osmoala

The beers at The Blue Bar were fifty cents and the margaritas two dollars. There was a nice pool with blue water and the sunbeds lay in the sun. Sometimes I went there after the gym for a swim and a draft. It was a convenient arrangement and I usually met people I knew there. Today Arthur showed up wearing a multi coloured shirt and a white hat that could have been a Borsalino. Hannibal Lecter wears one of those at the end of The Silence of the Lambs.

   ”I found it on the top of a garbage container on the street.”

   ”It looks brand new.”

   ”Yes, I think it is... Can I have a beer”, he said to the lovely waitress. She nodded a smile. Only a part of her face smiled. She had a stroke some time ago.

Kenny showed up and we moved to the comfortable chairs by the pool. Kenny had told me about his adventures in The Land and of Thieves.

   I picked up on the subject because I knew Arthur loved a good story. Kenny was from Europe; he had lived here in Siem Reap for a few years now; most of his face was covered by a white beard reaching down his pot belly that would make Santa envious, and he was supporting himself on a stick after a motorcycle accident, that had also developed into a stroke. He had been a cook on different cargo and research ships for seventeen years, and he lived in what he called 'The Land of Thieves' for four years. It turned into to a disaster.

   ”What happens if you go back?” I asked.

   ”Then they will kill me”.

   He told us the story, and after a few drinks Arthur said, eyes moist, that he had sixty-five flying hours and he was ready to hire a plane and go there on a rescue mission. Maybe it was the margaritas talking.

   The more Kenny elaborated on the subject the crazier the story got; there were tentacles pointing in different directions, some of them leading up to high ranking officials and to the top of the Government. The story is so fantastic I don't know what to say. Anyway – this is what he told us, with his own words:

”I have a wife in The Land of Thieves and her ex-boyfriend, an Australian, was one of the top guys in a huge drug smuggling operation. Another top guy in the ring was the son of a very high ranking official. They were smuggling tons of ecstasy and they hid all the money in different banks around the world.”

   ”I thought they are against drugs?”

   ”Yes, but it's all about money. Now – the boyfriend had made an arrangement with my wife that she would have access to the money if something happened to him. So he set up a joint account.”

   ”How much?”

   ”Millions of dollars.”

   ”Did something happen to the Australian?”

   ”Yes. He was killed”.

   ”Who killed him?”

   ”Well...”, Kenny said with a dubious smile on his face; ”Somebody I knew. His brother was killed by the Australian so he wanted to kill the guy himself. But the Australian was trying to kill my wife in the first place, and he was also behind the killing of her bodyguards and also my wife's father! I celebrated for a week when I was told the Australian had been killed. He vas a real devil!”

   ”So, how is she doing?”

   ”Not so good. They have tried to kill her many, many times – poisoning her with all kinds of shit, cutting off the brakes of the car she was going with, alone or together with her bodyguards or the attorney. They have tried to shoot her three times so far. The first time they killed her attorney outside the house in the morning when they were on their way to the court. There are many attorneys that have been killed over the years and many of her bodyguards also. But they don't give up. She's been in jail several times, because they accuse here for all kinds of shit. They want the money.”

   ”Who?

   ”The drug lords. They have the Government backing them up and the police are involved too.”

   ”So she cannot leave the country?”

   ”That's right. If she does that she will have access to all the money. Her only chance is to go with the people from the Government to the different countries, Hong Kong, Switzerland, Cayman Islands, Spain – and give them the money. Then they will let her go. They will split all in half. At least they said so.”

   ”So why are they trying to kill her?”

   ”Because she knows too much. But if they kill her they lose the money. So they are keeping her in the country for now. I think they really don't know what to do. But they are tapping our phone conversations, they are reading her mails, and mine too.”

   ”Have you ever thought she might be a part of a scam herself?”

   ”Of course I have. But what would she gain by lying to me? No – I trust her. But she's stuck there and I can't go back, because they will put me in jail and then they will kill me and make it look like suicide. I know too much too.”

   It was a hell of a tale and I just didn't know what to believe. I had known Kenny for over a year, we had long conversations over dinners and beers and he didn't strike me as someone who would make things up just for the fun of it. So, why would he invent a story like this?

   He had also shown me emails from the guys – bad language with threats and insults, much in the style of some of the Nigerian scam letters I read in the past. Demanding money. And more money.

   And what about all the killings?

This is when Arthur intervenes with his plans of a rescue mission, Rambo style: ”Let's go and take her out of the fucking country!”

