We've talked a bit about what we do at work and during the daytime. Now for the seamier side... But we should let you know that there are some pretty shocking things in this post. You've been warned.
Phnom Penh after dark
So what do we do here after the sun goes down? Well, here's a quick list:
Monday. Sarah - yoga at local yogym (well, it's a word now). Perry - exercise and cook dinner.
Tuesday - alternate weeks (1). Sarah - meditation at local Wat. Perry - watch football on telly and then join Sarah for cheap curry afterwards.
Tuesday - alternate weeks (2) Beating all opposition at quiz night at the bar. Nay, crushing them. Humiliating them. Unless we don't win.
Wednesday. See Monday.
Thursday. Not a lot.
Friday. Meet VSO gang and assorted hangers on at bar in centre of Phnom Penh (almost a mile away from our offices!) at 5.30. Go out for dinner at about 7.30 with those who haven't already gone to bed. However, also sometimes used as the starting point for birthday parties and such - like Vic's 21st pictured below.
Saturday. Depends - especially if Perry is still lost on the far side of the Mekong.
Sunday. See Thursday.
Tuesday - alternate weeks (1). Sarah - meditation at local Wat. Perry - watch football on telly and then join Sarah for cheap curry afterwards.
Tuesday - alternate weeks (2) Beating all opposition at quiz night at the bar. Nay, crushing them. Humiliating them. Unless we don't win.
The team celebrates once more. Yes, there is money involved
Wednesday. See Monday.
Thursday. Not a lot.
Friday. Meet VSO gang and assorted hangers on at bar in centre of Phnom Penh (almost a mile away from our offices!) at 5.30. Go out for dinner at about 7.30 with those who haven't already gone to bed. However, also sometimes used as the starting point for birthday parties and such - like Vic's 21st pictured below.
Perry and Adam try to decide what colour drink to have next. No, really - it was that bad a night
Saturday. Depends - especially if Perry is still lost on the far side of the Mekong.
Sunday. See Thursday.
It's just one big non-stop giddy social whirl! But just every so often, the chilling words are spoken at the office by a colleague: "We are going out for a drink after work and we would like to invite you to come along." Abandon hope all ye who hear these words, for they portend the doom of .... karaoke.
But it doesn't start that way. At first, we all sit around, drink beer, chat and have fun. Then the food starts to come. We've already talked quite a bit about Cambodian food but here are a couple of quick updates:
Pickled morning glory (a water weed) is delicious.
Unripe mango in fermented fish sauce isn't. It's different. Unusual. Horrible. That's the good things about it exhausted.
There are usually multiple courses, many of which are recognisable and some of which aren't. Quality can be a bit variable: in one recent meal, the beef was clearly from a cow that had had a long and hard life. And from the taste of it, down the mines. Even my Cambodian colleagues only ate most of it. On the other hand, the wild pig was excellent - until you got to the bit that was just fat and skin (end even a few hairs).
There is normally a pièce de résistance at the end, often one or more whole fish. Usually served steamed, like this snakehead below.
I don't think that's its tongue. I hope that's not its tongue! Anyway, it was very tasty. However, what comes next is not for the faint hearted. On a recent trip to one of the provinces, Perry was enjoying every part of the meal and starting to wonder what was wrong. He needn't have worried. For the final course, a large dish bearing an upturned, steamed, whole turtle appeared. He's had turtle before - the delicacy is the intestines. Delicacy, of course, being a euphemism for 'really, really revolting, horrible, disgusting bit'. No problem, he's been eating and enjoying lots, so he can just claim to be full. Too late. The provincial chief has specially selected for him the very best bit and placed it in his bowl. The severed head.
One of his colleagues, clearly envious, points out that the meat on the neck is particularly delicious. Well, in fact, it wasn't bad at all and had the two advantages of being very small in quantity and, more importantly, taking about 10 minutes to remove with chopsticks, spoon and swearing. By which time everyone else had polished off every last other bit of the turtle (I never did see what happened to the shell). Shame. I just hope I didn't insult tradition by not doing as they do and taking the time to suck all the good bits out. Those of a squeamish persuasion (or of any sensibility whatsoever) should look away now.
Still, it could be worse. Earlier this week Perry was in a bar with some colleagues when a wildlife programme came on the TV in the corner. It was about Komodo Dragons: the endangered 10 foot long monitor lizards that only live on one island in Indonesia (coincidentally enough, called Komodo). A colleague spots the programme. Quote: "Very good taste." I don't think he was talking about its dress sense. I suppose if I was offered the head of one of those I could just try to hide in it...
