Sleepy and slightly confused as to where I’m meant to go, standing in No Man’s Land, trying to decipher the Khmer alphabet to see which sign says foreigner or something resembling it. Seeing a sign that says ជនបរទេស I head towards it assuming that the ជ stems from the same Sanskrit root as ฟ the Thai letter for F.
I arrive in a sheer-white room, with a long snaking queue, heading towards one open immigration desk. Immediately, before I even set foot in a different country I am confronted with an existential question - Which passport to use. Thai or German? Which are you or more fittingly which are you going to be now that you’ve left Thailand. Thai or German. Asian or European. Foreigner or Farang. Quickly pick one to fill in the immigration form. I decided to use the German Passport, as to make my symbolic rebirth also a bureaucratic one. I fill out the form, stand in line and wait for half an hour, only to be told that my German passport lacks an exit stamp from Thailand and being forced to repeat the entire process with the Thai one, waiting in line again. A forced regression by the state. My rebirth, hindered by a bureaucratic technicality.
I arrived in Siem Reap as a Thai. The Siamese, which the city’s name ‘Siam Defeated’ revels in having defeated. I drop my luggage off at the Hostel and head into town to find some food. I walked down to the river, where the night market had been setting up. Countless glittering stands decorate its banks, and the smell of roasted chicken becomes overwhelmingly apparent. I walk down, through and underneath, the crooked corridor, created by the food trucks, their raintarps and roadside trees. Passing smells that undeniably remind me of home and the sound of talking that undeniably alienate me from it. The food is overall similar to Thai food, not surprising when factoring in the two countries' proximity and intertwined histories. A lot of rice, fried foods and chilli, the only apparent difference being the offering of beef with every dish. The long lasting effects of French Imperialism seems to be purely superficial, forcing the locals to eat beef, bread and pepper whilst barely impacting the fundamental undercurrent of the society. Well that and chopping all the heads of the Buddha statues to sell as ‘discovered’ artefacts. The most obvious way to see the degree in which a country has been ‘francofied’ is by the ratio of toilet-paper to water-guns present in the public bathrooms. In Cambodia this ratio is around 50 - 50 whilst in Thailand, which was never colonised the water-gun reigns supreme.
I choose one place out at random, sitting down on the squatty stool and ordering a Lok Lak.
“One Lok Lak, please” I say to the man at the food cart.
“Lok Lak, ok - Chicken or beef?” the man replies in a strong but comprehensible Cambodian accent.
“Chicken, and make it spicy.” I reply, nodding profusely.“Ok… spicy” he replies, walking over to the stand.
“Krob khun kab,” I say to him, walking away before correcting myself and shouting “Okun!”
“Where are you from?” The man says to me out of the cloud of fried chillies.
“Thailand - Siam” I shout over to him, fighting the sound of boiling oil and passing traffic.
“Thailand?” He turns to me with a confused expression, before gesturing to his face. “ Your face… You look francais.”
The first night in Siem Reap I couldn’t sleep. Tossing and turning, trying out different positions. Mainly due to the lack of pillow-roll, no position felt comfortable. I eventually settled on the Half-Belly position I figured out in the Military. Lying predominantly on my front, but twisting the upper body enough to be able to put an arm down underneath the pillow and lying on the side. It works - Not well but it works. I was kept awake by a constant traffic of thoughts, pulsing through just at the moment of crossing the threshold into the sleepy-river, being pulled back out by random fishermen shouting “Did you lock your locker?”, “Where’s your Passport”, “ What’s that noise?” and “You’re never going home again.” I knew I would be back home again, one day, a year maybe two from now. I have never been away from home for that long, away from Mom and Dad, away from the smoky sunrises of Chiang Mai and its comforting familiarity. For the foreseeable future it’s hostel beds and cramped backs and uncertainty. God knows what home I will be returning to. Will the Revolution have already happened by then or will I be returning back to the same none-sense, corrupt politics, brewing discontent and the familiar smell of smoke. Will I still be alive by then? God knows - God willing. Will my parents turn old in the years apart? Will anything be the same? The answer to that last one is easy - No. I will be different, so everything will be different too - At least to me.
I was jostled out of my racing mind, by the sound of the dormitory door opening, and stumbled by a drunk Englishman, letting in with him the blaring party music the hostel leaves on 24/7 and a lot of mosquitoes. The silhouette stumbled towards me, before being eaten up by the closing door, hitting every single suitcase and bunk bed in the room on the way towards mine. It was too dark to see, but I could gauge its distance by the oncoming series of bonks and twangs, progressively getting louder, before hitting my bunk bed and letting out a sudden KLAANG! The whole bed shook violently. I was almost fully asleep. The man stood by the bed for a moment in the dark, invisible but his presence unmistakably on the other side of the thin partition, before struggling his way up the ladder onto the top bunk. Slowly, rung by rung, each more unstable than the previous, the man made his way up the ladder, before collapsing onto the bed with a loud THUMP! The metal frame, bending under his weight. The man instantly fell asleep, snoring loudly, occasionally mumbling some gibberish into his pillow. My mind was no longer racing, now focussed on the single and intense sensation of hating this man. This singular point of focus proved surprisingly meditative and I quickly fell asleep.
I woke up the next morning at 12, slowly freshened up and headed into town. Siem Reap in the daytime is a quiet town. It’s party tourists, still recovering from their hangovers and it’s tour groups off to Angkor Wat. The city is purely local in the daytime. Sleepy Tuk Tuk drivers litter the pavement as school kids head home in little groups to have lunch at home before heading back to their temple schools for afternoon class. The food stands, now closed and wrapped up in their rain covers like cocoons. I walked up the river in the riverside park which stretched along the entire Siem Reap river. Built with Chinese loans, westerners are quick to label it as debt trapping. A stark contrast from the decades of IMF loans and western development aid, that seemingly has only gone into the pockets of very few elites in Phnom Penh. The Americans wanted them to build casinos and brothels, so they did. At least the Chinese debt actually produces tangible improvements for the people, rather than yet more austerity measures. I passed the ‘Eye of Siem Reap’, which is just a water wheel clogged up by coconuts and trash. Little piers with people fishing, for god knows what in the still lifeless river. Homeless playing chess with the minibus drivers waiting for their group tours to be done walking through the souvenir market. I arrived accidentally at the Cambodians People’s Party office, following the breadcrumb trail of Hun Sen portraits and political slogans, getting progressively Larger and all the way to a 3 metre tall mural of Hun Sen, standing in front of their Siem Reap office.