   I knew he was touched by the story but I had my doubts it would ever happen. As he was a savant I was always looking forward to his next outbreak.

   ”Kenny, in these emails they are demanding more money”.

   ”Yes. But I have nothing more to give them. My money is finished”.

   ”And when do you believe your girlfriend will be here?”

   ”She said tomorrow yesterday – and I talked to her today. She said maybe they'll let her go tomorrow.”

                                      Revenge is a dish best served cold...

Poipet was a nerve-racking experience as always. These border towns have a bad reputation amongst travellers and Aryanaprathet-Poipet probably makes the worst border between Thailand and Cambodia with all the scammers around. It's located some 150 kilometers west of Siem Reap and the bus ride took four hours and we spent an hour picking up people from different hotels before we even got out of town. That's because the bus companies, except for Ibis, never follow the promised schedule. I left my room before seven in the morning and returned just before seven in the evening.

The-no-man's land between the two countries is like a scene from a science fiction movie after the Apocalypse. There are posh looking casinos on both sides, but when you walk along, the road is filled with beggars, hustlers, scammers; you look down at the river dividing the two Kingdoms and the black water is filled with tons of garbage, mostly plastic materials, bags, bottles, containers; also paper boxes, diapers, a wooden table and the skeleton of a bicycle. The stench makes the air heavy to breath.

The border crossing is a chaotic mission and at lunch time the arrival hall to Thailand was so crowded I had to wait for a while before I even could get in there. The queue was a slowly curling snake along the ropes. It was hot. There were fans, but the air cons didn't do much to cool the place down as they were set at 29 degrees. Almost two hours later I was at one of the three windows where I handed the passport to the border police. She was wearing a light make up and looked liked a fashion model in a uniform; lovely eyes, high cheek bones, the perfect nose and the full lips. She pointed at my arrival card:

   ”You didn't write down your adress in Thailand.”

   I hesitated. The word was that they didn't care much for the expats using the system to do visa runs. ”I'm going back there today.”

   ”Hmmm... And how long have you stayed in Cambodia?” Surely she could see it on the stamps in my passport?

   ”Two months.”

   ”Are you working in Cambodia?”

   ”No, I'm not. No work.”

   She glanzed at me for a moment like she was looking right into my soul. Then she smiled and said: ”'I will write down a hotel here in Aryanaprathet.” It was only for the formalities and I thanked her. I felt happy there for a moment.

   I walked down the stairs and thru the customs which was upgraded with an X-ray machine for the luggage. My bag contained a novel, an almost empty bottle of Aquarious and half a baguette. I walked out in the blazing sun, crossed the street and went in to the departure hall. It was a ridiculous system with these visa runs and I was cursing Oddjob for having to make this totally unnecessary trip.

   I left Thailand after five minutes and went to the Immigration Office where I got the E-visa for 35 dollars I should have gotten in the first place, when arriving two months ago. The E-visa, the ordinary visa, you can extend uptill one year without having to leave Cambodia. I hated Mr Oddjob and wished every evil to come upon him.

Back in Cambodia it was the same routine as always. Some guy asked me promptly about my visa. ”I'll just get it over there, at the Immigration office”. No kick backs for you. I stamped into the country and some other fellow was following me; ”Where you going?”

   ”Don't worry, I've done this many times.” I walked to the roundabout where they pick up people in private cars to drive you whereever you want to go. I usually paid ten dollars for a ride to Siem Reap in a Toyota, sharing the cost with two other random travellers. There was another guy. ”You want a private car?”

   ”Yes. I'll pay the ten dollars.”

   ”Okay. Wait here.” He came back after five minutes. ”You go with him, he take you to the car.” I sat at the back of the scooter and the driver took me two hundred meters along the road, to a travel agent. He demanded one dollar for the ride. I was losing it:

   ”What? The other guy told me ten dollars to Siem Reap, and now you want me to pay a dollar for this short ride. IT WILL NOT HAPPEN!”

   He drove away, muttering in Khmer. I had a vague idea what he was saying about me.

   The man behind the the desk said: ”Okay, ten dollars. But listen – here in Cambodia there are usually two people in the front seat. You want the front seat? Can you pay me five dollars more?”

   ”For fuck's sake!” I turned to walk away.

   ”No problem – okay, ten dollars. Can you wait here maybe twenty minutes?”