At this stage, distractions can come in handy. Who knows the word for 'cheers' in the most languages? OK, let's try them all (and stop looking while the guest of honour buries the turtle's head under a pile of rice). The best one for doing this to is the Vietnamese: Yo! Just like it's written - it's even said in a loud American accent. Unfortunately, this option was not available for quite a while as Perry (for reasons that shall forever remain a mystery, especially to him) gave up alcohol for the duration of our daughter/grandson's pregnancy. She knew early, and the little... fellow was late, so that's 8 months. During this period, he had to munch his way through the Cambodian creative cookbook without any anesthesia. Which means he can remember it all. Especially the turtle. (Actually, I was back on the beer by then, so perhaps it was even worse than I recall.)
By this time on a normal social soiree, though, some of the assembled multitude are starting to be a little bit the worse for wear. Like quite a few Asian peoples, Cambodians can't metabolise alcohol very well. But, apparently, they love a challenge.
And this has some interesting, if difficult, results. We can start to talk a bit more about the past: quite a few people have now told us how they survived the Khmer Rouge period. Some will tell you openly during the day, others will only talk about it when they have had a drink to loosen their tongues and, perhaps, numb the memories. Some were lucky - living in what had been a fruit growing district in the middle of nowhere, where even the KR rarely came. Others walked hundreds of kilometres to the refugee camps across the border in Thailand. Some survived the work parties - they don't give details. Most were very young: in Perry's building, about 90% of the staff are under 40. We already know that many of the older members of their families did not survive the genocide. In some cases, none of the other members of their families.
But there are others who you just don't feel you can ask about it. For example, one of Perry's colleagues is about 63 years old, which means he would have been about 29 when the killing began. I don't know how it affected him, but during the day, he just spends most of the time sitting quietly and upright at his desk, often reading the paper (his job appears to be the office gofer and paperwork-stamper and, if there's no going fer or stamping to be done, he doesn't have anything else to do). When you come in, he doesn't acknowledge you (we used to work in the same office, although I'm now in a different one). When I arrived, he spoke not one word of English. But when he does engage - when there's a jokey debate going on or, especially, when we go out in the evening, he joins in wholeheartedly. He especially likes having a drink with me and has learned some English just so that he can talk to me in it. But the following morning, it's back to looking through you as you come in to the office.
Despite his menial job, he's obviously intelligent and educated. Just the kind the KR wanted to eliminate. I don't know what happened to him and I don't know if I ever will.
But let's get back to a lighter note: it's now time for the highlight of the evening. We're all moving on to the karaoke bar. We should point out that karaoke bars in Cambodia can be anything from selected corners of family restaurants to the equivalent of the sleazy Soho massage parlour. Most are somewhere in between. But all feature that essential singalongacrapsongs element. Actually, Cambodians all seem to have lovely singing voices and are pretty good at it (perhaps through practice). Perry, on the other hand, isn't. As we all discovered on 'turtle night'.
At this stage, distractions can come in handy. Who knows the word for 'cheers' in the most languages? OK, let's try them all (and stop looking while the guest of honour buries the turtle's head under a pile of rice). The best one for doing this to is the Vietnamese: Yo! Just like it's written - it's even said in a loud American accent. Unfortunately, this option was not available for quite a while as Perry (for reasons that shall forever remain a mystery, especially to him) gave up alcohol for the duration of our daughter/grandson's pregnancy. She knew early, and the little... fellow was late, so that's 8 months. During this period, he had to munch his way through the Cambodian creative cookbook without any anesthesia. Which means he can remember it all. Especially the turtle. (Actually, I was back on the beer by then, so perhaps it was even worse than I recall.)
Sarah, on the other hand, tucks in to something nice to eat
By this time on a normal social soiree, though, some of the assembled multitude are starting to be a little bit the worse for wear. Like quite a few Asian peoples, Cambodians can't metabolise alcohol very well. But, apparently, they love a challenge.
And this has some interesting, if difficult, results. We can start to talk a bit more about the past: quite a few people have now told us how they survived the Khmer Rouge period. Some will tell you openly during the day, others will only talk about it when they have had a drink to loosen their tongues and, perhaps, numb the memories. Some were lucky - living in what had been a fruit growing district in the middle of nowhere, where even the KR rarely came. Others walked hundreds of kilometres to the refugee camps across the border in Thailand. Some survived the work parties - they don't give details. Most were very young: in Perry's building, about 90% of the staff are under 40. We already know that many of the older members of their families did not survive the genocide. In some cases, none of the other members of their families.
But there are others who you just don't feel you can ask about it. For example, one of Perry's colleagues is about 63 years old, which means he would have been about 29 when the killing began. I don't know how it affected him, but during the day, he just spends most of the time sitting quietly and upright at his desk, often reading the paper (his job appears to be the office gofer and paperwork-stamper and, if there's no going fer or stamping to be done, he doesn't have anything else to do). When you come in, he doesn't acknowledge you (we used to work in the same office, although I'm now in a different one). When I arrived, he spoke not one word of English. But when he does engage - when there's a jokey debate going on or, especially, when we go out in the evening, he joins in wholeheartedly. He especially likes having a drink with me and has learned some English just so that he can talk to me in it. But the following morning, it's back to looking through you as you come in to the office.
