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.
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