osmoala

Since I had no keyword to a sentence I did not write for a while. Sometimes it's all about a single phrase, or even the single word to get you started. I had no clue. There was nothing dramatic about my everyday life. Maybe I was a bit lazy too.

   Anyway, this is what I remember from full moon.

There was a full moon above us covering the street outside The King Kong Bar, in a friendly or spooky light depending on the way you felt about things.

Moon parked his scooter outside and walked in. Moon happens to be his name. He is a local young guy and he was doing double time with the school, studying hotel management and the job in the reception at one of the big hotels on the river. His vocabulary and grammar is better than some of the ”English teachers'” I meet here all the time.

   Last year he was full of positive energy, a great smile that connected to the eyes, telling me about his plans going to France to learn more about the hotel business. The smile was still there, although he had a limp and six spikes were drilled into his left leg after a motorcycle accident a few months ago. The spikes stood out ten centimeters pointing in every direction and when he sat down at the bar they touched my right leg.

   ”Does it hurt?”

   ”No, I don't feel anything.”

   I tried it rocking one of the spikes up and down.

   ”Now?”

   ”No. Nothing.” He smiled, ”I haven't seen you for a long time, but I met with Mr Ross a few months ago, he used to come here all the time. Where is he now?”

   ”Back in the UK. He hates it. It's rainy and the cold wind...” is like spikes thru your legs. I did not say that. ”What the hell happened to you?”

   ”Everything. But I'm okay now – look!” He pulled up the the shorts and showed a long scar running down his thigh.

   ”I stayed in the hospital for a month and I thought my life was finished. Then they gave me the bill. It cost me two thousand dollars.” He was laughing now.

   ”Rain”, I said ”– give him a beer. Put it on my tab.”

   ”Of course.” Rain was a friend of Moon's too. And two thousand dollars is a lot of money. ”How did you get it?”

   ”Loans and friends and parents. I paid a thousand already and it's going to be another thousand later.”

   ”When?”

   ”When they pull she spikes out.”

   ”What happened to Paris?” All of a sudden I felt like an idiot.

   ”I missed three months in school but I've caught up. Paris is coming later”.

There was a good sparkle in his eyes, the six spears into his leg didn't seem to worry him too much either. Hotel California started playing on the speakers and we clinked glasses.

   ”What the hell is this song Hotel California about anyway? Is it about addiction?”

   ”Maybe. At the hospital they gave me morphine but I didn't like it so much.”

   ”Yeah, maybe it's up to the individual where their next kick is coming from?”

   Moon laughed and we clinked glasses again. ”Beer is good enough for me”.

   ”Mee too. How long?”

   ”Until it has healed”.

   I wished him all luck. When we had finished our drafts we promised to meet again. I told Rain I would pay her later. I left King Kong Bar, crossed the intersection on my way to Karma Bar and then I saw Jade sitting at Mc Cool's.

I hadn't seen her since last year. I was happy to see her. She stood up from the table and gave me a short hug. Her stepmother was sitting opposite of her. Stepmother. Opposite. Literally.

   Her name is Marilyn and she is a lovely lady. I whisper to Jade, ”She was very beautiful when she was young. She still looks great.”

   ”I agree”, said Jade. ”Look – I will need an excuse to get out of here. How about I meet you at Karma Bar in twenty minutes?”

   ”Of course.” It would only take her one hour to get there.

Next morning, two o'clock in the afternoon we woke up. I took her to Palm Café and after her coffee and sandwich she looked happier. We went to the mall across the street, she collected the things she needed and we took a tuk tuk to her place with the groceries and the anti bug spray.

   ”Cockroaches”, she said.

   It was looking good. Two doors on both sides of the apartment that let the breeze in, the kitchen area, a big fridge, air con and two fans against the everlasting heat.

   ”I moved in yesterday but I haven't slept here yet because I stayed at your place.” She is like a sister to me though. ”You like a beer?” She opens the fridge, hands over a can of Cambodia.

Outside there is a big veranda connecting the apartments and we sit down at the table outside her door. It's on the first floor.

   Downstairs in the yard there is a guy spray painting black tires into different colours. He starts with pink. The Catwoman walks out of her room. She is feeding twelve cats. She is from Australia, seventy-two years old but like everybody else she looks a lot younger. She has lived here for almost two years now. Downstairs from the balcony it looks like a junkyard on the left and a construction site on the right, and upstairs they are building new apartments.

   ”You must like it here...”

   ”I do. The work they do doesn't bother me”. One cat after the other is coming out thru her open door licking their mouths.

   Later Jade would explain about the coloured tires. I was just going to tell her the guy with the spray paint must be out of his nuts but she said – ”He made them as flower Plants for his daughter's birthday – they looked great! And you should have seen all the balloons! There was a big party, everybody was so happy!” Lucky me I kept my mouth shut.

Two nights later we were sitting at The Karma Bar. The music was competing with The Draft Bar next door. Jade had an answer to my rant about the aliens visiting us here on earth – I had just read an article online because I loved conspiracy theories. There were different kinds, at least seven different races of extra terrestrials, she told me. She was into conspiracy theories for the same reasons I was – why did some people take them so seriously? She said:

   ”How come they travel all this way, it could be light years, with all this advanced technology they have – and they only end up meeting country folks and rednecks?”

Dave from Wales showed up and I repeated the last thing Jade just said, simply because I thought it was funny. He shrugged his shoulders – ”I'm a redneck.”

   ”Yeah, you look it too.” I was joking – there was a curious happy shimmer in his eyes connecting to the eyes that I liked but did not yet completely understand where it came from. Bright eyes, hair reaching down his shoulders and a happy grin with a set of teeth that did not need a toothpick.

   He stretched out a hand for a high five. He was a fun guy. He would tell us about his religious beliefs. He was a Protestant Christian with some Shamanism thrown into it. Jade started a conversation with David. Sometimes she would only concentrate at one person at at time. I was almost strumming at the desk. So sing, Jade. Sometimes you make time stand still...

I took Jade and Dave to King Kong and then to The Temple. We ordered beers and drinks. Dave said: ”Just don't say you're an atheist.”

   ”I'm not. The shaman world with its connecting energies within all kinds of any life forms is all around us. Have you heard of 5G? It's also all around us. If I need to label something I would say I'm a agnostic.”

   ”Yes, the 5G is going to expose you like sticking your head into the micro wave oven. You don't want that.” But he wouldn't let me off so easily.

   ”There has to be a God to create all this.” He streched out his arms, from the street lights down to the drink in front of him. I agreed to a certain point and right now I had no need to calibrate my gun for the future, so I said simply: That's where you're wrong – if god had anything to do with the world as it looks today he would be ashamed looking himself in the mirror.” That's the Theodocity problem – if god is almighty, then why does he let all the suffering with the people on earth go on, and on? Universe is a big place and even if there is an infinit number of universes around, and different dimensions too – why can't god look after all this, if he really is almighty?

   I remembered an old tv show with Isaac Singer and Anthony Burgess discussing the subject, and they agreed that if god is almighty he also gave the best gift to humankind he ever could give us – the free will.

   ”We are ready when you are”, said Burgess to the camera men and the producer said, ”We are done.” It was fifty minutes.

   ”But, you see”, said Dave – ”God is not looking at himself in the mirror. He jus started it all.”

   ”Then we agree. He's a lazy god though.” We did a fist bump.

We had a few beers and Jade asked if we should share a tuk tuk. We left Dave outside his hotel and Jade said, ”Tapul Road”.

   We were looking thru a few videos on YouTube with her and some jazz band. She laughed, ”That was in Paris, they just picked me in from the street.”

   ”I don't believe it.” Nobody could sing like that without rehearsing. But maybe I was wrong. She was a natural. When on stage she was always the centre of attention.

   ”Let's watch something else”, she said, and I put on The Shining.

   Soon we fell asleep, holding hands like Barbie and Ken. The way some girl would arrange her dolls just before closing her eyes.

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.

I broke the written rules of the gym but nobody seemed to mind. I left my card at the reception, got a towel and a key to the locker room and Kamara, the young local trainer came to the desk. He had built some serious muscles in the last eight months and he was going to get married in a few weeks. I had seen her sitting at the back of his scooter outside The King Kong Bar and she looked lovely.

   ”How is it going?” He gave me a friendly jab on the biceps.

   ”Give me a month and I will tell you.”

   ”And this?” Now he gave me a low jab on the thigh.

   ”Well, my knee has been hurting for a while. I had meniscal surgery on the knee a long time ago, and now I have been wearing the wrong kind of shoes that put a stress on the knee.”