Despite his menial job, he's obviously intelligent and educated. Just the kind the KR wanted to eliminate. I don't know what happened to him and I don't know if I ever will.
But let's get back to a lighter note: it's now time for the highlight of the evening. We're all moving on to the karaoke bar. We should point out that karaoke bars in Cambodia can be anything from selected corners of family restaurants to the equivalent of the sleazy Soho massage parlour. Most are somewhere in between. But all feature that essential singalongacrapsongs element. Actually, Cambodians all seem to have lovely singing voices and are pretty good at it (perhaps through practice). Perry, on the other hand, isn't. As we all discovered on 'turtle night'.
Now, in my defence, I can turn out a reasonable rendition of one or two more simple little tunes (all of which seem, admittedly, to come from the 1960s). In Japan, I'm even renowned for my renditions of 'Satisfaction' and 'My Generation' (but let's not go into too much detail here). However, the karaoke machines here are mainly full of terabytes of Cambopop. How to describe it... Like the worst of Europop from the 1970s but worse. Much worse. Squealing guitars, groaning synthesisers and wailing vocals. Luckily, I could claim quite reasonably that not only did I not know the tunes, I also couldn't read either the titles or the lyrics because they were all in Khmer.
"Ot panyaha" (see previous post) they say - there's an English section. No there isn't, there's a b****y "Worst of Europop from the 1970s" section. Ah, wait, no, there are one or two songs that I both recognise and remember. And that I can't sing.
In desperation, I went for Bob Bylan's 'Knocking on Heaven's Door' - at least it's meant to be sung out of tune. Unfortunately, Cambodia has never heard of Bob Dylan (or the Beatles, or any Western musician/popstar, or anyone from Hollywood, which is just so refreshing). So what they actually had on the machine was a Cambodianised adaptation of the utterly awful Guns'n'Roses massacre of the song. Complete with even more squealing, groaning and wailing.
Perry's colleagues now all agree that he sings like a bear choking on a bullfrog. And that means that since then they've stopped insisting quite so hard that he comes along. Result! But what other tunes could I have chosen from? Well, here are some of the better candidates. I'm not kidding you, these are genuine titles from the list:
Felling. The original inspiration for Monty Python's Lumberjack song? Or taking tree-hugging a bit too far, perhaps.
Tenessee Welts. Sado-masochism means never having to say you're sorry.
Sexy Monty Bitchy. Surely Field Marshall Montgomery's all-time favourite.
Please! Off Postman. Ah, so that's why there's no postal service in Cambodia...
One Sweat Day. They're all sweat days here, actually.
Night In With Satin. That's nice - there are just too many songs about going out and partying.
Show Me The Meaning Of Being Lowly. An old Humble Pie number, I believe.
My Fair Chair. Whatever turns you on. Great legs, though.
Morning Has Broker. Apparently, Cat Stevens was actually thinking of portfolio managers when he wrote this one.
A Vein To A Kill. Come on, the original title didn't make much sense either, now, did it.
Angle. A love song for fishermen, obviously.
To All The Cists I've Love Before. What, all of them?
Put Your Head On My Solder. Well, it's better than Wild Weld...
Tenessee Welts. Sado-masochism means never having to say you're sorry.
Sexy Monty Bitchy. Surely Field Marshall Montgomery's all-time favourite.
Please! Off Postman. Ah, so that's why there's no postal service in Cambodia...
One Sweat Day. They're all sweat days here, actually.
Night In With Satin. That's nice - there are just too many songs about going out and partying.
Show Me The Meaning Of Being Lowly. An old Humble Pie number, I believe.
My Fair Chair. Whatever turns you on. Great legs, though.
Morning Has Broker. Apparently, Cat Stevens was actually thinking of portfolio managers when he wrote this one.
A Vein To A Kill. Come on, the original title didn't make much sense either, now, did it.
Angle. A love song for fishermen, obviously.
To All The Cists I've Love Before. What, all of them?
Put Your Head On My Solder. Well, it's better than Wild Weld...
But, like all nightmares, even karaoke night eventually comes to an end. And, this being a land that rises and sets with the sun, it's normally before what would have been closing time back in the UK. So off we all laugh into the night and, as is their wont here, anyone can drive as long as they can find the keys. And that, of course, is my very favourite bit of the evening.
The limes are delivered for the drinks at for Vic's next birthday party
Just to finish, another fish name for you:
Four-eyed Snakehead. That's you, that is.
VSO is a leading development charity with almost 1,500 skilled professionals currently working in over 34 countries. VSO's unique approach to international development is founded on volunteers, working together and with local communities to fight poverty and achieve lasting change. If you want to learn more about VSO, please visit www.vso.org.uk
Posts
