Five minutes of backpacker fame & The gayest day of my life

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An uneventful five-hour bus ride later, we're in chaotic, polluted, bustling Phnom Penh. A tuk tuk takes us to the backpacker ghetto of Boeng Kak, named after the lake on which shores it is located. However, the lake is not much to speak of, looking as though at least half of it has been filled with sand, with the remaining water appearing polluted and toxic. Later we read in a local newspaper that the lake has been sold to a development company, which is gonna fill it up entirely and start building appartments there. I'm not sure that's the best idea, seeing that it would potentially kill budget tourism in the city and ruin the many locals who depend on it.
There is one narrow, long and rather dirty alley with a decidedly seedy feel to it where all the guesthouses, eateries and travel agencies are located, with countless moto drivers, tuk tuks and touts hanging around. Upon seeing me, a few ask "Hashish? Coke? Ice?" and a few other street terms that I can't even associate with anything. There are some children begging for money, a couple of them selling photocopied Lonely Planet guides and Southeast Asian-themed books that are recommended by Lonely Planet.
The majority of the guesthouses are run-down and crowded. There are a lot of drunk or obviously high Westerners around, most of them very young. After checking out several options, we find a tolerable room at an acceptable price.

Competition is tough in the small alley, with many restaurants offering discounts or free drinks with lunch or dinner. Pretty much all of them cater to Westerners, so on the one hand there's a lot of vegetarian and supposedly organic options, on the other hand there are quite a few places that offer the infamous 'Happy Pizzas' for the droves of mindless dreadlock hippies and blatant drug tourists. We go with a tiny café that is managed by a lovely old couple, and eat some delicious and inexpensive veggie baguettes. Their Vietnamese-style coffee is excellent, too, it is individually brewed in a metal drip-filter that sits directly on the cup, which already contains the ever-popular sweetened condensed milk.
I feel myself becoming slow and lazy, or maybe just easing up considerably. In theory, I should hate it here, but despite the hustle and bustle and the incessant touting of goods and services, despite the dirt and multitudes of smelly, wasted backpackers, there is a certain charm about the whole place. Everything just flows into each other, and it feels as though it's been like this for decades, just a normal day in this quixotic microcosm where all days are essentially the same. Everybody has their specifically assigned role, be it minor or major, in this long-running play, which is deep and vacuous at the same time. Currently, we are to act as the observant newcomers, who try to get a feel of the place sitting in an open café looking at the goings-on outside.

There are certain sights that every self-respecting visitor has to see in Cambodia; the most obvious and maybe even important is Angkor, without a doubt. Following closely are the sites associated with the unspeakably brutal Khmer Rouge rule and the genocide it waged against its own people. The most well-known and easy accessible of these are the Tuol Sleng Museum, formerly Security Prison 21, and the Killing Fields of Choeung Ek. There's no way I'd miss these monuments to human vileness and ignorance, considering that I'd taken an interest in the bloody history of Cambodia long before going there.
Dutifully we start with Tuol Sleng. We take a moto taxi there, which are fun to be on with three people. The seats are actually quite long and even well-cushioned, hence kind of comfortable. You just have to take care not to burn your feet on the exhaust pipe when wearing flip-flops. The traffic is pretty clogged-up and crazy, but the moto drivers always find ways to squeeze through. Some people on other motos smile or wave at you (no, not before slashing your bag), which I find wonderful and highly contagious. Others just marvel at us funny-looking stingy foreigners cramming onto a moto the way they do, instead of taking tuk tuks like our more well-to-do fellow travellers.

In front of the museum linger a few beggars, some of them missing arms or legs. Inside, we pay the entrance fee and enter the courtyard, which is well-maintained and lined by palm trees. There are a few information panels outlining how the Tuol Svay Pry High School was taken over by Pol Pot's security forces and transformed into S-21 in August 1975, four months after the Khmer Rouge had won the civil war. The classrooms were converted into torture chambers, many of them sectioned off into tiny cells. In the first months, most inmates were associated with the former Lon Nol regime and included soldiers, government officials, but also academics, teachers, students, intellectuals, artists, writers, monks, engineers, etc. From 1975 to 1979, an estimated 17,000 people were imprisoned and tortured there, and brought to be executed at Choeung Ek. There were only 12 known survivors.

