something different this time. This time we all sat down in our allotted room on the bench sofas along three sides of the room, facing the TV and Karaoke machine at the front. I wait for drinks orders to be taken and start looking at the song lists that are placed on the coffee tables in front of us, but then the door opens and a long line of about 12 young ladies snakes into the room. They’re all dressed up to the nines, some smiling and some looking distinctly nervous, and my stomach lurches as my mind takes me to scary places. Where is this all leading?

Arthur smiles and nods and tells me I have to choose. Choose what now? For what? I tell him to go first, and he points at one of the ladies in the line. She smiles before moving forward and taking a seat next to Arthur. I blush and look as confused as I can.

“Choose a lady, Chris,” says Arthur.

“Er...OK. What is she going to do?” say I.

“She just sit with you and pour your drink, if that’s what you want,” he smiles.

“Oh. Right,” I reply. I feel slightly better. I’m hoping that this is true and that she won’t do anything else I don’t want. I am in control of what I do, and that’s comforting.

I look at the line and try and pick out the least frightened-looking girl. When I choose, the other girls all laugh and smile at each other. Who knows what that means. She meanders over to sit next to me, smiling all the while, obviously aware of my own nervousness. She sits close, but not uncomfortably so, opens a can of beer and pours it into a waiting glass with ice cubes in it.

LC chooses his lady companion and the other ladies file back out. For an awkward moment we all look at each other, and then I take a gulp of iced beer and proclaim that it must be time to sing. Arthur takes the honour of going first, choosing some awful dirge of a ballad I’ve never heard in my life. It is in English at least, and he gives it a good lusty go, warbling in that well-established drunken Karaoke way.  When he finishes we all clap, our lady companions clapping as enthusiastically as they can. I start to relax some more. They’re just here to keep us company and applaud our terrible singing, that’s all.

LC goes next, signing a Korean pop song in a slightly under-powered but in-tune voice. He gets an even bigger round of applause. Now it’s my turn. I choose U2’s “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For”, hoping it’s tuned to be in my range (always a gamble at Karaoke) and as the music starts, I wait to deliver my customary Karaoke surprise. When I start to sing, the Koreans look at each other and whoop with delight. The girls look impressed as well. I’m not going to play it down here; I can sing. It’s one of the few things I’ve always been good at. That and eating.

It is sometimes a quandary for me, though. Karaoke isn’t always the place for good singing. It’s more about the tacky music, the sing-alongs and even the tuneless warbling. When someone who can hold a tune and who has a good set of lungs (I had the best lung capacity in my class at school - we measured it in a science lesson) lets rip it can sometimes kill a Karaoke session. It puts the less proficient people off having a go. I try to mitigate this by never going first, hamming it up and by singing well-known songs others can sing along to. Of course, if the mood is right, as it is tonight, and you’re in a small group, you can get away with a bit of self-indulgence. It’s nice to see the surprise on people’s faces when they realise you can sing.

Arthur joins me for a brotherly, shouty duet of “Bohemian Rhapsody” (I know my limits and don’t even try and hit the notes properly) and then I sing one or two classics by the Beatles and such like. I impress myself with a passable Louis Armstrong impression, and then get a bit melancholy when I sing U2’s “One”. The song is one my favourites and gets me emotional at the best of times, but in this situation it brings my life into sharp focus and I think of my family back home, completely unaware of the shenanigans I’m indulging in, and I feel my throat closing up with the emotion. I feel that I’ve sang enough now, and after we finish our beers, Arthur tells us it’s nearly 1am and time to get home. We have work in the morning.

As we leave one of the front desk ladies says something to Arthur that I don’t quite catch about the girls who were with us, and he shakes his head. As we get into the car he confirms my suspicions: she asked if we wanted to take the girls home. I feel myself blushing again. I’m not naive, I know what can be on offer in this part of the world, but I assumed that this particular K-TV was just for entertainment and not offering that kind of “service”. I guess that ultimately the choice is the individual's, but I’m glad I wasn’t exposed to what could have been a more awkward situation.

I finally get to bed at 1.30am. I think tomorrow could be a bit of a struggle. What a curious night this was...

Saturday 28th January 2012 The School of Hard Knocks

I get up at 9.30am and wonder what I’m going to do for breakfast. I decide that, rather than waste too much city tour time in restaurants, I’ll get something at the little cafe on the ground floor of the apartment complex. I am surprised to find that they do cooked items such as scrambled eggs and so on, and choose a half-decent but not too huge portion of toasted crumpet with fried egg and ham. A pretty good cappuccino comes with it.

After eating I go and pack my backpack with camera, maps, insect spray and all the other things I may need on my tour. I nearly forget my hat, which would not be wise on such a sunny, warm day. I put it on before I leave the apartment, taking a look at myself in the mirror. I look every inch the American tourist, with checked shorts, polo shirt and baseball cap. The camera I’ll have slung round my neck later will complete
the ensemble. What the hell. No-one knows me in this town, so I care not.