   He glanzed at my leg, and if he noticed the flip-flops I was wearing he pretended not to see. His eyes beamed with sympathy, but I told him everything was okay and I would start working on my legs in a few days. I congratulated him on his forthcoming wedding and he gave me the happy smile and we shook hands.

It was not the first time I had disobeyed rules, even though wearing flips at the gym was a petty thing. I guess everybody sometimes brakes the rules of one kind or other. And if not, I'm not going to feel sorry for them. It's important for the individual to now and then go against the norms in any given society. I'm not talking about robbing a bank or driving your vehicle on the wrong side of the road just for kicks; stealing or destroying things that don't belong to you, which is more or less the same thing, and it doesn't matter if it's private or governmental property – this is about something else. About reacting against conformity; we are individuals for god's sake. It's about ethics too; don't hurt other people. Unless they hurt you first. Well, that could be said about anybody, and everybody has a slightly different view of the world, but some people are more easily offended than others.

   Here's what I mean:

In the evening I went to The Temple for crossaints with ham and cheese and Shirin was sitting next to my table. I had met her before because she was Arthur's friend and he was deeply in love with her. I invited her over and she sat down with her glass of beer and a pack of Marlboro lights. She looked great with her long black hair and those misty eyes, like they held a secret, always a little smile even when she talked about serious matters. She had turned thirty just two days ago and she was from Iran. She spoke flawless British English with this little sing-song patois when she got carried away. She had traveled in Europe and she loved the cold snowy winters in Denmark. She said:

   ”I hate the veil. In Tehran I have to wear it all the time but I take it off as soon as I get out of there.”

   ”I read somewhere that things are loosening up in Tehran. With the women's rights and...”

   ”Yes – the young people don't believe in the religious doctrines anymore and there is more freedom these days, but it takes time to change the old ways of thinking, and they are still deeply rooted with the older population.”

   ”It's funny. In my country the muslims seem to be more religious than back where they come from.”

   ”I can believe it. Many muslims feel alienated when they have moved to Europe and the religion makes them feel more like they are at home. But I tell you one thing – Europe is going the wrong way with the massive immigration wave. Too much islam is not good, and you see what's going on in France for example, with different areas that are totally being controlled by the muslims.”

   ”Yes, segregation. And the politicians are talking about integration. It's a smoke screen, and there's an agenda somewhere they are hiding from the people. The Leftists are supporting the inflow because they always need a victim to justify their own existence. They have obviously forgotten what happened to the communists who braced the take over by Ayatollah Khomeini in 1979. After the revolution they could be seen hanging from the lamp posts in Tehran.”

   ”Yes. We are living in very strange times.”

   Then she yawned. It was contagious and I started yawning too. She was tired and so was I. It had been a long day.

She was going back to India in a few days to finish her PhD thesis. She gave me the title but I'll keep it to myself. And Shirin is not her real name. Governments, including the puppets in my own country are scouring the Internet for dissidents.

   It was twenty past two after midnight. We said ”good night” and ”sleep well”. I walked back to my place and went to bed. I fell asleep in a few minutes and plunged into a vivid dream where I was flying around and looking at people from above.

I felt sad and lonely after watching Savages because my knee hurt.

   It had been coming and going for three months and when it got worse the pain was a spike thru the left side of my right knee. I would never run or surf again, or be the last man standing in a fist fight.

   Then all of a sudden I made the connection: it all had started when I bought the pair of Asics! I was doing quite a bit of walking here in Siem Reap and I was going to the gym all the time and they didn't like people wearing flip-flops there. It's the fucking runners!

I showed Nico the bandage I was wearing around the knee. ”I got this one for stability.”

   ”It looks a bit tight.”

   ”It's a medium size. They didn't have anything bigger.”

   He laughed at me: ”Look at you – you're a big guy, and you are wearing a medium size bandage! It stops your blood circulation and your knee gets even worse – hah hah haa!”

   We were sitting at the bar at The Sok San Street Boutique, sipping 50-cent beers and even though he thought Fidel Castro ”was a great man” we seemed to get along pretty well. He was one of those light-hearted communists you sometimes happen to run into by accident or sheer luck. He dressed like one too, always wearing particoloured shirts and baggy shorts. The long beard tied with a string. I had known him for a year now and he always seemed to be in a good mood.

   ”Maybe you're right. I bought the wrong shoes and I've got the wrong bandage. I feel like an idiot now.”

   ”Hah hah haa!” He waved to the pretty waitress for more beer.

   I had stayed here at The Boutique for a month and it cost me 450 dollars. Now I had a small apartment for 110 dollars a month in a nice neighbourhood with plenty of restaurants, only a ten minute walk down Funky Lane to Sok San Road, but I used to come here now and then for the ice cold draughts. And the staff was great.

We talked about Yvonne, the Dutch lady who had stayed at The Concept Residence last year when we all used to gather around the pool. Yvonne had died on the plane to China, where she had a connecting flight to Amsterdam. She was old but not old enough to die of old age. She hadn't been well for the last months of her stay though; she drank vodka heavily and chainsmoked Camels, and the joints too when she got them somehow; we brought food to her and we refused to buy her more vodka, but she wouldn't eat and the vodka she got by herself taking a tuk tuk back and forth to the supermarket.

   At the end of her stay she spent a few days in hospital for dehydration and for injuring her leg when she took a bad fall being drunk. Her son runs a small place on Massage Street selling Dutch snacks, but we never saw much of him.

   ”I think she was ready to go.” I had a sip of the frosty glass. ”Like she knew she was going to die. Hinu and I said goodbye to her when she was sitting in the cab; there was this shimmer in her eyes, like she had made up her mind.”

   ”Yes.” Nico looked philosophical for a moment. ”Maybe she knew... And she didn't have much of a life in The Netherlands anyway.”

   We said nothing for a moment, savouring the memories of the eccentric and kind hearted Yvonne.

   ”Well – the cleaning girl asked Hinu afterwards if Yvonne's son would have to buy the company a new aeroplane.”

   ”Why?” asked Nico.

   ”Because Yvonne died on that plane.”

I took a few days off from the gym and started taking walks using my flip-flops. The knee was already getting better.

For some reason it was easier to write about the girls than the guys. It should say ”women” and ”men”, but here most people look like girls or guys, because traveling often makes people look younger than their age. You can see the energy in their eyes. And the girls had the most interesting stories to tell.

   So I was mostly thinking of girls. Perhaps I was only trying to understand the human nature, and even though I hated the idea of leaving all the untold stories behind it was better to focus on some other things for a while.

   I was only kidding myself. When the last weeks materialized I realized there were very few options. So be it.

     Lorelyn

 Lorelyn smiled.

   She was already locked with her eyes to mine while crossing the somewhat dangerous intersection between The Temple and The King Kong Bar. I had seen accidents happen there but now there was little traffic so I smiled too.

   She was a blessing for sore eyes. A light yellow skirt showing the well crafted knee caps, the contagious smile, happy gray eyes with a dash of green. The kind of green that makes you jump off a boat if you stare at the water long enough. She would use curse words like a lumberjack but she surely looked like a woman. A sudden gush of wind caught her hair and we moved inside The King Kong.

   Well, there is really no inside, only a tinroof, but to the right there is a bar with a few rooms when you have made your choice amongst the girls sitting on the red couches. Couches that remind you of the 70s German porn movies, but these girls never seemed to crack a smile. I had only seen locals there, in small groups celebrating something. To the left of the smallest bar in the world there was an open all night shop.

   ”Rain, tequila, please”.

   Lorelyn said, ”Good to see you too”, without the usual 'motherfucker'. Maybe she was holding it back because we hadn't seen each other in eleven months.

   She was so easy to be with and it was a happy street now; people around you smiling, tuk tuks honking in a friendly way, people passing by with a hand in the air to a greeting, a white cat stroking at your leg.

   Rain fixed the drinks in no time and we would have a couple more. Rain pulled out snacks with bugs and worms and scorpions. Last time we were here she had whispered to me, ”She is so beautiful”. Now we had a plate of fried scorpions in front of us, but the scorpions had nothing to do with anything.

     Carolyn

Carolyn said to herself, ”Curry on your feet”. She made a slow move and produced an ashtray. She had broken her both feet. It happened a week ago when she fell down the 17 steps from the third floor.

   ”It gives you time to think.”

   ”What do you mean?”

