March 2: Cambodia: Guesthouse headaches and sex on the beach

Having left my disappointmentwith Angkor behind in the dust of Siem Reap, I
head out to Phnom Penh with renewed hope that my Cambodia trip would not be
one of total dismay. Within a few hours, I am thwarted once again. Just in
time to say hello to the blistering midday sun, our bus gets waylaid on one
sandy stretch of road where a huge truck and trailer had overturned with its
cargo. The road was only a one-lane, sandy berm at this point, with the
sides crumbling into ditches on either side, and the way the trailer had
fallen was making passage difficult. After about an hour of getting on and
off the bus, trying to decide which was less sweltering, and watching people
run around, argue with one another, and generally seem to not know what to
do, we resigned ourselves to the possibility that we would be sleeping there
that night. Thankfully, though, there was just enough room for a bus to
squeeze by the careened truck. But, to ensure passenger safety, we had to
get off and walk the few hundred yards to where the road was paved and
stable. By this point there were about a dozen buses and other vehicles on
either side and the movement of people looked like the exodus from Egypt.
Appropriate, as it was dry in the middle and had water-filled ditches on
either side. The plan worked and we continued to PP without further
incident.

PP was overwhelming, considering it had been over a month since I’d been in
a major city. Traffic was swarming, motorbikes everywhere. At the bus
station, a young motorbike driver by the name of James offers to take me to
a guesthouse near Boeng Kak Lake in the middle of the city, where rooms were
only $3/night with private bathroom. Unfortunately, the guesthouse, which
was brand new and clean, was not on the lake itself and it had that odd, wet
concrete smell. I agreed to stay in the room if they could do something
about the smell and a few minutes later, in they came with an
industrial-sized can of air-freshener. A few squirts and I was nearly
suffocating. I figured I could change guesthouses later.

The next day, James showed up at the guesthouse and asked if I wanted to do
a standard tour, including visiting the Russian Market, S21 (the school the
Khmer Rouge had turned into a torture chamber and jail, and a trip to the
Killing Fields a half-hour out of town). The whole trip cost $8. (A similar
type of deal in Hanoi, without any trip outside the city, would later cost
me $20). On top of the standard sights, we spent a couple of hours at a
water park for a badly needed break from the heat.

In the afternoon I told James I wanted to change guesthouses to one on the
lake. They all had restaurants, pool tables and gorgeous sunset views,
unlike the one in which I was staying, and I suggested we could hang out and
play pool. However, competition between motorbike guides being what it is
everywhere in Asia, the guesthouses have annoying little rules. Every
guesthouse on the lake (of which there are about a dozen) has one or two
motorbike drivers associated with it. If your guide is not affiliated with
the guesthouse, he can pick you up outside, but he can’t come in and play a
game of pool. Since I was only in PP one more night before heading south, I
forego the room change and opt for James' company instead.
I decided to head off to Sihanoukville, a beach city on the southern coast,
the next day. James told me the owner of the guesthouse was heading there by
car, would I like to ride with him, rather than take a bus. The naiveté
kicks in again and I think, “Great.” I’ll be set up in an air-conditioned
car, I’ll save the few dollars on the cost of a bus and I’ll have a chance
to practice my Khmer. I cna only blame the heat for turning me into a stupid
foreigner.

Before heading out, we picked up the owner’s sister who sat in the front
seat and chatted in Khmer with her brother the whole way, making it almost
impossible for me to have any type of conversation; when they weren’t
talking, the driver would blast some really bad Khmer rock music; the
windows were kept up since the air-conditioning was on but since the two in
the front seat didn’t want to “freeze” in 25-degree air-con, they kept it
low and it never reached the back seat; so I sat there sweltering, my arms
becoming one with the vinyl seatcover; and on top of it all, he charged me
the same price as a bus –  $3 – for the trip.

Arriving in Sihanoukville, which I naively thought the guesthouse owner
would be familiar with, I tried to explain, using my guidebook, which
guesthouse I wanted to go to. He had no idea where it was. If I had arrived
on a bus, any one of a hundred motorbike drivers would have known exactly
where to go. Instead, we drove up and down the road paralleling the beach,
stopping everywhere to ask directions. Finally, I just asked him to let me
out where I approximated the guesthouse to be and I set off.