Panith is prompt again, which is good to see. He is obviously keen to keep me as a customer. He insists on helping me aboard his tuk-tuk and then we are off. The first place he takes me is the Central Market area, which today is bustling and alive with noise and colour. The market building is a large domed structure with four long spokes sticking out at 90 degree intervals. From above it would look like a wheel without the rim, I suppose. It has a white roof and yellow walls. Lining the spokes are market stalls galore. I spy a row of stalls all selling the brightest-coloured flowers I’ve seen for a long time. In a few moments we are shooting off down a side-street away from the bustle of the market area.

Panith tells me we’re heading for the National Museum now. It is a huge, red structure, with steep, sloping roofs that seem to telescope from each other. There are ornate details all over the roof, jutting skywards in little twists and twirls. Panith tells me I should go and have a look around. It will only cost a few dollars, he tells me. So I enter at the corner gate, buy a ticket and start wandering around the gardens looking for a way in. The lush gardens are full of statues of Buddhist and Hindu figures, and oriental-style lions with their permanently surprised look guard the stairs up to the building.   I see what I think is the entrance, where other people seem to be going in at least, and so follow the flock up the large steps. A stern sign forbids visitors from taking photographs or touching the exhibits.

Most of the exhibits seem to focus on the religious history of the region. As in the gardens, Hinduism and Buddhism feature heavily. There are literally hundreds of statues of various gods such as the many-armed Vishnu, the elephant-headed Ganagesh and of course, the lotus-positioned Buddha. The Cambodian version, like the Thai one, is a slim fellow, with a pointy round head-dress. Other exhibits include weaponry and royal costumes, and there is what seems to be a huge ornate wagon in one area. That would have taken some horsepower to pull, alright.

My favourite area is the courtyard garden in the middle. There are lily ponds full of carp and goldfish, and in the middle of the area there is a covered podium with a stone statue inside. Two orange-robed Buddhist monks are stood next to it talking to some backpacker and assent to having their photo taken by him. I sneak a picture of them myself as they pose. Back inside I am offered a jasmine flower to offer to one of the statues. It seems I should offer some money as well, so leave a dollar note on the plate next to the flower receptacle. I wonder who actually gets the money...

On my way out of the museum I spot a large lizard basking on a tree branch. He sits there quite contentedly as I take his picture and doesn’t ask for any money. As I leave the grounds I buy myself a bottle of water. It is nearing noon and the temperature is on the way up.

Panith greets me back at the tuk-tuk and asks me where I want to go next. He has something in mind, but isn’t sure if it’s something I am interested in. It’s the Genocide Museum at Tuol Sleng, otherwise known as S-21. I consider his proposition for a moment, and decide it would be worth going to see it. I know for a fact that it is going to be upsetting and grim, but if I want to learn anything about this country and its people, I should learn the bad as well as the good bits of their history. I know very little about Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge, other than they were a bunch of uber-Communists who killed a lot of people in the 1970s. I agree to go, and we set off.

What strikes me first is how it is in such a normal setting. It’s down a side street, not far from the main road. In fact, before it was an interrogation centre and then museum, it was a school. When the Communists decided to empty the cities and force everyone out to work the land, they also wanted a place to use as a “correctional” facility. They picked this school, for God knows what reason, and the sounds of children playing would soon be replace by the sounds of people screaming as they were tortured for their beliefs, their convictions, or even just their education level. After being questioned and tortured, most were sent to the Killing Fields to meet their fate. Estimates vary, but they say nearly 20,000 people passed through this particular facility on their way to the Killing Fields. Only 17 people survived this place.

Panith drops me at the gate, and again I am accosted by some poor soul as I walk in. This time it is an amputee, who hobbles over on his crutch and waves his arm stump at me. I keep walking through the gate and towards the ticket hut, feeling dreadfully guilty as I do. I happily pay some money for a ticket, and hope that they use the money for the many, many causes that are apparent in this country. I am handed a very plain, black and white leaflet which explains the history of the place, then I proceed to walk around the suggested route.

There are white blossoming trees here in the courtyard, a splash of natural beauty amongst the grimy whiteness of the buildings on each side. The buildings are flat-roofed, rectangular structures, each three storeys high. At the front of them all there are an open corridor / balcony, with doors leading into the rooms behind. I dread to think what is in these rooms. At first I keep my camera away in its case. I don’t feel right snapping away at these exhibits.

I step into the first building. The walls are dirty and grey. The floors are tiled covered in a chequer pattern of white and mustard-yellow tiles. The doors are wooden screen doors painted in light blue. I take my first look inside a room. It is empty other than a black metal-framed bed with no mattress. Chained to the bed is what looks like a metal ammunition box. On the far wall there is a grainy picture of what they found here when the KR were overthrown. The emaciated body of a man - I’m not sure if he’s dead or alive - lies on this very floor, chained to the bed. I already feel queasy. As I walk along the corridor, every room has the same thing – the bed frame and the photo of the victim. These were the interrogation rooms, where the prisoner would be tortured to extract confessions – true or false, it mattered not. Between two doors I see an absurd sign – a cartoon drawing of a man smiling or laughing within a red circle and big red cross over it. No smiling is what the message is. You’d have to be quite sick to want to smile here, I think to myself.

On a white board outside this first block are the ten regulations, which include rules like, “Don’t contest me”, “Answer all questions” and “Do not cry when receiving lashes or electrocution”.  Round the next side of the courtyard they have a large wooden frame that looks like a set of gallows. When it was a school, the frame had climbing ropes attached. When it was S-21, it was another torture device, where they hung people from upside down until they passed out and then dunked them in filthy water to wake them up and continue the questioning.