   Her boobs were visible there for a while when she was reaching for a cigarette, voluptious with the rounded curve of a skilled surgeon, the nipples pink. She was a natural blonde and there was an empty bottle of Russian vodka on her night table.

   All of a sudden I grew a little nervous. Was I supposed to do something with these tits pointing at you, like the forever tempting fruits from the Garden of Eden? The pleasures of the Assasins's dreams? I could easily reach over there we were sitting on her double bed and put one of her nipples in my mouth.

   ”Give me an example.” I had forgotten she was an English teacher.

   ”Like... is it all over? Am I going to die now? Did I pay my bills?”

   She wrapped the robe around her like a fortress and then she let it slide open again, and I was trying not to look. I was sucking on to my cigarette and the sun was coming in thru the open door. The air con was on. Victor was by the poolside with his legs in the water. His girlfriend came back carrying bags with vegetables. I realized this would not be my place. I decided to go to the Mekong River to see Christian.

There were other people going too. Moori, Loch and Lee. Lee, the former skateboard pro from London had been bitten by a dog and he was taking rabies shots. I would tell him that a dog that bit him and then survived for three days wouldn't be a risk to anyone.

     Phuc

I took off with my best friend's wife.

   We went to Viva! for the frozen margaritas. Ross was back in the UK and she was here. He wouldn't mind us having a drink together now that she was in Siem Reap on a short holiday, all by herself, and I was the only one she knew here.

   She checked the back of my neck. ”Look, what happened to you?”

   ”Mosquito bites.” I could feel them but not see them. Somewhere ten to fifteen bites. She looked worried there for a little while, but I was sure it wouldn't last long.

   ”I just came back from the Mekong. It was only a hundred meters across the river to Laos. It was hot during the day and cold at night. There were mosquitos around and they come at sunset. But we had no electricity so we couldn't see them anyway. I slept in a tent for the first time in a hundred years and I hated it.”

   She gave me a serious look, like, why do you do things like that? – took another look at the red puncture marks, gave away an easy laughter, shaking her head. She had a sip of her drink. I had a sip of mine. They were good margaritas.

     Sheela

We were burning ice for two days. There was no sleep but we seemed to spend all the time in her bed. There was no other furniture anyway. It was in the outskirts, near the big local market, a three minute tuk tuk drive from Sok San Road. It was close to where Arthur had proudly shown me a place that was only a dollar fifty a night so I walked in there and walked out again.

   Arthur waiting in the tuk tuk – ”What do you think?”

   ”It's a dormitory. I spent ten months in the army. I'm done with dormitories.”

   ”Oh, a fucking dormitory.” We said nothing. He had never bothered to look inside.

Sheela was a beautiful girl. And like any beautiful girl she had a thing working against her, it could be about anything, and Sheela was grinding her teeth. She would easily grind her teeth the beat of maracas when she got in the mood. It was sort of okay too once you got used to it.

   On the second day I developed a fever. Probably a reaction to the mosquitos. I gave her ten dollars to go and buy Aspirin and Aquarious, the best isotonic drink ever, and she came back with a bag of ice. Maybe she thought ice was the cure for everything.

It rained today. A hard shower too. It didn't stop after twenty minutes, so I stayed at The King Kong Bar. The street was flooding, the water coming down on the tinroof the sound of a mad man with superpowers and drum sticks. I was talking to Rain. ”We should eat.” Rain, that's her name.

   ”Wait. I think the boss is coming back from his nap”, she said, busy with the bar. There was a happy smirk on her face and I could never decide if it made her look better or worse. The long hair tight in a knot. She'd look like a businesswoman when she needed to, and I bet she had been banging on his door just a few moments before. The manager came out. He looked tired.

   He answered my question, ”Drunk. I'm so drunk today. I had a celebration with friends.”

   He sobered up pretty quick too, maybe when he realized he would be responsible for the bar. Sometimes I wondered whom of them really ran this joint with the grand name 'King Kong Bar' and it was one of the smallest bars ever. Nine chairs facing a bar lit up by dim colours. All empty.

   The rent was 400 dollars a month, and it would run for four more years. Boss was hanging to his elbows with his head stooping like he was trying to read a secret message out of the desk. Rain and I went for dinner at The Kuriosity Kafe. It had just stopped raining.

I was behaving well there for a while and then Ross came and ripped me to bits and pieces. He checked into Thara House and he was full of work. He said:

   ”It's not a question of what I need, it's a question of what I want. People around you will do anything to avoid work because they are lazy. Everybody wants a holiday. You want it, I want it, everybody wants it. But you have to work to get it. People need to work in order to get their holidays. So they work more and more so they can have some time off. But they will never get there – because the more money they make the more money they spend. Do you see what I'm saying? It's a vicious circle.¨ He sniffed at his Bacardi and coke and I finished his sentence: ”I think the majority is always wrong.”

   ”Well, they don't think so.”

   ”Of course. Let's have a walk.”

We crossed the bridge and it was cooler here. It was like back in those days, the beautiful houses painted in green and yellow, the small restaurants in every corner, lovely people with a with a good smile on their faces, a different attitude all together. I was brought back to the 1980s there for a while and I said:

   ”Have you watched this new movie ... Player Number One … it takes you away a little bit, far away, I would say, from this constitutinal, consti, or national, world? What the hell am I talking about here?”

   ”Not much”, said Ross with a grin.

                                         I shall be telling this with a sigh

                                        Somewhere ages and ages hence:

                                      Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

                                            I took the one less traveled by,

                           And that has made all the difference – Robert Frost

                       I'm never more serious than when joking – Robert Frost

I början av november har turistsäsongen knappast kommit igång på allvar. Det vet du när fåglarna och geckorna håller sig gömda bakom trädstammarna och uppe i lövverket utan att säga ett knyst.

   De bidar sin tid. Som försäljarna här på Rambuttri också gör. De vet att deras stund kommer snart.

   Så, det var inte konstigt att ingen av the usual suspects kom fram till dig på gatan eller hoppade fram från ett restaurangbord för att krama om dig och säga, ”Long time no see – how are you?”

   Det fanns ingen Gad här, och ingen Noi heller. Inte Pam. Inte Kita. Ingen här som kunde bekräfta dig som en människa. Jag var helt osynlig och om du så försvann från jordens yta i denna sekund skulle folk runt omkring dig se en rökpuff som eroderade i vinden, och strax skulle de återvända till sina samtal kring konkreta ting. Och checka sina telefoner.

   Det var kanske lika bra.

Sedan kommer min gamle vän Nicolaus gåendes längs Rambuttri. Jag har redan sett Player Number One på flyget hit men jag tvekar inte att korsa hans väg och säger, ”Hello...” Antingen är han verklig eller bara ett påhitt av min jetlaggade hjärna, men när vi tar en kram är han fysisk. Och det han säger är verkligt nog – ”let's have a beer”.

Certainly, we all knew that the place had changed over the past two years, but that's the way some geeks like to put it because they want everything to be just like it was before, so it was not worth thinking so much about it.

      But then - huuhaa! Ross and I walked along what was left of the stretch that once brought up Sihanoukvilles reputation as Cambodia's most decadent party beach, Ochheuteal Beach.

      Daytime, the restaurants used to serve delicious fresh fish and seafood, huge portions too including salad and mash that happily goes down with 50-cent beers and two-dollar drinks; at night now, the bars used to compete with cracked loudspeakers; the dreadlocks were sitting around the campfires sucking to the joints like they were elevating to the next holy level, and local ladies walked around spotting for the next guy with an ATM card in his pocket.

      So, if yesterday was happy happy go go, today the charm is overrun, torn and broken, by the deserted land showing a depressing combination of construction sites and garbage dumps.

      "Fucking hell!" Ross said, shaking his head.

      "I never hear you use curse words. Are you in a shock or something? "

      "Yes, bloody well, I am! They even took the trees down! "

      To the left of us there was a pile of junk and to the right lay the sea, lilac and forever. The waves broke loose. There was less beach left than before. I imagined that the sand that was eroding built up the beaches around the small islands a few kilometers into the sea belt. But what did I know?

      Further down on the beach there were some restaurants but they looked hollow with their empty tables and chairs and sunbeds, because the tourists had moved to other places. Like Otres Beach which was only a few kilometers away.

      So we went to Otres Beach.

Everyone we talked to were blaming the Chinese. In Siem Reap too, we already knew that the Chinese had taken over Sihanoukville.

      "They are taking over everything down there and they own all the casinos," Arthur claimed. "And they are building new ones."

      "Chinese money is everywhere in Sihanoukville," said Slim who recently had been there. "But Otres Beach is still what it used to be."