   I waited twenty minutes and then the ride arrived. It was not a private car, it was a mini van. Full of groceries, kitchenware and what not at the back. We took off, five passengers and enough of supplies to keep an army marching for weeks.

   But, of course we didn't go straight to Siem Reap – we took detours into the country to let off stuff at markets, drove into villages to let off people and pick up new people. The driver's cell was ringing all the time. Then, after hours we were getting close to Siem Reap. Then the guy takes a left and drives to the airport. Now we were sitting in the van, obviously waiting for somebody to check out from the airport. I was steaming. I took my bag, said a few not so polite words to the driver and walked to the nearest tuk tuk. ”Taphul Road, please.” It cost me another four dollars to get home, but I just had had enough of detours for one day.

Two months ago I left Bangkok for Siem Reap on a coach. Although I'm not the collective type it seemed to be a convenient way of getting all the way to Siem Reap on the same bus. Just before the border a Thai man climbs aboard. He looks like a smaller version of Oddjob, the henchman in Goldfinger, but without the hat of course. He collects our passports and asks for the money for the visa. ”How much is it?”

   ”Forty-five dollars.”

   ”It used to be thirty-five.”

   ”Now it is forty-five, but you can extend it for three months.” That´s two lies in one sentence, but I would only discover it later. What he got us, everybody on the bus, was a tourist visa which you can only extend for one month. That one is thirty dollars at the border.

   Imagine – fourty people on every bus, whom he´s scamming for fifteen bucks a piece. A few of these busloads a day makes some handsome money at the end of the month. This border scam had elevated to an industrial level.

   Next time I would interrupt his syrupy monologue and talk to the passengers; I would take the whole crowd over to the Cambodian side and show them the Immigration office where they would pay the proper fee. I was also going to take his picture and display it on the Internet with a nice story exposing the scam. I would tell him – ”I´m going to make you famous, baby”. Surely that was going to make Oddjob very angry.

   This is what I was thinking in the tuk tuk on the way back home from the airport. But let's remember I was also hungry, thristy and needed to take a leak.

   It's not expressing a colonial view of cultures, only saying some don't take the Buddha thing too seriously.

   And it's dog eat dog too. You hear them yell at night. And the neighbours' dogs too. Agony. Dogs fighting each other and barking at people passing by. Next day the little girl is running after Little Guy with a stick in her hand. Its a big whitecolored and he is the most shamefaced of the two guard dogs. The smaller black one I call Big Guy.

   Maybe Little Guy, the big dog, is too eager to please his masters, so he is barking around the mail delivery guy, and he is being beaten again.

   How the hell would he know? – he is only trying to do his job. He's nine, so maybe the family thinks he should have learnt by now to know the good guys from the bad guys, and they beat him for his ignorance. And then it happens – the dog obeys to the beating from the little girl, head down in shame. He thinks he did something wrong and must be punished for it. He just doesn't know why.

Papa John had also been beaten several times, by life itself. But then again, he had been around for some time. He could still do the quick step and he wouldn't take shit from anybody. He had faced death before, maybe it was when he spent a few years in jail, I forget for what, I think he had said something about a fight, and he had an almost arrogant attitude to the cancer that had been chewing on him for years now. He looked fresh.

   ”You look better than last time I saw you.”

   ”Oh, fuck off for Chris' sake!”

   It was a funny thing to say considering he converted to Islam many years ago. Maybe he was not taking The Holy Quran too seriously either. Last year he had commented on the subject: ”It's just in case – seventy-two virgins you know, think about that...” He winked at me. I thought it was a joke and he did too.

   He told me he had turned eighty.

   ”Eighty? You don't look it. You look like eighty-seven.”

   ”Fuck you!” Papa John made a move to get up from the chair. We were at The Boutique. I had a draft in front of me and Papa John had stopped drinking. He looked a bit like Bad Santa – the white beard, the what the hell care attitude and behind those John Lennon glasses the eyes of a Border collie. Actually, he used to dress up as Santa here during Christmas, walking around the bars on Sok san Road. Now he was wearing a loose green shirt and white linen trousers. He always wore something green. He was from Ireland. ”I have a tuk tuk waiting for me – so, where should we meet to morrow? I'll bring the ukulele.”

   Last year when I asked him about the suicide bombings, truck attacks and all the violence against the civilian community, he said, ”Those are fucking idiots! It has nothing to do with Islam – they are nutjobs. They believe in the Quran to the letter, they form their own local groups where they think they are better than everybody else.”

   ”Do you know what the Quran says about the infidels?”

