Khmer Fried Wedding
Yesterday was a bleak foray into aural hell. The Cambodian revelry of the previous morning was but a pale shadow of the astonishing sonic landscape carved into the night by enormous speakers and megaphones that Steven and I endured with strained expressions and throbbing heads as we lay abed last night.
A Cambodian wedding is an enormous party, and people come from miles around to dance all night to the hypnotic beats of Khmer music, often created using only hyper-loud drum machines and amplified wailing. The beats are fast and frenetic, with no sense of timing or placement, and the words a nasel wail that slices into the brain with the keen edge of a razor.
Lying there at 3am, after having been woken for the third time by the off-kilter hysteronics of the Khmer party, it occurred to me that the only possible comparison for the agony of what I was experiencing would be to have someone endure being tied to a lumpy mattress while a midget repeatedly kicked them in the balls and two retarded babies with megaphones howled gibberish directly into each of their ears. The midget is also playing a kazoo at the time, and grinning with lunatic malice.
Other than that, yesterday was a non-event for the most part. This evening Steven and I are going to go across the Mekong river to check out a huge rubber plantation, which should be interesting. The Khmer women, they seem to love me. Whereever I go, pretty young girls stare and blush, giving me coy glances and occasionally stuttering questions in English.
Last night, for example, Steven and I went with Mr Kahn to a rather nice restaurant. Disappointingly, they were out of fried frogs and ginger, so I had the steak and rice, and Steven had the ginger chicken. I do not know why, but generally whereever I go I am served first, even before other Westerners. This was no different, except I was served a full five minutes before anyone else. The pretty serving girl kept staring and looking away, making eye contact and blushing. When I winked at her, she gave me an arched eyebrow and flounced off. Later on that night, she coquettishly informed Mr Kahn that she loved me.
Mr. Kahn thinks I should stay in Cambodia long time, and find Cambodian wife, because Cambodian girl very good, yes? I smile and nod, as I always do, and glow with pride that so many women desire my fierce white babies, if indeed they survive conception and can carry such hefty, mighty children in their small Khmer bodies. They seem to see me as some kind of Khmer Casanova here. Mr Kahn tells me that I should get a "Cambodia Girlfren" to sign papers for me and such, because this country makes things so very hard for Westerners. He does not seem to realize that maybe I would not enjoy this. When you date a Khmer girl, you also date her entire family. If you have sex, you pay $1000 dollars, get married, and then her family moves into your house. Mr Kahn thinks this is great and I do not.
Thus, I remain Kompong Cham's most eligable bachelor. The attention is great, though, and makes me feel like a White Supergod. It's almost shame that I won't make any of these women's dreams come true, but I feel it is best to refrain.
A Cambodian wedding is an enormous party, and people come from miles around to dance all night to the hypnotic beats of Khmer music, often created using only hyper-loud drum machines and amplified wailing. The beats are fast and frenetic, with no sense of timing or placement, and the words a nasel wail that slices into the brain with the keen edge of a razor.
Lying there at 3am, after having been woken for the third time by the off-kilter hysteronics of the Khmer party, it occurred to me that the only possible comparison for the agony of what I was experiencing would be to have someone endure being tied to a lumpy mattress while a midget repeatedly kicked them in the balls and two retarded babies with megaphones howled gibberish directly into each of their ears. The midget is also playing a kazoo at the time, and grinning with lunatic malice.
Other than that, yesterday was a non-event for the most part. This evening Steven and I are going to go across the Mekong river to check out a huge rubber plantation, which should be interesting. The Khmer women, they seem to love me. Whereever I go, pretty young girls stare and blush, giving me coy glances and occasionally stuttering questions in English.
Last night, for example, Steven and I went with Mr Kahn to a rather nice restaurant. Disappointingly, they were out of fried frogs and ginger, so I had the steak and rice, and Steven had the ginger chicken. I do not know why, but generally whereever I go I am served first, even before other Westerners. This was no different, except I was served a full five minutes before anyone else. The pretty serving girl kept staring and looking away, making eye contact and blushing. When I winked at her, she gave me an arched eyebrow and flounced off. Later on that night, she coquettishly informed Mr Kahn that she loved me.
Mr. Kahn thinks I should stay in Cambodia long time, and find Cambodian wife, because Cambodian girl very good, yes? I smile and nod, as I always do, and glow with pride that so many women desire my fierce white babies, if indeed they survive conception and can carry such hefty, mighty children in their small Khmer bodies. They seem to see me as some kind of Khmer Casanova here. Mr Kahn tells me that I should get a "Cambodia Girlfren" to sign papers for me and such, because this country makes things so very hard for Westerners. He does not seem to realize that maybe I would not enjoy this. When you date a Khmer girl, you also date her entire family. If you have sex, you pay $1000 dollars, get married, and then her family moves into your house. Mr Kahn thinks this is great and I do not.
Thus, I remain Kompong Cham's most eligable bachelor. The attention is great, though, and makes me feel like a White Supergod. It's almost shame that I won't make any of these women's dreams come true, but I feel it is best to refrain.