      Lorraine said: "That's what happens when the communists are in power."

      Ross said: "USA is fucked, China is going to take over as the dominant part over the world. And they are coming in through the back door."

      And I thought that the Cambodians had been occupied by domestic and foreign forces at all times and now they were once again colonized by foreign bribery that the government and local politicians put in their spacious pockets.

      There were many casinos here in Ochheuteal Beach, I could step outside my door on the first floor and count to seven, just there. In daytime they looked strangely anonymous with fronts that I would describe as nicotine yellow, but in the evenings they radiated in neon with different colours running down the walls of the buildings like waterfalls. I never went in there. And I never saw anyone walking in or walking out. It's funny. But they are not only casinos, they are also hotels. That's where the Chinese stay. They walk in and out through a different entrance and that's the hotel part. They always walk in groups on the street and they are cute. The guys and girls look and dress like their favourite pop stars on YouTube. A black cap on the head with some bling bling and brand new jeans with the knees torn wide open. It's almost like holiday. It's playing holiday.

So we walked over to Otres Beach. It reminds you of a few years ago. We look around. There are people from all parts of the world, different cultures and colours. Happy smiles and how are you? It is the same happy happy go go I saw before.

   So we moved there.

      And it would happen tomorrow.

När människor inte kan kontrollera sina egna känslor börjar de vilja kontrollera andra människors beteenden – John Cleese

Tuppen på andra sidan muren brukade väcka grannskapet runt halv fem med ett myndigt vibrato som sällan övergick till en uppgiven och ömklig stilla klagan utom vid de få tillfällen när ingen hörsammade hans käcka morgonfanfar. Oftast gick det bra att bara skaka på huvudet och flina lite lätt, kolla klockan och somna om.

   Och sedan en morgon vid slaget sju satte den ödesmättade begravningsmusiken in. På sidogatan intill hade man satt upp ett hundramannatält med bord och stolar och de långsamma melodierna framfördes av vokalissor med röster som darrade av melankoli. Först trodde jag att de klagande tonerna alltid gick i moll men de gick faktiskt oftast i dur. Högtalarna bågnade av trycket från volymen som skickade sorgesångerna ut över grannskapet och till och med tuppen valde att hålla tyst. Och när det väl hade börjat visste du att det skulle hålla på i tre dagar.

Jag hade skaffat ett medlemskort på ett träningsställe där jag började gå fyra fem dagar i veckan.

   Det var som ett västerländskt gym med fria vikter och fasta hantlar med gummiöverdrag och maskinerna drevs med remmar istället för kedjor.

   Det var stora fläktar överallt och en luftkonditionering surrade i bakgrunden. Det fanns ett stort inglasat rum för boxning, gruppövningar och yoga.

   Det tog mig drygt tjugo minuter att gå hit så jag var uppvärmd redan när jag kom fram, och i alla fall i början bildades det svettpölar på golvet när jag slet med maskiner och hantlar och trodde att jag låg på samma vikter som innan, för flera månader sedan.

   Det gjorde jag inte. Efter några dagar höll jag på att kollapsa.

En dag satt jag i axelpressen och förvånades över att kunna köra den på max vikt och jag svettades kopiöst, och jag gjorde mina rundor till automaten som levererade kalla muggar med vatten. Men jag var fortsatt törstig och ju mer jag drack desto törstigare blev jag, och det enda vattnet gjorde var att jag kände mig uppsvälld.

   När jag gick tillbaka ut på den heta dammiga gatan kunde jag inte tänka klart, jag befann mig som i en dimma och jag vandrade håglöst mot Sok San Road. Jag minns att jag köpte en Aquarius, en isotonisk sportdryck, men den hjälpte bara sådär, och jag kunde inte äta eller dricka för det kändes som att jag hade svalt en strandboll.

   Jag kom hem och satte mig vid bordet vid poolen och både Ross och Torben tyckte att jag såg trött ut. Jag sov dåligt på natten, kroppen kändes i olag och när jag vaknade vid halv två, och utan att kunna somna om googlade jag på salter och mineraler.

   Jag kände mig knäsvag även nästa dag så jag köpte kaliumtabletter på det där stora apoteket från bensinstationen på väg mot floden, och den första av dessa vita kapslar, en dollar för tio stycken fixade till mitt uttröttade och uttorkade tillstånd väldigt snabbt, magen var inte lika uppblåst och behovet att dricka lika mycket som innan och som ändå bara gav mig en svullen mage försvann också. Jag tänkte att det var ett mirakelmedel.

   Kalium tillåter vätska att tränga in i kroppens celler och när du har brist på denna salt och mineral blir du uttorkad hur mycket du än dricker. Och det sägs att man blir mer uttorkad ju mer man dricker eftersom vätska driver vätska.

   Jag fortsatte också att ta magnesiumtabletter med B6, köpte en strip med kalcium plus D3 för säkerhets skull och tog extra salt till maten för smaken och för natrium. Efter en dag kände jag mig helt och hållet, låt oss säga, hunky dory och Ross sa, ”You don't look so fat anymore.”

Jag studerade menyn på Kalmars Kött och Bar på nätet och en rejäl portion med argentinsk oxfilé gick på över fyra hundra spänn. Jag bestämde att i morgon skulle jag njuta av en kambodjansk beef tenderloin med grönpepparsås och potatismos för sex dollar. Så det gjorde jag. Och jag skulle gå dit igen. Och igen, och igen...

Jade kom tillbaka till Siem Reap på en fredagseftermiddag. Allen, hennes bror hämtade upp henne från flygplatsen på sin tunga motorcykel och de bromsade upp där jag gåendes var på väg mot Sok San Road. Här var det telefonbutiker, nudelstånd och det där dammet i luften fick oss alla att hosta till en extra gång. Hon strålade, ”Heey!”

   Hon såg fräsch ut. Hon hade inte hade sovit på närmare trettio timmar eftersom hon hade tagit omvägen via Singapore.

   På kvällen beställde vi mat på Happy Pizza. Ägaren var glad över att se henne igen och frågade om vi ville ha det happy och vi sa nej. Vi höjde våra glas och Jade sa:

   ”I'm so happy to be back.”

   ”I'm happy too. You look good!” Hon var vackrare än förra gången då hennes resa till Kambodja hade kantats av en tragedi i och med motorcykelolyckan och hon hade sviter som fortfarande förföljde henne. Vi nuddade vid ämnet och Jade sa:

   ”I still have some pain in my shoulder.” Hon sträckte sin högra arm bakåt och i sidled,

   ”Look at my arm. It looks normal but sometimes I feel pain.”

   ”What do you do about it?”

   ”Nothing, I don´t think about it. But now that you mentioned it...” Hon vred sig lite lättsamt och skrattade, ”Why do you want to hurt me?”

   Jag lät som, hah ha haa och ho hoo hah och sa, ”I don't”. Jade log och sa – ”Just joking.”

Så var vi här i Siem Reap igen. Våra berättelser skulle gå in i varandra. Vi pratade om Sok San Road och vi var bra på det också.

   Jag var tillbaka på The Concept Residence, och jag fick samma rum jag hade i april, längst bort vid poolen. Ross flyttade in i lägenheten bredvid. Vi kunde inte uttrycka vår glädje på ett bättre sätt än att gå ut på stan och fira. Det blev en fest som varade i flera veckor.

Men alla de där glada dagarna var inte helt bortkastade. Vi skrattade ju flera gånger till exempel. Vi tog promenader i både flip flops och runners, jag köpte en ukulele på Road Six, gick ett par dagar på gymet och Ross drog en historia från det verkliga livet. Han berättade om Bella, hans dotter i Saigon som snart skulle fylla fyra år:

   ”You know Bella, she a lively girl!”

   ”Kan du ta det där igen?”

   ”Ja – det var alltså en katt som tydligen störde henne, vem vet vad som hände egentligen, och Bella tar tag och kastar ut katten från balkongen på fjärde våningen.”

   ”Vad hände med katten?”

   ”Katten dog.”

   ”Hon dödade en katt?”

   ”Hon dödade en katt.”

   Vi säger ingenting på en stund.

   Ibland tömmer de blåsan inför nedslaget från hög höjd, de passar på att fälla ut sig med alla tassarna, som en slags fallskärm, för att dämpa nedslaget så mycket som möjligt.

Jag träffade Lorraine på Karma Bar. Jag kände henne sedan tidigare och hon hade också fallit från en hög höjd. Eller kraschat skulle man nog hellre säga.