Inside the grey and menacing-looking blocks are the former cells. Most of them contain a crude iron bunk bed without mattress, rusty iron bars with stirrups that were used as shackles, and sometimes an old plate or food bowl. The floor tiles are discoloured in various places, presumably from the blood that flowed freely from the victims' bodies. The Khmer Rouge were not stupid, mind you, they tortured the prisoners until they would confess to any imagined crimes they were accused of, mostly high treason or plans to overthrow the government, or engaging in any counter-revolutionary activity. Prisoners were beaten, electrocuted, suffocated with plastic bags or by holding the head under water, they had fingernails pulled out and alcohol poured into the wounds. The waterboarding technique was also applied. Together with sleep deprivation, malnourishment and plain general neglect, it wouldn't take too long to extricate the desired confessions. The guards were young, sometimes only 13 or 14, and had been indoctrinated early. They were impressionable and obedient, following all orders from above with a malicious zeal. They didn't regard their victims as human beings, to them they were enemies, animals, vermin, worms in the flesh of Angkar, the Communist Party of Kampuchea. To them, Angkar was almighty and infallible. If somebody was arrested, there must have been a good reason. Still, it was better to make a wrong arrest than to let the enemy eat away at Angkar from within. Following the policy of pulling out a weed by its roots, the entire family of the suspect was arrested, tortured, and killed. Under torture, the detainees were forced to denounce others, and their tormentors wouldn't let off until they had 50 or 60 names of people, who would be arrested subsequently.

The atmosphere inside the cells has a gloomy feel to it, the tension is palpable. It feels like all visitors have a lump in their throat, and the only thing audible is the occasional sigh or movement of Adam's apples.
The most harrowing thing, however, is still about to come. Several rooms are lined with thousands and thousands of pictures of the inmates, which were meticulously taken after arrival in the prison. Most people look as though they hadn't slept in quite a while, and there is fear in their eyes, although they stare blankly straight at the camera, as though indifferent and resigned to their fate. Some women carry babies in their arms. One row of pictures is of elderly men and women, whose weary faces don't look all that threatening. Neither do the young children and toddlers, most of whom miraculously managed not to cry when their photo was taken, although scared they definitely all were. The faces are mostly unscathed, however, in a few pictures, people have broken noses or black eyes and bruises, probably from resisting detention.

Another room exhibits human skulls inside cabinets. The most common method of executing prisoners was clubbing them to death, to avoid wasting precious bullets, hence many skulls are cracked in the back. There are graphic paintings of torture scenes from the prison drawn by the survivor Vann Nath, who was only able to survive when the prison authorities learned about his artistic talent, and exploited it for their purposes.
The next room offers a very detailed account on the history of the Khmer Rouge and its protagonists. Kind of ironic to read that the Khmer Rouge was the brainchild of a group of Cambodians studying in Paris, who joined the French Communist Party at a young age, and also went to East Berlin during their ideological development. Pol Pot, like most other Khmer Rouge leaders, was an intellectual, whose interests included literature, arts and music. He was also not averse to wine and good food.

Finally, there's a very intriguing exhibition of photographs by a Gunnar Bergstrom, who was part of a Swedish delegation that was invited to visit Cambodia in 1978. An ardent Maoist, Bergstrom believed Pol Pot was embarking on a project to create a perfect society, one in which inequality and injustice would be eradicated. The pictures show workers in factories and on rice fields, families in their homes, Phnom Penh as a ghost town and scenes from the countryside. The texts underneath the pictures indicate that him and his travel companions were all too eager to believe everything they were shown during their 14-day propaganda tour ("They look quite happy"/"That doesn't look so bad"). In an interview thirty years later, he admits that nowadays, he thinks it was all set up for them to whitewash the regime and dispel rumours of secret detention centres and mass killings.

Exhausted and drawn, we exit the museum. Vis-à-vis there's a pretty restaurant set in a lush, tropical garden. They serve excellent Asian fusion food and divine fruit shakes. Nothing better than to find solace in a feast and brush away those uncomfortable impressions of a genocide. I wonder how the ghosts of the victims that are believed to haunt the former prison feel about that.

