SAST #5 Phnom Penh
It is bittersweet how much travelling can ease your mind.
Bitter in that, you feel almost guilty. Knowing people that would benefit from travelling. Knowing that stepping on a new piece of concrete unriddled with trauma can save lives.
I’ve been waiting to be overwhelmed but I feel like that day will not come. The “where am I?” goes unasked. Perhaps, when you make such tremendous progress with your mental health, what was once a big victory; now becomes your day-to-day. You get numbed to achievement. Your awareness of this fact, however, is good enough. It gives you the occasional dose of self-compassion to remind yourself of your journey.
My favourite travel writer is Rolf Potts. He and comedian Ari Shaffir, are the reason I went travelling last year and are very much part of the reason I am typing these words in Cambodia. One thing Rolf likes to do when he enters a new city or country is “walk until your day becomes interesting”. Or, “Walk until you get lost”. Both of these tactics are very difficult in Phnom Penh. When you first see the frenzy on the roads, you wonder how the fuck people survive. There are times when I approach a road, well I say approach but I am almost always already on a road as pavements are rare here, and I see consistent oncoming traffic coupled with zero traffic lights. And you laugh to yourself, “Man, I am trapped.” But, you watch the tuk tuks and the cars miraculously make a turn (that would most likely not be allowed in the Western world) and you watch everything slow down. No anger, no aggression- here they beep their horns to say hi and to announce their presence. It is beautiful to see how unnecessary rules can be. In Scotland, with my heightened shoulders and my stressful cycles, I’d be going off my nut.
The people are friendly and they stare at me a lot. I don’t mind it, I must seem like an animal they haven’t seen before. I now realise it is mostly the beard that surely launches their curiosity. They are used to seeing token white cunts kicking about it, but maybe not hairy ones. Asians aren’t hairy. They stare and I stare back, I bow my head and they return the favour. I view the bow differently now. In Scotland, I would find it weird when Asian customers would bow to me when they say hello or say thank you. “What are you bowing for? All I done was scan through your full trolley of flour.” Now, I really enjoy the respect of the bow. Furthermore, they smile a lot when I bow to them. I like to think they enjoy it because they see I am making an effort.
I am struggling to make connections, however. You see, in Europe, I had the privilege of knowing that if I went out for a drink, I’d end up talking to a Croatian or a German and their English would be so good that I could converse. Converse and learn. Here? Not so much. I don’t want to talk to fellow white cunts but, thus far, until I learn Khmer, those deep conversations I seek will only come from the white cunts.
Stature is a big thing here. It is the rich and the rest. Luxury is a badge of honour. Big fuck off cars being unnecessarily ushered into a parking space. They come and open your door, borderline fast-food restaurants have valets- the fuck? Old, fat, ugly white cunts lacking shame as they walk by with their young Khmer wives. I look at them to see if they will acknowledge me. “I know what you’re doing pal,” I think. But, they don’t even look. They don’t give a shit. They are rich and they are here to fuck. They have rigged the system. Look, I am a perv just like every other man. But at least I do the right thing, I feel the shame! Shame that is correct. My suspicion is, even with empty balls, those old fat ugly white cunts keep their smile….
Admittedly, I have also rigged the system. Sales Assistant in Lidl, struggling to pay rent with a useless degree in literature and philosophy, now living as one of the elites. I think it is very easy to get used to a lush lifestyle and when it is so familiar to you, you don’t appreciate it. My flat gets cleaned, I think like two times a week. If you know me, you’ll know I’m a “one bowl sort of guy.” I love saying it, I love telling people about it. See, it is such a childish thing, to force yourself to only use one bowl for every meal so that you don’t let dishes pile up. But I fucking love it. Yet, here, I realised that not only do they clean my flat, they do my fucking dishes. Absolutely unbelievable. And here I am already accumulating a pile of dirty dishes. Already changing, already taking shit for granted. Do not be the rich cunt, Blair.
I’ll end on this, they don’t have pints here. Just bottles poured into a glass. Cheap, but not satisfying. I did find myself a litre of Monkey Shoulder though, for pretty cheap.
Cheers.