The city was still full of election posters from the recent elections, stapled onto trees and hanging from lamp posts. There’s a clear difference between the parties in the governing coalition led by Hun Sen and the democratic opposition. The Posters of the CPP and FUNCINPEC posters, displayed in huge metal-framed banners in prominent parts of town. The Candlelight Party’s posters, the de facto democratic opposition, hastily stapled onto trees and ink blotched from weeks of rain to the point of being barely intelligible.
In front of the CPP office is a skatepark, with Cambodian youngsters, trying their damndest to land tricks. Occasionally missing one and collectively racing to stop their skateboards from shooting into the river right next to it. By the time the schools closed, the park became packed, teenagers hastily piling their motorbikes and bicycles on top of each other. Older boys, taking turns doing tricks to both impress the smaller ones and to impress the girls. At one point a monk came by, walking slowly looking at his flip flops, before sprinting into the circle, grabbing a board, running off and doing a kickflip. The crowd erupted into a frenzy.The monk quickly slipped away in the ensuing chaos. He must’ve scraped his foot like crazy but the Vipassana Meditation stopped the pain from reaching his brain. When night came I went back to the market and ordered myself a Lok Lak.
The day was spent similarly to yester. Waking up early and walking aimlessly through town, deciphering Khmer political posters and getting lost in the newly built boulevards around the King's residence. I passed by the Angkor ticket office and bought a 35 dollar day ticket for Angkor Wat the next day. It was rather expensive but understandable, it’s one of the 7 wonders of the modern world, at least depending on which list you look at. The rest of the day was spent reading the Conquest of Bread in the riverside park.
Night came and I followed the usual routine. Went to the night market, ordered myself a Lok Lak and got some beers to drink on the pedestrian bridge next to the night market. I enjoy the company of drunk homeless men, trying their damndest to make conversation in English more than the crowd back at the hostel. They knew I had no money and just enjoyed the conversation. The Backpackers at the hostel would be talking over each other by now. Retelling superficial tales of their adventures, riding a motorbike on dirt roads and finding captions to pair with their instagram quotes. They come to Cambodia and the most they’ll ever notice is the beer prices, exotic poverty and ‘relaxed asian attitudes.’ Then go home and tell their friends about how ‘different’ it is, not being able to go into any further detail than that. I notice a man sitting across from me, dressed head to toe in a brown uniform with a number on his breast, excitedly greeting every baby walking past and striking up a conversation with every couple passing by. The foreigners usually rush through the bridge, trying their best not to make eye contact with the homeless and clutching onto their purse. They will go home and tell tales how they were heartbroken by the sight of impoverished children, but pay less attention to them than they do to street dogs. You can pet dogs - It’s rather frowned upon to pet children. Deep down they probably think the child deserved it. Being poor as a punishment for their laxed work ethic and lack of entrepreneurship. Maybe they will come back with an NGO to teach a dropshipping course. Spend 40 000 dollars on consultation fees to dig 5 holes in the ground and count up their Karma. The man, despite rejection after rejection, remained excited and positive.
“Hey man, how come you’re so excited today?” I ask him, leaning over to shake his hand.
“Well… I just got out of prison today” he replies, gesturing at his brown garb. “I’ve not seen anybody, not threatening me with a stick in 2 years!”
“Jesus.” I reply, surprised by the answer and leaning away, checking my pockets Despite my belief in rehabilitation, I still react to the idea of a criminal, the same way the passing tourists would. Assuming a moral character and going through all the possible heinous crimes he could’ve committed. The words thief, murderer, rapist, rushing through my head.
“I see the way you’re looking at me. You're looking at me the same way all crackers are. Don’t worry I didn’t kill anyone.” He chuckles to himself, reaching out to bet a dog of a passing expat. The expat, in reaction, yanks the leash of his terrier causing the dog to lurch forwards by the neck away from the man. He chuckles at himself then looks at me, “See they think you’ll kidnap their dogs, just because you smell a little.” He leans back and pulls a cigarette out of a crumpled up cigarette cartridge.
“Let me tell you what I got in for. Maybe that will loosen you up.” Leaning over to ask for a lighter from a homeless man sleeping next to him. “I came here years ago and went out on pub street, right. And this guy, some skinny white kid, He gave me this little packet of weed, right? That was it. Instantly taken to jail over a gram of weed. Could you believe that?” He inhales from the cigarette and leans away from me to look at the river. “Thrown in the clink - For 2 years. 2 YEARS! Stuck in a cell this size” He gestures to the two pillars each side of me, around 5 metres apart. “49 people they managed to fit in there, could you believe that? Sleeping ass to ankle in a rat infested box, getting to shower twice a week.” He pauses, shaking his head “At least the food was okay.” He grins. “The closest I ever got to seeing the outside was eating the food.”
“Could I get you a beer or something?” I ask him, now more relaxed than before? “To celebrate your freedom and all that.”
“No, I don't need another drink, I already have enough. What I really need is 12 dollars for a bus to Poipet. I have some family in Isaan and they get me sorted. Give me some cash to go to Phnom Penh, get myself a nice hotel room, hot shower and contact the embassy for a new passport. The fuckers at the prison lost my passport, could you believe that?” He shakes his head with a sardonic smile, “ They managed to keep my cigarettes in pristine condition for 2 years but ‘lost my passport'” He continues shaking his head. “Probably sold on the blackmarket. The bastards.”