The next building contained a variety of crudely-built cells. The first section had blockwork cells of no more than about six by four feet, and then there were wooden cells of similar dimensions. I take a few pictures now, just for the sake of recording these things and to show people at home.

In other rooms there were information boards telling the story of this awful place and detailed biographies of some of the leaders of the regime. Of course, many of them were highly-educated (including Pot himself), whilst they professed to despise the educated classes. Some of them are still being tried in court for crimes against humanity. It is quite astonishing to think that these atrocities only happened 30-odd years ago.

The worst building is the last one. This has barbed wire criss-crossing over the open balconies, apparently to prevent prisoners from throwing themselves off the higher balconies and committing suicide. Inside this building the rooms are full of hundreds, if not thousands of pictures of some of the people who were brought here. As I walk through, the pictures become more grisly, and some artwork is now introduced depicting the torture scenes that happened here. Information boards tell some of the stories of people who fell afoul of the KR for the most innocuous of reasons. Finally, the last room has paintings that depict the scenes of killing that occurred in the village just outside Phnom Penh, which will forever be known as the Killing Fields. Babies are being torn from their mothers grasp and smashed against trees or thrown in the air and bayoneted. Chained-together lines of near-naked people are lined up and slaughtered with large pieces of wood before falling directly into mass graves. In glass cabinets around the room there are bones and skulls, the skulls showing signs of blunt trauma. My camera has long been put away again. I don’t want to record this: it is burned into my mind as it is.

I leave the last building feeling utterly drained and sick to my stomach. The birdsong and sunshine outside just don’t feel appropriate. There is nothing like seeing the evidence of human depravity to crush the spirit. It is so, so depressing. On my way out I pass a couple of stalls. I recoil at the thought that they might have macabre fridge magnets or snow globes with dunking frames inside or something, but they are only selling books and DVDs about the Khmer Rouge and S-21. There is also a refreshment stall where I buy a large bottle of water. It is baking hot outside now.

I am glad to get out of there and into the tuk-tuk. Panith asks me what I thought and I just grimace and shake my head, saying it is unbelievably sad.  We drive around for a good while, and I am glad to feel the cool breeze in my face as we go. I sit quietly and think about what I’ve just seen. Panith then suggests it would be a good time to eat. I am not particularly hungry at that moment, but he tells me the other attraction he wants to take me to is closed until 2pm, so I agree to let him take me to a restaurant.

He takes me to the Riverside area, but this time to a restaurant he himself recommends, called Khmer Saravan. They make local dishes, and he promises that I will be impressed. The change of atmosphere is a welcome one and my appetite reappears when I see and smell the food on offer. I take a table outside on the pavement, ordering some coconut-fried prawns and a Khmer red curry with rice. I ask for a draft Angkor beer to wash it down with.

As I wait for the food to come, I am approached by a couple of young girls selling DVDs and books from little red baskets. One of the girls really has the sales patter off to a Tee. I look at a couple of items but I only have enough dollars in my wallet for the day’s touring and food, so politely decline. She continues to try and make the sale, knocking the price down  a few times, but she eventually gets bored of me ignoring her and goes off to try her luck elsewhere.

The food comes and I am not disappointed. All very fresh and tasty. The beer is cold and refreshing and goes down a treat. What is even better is the price when I get my bill. It comes to 10 bucks for two courses and two beers. I could get used to this.

After lunch I cross the street to the river side of the Riverside and take a few pictures of the various boats coming and going, and then I turn round to find Panith waiting for me once again. This guy is good. It’s tuk-tuk time again and we head towards the Royal Palace. We get there about twenty minutes too early, but there are already people lining up to get in when the gates open. There are a few coaches parked along the road bringing parties of tourists from here, there and probably Shanghai. So, we drive around the block, along the wider boulevards of central Phnom Penh, and I notice the wide open public spaces here; parks and plazas with golden statues and pagodas dotted around at various junctions.

With sufficient time wasted we pull up outside the Palace, just along from the gate. I notice little guard huts with sharp-uniformed, gun-wielding soldiers stood inside. One of them looks to be sleeping whilst standing up, which is an impressive feat. Towards the gate I notice more street sellers offering bottles of water to the waiting people. There are also a couple of beggars, one in a wheelchair. They obviously know when and where to go. The queue for the gate isn’t terribly long, and starts to move within a couple of minutes.

Once inside the high walls we double back along the other side towards ticket booths. More money to be outlaid, it seems. It was only about six dollars this time. Similar attractions in the West would probably cost three times as much to get into. I’m asked if I want a tour guide to escort me around, but I decline. I prefer to read information boards, or even just make up my own stories for places like this. Rolf Harris invented the elephant saddle, don’t you know?

The buildings are impressive, of course, all towering edifices with aesthetically-pleasing detail in the eaves and up the columns. There are multiple-headed serpents writhing down banisters and lions on every other pedestal once again. There is gold everywhere. We are allowed inside some of the buildings, including what I think is a main reception hall with a big throne at the end. We have to take shoes and hats off to enter and photography is banned. I think about sneakily taking some shots with my mobile, but I just know the electronic shutter noise would be really loud and attract the attention of an official.

