Corruption in the kingdom

I reached into my pocket and it wasn't there. Fuck. That little piece of paper I needed to reclaim my motorbike. That along with 1500 riel ($0.37) and I'd be on my merry way. Why did I put the fucking thing in my left pocket? I never did that. I usually stuffed it into my left rear pocket, my wallet or into a shirt pocket. It wasn't there. I checked all my pockets, twice, three times—just in case that thin piece of paper had already morphed itself into pocket lint. Nope. I hadn't even reached in that pocket, I couldn't figure out how it had gone missing.

It was 3:30am and I was tired. The fucker told me I could take my bike if I paid him five dollars. So much for parking security. Find or steal someone's keys, bribe the parking attendant and off you go. Come on, man. I'd seen my friend pay three dollars just the night before so I knew it was negotiable. And besides, surely that little fucker over there, that scrawny prepubescent piece of shit, surely he recognizes me and my bike. I rumble in here a few times a week. My bike sounds vaguely like a sick lawnmower. Easy to identify. I said, That guy knows me, come on. He came over and said I dunno, I dunno. Oh, you little prick.

I mouthed a fuck you here and a fuck you there, here a fuck, there a fuck, everywhere a fuck fuck. You have to be careful with that word in this country. You might end up with a knife in your back. But in that very moment, I just didn't give a fuck. Obviously. I asked how I could get my motorbike back and he said to come back tomorrow with my passport and my motorbike identification card. Are you serious? Fine. I grabbed my helmet and walked away angrily—vowing never to park my bike there again while looking back and waving my arms around like a madman.

Retrospectively, I know they were just doing their job, but in the moment I find it hard to control my rage. Fight or flight kicked in. I contemplated sticking the key into the ignition and trying to blast through them, but I didn't want to accidentally run someone over or have a mob following me because they thought I was on a stolen bike. I feel like it would have worked, but since the consequences could have been deadly and I would have likely seen those dudes again, I decided to just rant & rave and "lose face" instead. At least that way I could air my frustrations without dying in the process.

I walked down 172 to Norodom ignoring all the motodop and tuk tuk drivers who were hoping for one more fare that evening. Fuck all of you, too, I thought, bringing back to mind an altercation I had a couple months ago when a tuk tuk driver took a swing at me and tried to kickbox me while I backed away blocking and dodging and only responding with verbal jabs since we had been quickly surrounded by locals and I knew this could easily escalate to ten against one. This was not the way I wanted to go out despite the urge to land one square on his nose. Nobody wins in a fight, I could hear my Dad saying over and over in my head. Do it, don't do it, do it, don't do it. Fuck it.

I turned right at Norodom and walked to 256 where I turned left, past the military police who have been sitting at practically every street corner day in and day out for the last two months since the disputed national election. I made a right on 19 and another left on 264 and finally arrived at my front gate. Home at last. When I woke up this morning I noticed my helmet on my couch. Shit. I momentarily forgot that I was without my motorbike. I put the essentials together—my passport and motorbike identification card—and proceeded to walk back to Golden Sorya Mall, where my bike was parked.

Yes, it would have been easier to pay one dollar and hop on the back of a moto, but I waved the guy off who was yelling from a distance as I exited the front gate. I didn't want to end up spending more money than it would have otherwise cost me to bribe the guy last night. I'd already lost my face and considerable time. I'm fucking walking, I told myself. I retraced my steps from the previous evening and turned left onto 172 nearing my destination. It smelled like the entire neighborhood—bellies full of durian and barbecued pork—had just defecated on the corner. The stench of dereliction was in the air and I held my breath as I stepped through it.

I got to the the parking area and anticipated having flat tires or siphoned gas. I then proceed to tell the fat fucker my story. I took out my passport and identification card and showed him my bike. Ok, can I go now? I could see this wasn't going to be as easy as I thought. You motherfuckers. He said they'd keep my passport and ID and to come back to pick up my bike tomorrow. Tomorrow? You dirty lying swine. Nobody keeps my passport. I'll photocopy this shit and you can do what you need to do, but you will not hold onto my passport. Meanwhile, I contemplate hopping onto my motorbike and running over these people again.

The little commotion in the parking area has now attracted more attention and a few other conniving sons of bitches come into the fray. I flag down this aging hooker who should have hung up her heels years ago. I seem to run into her everywhere. She does her best to translate, but it seems the only bullshit option is to give them my passport. No way. No fucking way. Just give them your passport, man, she says. I refuse to give my passport to these motherfuckers. I make sure to enunciate every last profanity. I don't know these dudes and definitely don't trust them. I spit on the ground for emphasis and realize I am literally foaming at the mouth.