   Hon såg slätare ut än när jag träffade henne senast – hon hade samma vilsamma och bestämda blick som innan och jag såg henne ibland på nätet där hon ständigt var i färd med att avslöja hyckleriet inom mainstream media. Hon kände till varenda konspirationshistoria på planeten och hon hade lagt på sig ett par kilo så hon såg inte så benig ut längre.

   ”I'm doing great!” svarade hon på min fråga. ”Jag har anställt en ung tjej och vi jobbar tillsammans fram den här sidan som heter Cambodian Buzz.”

   ”Jag har kollat in den.” Det var en ljummen kväll på Karma och det var kanske därför Jason höjde stegvis på volymen – Jason! Och inte en melodi i den där industripulsen. Den började ta på mina öron och efter lite kallprat sa jag, ”Vill du följa med till Happy Panchos? – dom har dom kallaste ölen.”

   ”Okay. Då kan jag beställa mina potato skins.”

   Hon reste sig och vi gick ut från Karma Bar, ut på gatan, förbi Draft Bar, Taste For Life och Mc Cool's och hon var nästan lika lång som jag. Jag tittade på hennes fötter samtidigt som vi gick förbi Draft Bar där flickorna redan hade gjort sig i ordning för kvällen, och hon hade lågskor i storlek 41. Vi satte oss på Happy Panchos. Vi beställde ett par isiga draft och när vi smuttade på dem berättade Lorraine den kallaste historia jag har hört på länge. Hon sa:

”Jag hade ett lyckligt äktenskap och han var mannen i mitt liv. Vi hade gott om pengar och Steve investerade i en segelbåt som vi skulle åka jorden runt med.”

   Jag ser faran i hennes ögon och jag hukar som för att avvärja en annalkande katastrof så jag frågar lite lättsamt, ”Hur lång var båten?”

   ”Över femton meter.”

   ”Det är en rejäl segelbåt.”

   ”Ja, det var det.” Hon skakar på huvudet, hennes hårsvall svänger fram och tillbaka och får mig att tänka på Elisabet Höglund. ”Min man dog på den där båten.”

   De var ute till havs och han fick en propp i hjärtat. Han krampade och dog framför hennes ögon. Hon var i panik och kallade på hjälp genom comradion. Det närmaste var Malaysia, och det tog tio timmar tills kustbevakningen kom och lotsade in segelbåten. De blev förda till en marinbas.

   ”När jag klev ur segelbåten samtidigt som min makes döda kropp lyftes i land hade jag åtta vapen riktade mot mig.”

   ”Åtta vapen?”

   ”Jag räknade dom. Dom trodde förmodligen att jag hade nånting med min mans död att göra.”

   ”Hade du?”

   Hon sträcker sig fram vid sidan av bordet och slår mig på låret, ”Of course not – get out of here!”

   ”Sorry about that. Jag ville bara tömma ut alternativen … eller hur man nu säger. När hände allt det här?”

   ”För fyra år sedan.”

   ”Du ser bättre ut än förra året.”

   ”Tack. Jag har precis börjat återhämta mig. Nu satsar jag min energi på Cambodian Buzz.”

   Hon har ett älskvärt skratt som blandar sorg med glädje. Hon lyfter glaset och vi skålar – ”Cheers!”

Det var ett härligt gäng som bodde här på The Concept Residence och jag var glad över vara en del av den här miljön.

   Ross bodde alltså granne med mig och det var Darlene från Australien; Henu från England som bodde här med sina två tonårssöner samt en dotter runt tjugo; Victor från Schweiz som jag kände från förra gången; Nico från Österrike med ett skägg som hyllade Castro; Yvonne från Nederländerna, hon var sjuttio och rökte ganja som en borstbindare, och Dan som var sextiotvå, i bra form och han gick och tränade Cambodian boxing sex dagar i veckan på ett gym som låg runt hörnet.

Denna Dan var från Pittsburg och han jobbade som hypnotisör. Han gjorde shower där han bjöd upp folk från publiken. Vi satt och drack öl utanför min dörr och han sa:

   ”Jag kan sätta mellan 75 och 80 procent av alla människor i trans inom en minut. Vi kan prova nångång om du vill?”

   ”Okay, jag ser fram emot det. Hur långt kan man få folk att gå när dom är i hypnos?”

   ”Jag gav en av mina flickvänner multipla orgasmer.” Han ryckte på axlarna. Jag visste inte om något av det han sa var sant. Men om han ljög så ljög han i alla fall snabbt.

   ”Och, en bekant som också är hypnotisör berättade det här: Han tog upp en man från publiken, satte honom i trans och sa att han skulle bränna honom med en cigarett på handen och att han inte skulle känna ett dugg. Det gjorde han inte heller. Men nästa dag utvecklade han ett brännsår på handens ovansida och gick och sökte upp min bekant och sa – 'Varför gjorde du det? Varför brände du mig med en cigarett?' Och killen som hade hypnotiserat honom sa:

   'Det gjorde jag inte, jag använde en blyertspenna'. It shows the power of the mind.”

   Det skålade vi på. Han frågade om jag hade blivit hypnotiserad nångång.

   ”I don't know.”

   ”How can't you know?”

   ”Maybe she made me forget I was hypnotized.”

   Jag var alltså inte säker på om jag någonsin hade blivit hypnotiserad förut, och jag var skeptisk till om det skulle funka på mig. Dan sa att jag hade vissa personlighetsdrag som gjorde mig än mer hypnotiserbar.

   ”What are you talking about?”

   ”Education, imagination and you play music. I was thinking of Bob Dylan the other day when you played the ukulele.” Han håller med om att musik också är en slags trans.

   Kanske försöker han genom att berömma mitt spelande bara sätta mig i den rätta välvilliga stämningen för den kommande hypnosen? Och vad skulle han tjäna på det? Erbjuda mig multipla orgasmer? Han är ju inte direkt gaykillen heller och han träffar en lokal tjej som är trettiotvå men som ser ut som tjugo.

   Han är en hygglig typ samtidigt som det finns något obestämbart hos honom. Som att han redan har räknat ut vad du ska säga i nästa andetag, men kanske är det en profil som stämmer överens med hans jobb. Jag tänker att om jag ställer cyniska frågor till honom kommer han att leverera cyniska svar.

   Men det är det många som gör. Det betyder ingenting. Folk säger antingen det du vill höra eller det de vill att du ska höra.

   Han är en decimeter längre än jag med armar som sticker ut som grenar till en lönn, han har en bra räckvidd och i ringen gör han det hans kropp och huvud säger åt honom att göra. Fast det är svårt att veta om han är bra eller inte.

   Eftersom mitt kylskåp är fullt med öl passar jag på att ställa kalla patroner på bordet, först utanför Ross' rum och sedan ber Ross oss att vara lite tystare, och jag säger, ”Pipe down and go to bed”, och det gör han, fast jag tror att han ska komma ut och sätta sig med oss så jag skojade bara, och sedan utanför mitt rum, och nu har både Henu och Darlene gått och lagt sig, och han slappnar av och struntar i det där ständiga schackpartiet som tycks vara hos honom en hel del av hans vakna tid.

   Jag fantiserar att det är jag som har lyckats hypnotisera hypnotisören. Det skulle vara rätt kul. Och jag vill gärna flyga igen, som jag gör i mina vakendrömmar. Men, tänk om han redan har kört igång och nu utsätter han mig för en dubbelhypnos. Den första för att övertyga dig om om att det inte sker någon som helst monkey business, och den andra för att kapa ditt lättfångade medvetande som har varit utsatt för den heta solen under hela den långa dagen.

   Nåja, så lätt kommer det inte att bli.

Vi hade klagat på hettan i flera dagar, att den gjorde oss trötta och orkeslösa, och det var sant. Sedan kom Kinavinden svepande från norr och på kvällen i en tuk-tuk tillbaka från Sok San Road hade temperaturen dramatiskt sjunkit till sexton grader. Det sved det i skinnet.

   ”It's bloody cold!” skrek Ross. Det var både fartvinden och Kinavinden som ruskade om vårt fordon.

   ”Igår gnällde du för att det var för varmt.”

   ”Det gjorde du också.”

”Så, varför stannar du inte i Bangkok?” undrade Gad.

   ”För att det inte finns nånting för mig här, här är jag bara en turist. Jag har sett sevärdheterna, så nu går jag bara mellan Thara och Happy Bar.” Jag illustrerade genom att vifta med handen neråt Rambuttri där vi satt på Gecko Bar. Jag åt frukost med bacon och ägg och toast. Gad drack på en mango shake. Klockan var halv åtta på morgonen och den här gamla gatan hade just vaknat till liv igen, restaurangerna var öppna och människor flanerade fram och tillbaka.

