Not a Bright Man

WALKING around the backstreets of Krong Koh Kong, gently exuding a slimy sweat not dissimilar in aroma to cheap vodka is a diverting way to pass an afternoon. The overseas hangover is a dangerous beast, especially for the lone traveller. Finding oneself semi delirious, dehydrated and thinking fondly and at length about the modern conveniences, such as ready access to your psychologist, which you have given up to be marching the streets of a place so backward it doesn’t even have a shop selling pirated DVDs is enough to inspire a panic attack. Luckily everyone will assume this is just some strange Western custom and continue to go about their daily business, which seems to be staring at you and riding around with a chicken strapped to the back of a motorbike. Having virtually circumnavigated KKK – not an acronym the local chamber of commerce has adopted with much enthusiasm oddly – in search of a non-existent shopping mall where I might be able to get a copy of the fifth season of The Wire, I happened across the Bright Man Centre. “Ah ha, the foolhardy Cambodians and their amusing mangling of the English language,” I mused as I pulled out my camera to snap off a shot of this little gem. I must say the Cambodians have not taken to the wholesale bastardisation of the English language like most of their Asian neighbours. It must be said the Japanese are the outright leaders in this field. One of my students in my teaching days in the Japanese boondocks had a great coat with the phrase “the dream of both hands fullness” on the Back of it. To my mind nothing else conveys the deep yearning at the heart of most human beings quite so eloquently. The teacher with the “Fuck Milk, Got Pot?” t-shirt has enlightened the worlds a little less, but amused it a little more. Cambodia’s best efforts to date had been the oft-miss-spelled banners at the local headquarters of the “Cambodain People’s Party” – likely the result of a politically minded and mischievous, or simply incompetent sign writer in the Battambang area, and the misspelling of the word boat (baot) at the beach at Sihanoukville. The Bright Man Centre had the same sort of ring of hope that “The Dream of Both Hands Fullness” had to it though. A shiny optimism that if one applied oneself the rich bounty of capitalist success and meaningful work would come bounding to one’s door, or at least be visible somewhere in the middle distance. I had assumed somewhat smugly that the Bright Man Centre was just another signwriting snafu. It surely had to be a laundry, or perhaps even a skin whitening salon whose marketing director leaned towards the painfully literal. But as I walked closer I saw that it was actually a school, filled with studious looking young men who if they were not already, were aiming to be Bright Men. I mentally congratulated them and mused quietly to myself that I was not a Bright Man that day. Exhibit one: I woke up late for my bus, drunk, and packed both pairs of shoes away in my bag before realising that getting around sans shoes was going to be an issue for me. Underwear was in the too hard basket too. I felt a painful moment of embarrassment as I crammed myself into the packed mini-bus which was to ferry us to the bus station, where I promptly got on the bus and fell asleep, presumably sweating horrid smelling fumes onto the large, shaven headed Finn sitting next to me. He repeatedly kept asking me how long it would take to get to the border. I repeatedly fell asleep abruptly, method acting for my upcoming reprise of River Phoenix’s narcoleptic character in a remake of My Own Private Idaho I’ll be putting on in my lounge room when I return to Australia. I just need a drug problem and a guy who looks like Keanu Reeves who can’t act and I’m good to go.
I had gotten myself into this parlous state via a combination of pretty Dutch girls, less pretty Dutch men, and dangerously cheap booze – a scourge common to the whole of Cambodia, or so I am told. Staying up until three or so in the morning, chugging alternately watery beer and vodka tonics, had seemed like a good idea at the time. It always does. Rarely does having less to drink seem like a good idea while you’re actually in the middle of having too much to drink, or so my experience suggests. The pretty Dutch girls and I had spent the day sitting at the beach, swimming, and generally doing nothing. A steady stream of English and Swedish nightclub touts approached my dashing blonde companions, in an effort to entice them to one of the many cheap drink-driven nightclub shenanigans going on that night. Not a one of them asked me what my plans for the coming evening were. They also failed to ask the balding, 35 year old German pedophile next to me, who was incongruously wearing dark pants, no shirt, and suede brogues at the beach. I guess if you have no shame about parading around with a barely legal prostitute it would be too much to ask to have some appropriate shame in regard to his clothing choices, and let’s face it, he was German, he never had a chance. I was increasingly peeved as the day went on, because in my indignation, I had come up with a great comeback should one of these touts accidentally pry his eyes away from the cumulative 11.5 feet of blonde Dutch goddessity to my right, have a mild stroke and hence attempt to convince me to attend some party with the dubious honour of two for one cocktails (for god’s sake they’re only $2 to start with!) I would blithely comment that I was strictly in Cambodia for the heroin and prostitutes and doubted they would be able to serve my taste in the former at said party. Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time – one which remains sadly untested. I did realise however that I was not simply being profiled as a fellow German pedophile by the nightclub spruikers. Seriously who would prefer to have come to your party: a solo 33 year old with an alarming triangle of sunburn on his right shoulder blade, or two 25 year old blonde Dutch girls. I happened to know something about these two Dutch girls which would have guaranteed that any party they attended, anywhere in the known universe, would have been attended by every man who could possibly make it there, had they but known. A couple of nights previously, over a few beers in the sleepy town of Battambang, Eveline had casually announced that they slept in the same bed, and had become so used to doing so that should one of them hook up, the other would probably just share the bed and attempt not to get too much in the way. It was all myself and the two other guys at the table could do not to start giggling with delight right then and there. You could almost hear us mentally high fiving each other just at the thought of it. I love that northern European women almost never fail to live up to the stereotype of gorgeous, blonde sex maniacs who have nothing better to do than have naked saunas and sleep in the same bed. More likely I have just mentally blocked out all of the normal things which the rest of the Scandinavian female population does – surely they occasionally need to shop for hair products and sauna accessories (and yes, I know Holland is not Scandinavian). Anyway, after treating myself to a generous quantity of Chilean sauvignon blanc and the aforementioned vodka tonics, I decided it was time to leave. This meant stumbling about 50m home, where I proceeded to look quizzically at my bag, before trying to stuff everything I owned into it. This is not usually a bad way to pack. I’m pretty sure this was when the shoe accident occurred however, leading to much confusion in the morning as I was simultaneously trying to brush my teeth and figure out where my foot coverings had gone. I actually managed to cut myself looking for my iPod, which had been swept up in the previous night’s bag stuffing. Now I was bleeding, brushing my teeth, and still had no fucking shoes on. Luckily the pick up bus was late, guaranteeing that I would not have to face the opprobrium of my fellow travellers for my tardiness and bloodiness as well as my infernal stench.
Having reflected upon the fact that today was not be one the more mentally acute in my short existence, I turned away from the future bright men and trudged back to my hotel, leaving a mild haze of alcohol fumes in my wake and proceeded to have my third nap of the day. I needed my rest. I was about to head deep into the Cardamom forest with a garrulous Englishman named Nick. He assures me there are no landmines at the Khmer Rouge camp we are heading to. It’s virtually the last time this trip will be available in this form. A road is about to be pushed deep into the forest. Poachers and tourists will naturally follow, stripping the woods of the gibbons and other assorted wildlife which Nick assures me make the place magical. I’ll have to take him at his word regarding the land mines. As far as I can tell he has all of his limbs, unlike the motorbike driver who dropped me at the hotel today. Motorbike driver seems a curious occupational choice for the one-handed, but perhaps this guy had not managed to make the grade for entry into the Bright Man Centre. Either way, I’m off, deep into the woods. After just one more nap.