   ”Fuck the Quran! Fuck The Holy Bible! I don't care. I have always gone my own way. It's my interpretation that counts – not what those extremist motherfuckers say. I hate those fuckers! They can go and fuck themselves, what do I care. But, and this is important – you should never hurt anybody else. And that's also in The Quran.”

   ”Where?”

   ”I'll show it to you.” Then we forgot about it.

We did a tour. I was playing the ukulele and we were singing. It started at Karma, then Mc Cool's and ended at The King Kong Bar. It was a hit – people were singing along, clapping their hands, strumming at the tables. We all loved Papa John's style and his wide toothless happy grin. He would say, ”Play Johnny B Good!” so I did and the crowd cheered. Then – What A Wonderful World, Somewhere Over The Rainbow, Underneath The Mango Tree and One More Time. I went behind the bar and got a new beer from the tap, and they still wanted more. So we played more. It was a tremendous success and I loved it.

   When Papa John was going back with his friends, Swedish Olle and beautiful Monia from Italy, he handed me the ukulele and said, ”Keep it for now, I can't play anyway.”

   ”She hasn't got a name.”

   ”You'll come up with something.” They took off in a tuk tuk. I stood there with the ukulele. It was the big one, the orchestra version. What should I call her? I walked back to the bar and socialized with the crowd. ”Play some more, please”, said the happy girl from Melbourne. She and her boyfriend were sinking margaritas and now he was at the other end of the bar talking to somebody.

   I played We Gotta Run Away. I was remembering most of the words.

Christmas went and The New Year came.

   In the week between these two events I enjoyed some delicious food. Even though they are not public holidays the Khmer take every chance to celebrate. So the streets and many restaurants on Pub Street and Sok San Road are packed with people from Phnom Penh and the outskirts, walking in big groups, dressed for the occasion, wearing a happily adventurous smile.

   There was room at some restaurants where you pay more than five dollars for a meal, and on Christmas Eve I went with Sophia and Nico to Kuriosity Kafe. I had the honey and mustard glazed pork ribs with mash. If you are used to noodles and fried rice, then, what they serve you is a mountain of food on a wooden tray. Absolutely delicious.

   There were the sirloin and the tenderloin steaks at The Palm Café; lasagna at Pasta la' Vista; the meatballs with fried potatoes and onion sauce at Geri's place, Apoua's Rock Blues Metal Bar; the pizzas at The Natural House. Snacks with chicken kebab at Karma Bar. I filled the fridge with Cheddar, tomatoes, butter, mayo, beer and Aquarious. There was a bakery round the corner, with baguettes and rye bread.

   I was eating. We always did back home, and what I missed about spending Christmas in the old country was Jansson's Frestelse – an owen baked dish with layers of sliced potatoes, herring, onions and cream. I found the substitutes here and probably gained a kilo or two.

   And the drinks, as always, only a little bit more now – beers at The Blue Bar with the pool; Amaretto's at Geri's place opposite; frozen margaritas at Viva! and the original ones at Wear The Foxhat. Jameson and Bailey's at The King Kong Bar. The tequila's at Karma Bar. It was great with all these happy people around you and I knew it wouldn't go on for ever. These days were funny, in the both senses of the word. Looking back at the last week is like snapping your fingers.

   I was so hangover on The New Year's Eve I didn't even feel like going out, but then it happened anyway, at eight in the evening, and soon I joined the crowd at The King Kong. The Khmer guys clinked their glasses with yours and wished you A Happy New Year. And then again. Paul from Australia was here. He had traveled the world for many years. Tony from Yorkshire was here too, he said: ”I've been to every country in Asia except for Bhutan. And North Korea. Where do you want to go?”

   ”The Foxhat.”

   We went to The Foxhat just before the fireworks started exploding above the rooftops. Richard was there, he had just moved out from his house and didn't know where to stay; Jeff, looking like Max von Sydow in his late fifties; Darren, the owner with his parents. A lovely couple. I had met them last year when they stayed for three weeks. Now they were here for two and a half months.

   There was Darren's wife behind the bar, shaking drinks, pouring beers, teaching the new staff. Maybe she was thinking, when will I get some time off? The local girls playing pool. Rock and roll versions of Christmas songs on the speakers. So, suddenly we were hugging, saluting and wishing everybody happy days.

   There were two more New Years' coming in the next few months – the Chinese and the Khmer holidays.

Sophia spoke about the energies with people.