“At least you’re free now.” I say, trying to cheer him up.
“No…” He shakes his head looking away “I'm not really free” He continues “Sure they let me out of prison this morning, but they also shoved me right into another one.” He smirks, almost ridiculing my naïvite. “In there I had food, a bed, even friends - Sure they weren’t great but I had them. Out here…” He pauses “It’s every man for himself, struggling and fighting their way to the top, where they then can be truly free. One small slip up or try to do things differently than they want you to - Straight back to jail. Let’s call it extended leave.” He makes a face as if to stop himself from saying something. “How am I a free man? I don't even have a Passport.”
A young European couple walks by. “Hey guys, I just got out of prison this morning, and I need a little help-” The man says to them but they rush away from him. The man, waving his hands at the man without looking at him. “You see that? They don't even let you finish. They see these clothes and this face and they just try and ignore you, fucking hell man” He continue talking to me. “They’ll buy you a drink and cigarettes but can’t ever seem to find 12 bucks. It’s like they prefer to just buy you alcohol. That way they know where the money is going. Just some drunk, drinking himself out of misery. But 12 dollars, what’s he going to do with that? Get his life in order. Fuck that!” He leans back onto the bench “They assume that you’re just going to buy drugs anyway, so they cut the middle man and get it for you themselves.” He laughs revealing a slight sadness in the corners of his mouth. “It’s easier for them to think of you as a drunk, I think. It separates them from the reality that they’re one bad day away from sleeping on this bridge like the rest of us.”
A white man with a dog passes us giving a wave to the man before walking off. “I know that guy. He was in prison with me - Caught with a KILO of weed. I remembered when they brought him in they had this brick just sitting on the table, before it ‘mysteriously’ vanished. Like everything else in that prison” He chuckles, exhaling from his cigarette. “You know how long he was in there for” pausing to see if he has my attention, “Two weeks, two fucking weeks for a kilo. I was there 2 years for a gram.” He shakes his head. “Apparently his wife wired the prison director 20 000 dollars so they gave him the minimum sentence.” he turns to gesture at a crushed up can of beer. “He bought me a beer as well, but couldn’t spare 12 fucking dollars. Apparently the 20 000 was the last money he had. He bought a fucking dirtbike when he got out and used up all his money apparently.”
Another couple is approaching us. Older and with nice clothes, the woman tightly clutching onto her Lui-bag. “Hey guys, I just got out of prison and I need a little help getting to the Thai border.” To his surprise the couple actually stops to look at the man.
“Could we get you some cigarettes?” The husband says to him in a thick German accent.
“No, what I really need is 12 dollars for a bus ticket-” The man continues before being cut off by the husband.
“Sorry we don’t have any cash.” The husband says before turning to walk away.
“Sure you don’t” the man mutters under his breath.Hearing that the couple turn around now clearly annoyed.
“You listen here, alright. YOU’RE the one begging the US for money. Maybe calm it with the attitude and you’ll get off this bridge.” the wife shouts before quickly walking away. “Verdammte Abschaum” the husband mutters to his wife.
“See, they would rather see you struggle, play the part of the charitable hero to feel like they helped - To feel good about themselves. Earn some good Karma or something” the man continues annoyed. He finishes his cigarette leaving a silence that fills the air like Rauchsachlangen.
“Why didn’t you ask me for any money?” I say to him after a moment.
“You shook my hand and talked to me” I replies in a sombre tone. “I know you don’t have any money. The people with money don’t even look at you, let alone shake your hand without wiping it clean afterwards.” He pauses then looks away, “You talked to me - You don’t have any money.”
How Long is it still? How far have I got left? Still so far, damnit. I’ll never get there will I?
Cycling down the Charles De Gaulle, my legs are getting tired. The road to Angkor Wat is long, endless and narrow. I’m stuck on the side, cycling between the white marked line and the sudden drop on the side of the asphalt. One wrong move and my bike will fall a half a metre into the muddy abyss. Despite the blazing sun, stabbing into the foliage like flaming daggers, the ground underneath is still liquid from last night’s rain. Maybe a tumble would be nice, a quick mud bath. Cool off the way water buffaloes do. No, the temple can’t be that far away, Google maps says it’s only 5 kilometres. You’ll rest when you get there. I lost the signal to the forest ages ago, so my progress is only following gut feeling. An empty gut, grumbling and screeching for food, but there is none on the way to Angkor, only at Angkor. There’s food when you get there. So I keep pedalling. How much water do I have left, not much - How much do still have to go, no clue.
To my left, on the single road, heading to Angkor, hundreds of minivans whizz by, sucking behind it a vacuum, causing me to lose stability. I keep pedalling. The sudden roar of a dirt bike lurches behind me before revealing a skinny white kid on a bike twice his size, driving a 100 down the road. Cheekily and stupidly overtaking every minibus on the way, squeezing in the gap between the car ahead and an oncoming van in the other lane. The motorbike lets out a gigantic black cloud engulfing me in its entirety.
I keep pedalling, now looking straight down at the only thing I can see which is the faded white marked line right beneath, trying my best to not inhale the smoke. The black mass seems to stretch on forever, propagating with me in a thick sludge. Eventually I give in and take a breath, inhaling the sludge. The thick mass slithers its way down the windpipe, before splitting in two and filling my lungs. every nook and cranny accounted for, forcing everything else out. Choking from the black serpent, I let out a loud cough reverberating through my whole body, causing me to fall onto the asphalt. The serpent is slow to leave my body sticking onto my throat, slowly being forced out by a series of progressively more painful coughs. The equally black asphalt burns from the midday sun, my skin sticking to it. I begin to regain my senses, and slowly stand up, before another motorbike whizzes by shouting something at me. I can’t hear it. The only thing in my head now, is the sensation of a pulsing headache and the burning on my eyes and skin. I slowly stabilise myself, searching for my bike in the clearing smoke. Another motorbike whizzes by, pulling me back down onto the ground. Back onto the burning black. My forearms now, scratched up and bruised from the burning sharp pebbles on the asphalt. My head is still pulsing and my ears are ringing now. Another motorbike passes by as I try to stabilise myself again. My bike had been flung into a bush and I stumbled my way across the street, narrowly missing a minivan speeding through the scene, blaring its apocalyptic horn. It rings in my head as if coming from every direction. I eventually find my bike, with branches and leaves sticking through its wire frame wheels, but everything seems to be in order. I pour what remaining water I have left into my eyes, trying to clean out the smoke and specs of dirt causing it to burn, then push my bike back onto the road.
