(extracts with 230 photos)
All text and photos © to the author, Rakit
Grateful acknowledgement to Jock McCock for comments, humour and companionship
Part 4 : Nobody Hears You Cry
Day 7: Russian Market
The boys visited the Russian Market, seeking souvenirs in the antique shops that line the south side. Horrorshow, a freshly-melted and very severe facial sulphuric acid attack victim, who’d frightened the life out of them on their last trip when he’d rushed them, dressed in sackcloths and bleating “yum-yum, yum-yum”, chatted nonchalantly with a tuktuk driver. He was now dressed in real clothes, his face much better and scarcely bothered to look up as the Barang, who had to go to him to give their dollar, went past. Clearly his disfigurement had paid well and the boys wondered how long it would be before a fresh acid wash was needed to keep his income at its current level. Souvenirs scored, the hotel, a doze and a shower called.
That night the boys hired a tuktuk and did the usual rounds, then headed north up the river where they found a Khmer fishbowl in a remote part of town well off the Barang-beaten track. They had a beer and cajoled the girls to stand up and turn around, but nothing in particular caught their eye. When they came out, there was a large group of non-too-friendly-looking Khmer youths congregated round their tuktuk, talking with the driver. With this potential for trouble, the lads were happy not to be alone and even happier as they got under way without incident. They stopped again at the Rose Bar and the Zanzibar opposite, where more girls, including the mamasan, wanted their photo taken. The Rose had huge, if antiquated rooms from $14 and Rakit made a note as some of the gash here were high quality. Making a proposition to the best of them however, he was met with “I know you want to hear my heartbeat, but I cannot do that until I am married” and a beaming smile, “but I will come with you dancing if you like?”
Considering this very attractive proposition for less than 10 seconds, the boys’ fucked off to Martinis.
Photos: Zanzibar & Rose Bar 31 32 33 34 35 36 37
In Martinis, Rakit met a very classy Viet with polite, good English, flawless smooth skin and a lightly muscled, shapely, lithe body. She was intelligent, had an expensive haircut, good eye contact and none of the lathered white makeup that characterises the usual Viets. McCock also met one of his early morning encounters and whilst Rakit now realised why he kept them secret, it seemed the boys had scored well for their last night. Perfect.
They hit the Heart, but there were just too many faces there that wanted a piece of them and the Heart is just the sort of place it could kick off badly you trod on the wrong toes. A silenced bullet in the belly as you bop, the assassin walking quickly out the door, protected by the bouncers, the connected Khmers and their bodyguards and you could be lying there in white hot screaming agony, bleeding to death from your offal with the toxins building up fast, the nearest hospital of any repute Bangkok and the next plane 6 hours away. The prima donnas from Shanghai who the boys had decided to ignore made a few disparaging remarks; some girls from the Rose Bar who had offered to accompany them were unhappy to see they were with common taxi-girls; the Vamp and her ladyboy glared; a few of the so-called hard men Khmers they’d brushed against on the last trip nodded over and whispered to bodyguards; a white-dressed dangerous Khmer whore who’d apparently worked in Paris and Rakit had nearly taken on his last trip until she turned nasty got a bit mouthy; some rejected taxi-girls from the Walkabout were less than polite and to crown it all, the ubiquitous Sweat loudly declared that the boys were his “best mates” and went back to pawing all and sundry female on the dance floor, including some good Khmer girls who had boyfriends present. “That cunt’s gonna get shot”, thought Rakit as they split, knowing it was now time to go in more ways than one. It doesn’t take long as a butterflying Barang with attitude and a long-term eye for top-quality gash to get known in Penh. Beneath the smiles of some Khmers, at times and understandably, lurks a real hatred for these bastards with money who come in and cream off the things they desire, then disappear leaving their damage in their wake. As McCock once said, “if it really kicked off on the Strip and we were getting it bad, these cunts would love it”. Rakit couldn’t disagree.