Despite their violent and sad recent history, Cambodians strike me as a friendly, optimistic and resilient people. It feels as though they want to make the best out of every day, for one never knows what the future might bring. They know from experience how quickly it can all be over, how little your life is worth when you find yourself on the wrong side of power. They don't like to be reminded of the past, they don't want to be confronted with the dead spirits who won't find peace, for the murderers haven't atoned for their actions. This bad karma weighs heavily on the whole country.
The average age in Cambodia is 22.6 years, according to the CIA World Factbook, and more than 60% were born after 1980, which means they weren't alive when the Khmer Rouge ruled the country and slaughtered their own people. Most Cambodian school classes visit Tuol Sleng and Choeung Ek, and every family was affected in one way or another, which makes it almost impossible not to be confronted with the horrors at least every once in a while.
It must be hard for a nation to come to terms with its past when none of the culprits have been punished duly. The Cambodia Tribunal, set up in 2006, has been prosecuting four surviving Khmer Rouge leaders, who are between 78 and 86 years of age, but the case remains in pre-trial stage. Only one man, Kang Kek Iew aka Comrade Duch, the former head of the Khmer Rouge special branch and director of Tuol Sleng prison camp, was found guilty of crimes against humanity, torture and murder, and sentenced to 35 years' imprisonment in July 2010, to which his defense team has appealed. Pol Pot, of course, died in 1998 already, after spending a few months in house arrest following an ultimately fruitless show trial.

We eat breakfast in our favourite café the next morning, looking through the Cambodia Daily, the local English-language newspaper that mostly steals articles from British or American leading dailies. What the fuck? There's a picture of two 'backpackers' looking suspiciously like us, browsing the menu at a Happy Herb Pizza place (Happy shake as well!). It was only an hour or so after arriving in Phnom Penh, and already somebody (named Pring Samrang) took a sneaky shot of us, to be published in the newspaper? Mister Editor, I strongly object to being classified as a backpacker! And thanks for making my arse look so fat, harrumph!

We take a moto out to Choeung Ek, about 15 km outside of the capital, to visit the infamous Killing Fields. First thing we do after paying and entering is go to the superb memorial stupa in the centre of the site, which displays more than 8000 skulls of victims as well as their tattered clothes, to pay our respects. The skulls were excavated from several mass graves scattered all over the fields, which are picturesque and peaceful, making it hard to imagine the atrocities that unfolded here.
The information panels, however, are badly translated and show a somewhat crude and sensationalist approach at remembrance. One outlines a brief history of the genocide, saying "...the clique of Pol Pot criminals...massacred the population with atrocity...it was more cruel than the genocidal act committed by the Hitler fascists...". More cruel than Hitler? That's pretty cruel alright!
I'm also a bit put off by the "Killing tree against which executioners beat children"-sign in front of said tree, with a few random bones, presumably of the killed children, next to it.
To round up the experience, we go to a small video room where they show a short film about the history of the Killing Fields. The film starts with the American narrator reading in an exaggeratedly dramatized voice containing lots of reverb, like in bad horror audio theatre: "The crimes of the KHMER ROUGE/Cambodian genocide", which also appears onscreen in a blood-dripping black and red font, while at the same time a werewolf howl is dubbed over it. I don't know whether to laugh or to beat my head against the wall.

Exiting the Killing Fields, we find the same moto driver that brought us here waiting for us. He smiles and waves and immediately hops on his moto to pick us up and to avoid the possibility of us choosing another driver, for we didn't make a deal with him.
We tell him to drop us off at the Central Market, which turns out to be a bit of a disappointing array of cheap clothes and electronic goods, as well as a seriously filthy and disgusting eating section. The fish and seafood stalls are the worst, there's blood and guts and roly poly fishheads lying around on the ground, and needless to say, IT FUCKING REEKS!
We realize it might be a better idea to visit the infamous Russian market instead. We hail a moto, I tell the guy 'Psar Tuol Tom Pong', but he doesn't understand, as I probably pronounce it wrong, so I say 'Russian market?', and he just stares at me in bewilderment. Another guy comes around, and I try to explain and show him on the map, but then there's a tuk tuk stopping next to us, with the driver hopping off and joining the commotion, and before we know what's happening, there's a whole bunch of short Cambodian men surrounding us, trying to find out what those exotic foreign creatures are pointing at on that map, nosy scallywags they are, and first I try to tell them where we want to go, but then they start talking excitedly all at once, some in Khmer, others in broken Engrish, one in French, I think, and I start feeling a tad cornered, then stressed, finally suffocated, and I feel the aggression welling up in me at lightning speed, so I grab J. and get the hell out of there before I lose my temper and make a fucking farang fool out of myself. That would have been a severe case of medina rage, just at a Cambodian market instead. We run away to the next road, hail a moto, and this time we manage to make ourselves understood.