I keep pedalling. My shins, now bleeding, dripping into my socks and soaking my ankles and shoes. My eyes, still blurred from the smoke and my legs now frail from both the injuries and worsening sugar deficit. The road in front of me seems to stretch out forever, miles of trees leading to more trees leading to nothing. I keep pedalling, but I seem to be going nowhere, the ground in front of me stretching out and the ground behind contracting, leaving me completely stationary. The wheels of the bike contort into strange shapes, warping and deforming with every turn of the pedals. Every bump seemingly dented the metal frame. My legs are now completely numb. I can feel nothing of me now. My arms barely holding onto the handles and my legs, moving in the same circles, not out of any active will but rather muscle memory. The only thing I can feel is the cold blood flowing into my socks and the cool breeze blowing onto my burning neck.
When I arrived in Angkor Wat, It had begun to rain. All the tourists, panickingly left in their vans, leaving the temple completely abandoned, except for the security guard, asleep on a hammock underneath a Bodhisattva tree. By this point I couldn’t cycle back anymore. In fact I could barely move a muscle. I slowly stumble into the temple, now drenched in rain. Every step, more uncertain than the last, as I lunge forwards in random increments at a time. Stepping forwards, losing balance, almost falling over then catching myself - The same thing over and over again. Slowly but steadily I head down the main walkway into Angkor Wat. Its stone steps now slippery form the flowing water, making the task of not falling over progressively harder and harder. My bleeding shins, leaving behind a trail of red blood in the rain. But I persist, barely able to see from my burning eyes now also obscured by the constant stream of water flowing from my hair and a thick fog of downpour. I can barely make out the three peaks of the temple, but the face is completely blurred.
I arrive at the stone steps in front of the main temple and struggle up. Using the stone lion statues on either side to balance I pull the rest of my body up the stairs, one by one, step by step, with immense effort. Once I make it to the top of the steps, onto the stone courtyard of Angkor Wat, I collapse. Lying sprawled out in a rain puddle left in the stone after millenia of erosion. I just lie there, letting the heavy bullets fall from the heavens and onto me. My body sinking further into the cold cold puddle, now likely a mixture of dirt, sweat and blood from my bleeding shins.
Suddenly I’m transported into a memory. I’m sitting by the moat of Angkor. The sky is sunny and the place is packed with tourists as usual. It must’ve been a long time ago, all the modern amenities, restaurants, mobile charging stations are gone. Just the parking lot, packed with minivans, Tuk Tuks and scooters. My father is standing in front of me in a Sarong, changing from his pants into some swimming shorts with a cigarette pinned in his mouth. His white shoulders glow a golden hue. His blonde shoulder hairs glittering in the sun. He looks young, still has hair and an old pair of ruby-red sunglasses I would go on to break. He is saying something to me. What was it? He was trying to convince me of something with his usual jovial smile.
“Are you going to swim?” He’s asking over and over again “Come on, it’ll help freshen you up.” making that face he makes when saying something sarcastic. A playful smile and crossed eyebrows.
I remember seeing the people looking at us and feeling embarrassed. You can’t swim here I thought - No one else is - Must be illegal. But my father doesn’t care, and jumps in. He spins around in the water to look at me saying “If you’re not going to I will” , swimming away into the brown muddy moat. I remember seeing him in the soup, swimming away, getting progressively smaller and feeling scared to be alone.
I must’ve been very small. He must have been so lonely there. Swimming alone in that gigantic pond - So I jumped in. My small feet instantly sunk into the slimy mud and little plants tickled my little legs. On the water were striders, jumping away from me at impact before jumping back. Their little feet and the rippled indents they left on the water surface. I remembered fish swimming though my little legs, which made me scared, so I hastily swam to him, my father, now bobbing in the middle of the moat waiting for me. I swam towards him. I was cold.
As quickly as that memory came. It vanished leaving me stranded in the ocean. I must’ve been even smaller. I could taste the salt on my lips. My feet dangled in the vast blue ocean and I could see my father on the beach, looking over to me. I couldn't reach the ground, so I panicked and cried. The water here was much colder than the water in the moat and the waves carried me up and down in grand motions. I was in an inner tube - I think or maybe floaties. Floating on the vast blue ocean, as the rain came in. Before I felt it I saw it, spinkling ripples on the ocean surface, quickly disturbed by the oncoming waves. Then the rain got stronger and I could feel it hitting my small head. It was cold. I was cold. The rain got harder as the beach got smaller. The horizon slowly eaten up by the great blue hell of the ocean. But I could also see something else. A white figure, getting closer, my father, swimming towards me shouting “Syd! Syd! Get back!” He kept swimming at first so small I could barely see him, then getting progressively larger and larger. The rain now, like little rocks crashing into me and bouncing off the inner tube, in loud buoyant bangs. My father was almost here, the rain deafening. Before he could reach me I was gone again.