A policeman drives by and I foolishly think he might be of some benefit. Police! Police! They laugh knowing all too well this fat fucker isn't going to help. There was definitely the Khmer equivalent of a donut shop in near vicinity. He at least stops so I have the chance to tell him what's going on. Give them your passport, fill out the paperwork, blah blah blah. Fucking rules. I'm pissed off because these people, in my mind, are being unreasonable. They told me to bring my passport and ID and I did. Now they're telling me to wait another day. I come to the conclusion it is best to avoid playing by the rules whenever possible in this country. If there is an opportunity to bribe it is probably best to bite your tongue and take it.

Eventually, I realize this is going nowhere. They bring out a chain to lock up my bike. I assume by now they can see my intentions. I want to punch all of these fuckers in their fat faces. There are at least five of them now. Even the old lady deserved some knuckles in her wrinkly jaw. And the hooker too, she wasn't helping me. I didn't like any of them. They're all out to get me These people! I am brought back to those times in Vietnam when I got incredibly frustrated with the locals. An exchange that went wrong because of some cultural misunderstanding. It was all their fault! That was usually when I realized I needed a vacation.

I tell the hooker I don't give a shit anymore. I'll just come back tonight when different staff are on duty, pay them the bribe and get my motorbike then. What I should have done the previous evening. Fuck these people. She proceeds to start telling them what I'm going to do. No, no, no, no! Shut up. Don't tell them. Apparently she said just enough. She proceeds to tell me I can pay them five dollars and take my motorbike now. Why didn't you just say so?! I guess they thought it'd be better for them to get the money instead of those poor bastards working the night shift. All of that nonsense, all of that riling up for nothing.

Holding my breath, I handed over the money. While waiting for my change I jabbered away how these guys were dicks and motioned like I was secretly stuffing money into my pocket. Made me feel good even though I was losing more face. You thieving bastards. It's so hard to just let things go. Let it go. I got onto my motorbike—finally—and refrained from revving the engine and speeding off into the sunset. I pulled out slowly avoiding all eye contact and refused to say thanks—for nothing—and drove off to the coffee shop where I am now so I could make everything right with a hot cup of joe and some baked deliciousness. I do feel better now.

A new job, apricot scones and used t-shirts

I haven't posted in a while. There wasn't a whole lot to say. I felt like I'd written more than enough about the coffee I was drinking or the ladyboys down at the beer garden. I desperately needed some new material as my routine was getting old. The embers of this blog were on the verge of extinguishing themselves, but all of a sudden a gust of wind picked up and sparked a flame. There's too much in my head at the moment to not set some of it free. Throw it into the wind whether it's interesting or not.

First news to report, I am working again! I just wrapped up my first full week and I have one more week in a two-week trial. After that, I'm on a three-month trial and then if we both like each other we'll officially be in a relationship. It's essentially a Monday-Friday 8-5 desk job only it's Sunday-Thursday and 2-midnight, which is preferable since I hate working mornings. I can both go out and sleep in every day if I so please.  I won't give any details other than to say I'm sitting at a desk staring at a computer in a pretty relaxed work environment surrounded by pretty cool people. It's nice to be learning something new although my hemorrhoid isn't particularly happy.

Enough about that. It's my Saturday and I'm still lounging around the house at nearly 5pm. I did go out and got jacked up on coffee and relished in the delight of consuming a moist pumpkin muffin. Highly recommended. It's overcast now and nearly time to go for a run. It'll be the first time in nearly a week I've been able to get out and jog around the park and along the riverside. Running around the park past men shuttlecocking, women fast-walking, military police lounging, ducking under trees, across the street into the next park, past the Royal Palace and onto the riverside past women aerobicizing, teenagers footballing, babies waddling, hookers eyeballing and street kids sniffing glue. Strangely, I'm excited about that.

Today is now Monday. Two days have slipped by and I hardly noticed. It is day two of a planned three-day protest by the CNRP, the opposition party that lost July's disputed election. Reminiscent of how Al Gore "lost" the election way back in 2000, but with perhaps even more voting irregularities. We'll probably never know the extent of it. I was thinking of checking the progress of the demonstration, but opted instead for a coffee and an apricot scone at Java Cafe across the park from my house. A wise choice. I can go get caught up in traffic later if the idea sounds appealing. Considering I spent 45 minutes yesterday detouring around roadblocks covered in razor wire when I was only five minutes from my house, I'll probably pass. I got enough vitamin D to last a few days.

