It Was About Time For A Story

Tired and nearly ready for bed, we had just sat down in our guesthouse lounge to partake in some local herbal medicine (sorry Mom and Dad, but it's essential to the story) and then perhaps get some dinner. Kim, our tuk-tuk driver from the previous day, sidled up to us and started asking, in choppy English, about our plans for the evening. We replied that it would probably be an early night, as we had a bus to catch in the morning. He mentioned something about a bottle of vodka and pointed to the table behind him, and then started talking about a biergarten with karaoke and ladies and "real Cambodia". Never hesitant to jump into a strange situation in a foreign land, we agreed to join them, and off hustled Kim to get his motorbike, now detached from the tuk-tuk and able to seat about half an American, or a Cambodian family of four.

We piled on, two motorbikes between the five of us, and swervingly headed out of town. As the lights of the main strip dimmed in the distance, I looked around me to find a state of herbally enhanced confusion. We rode down a bumpy paved street lined by a tall and rather elegant stone wall, with bright lights of luxury hotels looming overhead. As the buildings thinned I began to notice the surrounding landscape: barren dusty expanses, tall curved palm trees, and a feeling of most certainly having left the tourist area.

My mind, as it is wont to do in such situations, began exploring the possible scenarios that we currently found ourselves in. Are Kim & Co. just friendly guys extending an hospitable hand to a couple of weary travellers, or were we about to pull over and get robbed? How would three of them, as diminuitive as they are, overpower the two much larger-boned Westerners? Do they have knives? But my driver Tiem, or Chiem, or Chim, or Jim, was asking me questions and seemed genuinely friendly. So I figured I'd wait and see where we ended up.

We turned left off the paved road and onto a wide, seemingly suburban dirt road. Everytime we swerved around the giant potholes a cloud of dust would be kicked up into my eyes, making the situation no less confusing. The lack of streetlights, or lighting of any kind, only quickened the pace at which my paranoid thoughts intensified; all the scam stories I read in the Lonely Planet came back; I should have left some money at home; how do we get out of this alive?

Just as I fought off the urge to tuck and roll off the back of the motorbike we pulled into a small parking lot out front of a brightly lit restaurant and stage. I guess we made it.

We approached the front entrance and were greeted by a line of 10 women, heavily made up, sompeahing (palms together at chest) to each of us in turn. We were led to a private table off to the side of the stage, where the women immediately bombarded us with fliers advertising the particular beer they endorsed. We deferred to our host, by this time both wary and overwhelmed by the circumstances we suddenly found ourselves in, surrounded by "beermaids" off a dark, dusty road somewhere outside of Siem Riep, Cambodia.

When the beer arrived so did the glasses and the "ice cube maid", filling our beers with ice at every possible opportunity. You'd think she was making a commission off of each cube; she was attentive, to say the least. Tiem or Jim, sitting to my right - Young Smiley we'll henceforth call him - was belting out the current karaoke song at the top of his lungs, smiling from ear to ear; Kim, our English speaking host, was occupied with the beermaid to his left; and silent, brooding Third Wheel across the table was still silent and brooding, but was now also scratching his forehead with extremely long and strangely sturdy fingernails, and then sniffing them.

Awkwardness continued for some time. I attempted conversation, but was rebuffed by the repeated sudden realization that I didn't speak a word of Khmer. The server-friend to my right continually re-filled my bowl with rice, my glass with watery beer (and two straws; don't forget the two straws!), and at one point fed me and then Alex a chopstick-retrieved mouthful of green papaya salad. More people filed into our small room, more bottles of beer were being opened, and Kim seemed to be talking to us less and less. Perhaps it was unfounded, but I was wary.

Talk of the subsequent nightclub visit became more and more frequent, and little suspicions became only more suspicious (no attempt at communication from our English speaking companions; progressively more "attentive" service; somehow always full bottles of beer). We finally managed to speak up and say we should be getting back to the guesthouse, and with barely a goodbye from Young Smiley and only a silent brooding stare from Third Wheel, we went outside and found a motorbike driver to take us back into town (wherever we were).

The driver took an unfamiliar route back, bumby and dusty, and would often swerve the bike severely to the left - I assumed to turn a corner - only to subsequently swerve back hard to the right. I don't know if he was falling asleep, was bored with his life, or was just a horrible driver, but after several near turf brushes we made it back to good ol' #9 Guesthouse.

Frazzled but glad to be back, we headed inside the gate, followed rather aggressively by a scrappy, panting dog. He continued hopping around our legs as we walked up, and kept right with us as we made our way down the hall. Suspicious as we had become of everything that evening, we accelerated our pace, hoping to lose him around the next corner; no such luck.

A fitting end to a bizarre night: A jolly dog trotting down the hall and us fumbling to get the key in the lock and slam the door in the tail-wagging puppy's face.

Good Night, Real Cambodia.