I’m alone now, I could feel it. No one is coming to save me anymore. In front of me the black ocean and the black twilight sky again. I’m not falling anymore. I’m on the ground all grown up and soaked. Most likely from the fall or maybe the rain - It didn’t matter, it's just cold. The rain is still pouring down as I start to get a sense of my surroundings, slowly adjusting my eyes. The vast black ocean now just crashing waves on some concrete debris. I turn around to see a city. Sky scrapers, overpasses and skytrains. All abandoned, sticking out of a still but equally black water. The silhouette of the skyline is still visible in the half-light of the sky. Giant skeletons reach up to heaven but a uniform ceiling of grey clouds prevents them from reaching any light. Is this Bangkok? Metres under water but its defining characteristic is still clearly there. The brutalist metropole, brutalised by an oncoming flood. Then I see lights, from the windows of the skyscrapers. Faint and dotted far in the horizon. Little lights for little people secluded in their little homes. Separated permanently by the flood. The rain is still drizzling over my eyes, obscuring the whole picture. I slowly head in the direction of the lights, walking up an abandoned overpass. The big empty streets emphasised how small I was. A singular spec in the vast sea of scaffolding and ruin. A sudden chill down my spine brings me back to Angkor. I wake up shivering in the puddle. It was dark now - I should get going. What the fuck was that?
I pack up ready to leave again. As quickly as I arrived in Siem Reap, I was leaving it again. Now with two large scabs on each of my chins, and a tiredness, that digs into your bones. The party hostel, which I grew to hate, is now the subject of a soon to be sentimentalised past - Now I'm off to Phnom Penh. Quickly checking out, with the hungover 22 year old manning the lobby. I make my way out to the streets. Ignoring the calls of the Tuk Tuk driver, I called myself a Grab only for the Tuk Tuk driver I had just refused to come and pick me up.
The bus to Phnom Penh was virtually empty. Besides me, the double-deckered ‘VIP Premium bus’, was a mother and her son, driver and a nice lady handing out complementary teas. The roads were sleepy. As you left town, you left behind all traces of your past. The hectic rush of a tourist town. It’s constant attempts at luring you in, into the dens of noise and meandering conversations. Gerede and Geräusche, fading away as the rice fields fade in. I sat there and looked out the windows. A Gestalt of a man, slowly rising from a flooded rice field. First only the tip of his cone shaped farming hat, then his torso, then the rest of him. Weighed down by the mud. I felt his shape, the weight on his legs. The grassy hands of grown rice, attaching itself to the slack of his Sarong, Its grassy fingers intertwined around his ankles. I watch him stumble and get up again, only to stumble again. Then the bus passed him by.
The countryside, aside from the occasional roadside village and CPP office, is empty. Endless flooded rice fields, reflecting the sun’s golden glow, in a fantasmic overpowering flash. The light, the blinding white, engulfs everything, leaving only silhouettes of broken men, water buffaloes and wooden shacks. Then the forests come and the glow disappears. Replaced by blurred trees, blending into each other, as the bus races past. A patchwork of different shades of greens, a paper-maché wall of leaves. I pass a family of water buffaloes, bathing in a creek. They look together at us with pure fascination, still chewing grass in their mouths, in round, repetitive motions. I notice a baby buffalo, huddled somewhere in the herd. Finding gaps between their parents' wide circular bodies, to see the passing car, but being pushed back at every attempt. Squeezed further into the huddled mass. Then the rocking seat overtook me. I fell asleep.
I need fresh clothes, I stink. All my t-shirts and underpants have been used up. I'm wearing the cleanest one I could smell, but even that one had been gestating in the same bag as all the other, sour clothes. The pair of jeans I’ve been wearing is also starting to get hard, rigid from the weeks of dried up sweat. I head off into the city to find a laundromat. Phnom Penh lives up to its name as the ‘Full Mountain’, packed with oncoming Tuk Tuks and motorbikes, racing through its long straight city blocks. Every little corner is full of life, both human and animal. Little food carts pack its boulevards, occasionally breaking into sections of shoe repair shops and tire pumping stations. All standing side by side on the sidewalk. Walking through it involves constantly turning off the curb onto the street, narrowly missing a speeding moped and turning back onto it. The part of town I found myself In must’ve been the expat neighbourhood. Its western obsession with rigid order is evident everywhere you look. Loads of foreign restaurants pack the streets, being blocked off by an old grandmother selling fresh fruit from a pushcart. Large shiny SUVs litter the pavement. Apartment blocks stretch to the sky, with bored security guards sitting out front. All with generic orientalising names like ‘Lotus Villa’ or ‘Sunrise Pavilion.’ Somewhere in between there was my place, a place called Anatta Guesthouse, owned and operated by a nice Cambodian family, Two parents and a daughter. On the ground floor is a little shop, selling the usual foodstuffs and daily essentials. Walking up a narrow spiral staircase onto the second floor reveals a deep multistoried building with about a dozen rooms, stacked on top of each other. My room, somewhere between the second and third floor, Overlooked the spiral staircase. The corridor to the room starts about halfway up the second floor through a little wooden door. The 2nd and a half floor was clearly built into the building sometime after its construction, evident by the floors being wooden planks unlike the rest of the tiled concrete building. The indent of my room, visible in the living area underneath, making a square intrusion on the back side of the hall.
I eventually found a laundromat, operated by an old grandmother. She looked alot like my own grandma. Wrinkled and crumbled by time and browned from decades of living under the sun. I handed her my gigantic bag of clothes, practically overflowing from the top and was left with nothing to do for the rest of the day. Sticking to my usual tactic, I walk aimlessly through town, trying my best to escape the expat neighbourhood. Taking every turn which looks more decrepit than the last until I arrive somewhere clearly free of western influence. This isn’t easy. Just as you think you’ve found a place which feels ‘real’, there's a KFC hiding behind the corner. Thinking that “No way a white person would want to be here - It’s far too smelly for those sensitive people” You find a McDonalds packed to the brim, with expats and backpackers. Hiding away in its air conditioned sanctuary, taking shelter in the simulacrum, overlooking the street through a from the large floor-to-ceiling window. So I keep walking. Slowly, I start to escape the yellow-bricked up market neighbourhoods and get to somewhere local. The pavements slowly deteriorate, until you’re walking on the street, squeezed between the railing sectioning off the canal and the busy road. I keep walking, until the familiar sight of street dogs return and crosswalks fade.
