I'm dreaming of something distressing, a situation where I feel vulnerable and exposed. I wake, still half-glued in the dream, there's singing, a murmur of a song, but it's real and loud, right here. This song is right here, the singer is aware of me, singing to me, about me. It's dark outside, must be very early. The feeling of vulnerability stays over into my partially-woken state, and I scramble for my clothes, my bag, my possessions. I start dressing, packing my bag.
The remainder of the dream falls away and I realise I'm in the top floor of a bungalow in Kampot. Seb and Anja are downstairs. I'm In Cambodia. I'm 26. I'm travelling. There is singing, but it's far away. It's early, I'm tired, and I should sleep some more.
I later understand it's a Khmer wedding, or possibly a funeral, which caused my half-awake psychosis in the morning.
Today Seb, Anja, Seb's sister and her boyfriend leave back to Phnom Penh. I need to be in Kep on the 23rd, would like to see what Sihanoukville is all about, but still decide to stay two more nights here. I like it here so much.
I swim in the river. We go next door for lunch. The party must never stop there. At midday they're drunk already, smashing Milo cocktails, and reliving the antics of the night before.
“Ayyyyyyy! Johnny! How you feelin' brother?”
A blear-eyed, scruffy Johnny drags his feet out of a bungalow and into the bar area, straightening his shirt.
“Yeah, alright mate.”
“You remember falling down the steps onto the pontoon last night brother?”
“Nah, bro. Really?”
“Yeah bro. You were really drunk, and were sitting there, and just fell right back and flat onto your back down there.”
“Haha. Yeah, I don't remember anythin' eh bro.”
“Want a drink, Johnny?”
I wasn't feeling the vibe.
I see my companions off. I am ever so grateful for their hospitality, company, and local knowledge, and just the chance to spend some of my time with them. I've had a ball with them.
I relax in the bar, roughly planning my post-Christmas movements up into Laos.
I enjoy my own company very much and feel comfortable with myself, but sometimes I can't help but think it would be much more satisfying to be sharing this trip with someone else. That's probably a major reason why I write this blog.
Rodriguez sings through the speakers here in Kampot, by this river.
So I set sail in a teardrop and escaped beneath the doorsill
Cause the smell of her perfume echoes in my head still
Cause I see my people trying to drown the sun
In weekends of whiskey sours
Cause how many times can you wake up in this comic book and plant flowers?
One of the staff pulls out his hammered dulcimer and starts playing Khmer folk songs.
After the chaos of Siem Reap and Phnom Penh, I'm really enjoying my time here by the river. But there's a compromise involved in this lifestyle; it's easy to forget you're in another country, complete with an incoherent language and a near-alien culture to yours. Do I want this? For now I think I do. There's still time for the stress, the chaos, the misunderstandings, arguments, and missed buses. For now, I'm going to drink beer, lie in a hammock, and listen to Rodriguez.
At the table next to me, the travellers – some bragging about all the places they've been and how long they have been on the road – remind me how travelling does not necessarily open one's mind, or make one more knowledgeable about the world. They spend a lot of the night drinking, talking about drinking, explaining drinking games they know, telling stories about drinking. They play a form of celebrity heads.
“Mohammed the prophet?! You mean, like, the boxer?”
“Margaret Thatcher. Like, the Queen, right?”
Anyway, I can't talk. I'm the one lying in his hammock, writing down notes, playing the odd game of Solitaire, too shy to approach anyone tonight.
Sareth saves me from my anti-social people-watching ways. He just plonks himself down next to me. “Hey buddy, how are you doing?”
We talk about Cambodia and about the Khmer people. Much more entertaining right now than drinking games. I like Sareth, he's a gentle soul.
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| By the river in Kampot |
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| This champ came around selling his own palm juice |
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