I started studying French a couple weeks ago. I don't know why, perhaps for lack of anything else to do. I noticed a lot of expats are French or speak French so I decided to try to finish at least level 1 on Rosetta Stone. At least be able to count to ten and understand how to pronounce it when I read it. I'd prefer to continue my Vietnamese or Indonesian studies, but both were unable for "free" download. And to my dismay they haven't started offering Khmer. So, it'll be French for now until I tire of trying to speak like an asshole and then I may try Mandarin or Japanese or German. Yeah, yeah, I'll probably never open the application again.

I also started collecting t-shirts. It didn't reach collection status until recently when I realized it was getting out of hand. But how can you resist when you see a cool t-shirt for only 50 cents? I can't. If I change my mind I can use it as a dust rag, a floor mat or give it to my neighbor. When I moved to Phnom Penh from Siem Reap six months ago I only had a dozen shirts. The secondhand clothes market in Siem Reap was fairly limited. Phnom Penh, on the other hand, has numerous locations for acquiring secondhand shirts sporting designs you can be fairly certain nobody else is going to be wearing. I think they import by the kilo from their northern Asian neighbors including China, Japan, Korea and Taiwan.

First, I went to Central Market, which has a secondhand clothing area and the few vendors that sold t-shirts offered them for around $2.50, which was reasonable, but on par or slightly more expensive than thrift shops back home. They recently got a little greedy and started asking $3. Outrageous. The BKK Market was more off the beaten track and was almost all secondhand clothing. A great find, but only a couple t-shirt vendors. Here, they were only a dollar. Any of the numerous tailors onsite could alter them to fit in mere minutes. That would cost another 50 cents. A month ago, I found a new spot. A street near the riverside where multiple vendors offer secondhand wares. Only 50 cents, the true price of secondhand t-shirts! I find it pretty exciting and can't stop shopping. I have about 60 shirts now.

A couple assholes in business attire just walked in. Might be nice guys, but I can't help but judge people. Nice tie, guy. Besides, I didn't like the way he looked at me. Don't be jealous I'm wearing a comfy pair of shorts and a t-shirt. I'm just agitated. Not sleeping well. Never sleeping well. I also don't like what they've done to this cafe. They changed from perhaps the coziest environment to what looks like dining room furniture. Like I should be sipping tea at high noon. Fuck that. I just realized there are twelve men in this room. That's part of the problem. Way too much testosterone. Not a single woman working here - I can't handle this vibe.

I just extended my visa for another six months. Never know when this marriage will end. I do enjoy living in Phnom Penh, but the honeymoon has certainly come and gone. I no longer feel like spontaneously pumping my fists as I run around the park. I love my food choices, I like my apartment, it feels like I could be living anywhere sometimes. In Vietnam, I always felt like I was living in Vietnam. There was no escaping it. That's why I came to Cambodia so many times on holiday. To get away. Vietnam certainly has its appeal, but so does this place. The country not the cafe.

I know I was more or less recently on a twenty-month holiday, but after a week and a half of work I sort of feel trapped again. It is so hard to commit to anything! You mean I have to work six months before I can take two weeks off? I have to work a year before I'm considered for a raise? Don't get me wrong, it's great to be doing something and learning something new, but it's hard to lose some of your freedom. Time ticks down quickly before I have to be back at work straining my eyes under the fluorescents shooing away mosquitoes. I have a sudden yearning to be back in Nepal trekking the Annapurna Circuit or driving a Royal Enfield through the mountain passes to Ladakh in northwestern India.

It'll happen. It's just a matter of when. That or I'll impregnate some bargirl and live happily ever after. There are no other options. I'll support her and our crack baby until the instinct to flee is too overwhelming. No, I swear I'll treat her right. I'll buy her as many 50 cent t-shirts as her heart desires. I'll buy her dollar bubble teas and download all the movies she wants to see. I'll even let her have the good pillow. Of course, I'll go buy a better one. I'll get her enrolled in English classes and spy through the small window in the door to make sure her foreign teacher isn't trying to play peek-a-boob. You can never trust an English teacher.

Well, it's the middle of September already. We've got a month and a half to Movember, but I've decided to get a head start. I need it. I've only got a week and half's worth of goatee and it's still pretty awkward looking, but I'll try to grin and bear it. I don't want to look like a pedophile too soon otherwise I'd shave the chin. I'll wait until the mustache looks a bit more "manly" before I do that. Last week, a girl at the bar pointed at my face and said "clean!" Three more months, I said. She "voiced" her displeasure with a disapproving facial gesture. I know, I know, I thought. Oh well, there are too many options here anyway. Might as well make things slightly more challenging.