Fuck the bird flu, this is worse.
I was enjoying a meaty breakfast of fresh greens, fried beef and refried instant noodles this morning with my friend Kahn, and watching the TV out of the corner of my eye. It was showing some montage of Thai boxing, and I was vaguely interested, but then it changed to Cambodian music videos (all helpfully decked out with Khmer script subtitles for impromptu Kareoke) and I swiftly tuned out.
Suddenly, sitting on the edge of hearing, I heard a sound that could not, should not have been in this place. A nasel whine, a whinging, moping squeal that could only mean one thing. I looked back like Lot's wife and saw something that hit me like a punch in the face. A young Khmer man was moaning on the television, his eyes wide and harrowed, wearing a sleeveless beige t-shirt that said in English, in all capital letters "DON'T HANG OUT WITH ME". His hair was artfully messy, and he wore baggy cargo pants. All that was missing was thick, black-rimmed glasses.
Accompanying this terrible thing were occasional shots of a beautiful Khmer girl in school, pointedly dating (or marrying; you never know with these Khmers) a more popular boy. Mr. Kahn told me the song was about a girl, but would not translate it for me. I can only assume the kid was singing the Khmer equivilant of "I've come so far, and tried so hard, but in the end it didm't really matter!" or perhaps "CRAWLING IN MY SKIIIIIN" at the more emotional parts.
I fear for the future of this place. How long until I see EGL Cambodian girls sweating in the tropical heat in their black veils and fishnets? How long until the wannabe gangsters (called Playboys here) stop giggling excitedly like wiggas who are given props by a large black man whenever I nod their way, and start hanging out on the corners looking morose and discussing their awful poetry?
I had thought this place an oasis, untouched by emo filth, but I see that even here, in this land of primatives and lunatics, the Emodemic is as strong as ever. For this, I weep bitter tears of my own, and slice at my wrists for there is nothing else that can be done.
On the subject of epidemics, I indulged in something most unwise the day before yesterday purely in the name of gastronomic experimentation. I was at breakfast, which appears to have become a staging ground for the absurd and unusual, and enjoying a meal of rice and chicken along with my Cafe Bonduk Duko when I noticed something odd clinging to the side of one of the pieces of meat. It was small, and vaguely triangular in shape, and a dark, dark red in colour.
In a flash, I realized it was the chicken's heart. I pointed this out to Kahn, who was sipping his drink and watching the Kareoke. He said "Yes! The insides! Mmm, very good!" then assured me it was indeed good luck to get the heart. So, with a shrug, I popped the meaty morsel into my mouth and chewed consideringly.
The flavour was not different from the chicken, but somehow more substantial. It was like the flesh equivilant of a cherry on top, and was most delicious. Chinga, Mr Kahn. I plan on going to Phnom Pehn either today or tomorrow, as Steven and I must price out computers for our internet cafe, and I need a case and a monitor so I can again have access to my videogames and pornography, both of which have been sorely missed in the small hours of the night, when there is little to do but stargaze and talk, and Steven has gone to bed.
We have also decided that after this week of hard living, we need some R&R, so next week we plan to find somewhere beautiful to go hiking, hopefully avoid bandits, and smoke ganja somewhere gorgeous in the shade.
Suddenly, sitting on the edge of hearing, I heard a sound that could not, should not have been in this place. A nasel whine, a whinging, moping squeal that could only mean one thing. I looked back like Lot's wife and saw something that hit me like a punch in the face. A young Khmer man was moaning on the television, his eyes wide and harrowed, wearing a sleeveless beige t-shirt that said in English, in all capital letters "DON'T HANG OUT WITH ME". His hair was artfully messy, and he wore baggy cargo pants. All that was missing was thick, black-rimmed glasses.
Accompanying this terrible thing were occasional shots of a beautiful Khmer girl in school, pointedly dating (or marrying; you never know with these Khmers) a more popular boy. Mr. Kahn told me the song was about a girl, but would not translate it for me. I can only assume the kid was singing the Khmer equivilant of "I've come so far, and tried so hard, but in the end it didm't really matter!" or perhaps "CRAWLING IN MY SKIIIIIN" at the more emotional parts.
I fear for the future of this place. How long until I see EGL Cambodian girls sweating in the tropical heat in their black veils and fishnets? How long until the wannabe gangsters (called Playboys here) stop giggling excitedly like wiggas who are given props by a large black man whenever I nod their way, and start hanging out on the corners looking morose and discussing their awful poetry?
I had thought this place an oasis, untouched by emo filth, but I see that even here, in this land of primatives and lunatics, the Emodemic is as strong as ever. For this, I weep bitter tears of my own, and slice at my wrists for there is nothing else that can be done.
On the subject of epidemics, I indulged in something most unwise the day before yesterday purely in the name of gastronomic experimentation. I was at breakfast, which appears to have become a staging ground for the absurd and unusual, and enjoying a meal of rice and chicken along with my Cafe Bonduk Duko when I noticed something odd clinging to the side of one of the pieces of meat. It was small, and vaguely triangular in shape, and a dark, dark red in colour.
In a flash, I realized it was the chicken's heart. I pointed this out to Kahn, who was sipping his drink and watching the Kareoke. He said "Yes! The insides! Mmm, very good!" then assured me it was indeed good luck to get the heart. So, with a shrug, I popped the meaty morsel into my mouth and chewed consideringly.
The flavour was not different from the chicken, but somehow more substantial. It was like the flesh equivilant of a cherry on top, and was most delicious. Chinga, Mr Kahn. I plan on going to Phnom Pehn either today or tomorrow, as Steven and I must price out computers for our internet cafe, and I need a case and a monitor so I can again have access to my videogames and pornography, both of which have been sorely missed in the small hours of the night, when there is little to do but stargaze and talk, and Steven has gone to bed.
We have also decided that after this week of hard living, we need some R&R, so next week we plan to find somewhere beautiful to go hiking, hopefully avoid bandits, and smoke ganja somewhere gorgeous in the shade.