The Silver Pagoda is impressive, and full of Buddhas and other iconic statues. Some people bow before the centrally-placed main statue. There are collection plates and contribution boxes, but these people aren’t getting my money. Presumably the King of Cambodia is quite well off and doesn’t need my charity. Certainly not as much as many of the people on the other side of those high walls, I’m guessing. I feel no guilt about keeping my hands in my pockets on this particular occasion.

After I leave the Silver Pagoda I walk down towards a large courtyard between two stone towers. As I descend the stairs a small grey shape about the size of a dog scampers across in front of me. It is a monkey, and it isn’t the other side of bars or a car windscreen.  I am momentarily alarmed and watch where it is going. It sits on the marble stairs, completely oblivious to my presence, so I walk slowly past it, giving it as wide a berth as I possibly can. When I reach the ground I take a quick snap with my camera. Thank goodness for the good zoom on my camera. I don’t have to get too close.

I wander around the courtyard between dozens of statues and large potted plants. I keep my eyes peeled for more simian company, and spy a small group (including a baby) near the edge of the courtyard. I hurry along, looking for the exit from this area. I have to say, this is my least favourite place of the day. There is barely any information, just displays of the obscene wealth owned by one fortuitously-born person.

As I get to the last few exhibits (silver elephants in glass cabinets), I realise I’m alone. The other tourists have lagged behind me, presumably still gawping at the trinkets on display. Either that or they monkeys have taken them. Come with us. We have bananas. I find the exit and notice that there’s a convenient little kiosk selling ice creams and the like, so take the opportunity to cool down and buy a Cambodian Cornetto to eat as I leave the Palace. Half of it ends up on my t-shirt. I’m no better than the bloody monkeys.

I walk back along the road outside the palace, past the crowds of even more Chinese tourists gathering outside the entrance. I look around and can’t see Panith. Where is Mr. Reliable? He appears a moment later from the opposite way I was looking and explains that he couldn’t park outside the Palace, so had to drive round and round until he spotted me.

By now, I’ve had enough of sight-seeing, and am actually quite tired (poor me). I ask to be returned to my apartment so I can have a shower and relax for a bit. When we get back I give Panith his agreed fee of 20 dollars – a snip, if you ask me – and he leaves me to it. After cleaning up and chilling out for an hour or two I realise that I am probably going to be heading out once more. I have no food in my cupboards, and need to eat. I also want to be back to talk to my wife and kids on skype.

So I end up calling Panith again and he takes me back to the Riverside. I eat some food, drink some beer, come home and collapse into bed. It's been a day and a half. Goodnight.

Friday 27th January 2012. You want tuk-tuk?

I wake up early, but not too early, at around 6.30am. I forget where I am for a moment, wondering if I am still behind bars in the UAE for a brief moment or two, before remembering that I’m in Cambodia and have to get up for work soon. I snooze on and off for the next half-hour, listening to the gentle cooing sound of pigeons who have roosted in the eaves (my apartment is on the top floor). At 7am I get up, shower and dress. I can see myself showering a lot here, given the heat. I don’t have to worry about breakfast. My Korean hosts have told me I can get breakfast at the canteen along with all my new colleagues. They have even asked me what I specifically want to eat so they can tell the cooks. I don’t have to eat Korean food for every meal if I don’t want to. I’ve asked for an omelette or scrambled eggs with bacon and some coffee, and by golly, that’s exactly what I get. Well, it’s sort of between an omelette and scrambled egg, but is surprisingly tasty. There are chopped onions and ham in with the eggs. They also give me toast, and I try to explain I’m cutting out the crappy white carbs (bread, mainly) and hope they aren’t too insulted.

With breakfast done, I convene once more with DJ to work through some as much of the work he’s leaving for me as possible before he has to go for his flight back to Vietnam this afternoon. The job is going down some interesting contractual roads, shall we say. On reading some of the letters that have been flying around, it’s obvious that this one could run and run. That’s got to be a good thing. On the other hand, there’s a real current of volatility, which seems to be a feature of jobs like this in places like this. I get the sense that ANYTHING could happen at any time. Time will tell.

At lunch today, the cooks are being overly accommodating and bring both us British blokes a bacon and egg sandwich with chips. I feel terrible that I really don’t want to eat it, and insist that for lunch I will eat the Korean stuff. From what I’ve tasted so far, it’s of good standard (compared to some of the horrors I encountered in Abu Dhbai last year), and can’t be terribly bad for me with lots of fish, vegetables and rice (not to mention oodles of chilli). Maybe the cooks think we live on bacon and eggs. Maybe because the Koreans seem to eat the same stuff every meal, they assume that we do as well.

After eating, everyone goes their own way and does their own thing for the rest of the 90-minute break. DJ says he has to get something from a shop that he can’t get in Vietnam, so I walk back to my apartment and put my feet up for just over an hour. I could definitely get used to this. Thank you, or indeed Merci beaucoup, French colonialism and the extended lunch-break!