   ”Vart åker du härifrån?”

   ”Till Siem Reap. Jag har ett liv där – jag går på gym och läser böcker och träffar människor jag känner. Ibland spelar jag gitarr på krogarna och dom ger mig gratis öl. Har du varit där?”

   ”Många gånger. Jag ska dit efter nyår.” Gad såg eftertänksam ut. ”Jag behöver också skaffa mig ett liv. Jag är trettioåtta och har bott i Bangkok i tio år. Jag vill jobba med barn som har varit utsatta för trafficking.”

   Jag trodde henne. Jag hade känt henne i åtta år och hon sa aldrig saker lättvindligt. Hon var en liten och späd vacker lesbisk dam med den kortklippta pojkfrisyren i en sidbena och ett par rejäla bågar framhävde hennes vänliga och skärpta blick. Hon hade en förvånansvärd auktoritet med tanke på den tunna kroppen. Hon pratade en flytande engelska och tycktes alltid säga bara genomtänkta saker med den lugna och behärskade rösten. Hon ägde en rejäl dos karisma och jag hade sett henne ragga upp en turisttjej på fem minuter på Popiang House. Eftersom hon kände alla hejade alla på henne när de passerade vårt bord.

   ”I'll need to get you laid”, sa hon och fnittrade. ”But it won't be me.”

   ”No thanks. Vi åker imorgon. Ross och jag."

   ”Where is Ross?”

   ”Sleeping. He went to Happy Bar last night.”

   Jag var färdig med frukosten. ”I'm going back to Thara.”

   ”Okay, I'll see you there later.” Hon bodde också på Thara House, med sin tyska flickvän och något sa mig att det inte stod helt väl till mellan dem båda. Det var kärlekstrubbel. Jag hade läst många såna historier i Mitt livs novell.

Alla biologiska varelser styrs av en rastlöshet – Okänd

Jag hotade en engelsman med stryk tidigare ikväll på Burger King. Pom var med och hon tog det helt lugnt.

   ”He's an idiot”, sa jag.

   ”I know.” Hon tog ett försiktigt bett på sin hamburgare, som att hon var osäker på vart det hela skulle ta vägen: ”Here, have some chips?” erbjöd hon diplomatiskt.

   Och sen kommer den här figuren och försöker sätta sig vid vårt bord, och jag går bärsärk. Han har hållit upp kön i tjugo minuter med sina klagomål, tjafsat om helt oväsentliga saker, som att han ville ha sin hamburgare skuren i två delar, och när han fick den, klagade han och ville ha en större hamburgare. ”Go, or there will be a fist fight!” sa jag och slog näven i handflatan. Och det gjorde de, han och hans flickvän, och de blängde anklagande på mig med undflyende ögon, hur de nu lyckades med det. Men tjejen bakom disken gav mig tummen upp.

   ”I don't know about you. Who are you anyway?” sa Pom och skakade på huvudet. Hon skrattade. ”Here”, sa hon och sträckte fram sin sin hamburgare: ”Have a bite.”

   Det tog en stund för mig att lugna mer mig, på grund av det vanliga adrenalinet, och jag trodde att jag visste vad Pom tänkte: Jag önskar att jag hade träffat dig först.

   Men, vart hade Ross tagit vägen?

   Tidigare nu. Vi hade suttit med drinkar på mitt rum, Ross och jag och hans nya vän, Pom. Och när han gick iväg för att köpa Bacardi, eftersom han inte tyckte så mycket om Sang Som, sa jag till henne, för att skrämma henne lite, och jag ljög när jag sa: ”Ingen kvinna har någonsin lämnat mig – det är jag som lämnar dom.” Men det funkade inte. Hon tände en cigarett och ökade på snacket. Och hon pratade om helt andra saker. Hon berättade att hon kom från Chiang Mai och att hennes pappa var polis.

   Det var en rolig och galen kväll, och vi tappade bort Ross någonstans längs Khao San Road. Pom var en nätt och glad dam och hon såg mycket yngre ut än sina fyrtio år. Hon såg ut att ha levt ett behagligt liv. Och hennes tänder. Hon hade ett fantastiskt skratt. Vi gick längs Rambuttri. ”I know a place. Over there”, sa hon och pekade. Det var en av de nattöppna, mobila barerna. ”My friend”, sa hon och vi satte oss. Hon beställde en drink och jag tog en stor Leo. Sedan satt hela gänget och pratade och skrattade på thai. Och jag skrattade också. Men jag fattade ingenting av vad de snackade om. Pom vände sig not mig.

   ”Are you okay?” frågade hon

   ”Yes. Jag är helt okay.” Jag tog tre klunkar från mitt plastglas med Leo och lämnade resten bakom mig. ”Men jag behöver gå och lägga mig en stund.”

   ”Of course”, sa hon lite tillfälligt. ”Men senare måste jag kanske komma och sparka in din dörr.”

   Jag gick tillbaka till rummet. Jag var imponerad av hennes företagsamma ambitioner, och jag muttrade för mig själv: ”Sparka in... din dörr...” Jag var övertygad om att det fanns en klang där.   

And I think to myself – it's a wonderful world – Louis Armstrong

Det var en vacker värld.

   Och nu var jag i LOS – The land of smiles, och när jag passerade de gamla tanterna som satt på pinnstolar utanför sina små butiker, log de tillbaka, och jag inbillade mig när jag mötte deras blick, att jag kunde se deras livshistorier på en sekund. De hade haft turbulenta stormar av både glädje och sorg, av fattigdom och plötsliga pengar, och de hade gråtit och skrattat många gånger på sin vandring genom det som de kallade det här livet. De var buddister och trodde att något gott skulle hända dem, ja lite senare.

   Eller så var det bara jag. Här, i skarven mellan mina båda liv, kände jag både lättnad och saknad.

   Och jag kunde tyvärr inte förstå att så många människor var nöjda med ett liv, när de kunde ha två liv. Och det till samma pris.

   En gammal vän hade passat på att blocka mig på Facebook, eftersom han tyckte att jag skulle växa upp. Så att jag kunde anpassa mig och bli en fyrkantig och fantasilös, moraliserande dumskalle som han. Fylld av indignation. Att köra omkring i en nercabbad BMW, samtidigt som han skickade sms på sin iPhone nummer 8 till brudar som aldrig svarade, tyckte han var essensen av den kompletta tillvaron. Jag förstod att jag representerade ett hot mot hans liv och leverne.

   Well, excuse me then. While I kiss the sky.

Det var inte alls så varmt här som man skulle ha kunnat tro. Det var mer som 24 än 28. Men Ross harklade och snörvlade och han sa:

   ”It's the air. It's different air from where I come.”

   ”Yes. And Siem Reap is not going to be any better. But let's go there anyway. We can always go south. Later.”

   Jag knackade på hans dörr och tjejen från Chiang Mai satt på hans säng. Hon log och pratade. Hon bodde här på Thara. Hon såg ut som en thai från medelklassen. Och hon pratade. Hon sa fuck-ordet tre gånger på fem minuter. Jag gick ut och till Rambuttri och tog en öl där jag hade träffat Sasha från Polen föregående kväll. Hon var inte där.

Memento mori – glöm inte att du ska dö; en vanlig hälsningsfras i 1600-talets Frankrike.

Jag drack ett par öl med Sasha, en långbent brunett med ett spontant smil som glatt lyssnade på min eviga svada nu när klockan slog tolv på kvällen, eftersom hon själv också hade njutit av ett par öl. Och sedan var det hennes tur, hon hade landat samma dag och jag gissade att hon hade en lätt släng av jetlag. Vi språkades vid under en utdragen stund och jag frågade henne:

   ”Vill du följa med mig och äta nånting?”

   ”No.”

   ”Jag vet en bar. Vill du hänga med på en drink?”

   ”Okay.”

   Men barerna håller på att stänga, och Khao San Road vore bara för mycket. Och fast hon är rask på stegen vill jag bara bli av med henne just nu. Hon ser helt okay ut och hon pratar en utmärkt, om än en något släpig engelska; jag gillar till och med de små knottror hon har på näsan och vi skiljs åt med en kram och lovar att träffas på Rambuttri i morgon. Hon behöver kanske sova några timmar.