Photo: Dangerous 38
Out of the Heart, Rakit relaxed and was delighted with his Vietnamese girlfriend for the night, especially when he saw her naked. There was not a single blemish on her whole body and she had soft, well-cared for feet, a particular passion of his with the right woman. He dined on her whole body and they fucked for a long time. Rakit was very satisfied and said he’d like to stay friends with her, perhaps maintain contact and see her again. She looked it him with a perplexed countenance. “This not possible”, she said “big cannot be friend to small. You go soon enough. Same-same every man”. Curious, Rakit took her to the Flamingo rooftop, where over 2 hours she told him about herself. She’d been sent to Phnom Penh to work 4 months previously when her father bailed out for another woman and left the family with no income. She worked in one of the Chinese massage parlours, where her services attracted up to $100 a night, only a fraction coming to her and only went to Martinis if she had no other customer or was strapped for cash. She hated it, especially the Chinese who frequented the place and treated her like dirt, came on her face, in her hair and on one occasion forcibly in her mouth, violating not only her body but her trust, humanity and a gentleman’s agreement. 20 days previously, she’d returned to Vietnam for a break, only to watch her husbandless sister bleed to death during childbirth. 2 days later, with no time for mourning, she was sent back to the Penh by her mother who’d inherited another mouth to feed, simultaneously losing a worker and gaining an unpaid job. Reciting this story she struggled through real tears and at the height of them talked of her sister haunting her dreams, of her nightly dread of sleep, her tears of anguish about her losses and situation and of her desperate need for familial friendship. “But in Phnom Penh”, she said, “nobody hears you cry”.
They exchanged phone numbers. When it was time for her to go, Rakit offered her $21 dollars for her time. She refused, saying “I no take money for no work, $10 short time. No cost talking”. Rakit gave her $11 and as she left, slipped another $20 in her jacket pocket as they hugged. He knew he’d never see her again, or if he did she’d be a lot harder. But at this moment she tugged hard at his heartstrings and he was gutted to see her leave, wishing he was staying a few more days so he could penetrate this incredible woman on more than a physical level. As he watched her elegantly step up onto a moto, blow a kiss, then turn so he could see her beautiful shoulders heading off down the street, he cursed himself for being so engrossed with her that he’d forgotten to take photographs. But they’d connected and in the Penh where pussy was cheaper than a decent meal and a few drinks, this had more real value than a trophy shot or two. If he lived in Phnom Penh, this was the girl he’d take to stay with him. “At least for a while”, he thought cynically as he hit the sack to catch the 2-hours remaining to him before the blasted alarm went off.
Day 8: Last-minute McCock and Kien Svay
7am and Rakit got up, called McCock to get packed and lashed his gear in his bag. They needed to be at the airport for 08.45 to make the 09.30 to Bangkok. Whilst Rakit usually cut things fine himself, he didn’t trust McCock’s nonchalant attitude to timekeeping. He was packed, showered, fed and checked out by 08.00 and waiting for “last-minute McCock” who insisted on dallying over breakfast.
As Rakit sat waiting for McCock (as fucking usual), the girl from the photoshoot the other night walked by the front of the hotel. He waved and she came in and they talked. She’d been supposed to meet him the next night but hadn’t shown up for some reason. Or maybe it was Rakit who went elsewhere. Time, agreements and people had a way of blurring into a jumble of drink, sex and money in the Penh. She’d been great company and good value, so when he told her he was leaving in a few minutes and she put the bite on him for a few dollars, Rakit didn’t mind too much as the memories of her sensual, willing body were still strong and he had the photos to prove it. He gave her $10, a hug and left. As the minibus pulled away, the girl burst into loud tears in the middle of the road, her wailing audible above the revving of the engine. Rakit was shocked at the impact he’d obviously had simply by doing what he liked doing best and more than a little thoughtful about having said goodbye to the best 2 women of his trip within 3 hours of each other. They drove on in silence. McCock was first to speak, quietly and with unusual and highly unexpected compassion in his voice. “That really brought a lump to my throat”, he said. After a long silence, the inevitable humorous barb came hard. “Her life must be a world of shit if she is crying over you”. An indignant Rakit patted his crotch and his wallet. “Both well-packed”, he braved, bowing his head slightly so McCock didn’t see his eyes welling up.