I arrive at a market and head inside the ‘Sihanouk Plaza.’ Inside the plaza are the usual shops, selling counterfeit clothes and souvenir foods. Here no-one confronts you to look at their store, because only locals go there. The tourist mindset of the sellers are gone and they give little attention to my white face snaking through the labyrinthian walkways. The shops eventually give in to the chaos, eventually the foliage becomes so dense with hanging clothes intruding from beside, I have to walk sideways one foot in front of the other, looking forwards like ancient egyptian murals. When I arrive on the other exit, the warm embrace of humidity, traffic and roast meat, wraps me. Out front is a food market. Countless sellers, sitting on the street, with fresh fruits, meat and cooking supplies sprawled out on a carpet of newspapers. The way through, already, is shared by both market goers, and racing delivery drivers. One shop sells barbequed fish from a strange contraption: A large metal box with spikes poking out. In the spikes river fish with scales of salt, spinning robotically over a wood fire. Another shop selling raw meat has a modified fan, but instead of fan blades, it’s a metal wire with a plastic bag loosely tied to the end. Spinning rhythmic circles over the meat agitating any fly which tries to land on it. I buy myself some Muu Ping (Fried pork slices) and head back to the guest house.
The second day, I slept in. I only woke up at 2 and spent 2 further hours getting up. First sucked into an instagram binge for 40 minutes then a Youtube binge for another hour, ironically watching travel vlogs from the city I’m currently in. Watching over excited luxury backpackers, going over the stuff I saw yesterday. I eventually muster up the will, the active wish to stop and pull myself off of my phone. It’s allure pulling me back multiple times before I overcome it. Just one more video it’s only 5 minutes, just one more Reel it’s only a swipe away, just quickly google this one thing - I need to know. Most of it, not interesting, barely even entertaining but definitely ‘engaging’. The obscure thought that one good video is just around the corner keeps you searching the recommended page. The thought to stop occurs constantly, the initial instance being after you have replied to all your texts and watched your friends stories but overcome by the effortlessness of tapping on that cursed ‘Reels” tab by the navigation bar. The only thought more powerful than the monkey-like thirst for something kind-of entertaining is the overbearing self-loathing which comes from looking up at the time and seeing that hours have gone past and you’ve done nothing. By the time I headed into town it was already dark.
I make my way to the riverfront. Phnom Penh is partitioned by a river - The mighty Mekong and the Tonle Sap. Flowing out of the lake and through the urban landscape. The riverfront, a long meandering park, is decorated with random people, party boats and a giant Carlsberg sign, reflecting a green glow onto the calm surface of the water. The scene isn’t all too surprising. The same crowds of kids playing football, backpackers glued to Google Maps, monks exercising in the public gym and old foreigners chatting up 20 year old prostitutes. The women, pretending to be fascinated by the exaggerated tales the men tell them, having heard most of it a hundred times before. The men tell them about their lives in the west, their large houses and cars, how much money they make, usually barely above minimum wage at home but a large amount here. Casually omitting the reasons for their exile, trying to impress the locals with their birthright privileges.
Nothing unusual for downtown areas in Southeast Asia. I walk down the riverfront for a while, eventually stopping for a Coke. I sit on a bench and systematically sip at it. The Coke tastes different here. I don’t know how but it is different than at home. When the can is empty, I continue on my walk, now with a mission to find a trash can. The crowd gets progressively dense and more local as I near the palace. The smell of incense, surprising me and pulling me out of the miserable inner monologue in my head. The palace, now closed, is situated by the river with a park in front. The park is packed with only local Cambodians, no white faces to be found in the brown crowd of children blowing bubbles from bubble wands and university students having pic-nics on the grass. In front of the park are two shrines, dedicated to animist gods. A statue of a horse and cow, with long lines leading out the front and a pile of flip-flops, hastily thrown off, on the steps. It’s the usual ghost houses that every house has, the usual statues of work animals reflecting the Hindu roots but huge because it was the palace’s. The palace itself is small, no larger than the presidential Villa and looking like a cute copy of the Royal Palace in Bangkok. Multi-layered Brahmin roofs with golden spires sticking out the peaks, getting progressively smaller turning into a tiny golden umbrella. It’s not fair to call it a copy. It comes from the same roots, copied from the same influences. But my brain rushes with factoids told to me by thais, having learned it at school, that everything good is just a copy of Thailand. A corruption of our capacity to imagine. Replace the lived beauty of the palace with a judging superiority that it’s somehow plagiarised from a building, itself plagiarised from palaces of the Tamil.
My father lights a cigarette. We are sitting in a small streetside restaurant. He looks over towards the street and exhales a large cloud of smoke, quickly dissipating into the night sky. Its carbon dioxide, rising into the black abyss to become stars. Sadly they won’t be visible in this part of town. He looks over to me and ashes the cigarette.
“How was your trip?” he says looking into my eyes “Wasn’t as bad as you thought right?”
The cigarette burns releasing from it a large black snake slithering circles, its head blending into the pollution already in the air. I gently smile but say nothing. He inhales again from it, before letting out a larger, blacker cloud from his mouth.
“Are there still so many bicycles in Phnom Penh? When I was there, maybe 25 years ago, there were bicycles everywhere, packing the streets. You could barely walk-” He continues describing how it was. Stories from so long ago. Inhaling and exhaling intermittently, letting out larger and blacker clouds of smoke each time. He pauses and looks over to me, his face now blackened covered by the soot of the smoke and asks “Was it everything you hoped it would be?” letting out a large cloud of black smoke engulfing me.
I wake up suddenly with a spring out of my bed. The strong smell of smoke still lingering in my sinuses. In fact the smell was so strong, too strong. I try to get a breath of fresh air, inhaling a deep breath, then the smell persisted, now making me dizzy. I look up at the low ceiling of my room, barely a metre above my head to see a thick layer of black. A blanket of black smoke covering the entire otherwise white ceiling. I go over to the window overlooking the living area to open the curtains only to be assaulted by an onslaught of black smoke.
