Portraits of Kampot

Spastic is not an appropriate enough descriptor for William, but it is as close as the English language permits.

We meet William as we are sharing a taxi (an early 80's model of a Camry, I think) with a total of 7 people in it. William is the only English - speaking Cambodian in the car, sharing the passenger seat with another compact Khmer. His obnoxiously large diamond ring and dress clothes do not convey his comprehension, so Gina and I verbally carry on to God-knows-what extent, though it's enough to affirm any stereotype that Americans are all characters from Desperate Housewives, I'm sure.

As she and I take turns sitting on top of each other and inadvertently poking at each other's mosquito bites, we cogitate on our last days in Sihanoukville: lots of silliness on the beach by day and mass consumption of alcohol by night; two Englishmen almost par with our particular brand of dorkiness for all of it.

Talking is the only remedy to ease the torture of the trip; the windows don't roll down, the driver hates us because we wouldn't pay US $24 dollars to hire the entire car (thus the vindictive time-consuming gathering of other people to reach his quota) and we are both in the wake of round two of the intestinal virus (termed "Cambodian Belly" by the 60-year-old French woman staying next door to us when she cornered me into listening to details of her night in the restroom).

Little did we know that William was studying our every sentence, and meticulously plotting the events to come.

When we reached Kampot, we are formally introduced: Will is a Phnom Pehn based real estate agent. He speaks at us as if he is firing missiles, and has to push his glasses up every two seconds because of the shell-shock of it all. His intensity is endearing if not concurrently dizzying. In a rush, we all settle on the same guesthouse; we agree to meet him for dinner.

10 minutes before we are to meet, William knocks on the door, does not wait for an answer, walks in.

"Seachfood! Sheachfood? Uh- LOBSTER! YES! I GET TODAY AT THE MARKET! We eat, ok? OK!"

"Ok?" We smile. He leaves.
Wait, what just happened?

We go downstairs to the guesthouse restaurant. No William. We sit and wait. No William. We blame translation, and go back up to his room to sort it out.

He opens the door with a spray of water launched square at unsuspecting Gina. In a moment we process: William is naked from the waist up and is holding a comb. " I WASH MY HAIR!" yells he. Gina attempts to explain that we were confused about the lobster. Did he want us to wait while he ate? Should we go someplace else and meet him later? We are informed that "NO!" We are to join him, he got $25 worth of prawns; he definitely wants us to eat with him.

We of course accept, with trepidation on account of our frail stomachs and the fact that William seems harmless but displays enough Ted-Bundyisms to raise a flag.

Dinner is served: An absolute feast. Fried pork in eggplant. Red vegetable curry. Steamed Prawns. Beerlao. William makes sure that we each try the prawn's egg, which is a rare and expensive treat, apparently. William makes no secret of the fact he is rich. My first clue was verbal: "I AM VERY RICH!" My second, third and fourth were shown in his attitude towards other Cambodians in service roles. He was terribly ungracious...but why so nice to us? Red flag number two.

Conversation is amazing. William is a member of the contentiously corrupt CPP (Cambodian People's Party) so we get an earful. He is literally the Entertainment Tonight expose of all the information Gina and I have pondered and had no one of repute to ask about. We learned why Cambodia hates Thailand (in 2003, riots broke out on the streets of Phnom Pehn because a Thai actress claimed Angkor Wat belonged to the Thais...plus a bunch of racist stuff). We gained further appreciation for the family structure. The typical Cambodian father hides all emotion and is supposed to look happy to keep the household in order. (Could this be an allegory for a post Khmer-Rouge country controlled by tourism and a failing UN-driven war crimes tribunal?) We learn how Cambodian men feel when Western men marry Cambodian women. "This is good question. But we don't worry. They marry the ugly girls and it is good for all."

We also learn that 27-year-old William is quite lonely and would like to rectify this by convincing Gina to stay forever.

Wholly blind and against good backpacker sense, we take motorbikes to a spot over the "New" bridge, a gift from the Koreans.

We land at the local Karaoke bar. Transparently conspicuous (women only work at these establishments, not frequent them) Gina and I are pulling rank with Paris and Nicole.

We wait on the patio as they prepare a room for us. We eat mangoes and peanuts and drink Angkor (Slogan: "My Country, My Beer").

The Karaoke room: Envision a bomb shelter with a large black leather couch, television, 2 microphones and a coffee table. It's Clay Aiken's bachelor pad in Kosovo, basically. An older woman comes in and opens our second round; William screams at her in Khmer, Gina and I quietly say thank you. We are embarrassed that our host is a big meanie.

He has told her to play "Hong Kong Karaoke"- song after song of sappy love ballads in English, most we had never heard but enjoyed harmonizing to. Occasionally we'd get "Un-break My Heart" or "Right Here Waiting For You" but mostly these were tunes that had taught William English - he embodied the words and sang them to Gina, quite emphatically.

So emphatically, that we decided to leave the Manson Ranch before things got REAL bad.

There was not one motorbike home to save our impending lives, so we walked the 2 miles, haphazardly, as William's phone GPS had died.

Back at the Guesthouse, we shook hands curtly and ran the flight of stairs, locking the door behind us.