The afternoon goes by fairly painlessly. I don’t seem to be suffering from any jet lag. I think barely sleeping for nearly 2 days of travelling has actually helped me out in this respect. It could be a lot, lot worse. Just after 4pm, DJ says his goodbyes and sets off for the airport. I am now on my own, and take up residence in the open-plan office where I will be based. It is very tight and cosy by Western standards. There are two or three main clusters of small desks with maybe six people on each cluster. There are no partitions between the desks, so you don’t get much privacy. I suppose it fosters good communications or something.

I only have to sit for another hour and a bit before the big hand and little hand are vertically opposite each other on the clock face (6pm that is) and it’s time to go. I am asked if I want to have dinner at the canteen, and I politely decline. No ta. I’m going to go and find something else, if you don’t mind. I’m in the mood for something Western and quite probably grease-laden. But first, I want to go swimming, so I head back to my flat, put on my swimming gear and head down to the pool. There are two at the complex, actually, and I plump for the one in the newer half. It looks nicer.

So, I splash about without a care in the world for a while. I have the whole 25m long pool to myself and do a few lengths of various strokes in the evening half-light. I should get some goggles, really. And maybe some ear plugs. I feel a little dizzy for a minute or two when I get out. I hope this will pass. I would really like to swim every day, if I can. It’s kind of a plan. Like this whole working-6,500-miles-away-from-home is a plan. I won’t say what the plans are, because I have made plans before and have had them go wrong more times than I can remember. What is they say about plans? Something about plans are what we make whilst God laughs. Laugh it up, mythological entity...I will keep trying until my dying day.

After my little swim I have a shower and get dressed (I wear jeans and a long-sleeved shirt to minimise biting areas available to mosquitoes, as advised by the travel briefs I have read) and am ready to hit the town...or wherever it is they go in these parts. DJ had mentioned an area called the Riverside, and a Facebook friend has recommended a place called FCC, short for the Foreign Correspondents’ Club, I believe. I stride out of the apartment block, hoping that there will be a tuk-tuk waiting there to convey me to my destination. There are usually one or two there, but on this occasion the street is empty.

Luckily a helpful security guard spots me standing there looking like a lost Sasquatch and says that if I ask at reception they will phone for a tuk-tuk. I ask and I receive. Within a few minutes a tuk-tuk pulls up in front of the accommodation. I am greeted aboard by a smiling and friendly young man called Panith, who I negotiate my price with before setting off. We settle on six dollars for the return trip (I don’t know how far it is, but he seems satisfied). I climb aboard the little covered wagon attached to the back of his motorbike and take a seat on the leather couch at the back, and then we are off. The tuk-tuk doesn’t go much more than about 20mph, but that’s fine. It’s quite relaxing to sit there, feeling the breeze against my face as the contraption ambles along. We soon come to a main road and join the throng of buzzing mopeds and bikes all heading this way and that. There are fewer cars than I thought there would be, which is probably just as well. The tuk-tuks and bikes all weave between each other at junctions, some more cautiously than others. Panith doesn’t seem to be in any particular hurry and drives carefully and sensibly...apart from when he turns round occasionally to talk to me. In surprisingly good English, he asks me if I want a city tour or a trip to the Killing Fields. Since I am going to be off tomorrow, I say that I would indeed like to have a city tour. I might not bother with the Killing Fields just yet. I’ve only just got here and intend to stay around, so can leave that particular “attraction” until I feel ready to see the place.

We turn down a couple of poorly-lit side-streets where I see various people in small gatherings or just sitting on the pavement. There are small food stalls here and there, most which attach to mopeds or bicycles. A whole spectrum of smells assaults my nostrils; one minute I smell frying meat, the next I detect raw sewage.  We soon emerge onto a wider road with good lighting and a strip of neon-lit restaurants, cafes and bars along my right-hand side. To my left I see the river and the distant lights of boats in the water and lights on the other shores. The traffic has suddenly become very busy, and we crawl along at times, surrounded by other vehicles. I could reach out and touch people on bikes or mopeds, they are that close. I can see why they advise you to keep belongings close and in front of you now.

We pull up just past a junction outside a colonial-era three-storey building with a small white sign bearing the letters “FCC” and an arrow pointing up a set of narrow stairs. Panith helps me down onto the street – it’s not high or anything, I just struggle to squeeze through the small gap between roof and base – and asks me when he should return. I give myself two hours to get some food and a few drinks and turn to head for the stairs. Before I’m even two steps onto the busy pavement a bedraggled-looking woman holding a baby is onto me, holding out her hand. She wants money, obviously. I don’t look her in the eye; I just make my way briskly to the FCC entrance. Much as I’d like to help the poor woman, I can’t help but feel that giving her any money would just invite a stampede in my direction with hundreds of other hands reaching out for a dollar or two. The woman follows me, actually pulling at my shirt sleeve as I stride towards the entrance, but as soon as I get into the building she is gone, probably to try her luck elsewhere.

When I reach the top of the stairs I survey the scene in front of me. A large bar is to my left and in front of me a variety of tables and chairs; some low tables with wicker armchairs for lounging in and drinking; some higher tables with metal-framed chairs for eating at. At the front of the room, I see that it is open to the elements, with views across the street to the rivers. The walls are all rendered with creamy plaster and dotted with wall-lights and various photographs and artwork. A waitress approaches me and I ask for a table for one. She takes me towards the front of the room and offers me a table in the second row from the front, which suits me fine. It isn’t too exposed and not too remote. I don’t like to be too conspicuous when dining alone, but I also don’t like being shoved away in the shadows like a social leper.