Now panicked, I run downstairs. Out of the halfway door and into the stairwell, turning in the main room. PSHHHHH! A cloud of white smoke now fills the room, bathing everything in a dewy fog. I make my way through the white as it slowly dissipates, revealing the owner of the guest house holding a dripping fire extinguisher. He wipes his brow and looks over to me with a large but annoyed smile. “Annihilation - No more!” he exclaims, putting the red fire extinguisher down. The metal bottle lets out a hollow ring before falling to its side. “Someone make a fire here.” He continues shaking his head. “Stupid… stupid”
I make my way back up stairs turning into the halfway door. A loud commotion now taking place in the cramped hallway. The owner's wife and her daughter, shouting back and forth with someone in the room next to mine. The mother first shouting something in Cambodian with the daughter then repeating the same thing but in english. Both shouting, but the daughter’s a lot more shrill. Their shouts were then returned by more shouting from inside the room.
“Stop shouting at me!” the voice says, female and with a strong Israeli accent.
“You shout at me first!” returns the daughter “And you make fire to my house. You have to leave now!”
“It wasn’t me, I don’t even smoke. It was you!” the voice from the room continues.
“We have you on video - Making fire in the stairs!” The mother fires back, shoving her phone in the opening of the door. “You have to leave now or we call police!”
“It was an accident!” the voice in the room continues, slightly flustered from having been caught in a lie. “You know… You have been so rude to me since I arrived. You know why - Because I am a woman. That’s why!” she says ironically at two women.
“No it’s because you set fire to my house!” The daughter shouts back, catching a glimpse of me awkwardly hiding behind the door. I let out an equally awkward smile and the mother returned it with her own awkward smile, saying ‘You know - This is how it is - Sorry for this’ with her eyes.
“I paid for two more nights! Why do I have to leave” the voice continues.“Because you set fire to my house!” the daughter repeats with a frustrated scream so intense it causes her voice to crack.
The figure steps out of her hidey-hole, her 2 metre tall white frame overshadowing the two small Cambodians. “Now listen here, I’m the guest, I’m paying to stay here - And you treat me like this?!” she says in a normal tone trying to control the situation. The mother ignores her, and looks back at me with an expression I can only describe as saying ‘This Bitch…’
“Okay I call police. Are you happy?” The mother says to the lady in a quiet tone before walking away, gesturing to her daughter to ignore the woman. She smiles at me defeated as she walks by me, cramping up behind the door.
The Grab app says he’s 10 minutes away, but it’s clearly wrong. The Tuk Tuk is already here by the time I start to put on my shoes and is asking random passers by if they’re Syd. I get on and apologise for being late, my German Superego nagging me, despite being early for what the app is telling me. The driver tells me his name is Lai and goes silent, assuming I don’t want to talk. Most customers, just awkwardly sitting there tense, praying to god that the driver doesn’t spark up a conversation, pretending to not hear any of the answers before looking off. Eclectic chauffeurs, with no social instincts is what they, or I, want, or wanted. Most Grabs I’ve boarded, I’ve used the same tactics, putting on my over ear headphones and pretending to sleep. How it must be for the drivers, driving around all they, in silence making barely any money, whilst their bourgeois customers sit like stiffened mannequins in the back.
“How are you doing, Lai?” I speak out suddenly, surprising myself with it. He looks back at me equally surprised, having gotten ready for another long silent ride.
“Uh, I’m doing very well” He replies, looking to the side, one eye on the streets stretching out ahead and one eye fixed on me. “Where are you from?”
“Thailand” I reply
“Thailand! I didn’t think that. You look like a european” He continues with his head still sideways.
“I’m half German” I reply and he nods understandingly.
“Is your father or mother from Germany” he continues, asking a different question underneath. I’ve gotten used to these questions all with the same subtext. What kind of school did you go to? How did your parents meet? Tell them your half thai then they become extremely interested in your parents. Is your mother a prostitute is what they're really asking. If I answer father then it’s clear to them that it can’t have been a relationship of love. If I answer mother then they seem astonished, as the european woman is multiple rungs above the hierarchy than asian men, so it must’ve been star crossed lovers. They never consider that my parents just happen to be from across the seas, but beyond that met in normal ways. I usually just say that they met in Germany, which stops the questions. An upper class Thai and a normal random German, that’s understandable, as they are in equal place in the social Hierarchy.
“How is Cambodia?” He continues.“It’s nice, great people - and I love the food.” I continue.
“That’s good. Most people from Thailand come here and complain about the food.” He lifts one hand from the steering handles to gesture wildly at me. “They say we stole it from them, our food, our everything. But just do it worse.”
“It’s similar, the two cultures-” I reply before being interrupted.
“Of course it’s similar, our countries are next to each other. We’ve been trading for a thousand years.” He goes on now looking at the road. “Similar but not stolen.” He pauses trying to stop himself, before launching into another tirade “They say Muay Khmer is stolen from Muay Thai, calling it Muay Boran. Some ancient version of it, which would eventually be perfected by the Thais.” He pauses to snake in between the oncoming traffic and shouting in Khmer to some teenagers on Motorbikes. “I have had customers who say the Thai built Angkor Wat - What the Fuck, Man - They claim everything good, call it a copy and leave the crimes and poverty to ‘Khmeric innovations. ‘“ He drives silently for a moment before making a U-Turn on the Highway. “You know you people funded the Khmer Rouge for decades. You westerners, with your beloved Freedom and Rights, paid for their Guerrilla campaign of those monsters against the Republic of Kampuchea. You destroyed our country with bombs then laugh at us for struggling.” He chuckles before going silent for the rest of the ride.
I arrive at the night market after another 20 minutes of riding in silence. Hundreds of steaming stands dotting the square in a chaotic manner. Motorbikes parked at random, leaving a narrow path in between the cyclical crop-circles of motorbikes. The clashing scents and sensations overwhelmed you. The heat of roasting intestines embraces your thin skin as the constant blaring of car horns prevents you from forming any thoughts. You start stumbling, then running, only to stumble again. Trying to escape the labyrinth of noodle soup shops and the little tables scattered around them.