Of course, by the time they got to the airport, check-in was closed. McCock, an avid world traveller, then told tales about how often planes were held up for him, how often he missed them and his favourite line when met by an angry check-in officer. “Well, KLM keep me waiting far more often than I keep them waiting, so what’s your problem?” Rakit chalked up yet another win for his instinctive gut feeling, but couldn’t help grinning, despite kicking himself for not waking McCock up half an hour earlier. Not that it would have made the slightest difference to the outcome.
The next plane was at 15.40, so a trip to Kien Svay, Phnom Penh’s Riviera, some 20 minutes in a taxi from the city, was in order. Various ex-pats had warned of the dangers of getting ripped off here with extortionately padded billing, so they briefed the taxi-driver in advance that he had to negotiate prices for everything and in return he could eat and drink as much as he liked. The first entrance into Kien Svay was blocked by roadworks, so the driver took the second. Approaching the river, cries of “Barang, barang” were heard from the houses lining the side of the road. As soon as they hit the river, the ugliest, dirtiest and most revolting human being Rakit had ever seen glued himself to the side of the car, eyes fixed on the driver and insistently tapping the side window, pointing towards his grotty riverside establishment. His yellow, distorted buck teeth, exposed by a short upper lip, unkempt facial hair and beady eyes immediately earned him the nickname “The Rat”. He persisted for 100m along the road before issuing a series of curses and banging hard on the window. “If he’s the PR man, fuck knows what the grub’s like” thought Rakit, noting that he should always have his camera at the ready to record significant incidents like this. The taxi driver looked unnerved and suggested leaving but one of the houses along the bank had a quiet Chinese-looking lady outside, who smiled as they passed and Rakit asked the driver to pull in and check the prices.
At a dollar a beer, the boys were happy and headed down to the stilt houses in the river, sat in the shade and chewed the fat about Cambodia, the women and the characters. Horrorshow, the Rash, the Sniff and the Head all seemed to have made significant progress in the world over the last 3 months and it occurred to Rakit that perhaps his expectation of normality had been lowered as a result of Penh exposure and that the apparent improvement in these guys’ health and fortune was simply a relativity illusion. Neither he nor McCock could decide either way.
Taxi man organised a few girls to come down to provide massage, but they weren’t anything special and the option of $15 dollars for either massage or boom-boom didn’t appeal. The girls quickly disappeared without bargaining. Taxi man’s only insight was the comment “Viet yumyum, same-same ice-cream” and he smiled as he downed his first, second, then his third Heineken, content then to sit back, drink and relax whilst the boys laughed about their experiences and talked of future visits to this adrenalin-charged, if not exactly tourist-friendly country. Women in boats approached with huge river prawns for sale, the initial price tumbling by 75% when refused, at which point they also started to offer a variety of insect and bug delicacies, which in the light of previous experimentation with these in Thailand, would have had Rakit running for the bog if the thought of a Kien Svay toilet hadn’t been more repulsive than the bugs. Young boys in boats offered curtained enclosures in their canoes, within which a Barang could take a river trip with a selected female companion, but the lads were happy just to chill and take in the scenery, the ambience and the beer. A few more beers in a Khmer place en route to the airport and it was time to go. As taxi man dropped them off, he hugged the boys drunkenly. “I have best day”, he said, “thank you” and he waved until they were out of sight. “Straight to Sophie’s now I bet” chuckled McCock.