I peruse the menu to see what’s on offer. It’s a mix of Asian and Western food, with a wide variety of snacks/starters to choose from, and the usual burgers and sandwiches offered for main along with various noodle and curry dishes. I decide to have an Asian starter (pork dumplings) and a Western main (Wagyu beef burger – allegedly – for only about $7!) along with a draught Tiger beer. The draught beer is really cheap here. I will have to try the local brew called Angkor some time.

As I sit and wait for my meal I do my usual solo-dining routine of playing games on my phone and secretly watching other people and what they get up to. There are several dynamics at play here: Young families with little kids on holidays; backpacker couple types with deep, natural tans; male expat workers in groups or on their own (like me). A group of three expat worker types near me has at least one American and one Australian in their number. The Aussie gets up from the table every so often to check on the tennis match being shown in an adjacent room (actually a little alcove with a projector). Then I spot something on the wall. Lots of somethings, actually. There are dozens of geckos in here, all over the walls, but mostly near the light fittings, waiting to catch their suppers. I think they are ornaments at first until I see one of them dart quickly across the wall with that impressive lightning speed they possess. I suppose it keeps the insect population under control. Talking of which, I notice that most people are in shorts and t-shirts or at least short-sleeved shirts. Do they not care about mosquito bites and all the nasties that they can give you? Patently not. Either that or they all smear themselves with insect repellent before coming out.

My beer takes a few minutes to arrive, and my food takes what seems an eternity to arrive. As I’ve not been in the Far East for so long, I’ve forgotten how different the standards of service are here. You could say it’s more relaxed, I suppose. It can be irritating at first, especially if you are in a group and they bring all the courses together, in the wrong order or even not at all. They don’t seem to understand the concept of everyone eating a course together, either. I remember it driving me to distraction ten years ago in Taiwan. Now I just tut and grumble and go back to playing with my phone.

The food, when it arrives, is pretty good. I polish off the dumplings just as my burger arrives, and then polish that off too. I’m not sure if it is actually Wagyu beef. It’s juicy enough, but I can hardly taste it over all the sauces, cheeses and other items added to the burger. I have another beer, and then ask for the bill, sneaking a little look in the sports alcove to see how Andy Murray is doing while I wait (he loses). The bill is around $25, which I find to be very reasonable given the fact I’ve had 2 courses and 2 beers.

I still have some time before Panith is due to return, so I decide to take a walk along the Riverside (or Sisowath Quay as it is formally named) to see what is around. I shouldn’t be able to get lost just walking up and down one street, I would have thought.  I walk past an assortment of shops, bars and restaurants. Many are no more than about 10 to 12 feet wide. The restaurants and bars seem to follow a familiar layout: two rows of tables and chairs with an aisle down the middle. Sometimes there are a couple of tables on the pavement, but the pattern is still the same. Only the decor and furniture seem to differ. Most seem to serve a selection of Western and Asian foods, varying in price, but never being very expensive. Some of the larger establishments on the corners of junctions are modern, trendy places with somewhat dearer prices. Of course, perusing the menus invites the waiting staff to try and entice you in. They aren’t too pushy and don’t chase you down the street, at least. If you amble along the roadward side of the pavement you are constantly being asked if you “want tuk-tuk, sir?” I find myself shaking my head an awful lot.

Before long I come to the end of this stretch of the Riverside, marked by a sudden deterioration in architectural finesse and decent pavements. Past the last few, unoccupied and rather shabby buildings there are blue and white metal hoardings, so I turn around and head back towards the FCC where Panith will be waiting (I hope). I once again run the gauntlet of “tuk tuk?” and “please come in,” as I make my way back to my starting point. It doesn’t matter that I just walked past them moments ago; they still want to offer you something.

As promised, Panith is waiting for me just where he dropped me off. I climb aboard and we set off back to my apartment. We take a different route on the way back, going farther along the Riverside. I see that there are indeed more restaurants, shops and bars after the hoardings. There must be a good mile or two of places to try. As we near the end of the strip we pass a large area on the right which is surrounded by light-festooned trees and ornate fencing. It is the Titanic restaurant, so Panith tells me, and is very popular.

Our route back to my apartment takes us along some more major roads. We pass one or two nightclubs (“lots of girls,” smiles Panith) and the huge luxury Sunway hotel where Panith usually plies his trade. The traffic is light, and it takes only about 5 minutes to get back to where I am staying. I pay him the agreed fee, and then he gives me his mobile phone number so I can call him whenever I need to go anywhere. We arrange for him to come and pick me up at 10.30am for my city tour.

I don’t stay up too late; I am still fairly tired from my trip, and sleep is soon taking my mind away to the land of dreams.

Thursday 26th January 2012 Jet Blag

Breakfast is a rather snatched affair for me. I slept until 7.15am – as long as I possibly could – before showering and dressing and heading downstairs. Thankfully the check-out would be later in the day, so I don’t have to worry about my luggage. I find DJ at the back of the restaurant and then help myself to some bacon and eggs and a cup of coffee. The restaurant is busy with tourists from all over Asia, it seems, and the buffet looks like it caters for about a dozen different country’s cuisines.