   What she said made sense now, and she made it sound like it was the most natural thing in the world.

   Sitting at Blue Bar the next day I remembered what she had said so I started tuning in on people's frequencies.

   The pool between you and the bar. Arthur next to you on the gray sundbead sipping on a coconut.

   His energy levels were good because he hadn't had a drink for four days. Dane at the bar – he was from Poland, his vibrational levels were good too – was going back to Thailand the next day with his girlfriend from Lithuania. She scored six point seven.

   Arthur said: ”I know. But everybody cannot see it. I can. And you are still learning, but you are improving.”

   I thought it was hippie talk. Then again, maybe there was something to it. What the hell did I know?

Sophia made juvelry, sold it at the markets and she used to have a stand at Garden Village next to the tightrope with a collection of home made gems. It was an exhibition of rings, earrings, noserings, necklaces, bracelets, anklets. She was from Istanbul. I asked her if she ever walked the tightrope. She said no. ”Did you?”

   We were at the King Kong Bar, Rain gone to the market – she had said, ”Take care of the bar and you can drink for free.”

   ”So, it's not there anymore?”

   ”No, I stopped it for different reasons. I finished it off.”

   She had her hair tied a broom pointing upward, a whip of black hair that made you think of Amy Winehouse.

   ”Why?”

   ”The manager at Garden Village wants to change the deal we had. Now I'm looking for new places where I can sell.”

   ”Of course. Would you like a draft?”

At Wear The Foxhat, at the end of the bar that streches away from the pool table and the keyboard where you can choose your own songs – now it was Slash with the theme from The Godfather, next would be Tommy Bolin and Sweet Burgundy – Sophia elaborated on the subject; ”Sometimes you can see people's energies. It comes to you like waves.”

   ”Like frequency levels?”

   She tasted the margarita and nodded in approval; ”Yes, it's the same thing. I'm happy you understand.”

   I thought she said 'hippie' instead of 'happy' so I asked jokingly and she explained:

   ”Everybody has this ability to see people's frequences, as you call it, but then you will have to change your ways of how you perceive this reality.”

   ”Me?”

   ”No, not you.” She laughed, ”Everybody.”

   ”So you tried Ayahuascha?” I was guessing now.

   ”Yes, a few times.”

   ”Does it make you a better person?”

   ”Sometimes.”

   ”What do you mean sometimes? The individual session or what happens then afterwards? And if it's so good – why do you want to take it again?”

   ”Both. Some were better than others. And you can still get these mood swings. Like echoes from you past life. And why take it again? – It's like cleaning your mind. I guess we all want to be better humans.”

We went to eat at Geri's Bar and she took the beatballs, without the onion sauce. Geri was playing some of his heavy metal favourites. We were sitting on the outside and there were three guys inside at the bar when I went to ge a sniffer of Amaretto. Geri's girlfriend was in the kitchen doing the cooking.

   They were German students on a holiday from China were they were studying programming.

   ”We are here to take pictures of Angkor Wat because we want to make a hologram of the place.”

   ”Is it going to happen?”

   ”Probably not”, said the front guy, and they all laughed in German. ”But it would be a great project.” I agreed.

   The meatballs with fried potatoes and onion sauce was delicious as always. There were about ten different places I used to go to. For pizzas, hamburgers, lasagnas, Indian, Mexican, the meatballs and all the local stuff too, like The Palm Café a one minute walk from my little apartment. They served sirloin, tenderloin and the local dishes. I was always happy to eat there, except for the pork loins with pineapple sauce. Too sweet.

   I was going to take another guess: ”You ever been to India?”

Afterwards, at Karma Bar – Mr T. walks up. He is a tuk tuk driver with five kids and his wife has left him. He stopped drinking when he turned fifty four months ago. I ask if that is the reason she left him and he says, ”Maybe”. With a smile: ”I don't miss her.” I haven't seen the guy in eight months and he is beaming now.

   ”I started a school for the local kids in my village. We need teachers. You want to come?”

   ”First I'll need to buy a ukulele.”

   ”Okay, I'll wait for you.”

   ”Do you play?” says Sophia.

   ”Sometimes. Have you ever been to Kevin's Vagabond Bar?”

   ”No.”

   ”What do you play?”

   ”Drums.”

   ”Mr T. plays the tro. It's a two stringed instrument and when he tunes it right he can follow almost everything you play. We could form a band.”

   She nods her head sideways. ”Hih hih hii, why not.” She has definitely been to India.