This was a necessary action as our businessman was leaving for Phnom Pehn at 6 am and as he knocked repetitively adding a giant "HELLO!" at 5:45, we rolled a sleepy eye at each other and said prayers of gratitude for the double lock and deadbolt.

***

I sat at a restaurant on the river this morning, reading Haruki Murikami and eating yogurt. A fully bearded man walked by on the street, 6 yards away. He is scruffy, tall and wearing a heavy jacket despite the heat. He sees me, walks backwards four steps. He draws an imaginary index finger gun from his leg pocket. With a "ShhhwwwooosssH" sound effect, he first "shoots" himself in the right kneecap. Then the left. Right arm. Then left. He opens his mouth, glares at me, and pulls his thumb trigger. Scared, I looked down.

2 hours later, I am sitting in the same spot, cup of coffee in hand. He has a bag of groceries in his right hand, but this does not stop the returning Khmer sporting the Unibomber look to draw his left hand imaginary pistol and take aim for my forehead.

***

Les is a burly, bleached blond Canadian in his early 60's. He and his partner live in Kampot for 5 months of the year. Les, needing a substantial doctor-ordered form of exercise (and in want of a good suntan) decided to build a beach on Prek Kampong (the river). He tells everyone about it and invites them to lounge on "good sand" and draws them a map if they look directionally challenged (ME). Les and David hire a Cambodian to live year round on the property, attending to his guests and seeing that the lawn chairs are straightened properly.

***

Chanda (pronouced Jehnn-na) works at Lili Perles, a bead shop initiated by a French jewelry designer. I stopped by to create adornment, and met the young Cambodians working there. Chanda, with her huge grin and immediate offer of friendship stuck like the green-tea gum she shared with me.

When I was somewhere floundering in pre-adolescence, my family would go to Minnesota, spend a week on the lake, fishing, swimming and eating 'smores. Other ritual behavior included a stop at the "Loggin' Camp"a chitzy, lovable breakfast homage to Paul Bunyan and his blue ox.

There was another flat-chested 12-year-old running around. Her father owned the restaurant. Upon meeting me and my similar Kerri Strug top half, she took my hand and we ran through the woods; she promised there were fairies, she'd seen them.

What magic it was to think there might be other-worldly beings in the North Country. Even more magical that for a period of summers, we'd still run to go find them.

It takes me like heat lightning, still. The surprise connection that people share; the shock of comfortable kinship in befriending another woman. As Chandra helps me find matching beads we speak, pragmatically at first as I probe the extent of her English. She is beyond proficient. She exclaims "It's Un-be-LIEV- able!" when I ask her if she likes the Robbie Williams album that is playing. She thinks he's handsome. Unaware of the movement to bring sexy back, I assure her that Justin Timberlake will be her new wildest dream and I promise to send a CD.

She tells me about all the languages she speaks, I'm duly impressed and tell her she should go into business. She laughs, long and easily. "That is a funny thing. A Cambodian woman in business." Regardless, this girl, at a mere 20 years old, runs a water plant at her home village (keeping her younger cousin accountable for the money he seems to be laundering) , manages the Lili Perle and keeps a long distance boyfriend in Phnom Pehn (who her mother whole-heartedly disapproves of).

"A shame," I retort. "You would be a better businessman than most men!"

I ask her what it is that she wants to do, if she could do anything at all.

" Travel, " is her out-of-character one word reply.

"Come with us!" I teasingly beg. I wish it were as simple as taking her hand and running into the oaks and pines, chasing fairies.

Beyond her native Khmer, Chandra can speak Chinese, Thai, English and is learning French. Her voice eases over each of them with a non-existant glottle and a savoring of vowel sounds. Her word worship is delightful, so I fire question after question, mainly to hear her adoration of the language.


***

He has the frame of Kate Moss, with less chest and a little more of a backside. In fact, I think his figure is ideal, actually. I'm sure if we had conferred about this very personal issue, however, he'd probably disagree. I wouldn't expect less from the man who politely shot down all of my other statements that attempted to praise his genius.

Arne is the co-editor and publisher of "The Globe". Based in Phnom Pehn, the Globe reaches the English-speaking intelligentsia of Cambodia. Slick graphics, an original voice on politics and an occasional piece of malarkey a la the "Today Show". It's innovative and smart - delectable and in step just as hearty - an oatmeal-raisin cookie of a publication.

In one year, he and his partner have managed to employ a full-time staff of nine people and have been granted an exclusive with Bill Gates for next month. Also hugely awesome is their close coverage of the UN/ECCC (Extraordinary Chambers in the Courts of Cambodia) tribunal to finally judge war crimes against the Khmer Rouge.

Quietly, in his small uncontrollably curly-haired German demeanor, Arne is bounding buildings. He speaks, he shows me the magazine. All I want is to stitch my own superhero cape and jump along.

***

The tour agent booking our taxi to Vietnam is asked his name by Gina. "Viet."
He pauses. "But not Viet Cong, ha?"

Tomorrow we are gone.
To my love, Cambodia, for all that you have been and are to me,

Jo
February 24 2008
Kampot