of, or tributes to, those times; joints with names that all sound like Rock ’n’ Roll Texas a Go Go. In one of these, Christopher casually introduced me to an acquaintance of his who, throughout a long conversation sustained by drunken energy, was careful to keep a nervous eye on the door. A Thai woman he used to know, it seems, had hired not one but two assassins to kill him, and they meant business, too. These things happen. In another such place, where there is not only a jukebox, but one full of the timeless works of, for example, Eric Burdon and the Animals, we met a fellow who had managed to crash one of the junta-sponsored wholesale gem fairs at Mogok in northern Burma, from which Westerners, other than the few big dealers invited from Europe and elsewhere, are emphatically and indeed forcibly excluded, not just at fair-time, but year-round. Mogok owes its status as a heavily militarized forbidden-zone to the fact that it’s the source of many of the world’s sapphires and most of its pigeon-blood rubies, the most desirable type. The fellow was telling us the detailed story of how he not only got in, but then managed to get out again, recrossing the Thai-Burmese border, on foot this time, with one of his trouser pockets full of samples.
Smiling, being extremely courteous as always, Christopher sat, like Sebastian Flyte’s teddy bear, in one corner of our booth, which was made of knotty pine. Silently, and with unblinking eye-contact, yet with an apparently effortless air of attentive distraction, as well, he was committing the entire narrative to memory, megabyte after megabyte, and turning it into a plot. The Thai bar-girl, to use her official job title, stood beneath a Budweiser sign, adjusting her vinyl miniskirt. She ignored us, as well as Gladys Knight and the Pips singing “Midnight Train to Georgia.” Outside it was 93 degrees Fahrenheit. Inside it was 1968 AD.
— HÔTEL SPLENDIDE —
In the capital of Cambodia, some months are dry and some are very wet indeed. None, however, seems substantially less hot than the others, at least not by standards upheld in the West. So the best plan, I believe, is always to stay on the eastern margin of the city, preferably along the Sisowath Quay. This is a street with only one side, for directly opposite is an embankment leading down to the waterfront. Worn steps descend to the Tonlé Sap, in the middle of which sits a large island. Along the farther shore side of the island — the back channel — is the Tonlé Mekong. These two magnificent rivers are full of life and traffic. I, for one, could gaze at them endlessly, watching all manner of river craft, from homemade fishing boats barely big enough for two people to substantial freshwater freighters, go about their business all day — and throughout the evening, as well, becoming only dots of light criss-crossing in the darkness. Yet the true advantage of being so near the water is the slight possibility of catching a breeze. One lives in hope.
The first time I visited Phnom Penh I was with M. We stayed at the Hotel Cambodiana, just down the quay, past the Royal Palace and the National Assembly. It was then a rather new joint-venture affair that was run, and very smoothly too, by people from Singapore. It was full of tourists who liked to wake in the morning not quite remembering whether they were in Phnom Penh, New York, or London. Since then, however, locals have grabbed the management contract and the establishment has declined. One evening, I decided to revisit the place for dinner. I was pleased to see that the two women from France with a pastry shop in the lobby are still there, making Gateaux Saint-Honoré (by special arrangement) and innumerable lesser desserts. But the hotel itself looked forlorn and disorganized. As I was conserving cash, I was careful to note the sticker on the door with the familiar Visa logo. Inside, at the front desk and the concierge’s stand, both unmanned when I passed, were displays of Visa application forms. When I finished my meal, however, I learned that in fact the hotel no longer accepts the card. Agh!
This time, as I was making my own travel arrangements, I was staying at one of the many narrow rundown places a short walk upstream, one which, with apologies to Ludwig Bemelmans, I shall call the Hôtel Splendide, for many such establishments rejoice in grandiose names that fool no one. When I entered my room for the first time, I found a small laminated card at the spot on the pillow where, at the Cambodiana during its Singapore period, I would have expected to discover a chocolate mint. The card was certainly mint-green, but it said: NO FIREARM OPIUMS IN ROOM. My first reaction was of course to slap my forehead and exclaim “Where are my manners!” For local custom is evidently to check one’s opiums at the front desk. Possibly this is one reason lockers are provided. The lockers look as though they might be second-hand ones from a rural bus depot.
As for the room, it had some sort of ornate plate-rail, very likely French, but the doors both interior and exterior were of lacquered plywood. The space was surprisingly clean, though while lying on the bed, I couldn’t ignore enormous patches of mould that turned the ceiling into a mappa mundi. There was a narrow veranda overlooking the street. Decades of automobile particulate, however, had eaten away the stonework of the stubby balustrade. The chest of drawers and armoire had many locks, and I found a ring of keys in a desk on the opposite wall. But none of the keys matched any of the locks.
Noise from the street rose on the hot air, and at night there was a scratching sound inside one of the walls. The hot water was cold and cold drinks were warm, and there didn’t seem to be enough towels or loo paper for all the rooms and no soap whatever. Nor enough cash in the till downstairs to make change for even a small purchase. When questioned about the simplest matter, staff members looked dolefully perplexed. The rest of the time they quarrelled amongst themselves, loudly and in numerous languages and dialects. The lift, which was scarcely larger than a red English telephone box, stopped at various floors randomly and closed its door quickly enough to imprison people like a Venus flytrap.
“Be thankful,” said an Aussie. “This is the only thing in the whole bloody place that goes fast enough to break a sweat. But you get used to it. I’ve lived here sixteen years.”
Later that day, when I was coming back to my room, I put the door key into the lock and the entire knob mechanism, cover plate and all, fell to the floor with a crash, leaving me with the key still in my hand. There was no one to fix the lock, so I requested another room, one with the same view. The management reluctantly agreed. And so it went.
The Quay is the Sumkumvit of Phnom Penh, but with a different sort of expat community, even though it includes many American seniors, and some Australian ones, as well, perhaps a Kiwi or two, whose principal connections to their own cultures were severed during the American War. For reasons often more psychological than strictly political, these often bitter exiles in their early or mid sixties have cast themselves out. It isn’t quite accurate to say that they have, in the Australian phrase, gone troppo, for they are commonly not so well integrated into the host culture as their long residence might suggest. They are simply stubborn and defiant, frequently tired, and often a little drunk on Mekong Whisky or Angkor Beer.
Standing in contrast are the great many younger men, and, significantly, women, who arrived during or after the genocidal civil wars, often working for government aid agencies and NGOs of one sort or another. This group includes a large segment of francophones. Thus the Phnom Penh scene is again set apart from Bangkok’s. There is no historical reason for French to be spoken in Thailand, the only country in the region that has never been officially a Western or Japanese colony. In many other ways too, the old-timers, the ones that is who still have lives and livers, share little with the new breed, who are well educated and well paid. It’s for these latter folks, as well as the tourists, that streets like the Quay are lined with intimate bars and bistros, and restos selling premium fair-trade coffees rather than Nescafé.
Only a short distance along the Quay from the Splendide is a hotel called the Indochine, though it’s obviously run by Aussies, as the logo is a kangaroo. Another neighbour is a former ship chandler who now repairs and rebuilds motorcycles — motos. They are found everywhere. The current custom, as two different people explained to me, is for parents to buy their son a moto so he can commute to school. Many of the young men, however, sell them