Well, Sihanoukville is no longer that $10-bungalow-on-the-beach town the
guidebook suggested it was. There are dozens of new places, most of which
start at $25 for anything close to the beach. Many are set into a hillside
overlooking the beach and the rooms that are higher up are a bit cheaper, at
$15. I climbed about five hills trying to find a suitable room but, for $15,
I was not impressed. Finally, exhausted (trekking in slacks in noon heat in
the sand), I came across a place that was offering a large room, again up on
a hill, but with its own bathroom, for only $10. I schlepped on up behind
the guesthouse staff person, viewed the room, which was quite large and
bright and agreed to take it. Peeling off my sweat-drenched clothes, I
headed straight to the bathroom for a shower. How silly of me to forget to
ask if the bathroom actually came with water. I turn on the shower –
nothing. The sink tap – nothing. Apparently, being up on a hill, also meant
I’d be bathing in the South China Sea that day. On go all the sweaty clothes
and off I go again.

After another half an hour, I find a $7-dollar room off the beach. It’s in a
characterless, concrete building but within close walking distance of the
beach. Unfortunately, there is no fan in the room. It is, apparently, an
air-con room but the air conditioning remote control will cost me another $3
a night. Instead, one of the guesthouse staff brings in what seems to be
some sort of free-standing air-conditioning unit. It sort of looks like a
humidifier but the air coming out of it is cool to the touch. After checking
to see if there is water in the bathroom, I agree to take the room and head
out to the beach.

It was heaven. Choose a little bar/restaurant next to which to sit, throw a
towel on the chair, order a fruit shake (a happy one if you like) and stare
out at the sea. In a kilometre of white, sandy beach, there were about a
dozen foreign tourists. On the weekend, at the far end, the beach was
crowded with Cambodians, but my area stayed quiet. At night, the sun
umbrellas came down and little tables with candles were set up. Food was
Khmer or Western, with tons of variety of both. Huge portions of seafood
could be had for only a few dollars. This beat Ko Samed in Thailand by a
mile.

Coming into my room after dinner, sauntering along after a wonderfully
relaxing day of swimming and reading, I am hit with all the dampness of the
Amazon. The appliance set up in my room was a humidifier after all. I can
barely breathe. I try adjusting it for coolness, fan speed, wetness, and
dryness. Nothing seems to work so I turn it off and hope that the cool night
air will permeate my bedroom. There is no cool night air. The only choices
for night air are hot and then, later, after midnight, warm.

By 1 a.m., my room has not cooled down or dried out an iota and mosquitoes
were beginning to feast on me. I grab my sheet, head out to the front
concrete “yard” and fall asleep on a wooden bench. At about five a.m., I am
awakened by a guesthouse staff person holding a can of bug spray in one hand
and the remote-control for the air-conditioning in the other. I am saved. As
forthcoming as they were with their help, I opt for a new guesthouse the
next day and find the beautiful, thatched-roof, GST guesthouse, which
becomes my new home.

A few evenings later, relaxing outside my room reading, one of the GST staff
comes by to chat. At 25, he is very interested in improving his English and
we are soon laughing at both our language inadequacies. Though there seems
to be attraction, it’s very hard to tell with Asian men, who can be
ultra-friendly and flirtatious, while meaning nothing by it. And a
25-year-old is just as likely to be married with three young kids as not.
Still, the signs are there and we head out for drinks and a game of pool
next door. Around midnight I suggest we go back to my room but he’s too
worried that if he’s caught consorting with a guest, he’ll be fired. He
suggests a “walk” on the beach. Well, I know where this is heading so I head
back to my guesthouse room for a sarong. I’ve had enough encounters that
ended up with sand in unmentionable places to opt for straight beach
frolicking and the multi-purpose sarong served well in place of a blanket.
Despite the influx in Asia of western television through satellite networks,
soft porn would probably not rank high among the type of television watched
by 25-year-old Cambodians. And despite whatever reading material they might
get their hands on, I’m sure “foreplay” is not mentioned too often, nor
would it come up in conversation. It certainly wasn’t in my guidebook’s
language page, though it would have been far more useful than “Are there any
land mines here.” So sex becomes totally functional and, sadly, boring. My
Cambodian lover had no clue how to do anything to make sex enjoyable for a
woman and was rather unskilled at taking non-verbal direction. Trying to be
somewhat romantic, though, he professed a deeply felt love for me (as deeply
as one could feel it after knowing someone for four hours) and we went back
to the hotel.

The following day, with thoughts of marriage and Cambodian children left on
the sandy beach, I headed back to Phnom Penh and, after one night’s stay,
catch a bus to the border with Vietnam.