It does feel like breakfast time, strangely, even though my body is probably still at 1am, technically speaking. DJ tells me I shouldn’t think about what time it was in the UK, as this will make the jet lag harder to get over. I’ve had the extra day, of course, so this might help as well. I don’t feel too bad as we headed over to the site, and things aren’t too bad until mid-afternoon when I start to feel really tired. A cup of coffee helps me keep going, and I made it to 6pm without yawning too many times. I do struggle somewhat to take in the new information DJ was telling me, though. This isn’t really anything out of the ordinary – on any new job there is always a ton of information to absorb, not to mention dozens of Korean, Filipino and Cambodian names to remember. Some of it sticks, I think, but most just goes in one ear and, can’t find anywhere to sit down,
then flies right out of the other ear.  DJ is quite understanding about it all, anyway.

After work finishes - at 6pm on the dot - I am taken to my accommodation to check in. It’s a very pleasant place, being a set of serviced apartments with pools and gyms and so on. My apartment has one bedroom and has plenty of space for me. It has a kitchenette with a few appliances, but I can’t see me eating there much, since breakfast and lunch are provided (dinner too, if I want to eat Korean all the time), and there are plenty of cheap eateries within a short tuk-tuk ride, according to DJ. Everything in the apartment block is done for you including cleaning and laundry, making life easier when away from home, and as promised, the commute is probably the shortest I’ve ever had, with it only taking about 200 strides from the front door of the apartment to the office door (yes, I counted). On the walk to work I pass by a few local establishments, including what looks like a car servicing shop and a local cafe, both low metal-framed buildings with corrugated-tin roofs. There are street vendors selling Lord-knows-what here and there, and about a thousand mopeds and motorbikes parked along the side of the street where the site hoarding is erected. I see people staring at me as I walk along. I’m quite hard to miss, given my dimensions both vertically and
horizontally. I don’t expect to see many overweight Cambodians, to be honest.

The lead Korean man (Project Manager) had invited us for dinner (my first night and DJ’s last), so I rejoin DJ at the office and we are whisked off into the Phnom Penh night, this time in a black Land Cruiser along with another of the Korean management team. I am a bit more alive to my surroundings this time and watch the world outside go by. The favoured mode of transport here is anything on two wheels, as I’d seen on my last stint in the Far East (Taiwan 2002/3), but there are also quite a few tuk-tuks pootling around. These little moped-fronted wagons look like great fun to ride in, even if they don’t look entirely safe. None of the driving looks safe, to be fair; most junctions lack any kind of control in terms of traffic lights or what not, and all the vehicles dodge and weave between each other and the pedestrians who cross the road wherever they can.

It doesn’t take long to get to the restaurant we are eating in, and the driver parks us right outside, literally on the pavement.  The building is a modern, plaster-rendered affair, with neon signs and large windows. Inside I see that it’s a contemporary Asian restaurant with dark-wood tables and high-backed chairs. There are plenty of people in, including a few Western tourists. We are taken off to the left to a raised platform where there appear to be private rooms in the Japanese style, with yellow papery walls between thin, dark wood sections.   We take off our shoes and enter a wood-floored area where the table is sunk into a recess in the floor. There are six legless chairs around the table, and the four of us take our places – some taking more time than others to get down on the floor and manoeuvre our legs into the recess.

Our host orders tempura, some bento-box style main courses and some warm sake. There is some small-talk about where we all come from, how old we are and what other projects we’ve worked on. The Project Manager seems to be permanently attached to his over-sized mobile phone/PDA gadget, and is constantly looking at it. When I tell him I am from York, he starts searching the web for maps and information about the city. My attempt to explain what a Yorkshire pudding is doesn’t seem to spark any recognition in him.

The food and drinks arrive and they are tucked into with aplomb. The sake is topped up every few minutes from little china teapots, and there is always a clinking of little cups and a “Kumpay” or “Cheers” or even “Yakidar” before taking a drink. The food is all very tasty and fresh, even though I can’t tell what I’m eating half the time. Some of the tempura looks like whole fish with eggs in the middle, and I skip those particular delights. I can just about deal with the top half of a fish that protrudes from my wooden bento box, with the dead fish eye starting at me.

I find myself unable to finish the food in my box – it is huge. Another pot of sake mysteriously appears and is vanquished, and then it is time to go. We extract ourselves from the recess in the floor and make our way out. The driver appears after a moment and conveys us back to our accommodation. I am soon in my apartment unpacking my cases and filling wardrobes and drawers with all my belongings. Shirts go on hangers, underwear and t-shirts go in the drawers, toothbrush and razor by the bathroom sink, mountains of pills, creams, sprays and drops on the bedside table...

I turn on the TV in the lounge and scan through the channels. There are about 70 or so, most of which are inscrutable and might as well be from another planet – lots of flashing lights, colourful graphics and zany camera angles accompanied by loud, jolly music. I guess they are mostly Chinese and Japanese channels and wonder how they tolerate these constant barrages of sensory overload. I also find some English-speaking channels, BBC World, Bloomberg, Fox Movies and so on. There are several sports channels including ESPN, so I should be able to catch a few football games in the comfort of my apartment, rather than some bar with naughty food and booze.

And then it’s time for bed and lovely, lovely sleep...