Jag hade suttit med Ross över en halva Song Sam med coke och en hink med is på stolarna ute på gatan till Pat Bar. Det är en bar som ligger på bekvämt avstånd från Thara, längs den stora gatan som löper utmed den väldiga Chao Praya-floden. Jag hade berättat för min gode vän om memento mori, som ju egentligen är en hyllning till livet. Men Ross huttrade och sa: ”I don't like it.”

   ”Hur var det med den här konverteringsceromin igen?” frågar jag.

   ”Come again, jag hör inte vad du säger?” En tung motorcykel gasar just förbi.

   ”Du konverterade till islam eftersom du ville vara ihop med den där tjejen. I Gambia.”

   ”Ja.” Ross tänder sin handrullade cigarett. ”Det är sant. Men berätta inte det för Phuc.”

   ”Jo, det ska jag berätta. Hon berättar saker för mig också. Hon säger att hon var och hälsade på dig i England och ni gick aldrig ut och åt – ”All the time cooking at the house and never eating out in a restaurant...” Jag överdriver min gnälliga röst, ”Hahahahaa!”

   ”Well... Det var trettifyra grader i moskén och absolut vindstilla. Jag var klädd i en robe, en ämbetsdräkt som täckte mig från topp till tå, och jag svettades av bara helvete. Jag hade skrivit ett par rader med fonetisk skrift på arabiska på min handflata, som jag ska läsa upp för imamen, och det är fyrahundra personer i publiken. Jag kollar ner och jag har svettats bort alltihop, ”It's nothing there... it's gone. Everything. Everything is gone.”

   ”So, what happened?”

   ”Det blev okay till slut – jag mumlade nånting och hela församlingen, fyrahundra pers sjönk in i nån slags bön. Alla verkade nöjda.”

   ”Du också?”

   ”Ja. Just då. Och sedan gick vi och käkade och jag betalade för allting. Det var inte billigt.”

   ”Igår kväll, när du hade gått och lagt dig gick jag till Burger King.”

   ”Hur dags var det?”

   ”Runt tolv. Det var en massa folk på gatan, det var lördagkväll och det var svårt att ta sig fram på gatan, du vet nere på Rambuttri, innan Khao San Road.”

   ”I can imagine.”

   ”Och du har dom här tjejerna från Nigeria, dom stryker längs din arm och frågar om du vill gå med dom. Jag tror att dom är farliga. Dom är också religösa, men bara till läpparnas bekännelse.”

   ”Bangkok”, säger Ross och tar en klunk Sang Som. Han ristar på huvudet. Kanske är det drinken eller tillståndet i huvudstaden. Förmodligen är det en kombination av både och.

   ”So, where do you want to go from here?” frågar han.

   ”I don't know. What do you think?”

   ”I'm easy”, säger Ross.  

Kampen för en absolut rättvisa resulterar oftast i ett nytt förtryck – Albert Camus

Everybody runs – John Anderton, Minority Report

Eftersom flyget var tre timmar försenat tog jag ett senare tåg till Kastrup.

Jag körde in mitt pass i en maskin och fick ut ett boardingkort. I röntgenkontrollen togs min dator ut för en ”rutinkontroll”, det gamla skinnet över macen topsades av en dejlig dam med vita handskar.

   Rutinkontroll, my ass – säkerhetspersonal uppdaterar sig ständigt på resenärer med ett avvikande beteendemönster, och nu var jag helt nykter och hade inte ens vätskor med mig (vajpen och smörkolan hade jag lämnat hemma efter nya hot om tio års fängelse för den som tar in en e-cigarett till Thailand) men jag var tydligen en potentiell säkerhetsrisk med min rakade skalle och mina lediga kläder.

   De hade kanske gått en kurs precis innan.

   Den glada danskan kunde inte hitta några spår av varken knark, bomber eller kontraband och jag gled in där – jag kunde ha gjort Michael Jackson's Moonwalk, där och på stället – för jag skred rätt in i Köpguden... det här var Köpguden!

   Det fanns allt från läskeblask till Hennes och Mauritz, det var strålkastarbelysta skyltdockor som vore det ett annat nittiotal, och en snygg tröja för 179 danska, så det var kanske inte så farligt ändå.

   Det är färgsprakande butiker när du precis har checkat in och jag tänker mig att de är rena magneter för de köplystna salongsberusade semesterfirande blonderade damer med sina korvskinnstajta jeans som nu styltar in på de höga klackarna de har tagit på sig inför färden. De väljer och vrakar, de kommenterar högljutt varje trasa, de ställer sig framför spegeln med olika plagg framför sig, fnittrar, och möter sin egen blick, där de sedan hänger tillbaka kläderna. Men, det är ju ändå semester. Ska vi inte ha en till?

   Baren ligger nära och det är där karlarna har parkerat sig. De ropar uppmuntrande tillmälen till sina fruar och viftar med ölstop som rymmer trekvarts liter per glas. Ja, stora stop sköljer ner i struparna på ryssarna, och de beställer fler. De pratar på ett språk som jag inte förstår, och det är helt okay, de är också på semester. Och när de skrattar låter det som när man skrattar på finska, när man drar på, bara för skojs skull – eller på alla språk, i alla länder, när man försöker reta nån, det är melodiskt och det låter såhär;

•    nä nä nä nä näänä!

Jag har fyra timmar på mig, så det är klart att jag går omkring och fantiserar. Jag går runt i tax free butikerna men det finns väldigt få saker som väcker min passion här. Ska jag köpa en bärs?

   Min inre röst har ett svar på det:

   ”Lägg av.”

   ”Två bärs då?”

   ”Oh, jag visste det! Men du blir bara pissnödig på planet.”

   ”Det är ju för fan tre timmar dit! Flyget är ytterligare en halvtimme försenat. Jag vill ha ett par Elefanöl. Det var länge sedan.”

   ”Du får göra som du vill, men skyll inte sen på mig om...”

   ”Vad?”

   ”Om det går åt helvete. Ingenting... ”

   ”Jag tänker sova gott på flyget. Jag ska njuta av ett par Imovan.” Och mycket riktigt – jag skulle komma att sova i närmare åtta timmar på det där flyget, och jag slapp den där förbannade jetlagen.

Så, jag satt fast på den här flygplatsen och jag blev full på två öl. Efter en bärs blev boken ännu mer spännande.

   Det var John le Carre´ med Absoluta vänner.

   John kan tyckas något torr med sina ständiga adjektiv, men efter ett par Elefantöl blev han genast roligare.

   Kolla på den här – Pappan, majoren, lämnar av Mundy till en internatskola och ger honom följande livsvisdom på vägen:

   ”Kom alltid ihåg att att din mor vakar över dig, pojke, och om en karl kammar sig offentligt ska du springa av bara helvete.”

”Vi ber passagerare att vara uppmärksamma med att inte lämna era väskor utan uppsikt!”

   En robotröst.

   Och en till: ”Låt ingen annan bära era väskor!”

   Det känns betryggande. En namnkunnig person säger följande i media: ”Ja, de är ett fyrtiotal knäppgökar, men vad är det de egentligen kan ställa till med? I jämförelse.”

   Just det. I jämförelse. Att relativisera funkar åt alla håll. Själv har jag aldrig fattat varför vi fjäskar för alla muslimer samtidigt som vi hatar alla vita män. Och, ja, det var inte den vite mannen som började med slaveriet, det var den vite mannen som satte ett stopp för det. Han hette Abraham.

   Men det lär vi inte få höra, istället reviderar vi både Pippi och Tintin.

   För allas bästa, säger man.

   För vems bästa?

   För allas bästa.

   ”Så, det är okay att jag skaffar mig tre fruar?”

   ”Nej. Du måste ha gift dig utomlands. Någonstans där man får gifta sig med flera fruar.”

   ”Är det inte ett ganska praktiskt sätt att se på saken?”

    ”Javisst. Vill du smaka på lite qat?”

   Jag skojar, det är aldrig någon som har försökt bjuda mig på qat. Och skulle de bjuda mig på det, skulle jag förmodligen tacka ja. Om det var rätt läge. Om det var ett kulturellt läge.

Jag är i Bangkok, på Thara House, och jag öppnar fönstret för att röka en Falling Rain. Det är bara nästan som att puffa på en vape, och det är nu den här förflyttningen mellan världsdelarna slår över mig som en tidvattensvåg, och jag får blandade känslor, jag är glad och melankolisk på samma gång. Men inför den här resan var jag mer fokuserad och organiserad än någonsin tidigare, och det är en bra grej. Jag känner tillfälliga strömmar av lycka genomfara min trinda kropp.