On the way through customs, Rakit worried about getting his “bronze” Buddha out of the country, not that he was in any way convinced of its antiquity. No problem. But at passport control, things got weird. The officer looked him up and down, stood up for a better look, sat down, tapped keys on his computer and looked again at Rakit several times, comparing him to what he saw on his screen. Rakit’s blood turned cold. Is this a pull? And if so, why? Had he stepped on a connected Khmer’s toe with one of the girls? Was he being set up for something? After about three minutes of tapping, the Customs Officer eventually held out the passport and Rakit’s heart noticeably slowed. As he tried to take it, the guy tightened his grip, looked him directly in the eye and said “You very handsome man” before smiling flirtatiously as he released the passport into Rakit’s grateful hand.
McCock guffawed on hearing the story and the immediate cruel spike “he was probably the first cunt to say that to you all week and mean it” added fuel to the raucous humour that lasted all the way to Bangkok and on to Pattaya.
And that was Cambodia.
Epilogue
A few days later Rakit woke at 1.30pm, the memories of the previous day’s debauchery, culminating in an all-night drink-fuelled party outside the Blues Factory off Walking Street in Pattaya, filtering through his threatening hangover. It had been a real drunken one. Rakit remembered cruising the GoGos then the discos without finding what he wanted, then stumbling over the late-night oasis and playing pool and winning against one Thai after the other, including some grotesque ladyboys who he normally avoided like the plague. But the banter of the mixed crowd was friendly and the mood benign, even after a farang and a Thai had a boxing match in the little Soi between the bars. His mouth was dry, yet he could still taste the delicious flavours of the slender and supple Thai girl who obligingly accompanied him home, let him shave her 6am-shadowed cunt then gave him what he needed to take him into the oblivion of sleep.
His mobile beeped with an incoming text. Expecting McCock, Rakit smiled, imagining him now home, disembarked and at the mercy of the rain, the wind, the tediousness of work and the energy-sapping complexities of western female minds. The previous night, drunk, reluctant to go and swaggering into an unusual 4-2 pool lead, he’d characteristically left Pattaya too late in a taxi headed for the airport. Gridlocked in heavy traffic and only in possession of a non-changeable budget ticket, McCock realised his only chance of making the flight was to get out and run the last 2 miles to the terminal, carrying his 15kg suitcase with him. Twenty minutes later, dishevelled and totally out of breath, he had to swallow seven species of sewerage from the officious Thai KLM check-in girl to get her to hold the flight. Eventually she haughtily agreed and made the call, only to be immediately faced with McCock’s wind-up that as a gold-elite KLM customer who usually travelled business-class, he was unhappy with how she’d spoken to him and he wanted her name for a formal written complaint. Name obtained, the sweat-soaked wildman McCock proudly strutted onto on the plane, chortling at the pleas of “for Christ sake, not beside me!!” written on the face of every impatient passenger he’d kept waiting.
But the message wasn’t from McCock, it was Rakit’s Phnom Penh rooftop girl.
“I.Ly.find.$20.you.my.pocket.thank.very.much.you.good.man.now.I.know.sure”.
Rakit took a sharp intake of breath. With those few kind words the pains of Cambodia descended like sledgehammers and shattered his defences as if they had never existed. Tears streamed down his face, blinding him with salt and helpless, futile rage. He struggled a long, wretched groan from the depths of his stomach and curled into the foetal position, sobs robbing his dignity and exposing his Achilles’ heels. The voices of Phnom Penh capitalised. They tortured his weaknesses as he lay naked and undignified in his once-cosseted hotel room, the squalor, the deformity, the poverty, the anguish and the agonies beating his head in a relentless, shrieking cacophony.
A short time passed. Rakit emerged with the inner peace of a pre-sunrise dawn, his love affair with the Penh refreshed, his conscience clear and his heart strong. The force of the cleansing emotion that had just passed through him had robbed the strength from his legs, feasted on his testosterone and left him calm and adrenaline-free for the first time in a week. Stunned by what had just occurred he looked in the mirror, hardly recognising the man who stood before him and mused “Fuck me, I could do with another hit of that!!”.
Stay tuned for a 5-day sexual frenzy in Pattaya. Coming soon, to a mongers board near you.