Wednesday 25th January 2012. Arrival

Almost exactly 48 hours after leaving my home in North Yorkshire, with protests from my daughter still ringing in my ears (“You said you wouldn’t go abroad without us again!” But what choice did I have?) , I finally arrived in Phnom Penh in Cambodia. The trip should have actually taken around 24 hours in total, but thanks to a delay to the second leg of my journey (Abu Dhabi to Bangkok) and the vagaries of the UAE’s banking and legal systems, I ended up spending a day in the UAE. Most of this day was spent in the custody of various police departments in various police stations, caged police vans and grimy holding rooms in Abu Dhabi and Dubai watching bored police officers and administrators typing up reports. It was highly dispiriting and frustrating, but, with the help of some wonderful people, I was able to get out of the situation relatively quickly and resume my journey after a night (well, six hours) in a Dubai hotel. I only slept about four or five of those after deciding to look for some food and drink to settle my nerves and my hungry stomach (the food in police stations is not the best, shall we say).

In the bar (called Harry’s Place or something) I eat and drink my food while listening to the cheesy synthesised strains of the house band, consisting of one man on guitar and two Asian lady singers. They are accompanied by a lone dancer - a wiry Western man in his late 50s or early 60s gyrates and twists to the beat directly in front of the stage. After eating I get talking to a very interesting American fellow who is apparently on his way to Afghanistan. He is bearded and long-haired, but insists that he is in the US military – a particular Task Force, he called it – and has a love of British TV programmes and speaks in reverent terms of the drinking prowess of the SAS. I relieve him of a couple of full-strength Marlboros (oof, they give me a hit, alright) before he heas off to his room to get some kip before his 3am start.

It’s done now, and I’ve got a new experience to add to my “tales for the grandchildren” back-catalogue. At a wise old age I can offer a small child a gold-wrapped caramel sweet along with advice on avoiding countries in the Middle East with backward and archaic justice systems.

The last leg of my journey is in an ATP propeller plane between Bangkok and Phnom Penh. It is just a short, 80-minute hop which feels like nothing after the previous two six-hour flights. The leg room on the little plane is better than it has been on the wide-bodied monsters (Airbus A330 and Boeing 777) I’ve been on, but then there is no personal entertainment system to pass the time watching. I eat a passable meal of fish and rice (I think I’ll be eating a lot of that in the next few months) and drink a couple of small glasses of red wine then play a few levels of Angry Birds on my tablet, and before long we are descending into PP.

Phnom Penh International Airport is the smallest I’ve seen in a capital city, smaller still than Doha’s old one.  The walk from the aircraft to the immigration hall is all of 200 yards, if that. The visa process is about as relaxed and painless as it can be, with a month-long visa costing me US$ 25 and a passport photo. This visa can be extended indefinitely, apparently. After having my photo and fingerprints taken electronically at the passport desk, I stride about another twenty yards and immediately see my checked suitcase idling by on the baggage carousel. I grab it and heave it onto a trolley, make my way through customs and out into the Cambodian evening. It is pleasantly warm and I hear the familiar sound of cicadas as I approach the waiting throng to see if anyone is holding a card bearing my name.

I spot my hosts quickly; a Welsh man in his mid-60s from my company and another, younger man from our company’s Korean client. The Korean chap is holding a sign with my name on it (spelled incorrectly, but it matters not) and they both smile and nod as they realise I am the man they are waiting for. I shake hands with both before being relieved of my trolley and led a short distance along a path and to the car park where a Cambodian man jumps out of a Lexus 4x4 and proceeds to load my luggage into the car.

We all jump in and are soon speeding down the main airport road towards the city centre. I don’t remember much about the journey – I am in a bit of a daze, to be honest, and you never see much of a place in the dark other than street lights and car headlights – but I remember talking to my new acquaintances about my trip and what lay in store for me. I am staying in a hotel the first night and will be moved to my serviced apartment in the morning, they tell me. I just want a bed and a good night’s sleep. I am delighted to hear that the working hours are going to be civilised here – 8am to 6pm with a 90 minute lunch break - and also that the accommodation is virtually next door to the site office where I will be based.

Why can’t all jobs be like this?

The ride to the hotel doesn't take very long, and after checking in, the Korean chap bids us goodnight and said he’d pick us up in the morning. My company colleague is staying at the same hotel as he is just visiting for a couple of weeks, and he suggests that we have a drink and a chat before turning in for the night. It is only around 10.30pm, and I have woken up a bit, so after depositing my bags in my first floor room with the help of the porter, I meet up with DJ (me company man) in the bar just off the main lobby.  We drink a local draught beer, which is pleasant enough, and eat roasted cashew nuts while we talk about the job I am going to be working on. From the sounds of things there are some interesting challenges ahead, with a very demanding client. My colleague tells me he thinks I will enjoy working in Cambodia. He himself lives in Vietnam, and says that Cambodia is much more pleasant in terms of weather and local friendliness.

With beers finished and time moving on, we decide it is time to get some sleep. DJ tells me breakfast is a buffet affair, served in the restaurant at the other side of the lobby, and says he will be in there at about 7.30am. I go up to my room, strip off my travel-weary clothing and flop gratefully into the big, soft bed. It doesn't take long to get to sleep.