   I morgon kommer Ross. Han vet inte vad qat är, och det spelar ingen roll. Eller så vet han – han har ju faktiskt en gång gått igenom en islamsk konverteringsceremoni i Gambia. Jag skrattar varje gång han berättar om den. Jag ska intervjua honom lite om det där. Det blir bra.

Don't waste your smile on idiots – Jade

Jag träffade henne på Karma Bar. Hon satt med armarna på bardisken med en öl framför sig. Jag hämtade en bärs från kylen och nickade mot Christian med en frågande min åt hennes håll. Det var bara vi tre i baren just nu. Han ryckte på axlarna. Jag undrade för ett ögonblick vad den där axelryckningen egentligen betydde men det skulle jag snart bli varse.

   Och det skulle bli en intressant resa. Jade var från den norra spetsen av den irländska ön och på en bra dag påminde hon om skådespelerskan Jennifer Jason Leigh. Hon var som en pojkflicka när hon dök i min pool med huvudet före, och hon kunde dricka öl och gin and tonic som en skogshuggare när vi tog våra små vandringar längs Sok San Road.

   Hon hackade lök och vitlök när vi kokade pasta, och plötsligt viftade hon med kniven under min näsa samtidigt som hon höjde rösten:

   ”I'm never going to sing again!”

   Jag hade precis sagt att vi kanske skulle träna på ett par låtar ihop. Hon hade en stämma, hes och bluesig som Billie Holliday, fast själv tänkte hon mer på Ella Fitzgerald. Hon hade det där ljuvliga darret på stämbanden när hon gjorde gamla jazzlåtar; hon hade turnerat i åratal i USA och Europa, sjungit i konsertsalar inför tusentals åskådare, och senare skulle jag tänka – hur mycket kan man ursäkta en människa som har en så fantastisk röst?

   ”Okay, it's up to you.” Jag backade med handflatorna i luften.

   Var hon på riktigt?

   ”I'm just trying to tell you some facts!”

   ”Please, put the knife down.”

   Hon stirrade för ett ögonblick på kniven i sin hand som om den var ett främmande objekt från yttre rymden, och hon skrattade till: ”I'm sorry about the knife. I'll just go back to the chopping.”

   Det lät som en bra idé. Jag passade på att dyka i poolen och under vattnet hörde jag Bob Dylans Just Like a Woman,”... but she breaks just like a little girl”.

   Anledningen till att hon ville sluta sjunga, skulle hon berätta, var att hon inte ville slösa med sitt leende på idioter längre. Jag trodde att jag förstod, för, det hände att när jag själv spelade och sjöng satt folk ibland och bara snackade istället för att ta del av det som flödade från scenen.

   ”Fuck them!” sa jag. ”Jag spelar för dom som lyssnar.” Och där var vi överens.

”Jag har en vinnare!” Jag gav kapsylen till Christian. Det var en gratis öl.

   Det här var på Karma Bar när jag träffade Jade för första gången.

   Hon log försiktigt. Hon såg skör och skakig ut, och hon sa:

   ”Good for you. I thought something nice would happen to somebody today.”

   ”Lucky me. And how are you?”

   ”I'm fine. Well... I've been better.” Hon tog en klunk och stirrade rakt fram, på hyllan med flaskorna bakom Christian. Jag följde hennes blick och Jameson stod som vanligt bredvid Bailey's. Tillsammans, med massor av is i ett stort whiskyglas utgör de en härlig blandning som en del irländare kallar Kitty Milk.

   Skönheten med de engelska hälsningsfraserna är att de letar efter en direkt återkoppling, som lätt leder till en dialog, men det hade jag inte mycket för just nu. Jag frågade:

   ”Is there anything I can do for you?”

   ”Yes”, sa hon. ”You can shut up!”

   Just då visste jag inte att hon några veckor innan hade varit med om en allvarlig krock på en scooter som styrdes av min gode vän Carl. Jade hade kommit till Siem Reap på semester och för att hjälpa till på McCool's, en irländsk bar som låg tjugo meter bort längs Sok San och ägdes av hennes bror Allen. Hon hade träffat Carl samma kväll, och två dygn senare satte de sig alltså på den där scootern och styrde iväg för att äta på en restaurang och en annan scooter körde plötsligt ut från en sidogata och krocken var total. Ingen av dem hade hjälm och Carl som styrde slungades i gatan med huvudet före och krossade skallbenet i tre delar. Jade blev rejält mörbultad, men hon klarade sig med några sprickor i revbenen. Carl skulle återhämta sig förvånansvärt väl med tanke på traumats omfattning, men mer om honom senare.

   Jag satte mig vid bardisken, två stolar från henne, och Christian låtsades hålla på med något annat. Han skrev ner siffror i en anteckningsbok. Jag hade Layla, min lilla ukulele i handen, och nu la jag henne bredvid min burk med Angkor och det frostiga glaset. Jag checkade min telefon. Det fanns inga meddelanden. Den visade på kvart över åtta på kvällen.

   ”Do you play?” frågade Jade sedan.

   ”Sometimes I do.”

   ”Let's hear it!”

   Jag tog ett par ackord och Jade började nynna med ett vibrato som satte hela rummet i svängning. Jag spelade Somewhere Over The Rainbow, och när hon fångade tonen var det som bullett time i Matrix – det var som att själva tiden plötsligt saktade in.

   Jag sa efteråt: ”When you started to sing, it was like I had a near life experience.”

   ”Hah hah haa!” Hon kastade en blick på min ukulele. ”And I guess you could say – uke the world.”

   ”Uke the world?”

   ”Yes. Instead of nuking the world – you uke the world.” Hon log och höjde frågande på ögonbrynen. ”How do you feel about that?”

   ”I love it”, sa jag och vi skrattade samstämmigt i G-dur.

Pastan var strax färdig, och när vi åt berättade Jade om kraschen, och det var ingen trevlig historia. Jag frågade hur det gick med den andre, den lokale killen som hade kört ut i trafiken från sidogatan.

   ”Jag vet inte. Jag vet inte om han levde eller om han var död. Hans vänner kom och skopade upp honom och bar iväg honom innan polisen kom till platsen.” Hon grät en skvätt: ”I went with the wrong guy.”

   ”Carl's not the wrong guy. He's a pretty nice guy. Men jag skulle inte åka med honom bak på en scooter.”

   ”Jag menar – jag åkte med fel kille på den där scootern. Jag visste inte att han inte kunde köra.”

   ”Så, vad är det för fel på dig som åkte med honom, från första början, när du visste att han var jättepackad?”

   ”För att jag litar på människor. Jag vet vad du menar. Men jag var full. Vi var båda fulla.”

   Hon hulkade och snyftade och snörvlade. ”Excuse me.” Hon reste sig från bordet och försvann in i badrummet. Jag hörde henne snyta sig och spola vatten från kranen. Hon kom ut och torkade sig i ansiktet med handduken jag hade gett henne. Nu var hon mer samlad. Hon sa:

   ”Efteråt, när han låg i koma här, satt jag hela tiden vid hans sida på sjukhuset. Sedan kom hans bror Todd från Kina, där han jobbar som kock på ett stort hotell i Peking – har du nånsin träffat Todd? – han kom hit och tog över; han tog med sig Carl på flyget till Australien, och alla här frågade hela tiden hur det var med Carl – ´How is he?´ och ´Will he be okay?´ – men det var ingen som någonsin frågade hur det var med mig och hur jag mådde.”

   Jag hade umgåtts med Todd här i Siem Reap några år tidigare och det var en rekorderlig karl, med ett stort hjärta som gick bra ihop med hans uppsyn av skiftande lättsamhet och allvar. Och hans kambodjanska flickvän var en rakryggad och okomplicerad ung dam, ärlig och glad, smart och vacker, utan att hon själv ens verkade veta om det. Jag hade respekt för dem båda.

   ”Så, hur mådde du?”

   ”Shit. I felt like shit.” Hon log med sammanpressade läppar. ”Tack, det var verkligen gott.” Jade tog ut tallrikarna i köket och diskade upp. Sedan kom hon ut på altanen med två kalla burkar Angkor och gav mig den ena. ”Det är riktigt varmt idag”, sa hon. ”Jag tror att jag dyker i poolen igen.”

Vi skulle komma att umgås som vänner i flera månader. Det var roligt att se att Jade sakta men säkert återhämtade sig efter den där motorcykelolyckan. Hon hade sagt att hon aldrig mer skulle sjunga. Men det är klart att hon gjorde.