I eventually escaped the disorder of the market, despite its lively atmosphere and scene of people going out for the night, I could only feel an overwhelming panic. Then I arrived at Freedom Burger. The restaurant, enclosed inside a glass force field keeping out the hectic market, but overlooking it with a certain sense of superiority, Is perfectly ordered, sanitised and empty. I order a burger and fries and sit down by the window, now safe in my grease-laden Ivory tower. Then a sense of guilt washes over me. I’m now sitting in the institution I claim to hate. The perfectly ordered, crafted space, emulating the American nightmare. A Simulacre of a Simulacre. Hypocrite. The burger was okay and the fries were shit.
I wake up the next day with a lump in my throat, but not the usual lump asking me to cry. This lump is coarse and rough, like a kidney stone scraping its way out of my throat in periodic dry coughs. An aching fills my head, my ears bulging out as if about to pop, building up pressure steadily. My nose gently leaking a viscous slimy downpour. I had gotten a cold. I don’t know how or when but I had.
I make my way down to the showers, having to periodically stop, close my eyes and breath to myself, before continuing. I leave the halfway-door and step down onto the stairs missing a step then catching myself. My feet are as light as air but my body is as heavy as a boulder, its weights straining the two little sticks it’s perched upon. I slowly go down the steps, leaning heavily on the railing and turn into the shower room. Someone had used up all the hot water, so the sudden onslaught of piercing cold icicles hit my frail body, sucking out all the remaining warmth. It leaves a pale trembling wreck of a person, zittering on the cold blue tiles. My corpse contracting uncontrollable as my conscious mind tries to fight it. I leave the shower colder and weaker than before, painfully making the trek back to my room. Doing one step, then pausing to catch my breath then continuing in a cycle of torment. An uncaring torment of the body, one which can only be combated with a strong will, which I don't possess. The blanket is too warm, but the open air is freezing. So I alternate between the two, collecting a layer of sweat on my skin, before unpeeling myself from my cocoon, for that sweat to freeze up upon touching the air. Back and forth in a primitive Finnish sauna. Eventually I fell asleep.
I wake up from a shiver in the middle of the night. I am in that place again. The city underwater. Still on the overpass walking towards the lights in the sky scrapers. It’s still drizzling, so I keep walking. I look down the side of the crash-barriers of the highway. Beneath me is water, only water. Thrashing on the pillars of the overpass like on foundations of a bridge. A large wave in front and a sinking whirlpool behind. The electric poles, still sticking out of the black water with electric lines linking them from one to another. Occasionally the thick chaotic bundle of cables dips beneath the waves and reappears a few metres further on the way up to another electric pole. If something breaks now, it’s up to the fish to fix it. I keep walking for kilometres by the crash barrier, which seems so pointless now that no cars are driving on this road anymore. Just protecting nothing from nothing. Completely useless against the water. Maybe they should’ve invested in dams when they still had the time but the drivers must’ve lobbied enough. I assume. I don’t know anything about this place.
I look behind me. One last time at the raging black ocean. It seems to stretch on forever, not a single light to be seen - Just endless black. As the horizon approaches, the buildings get smaller, less and less poking out, until there is nothing but ocean. I feel strangely calm. The rain falling on my face, sucking out the warmth. Bit by bit, drop by drop until eventually I will die of hypothermia. I look to the sky, the uniform black and close my eyes. Giving in to the cold.
The chill struck me again, a cold sickly chill. This time I wasn’t transported anywhere, I jolted awake, opening my eyes only to see the same ruins - The freckles sky above me. Then I saw the lights. Two small dots appeared from the horizon. First like two faint stars moving in parallel. Then it got closer, revealing what could be eyes of a creature ten times my size. I couldn’t make out how far away they were, it glared a glow so out of place for this world. My eyes couldn't even look at it head on, only the halo created in the drizzle. Then I realised it was moving towards me. The lights grew, first slowly, then faster and faster. I started running, occasionally looking back only for the lights to be even closer than I thought. The asphalt was covered in algae after years of never ending torrential downpour, so I fell. I fell many times but quickly got up to keep running. My haste and panic only caused me to fall again, and again, and the lights kept getting closer. Then the lights got to me and I stopped running. Its glow now lit up everything around me, but not itself, cloaked in a veil of shadow. My adjusted eyes now blinded by its glow, my body wrapped by its totality of white. I could finally see the colour of the world around me. It wasn't black but green. The overpass, streetlamps and electric poles, wrapped in a layer of algae, mollusks and sea urchins. The ocean, no longer the carpet black water, revealed itself to be a random assortment of trash, plastic bags, shoes and palm saplings, all of it intertwined into a carpet on the ocean surface. Then my eyes slowly adjusted to the light. The creature slowly revealed itself through a series of blinks. Its metallic body was square with two horns poking out, letting out a constant stream of black smoke. Its eyes were low almost at the ground with teeth between them. A grill of rusted teeth in perfect order. Then I heard its growl, which overpowered the waves. A huffing like a tiger who smoked everyday, in fast perfect rhythm. Hgmhhhh Hgmhhhh Hmghhhh. Then it suddenly stopped. The lights stopped. A flap opened on its side, revealing what looked like the creature's ear and something stepped out. I realised I was looking at a cargo truck. The driver, presumably, a large silhouette but tiny compared to his vehicle, stepped to me. He reached out a hand and I tried to crawl away, on my arms and back, still terrified. He kept coming closer, much faster than me as he was upright. Then he grabbed my hand and pulled me up. He patted the algae off my clothes and looked at me. He was a man maybe 50 wearing a cap and an old worn out hoodie.
“What are you doing so far out of town?” He said to me but I didn't answer. He scans me up and down and makes a worried face. I stare at him, getting cold again as the adrenaline left my system. “C’mon get on. I’ll get you into town.”