The Russian market is a lot more touristy, but it also has a certain charm. Set in a massive one-storey building, the market contains an infinite amount of stalls packed to the ceiling with fabrics, souvenirs, trinkets, cooking pots and pans, and all kinds of miscellaneous stuff. We walk through the labyrinthine passages, check out what's on offer and politely refuse the products the incessantly touting vendors try pushing at us.
J. buys a few bags, pouches and souvenirs after haggling hard for them, while I buy a photocopied book from a slightly disabled guy. We sit down to have a coffee after a posh-looking Indian couple, who are from Canada but recently emigrated to New Zealand, tell us we have to try the coffee here at this stall, it's the best in Phnom Penh! It ends up being quite good, indeed, and the service is friendly, but I think the man short-changed me.

After one month of travelling together, the time has come for me and J. to part ways once again. After a great last supper at an Indian restaurant in our little backpacker alley, and a big breakfast the following morning, we take a moto to the airport. We wait around for an hour or so until she can check in, say our goodbyes, and I see her off.
On the way back to the city, riding on a moto with just two people does feel a bit weird. So does being on my own again. To discourage loneliness from setting in, I've already arranged a host for the next few days. After picking up my luggage from the little café with the friendly owners, I meet up with my host David, a well-dressed Filipino expat who works for an advertisement agency in PP. He lives in a very spacious, almost posh appartment close the the city centre.

I drop my bags, take a shower, and settle in. Later we head to a Chinese hawker's for dinner, where we meet David's friend Nod, a chubby little guy in his late twenties wearing braces. He's also from the Philippines, and he seems to be a bit shy, at least he doesn't talk much during dinner, and the atmosphere is a bit awkward.
The next morning, I go and visit the Royal Palace, more out of a sense of cultural duty than out of genuine interest. It turns out being not that special if you've already seen countless stupas and pagodas anyway. The famous Silver Pagoda, which houses the sacred 17th century Emerald Buddha, also fails to arouse more than a fleeting interest in me. Maybe it's just too hot, or there are too many tourists around or I've already seen too many temples and buddhas on this trip. I exit, dodge the touts, and walk to the nearby riverfront, along which I promenade for a while.

Later that night, David takes me out to the Blue Chili, and it doesn't take me long to figure out that it's a gay bar. Nod's also there, so are many friends of David's, who appears to know everybody there. He tells me that on select nights he performs there in drag. I drink a few ice-cold Japanese beers, which are served to me by a petite waiter who looks like the Thai ladyboy version of the Tokio Hotel singer. When I exchange greetings with him in Thai, I'm highly amused to hear that he uses the female form 'kaa', and not the male 'krap'. That's dedication! Upon finding out that I'm German, he looks a bit too excitedly at my crotch and starts posing and dancing around for me. I can't help but feel a bit entranced by the whole experience.
There are quite a few middle-aged expats chatting, drinking, and groping tiny Cambodians, who rub themselves gleefully against those rather bleak, fleshy honkies. David tells me most of them are American, British or French. Speaking of which, an American guy who goes by the name of Mike joins us. Him and David seem to have some history, and they tell me that story when they went skinny-dipping in Sihanoukville, and their clothes were stolen, and Mike ran up to a Cambodian chick and started shaking her, thinking she took the clothes, and it turned out she didn't, but she was deaf and dumb, and scared to death by that naked white man, and she couldn't even scream, but only produce those desperately muffled sounds, and when they realized they felt awfully sorry, but now they can't help laughing their arses of, and neither can I, having already drunk four アサヒビール.
Among the Filipino group is a guy who, as David tells me, is a budding painter. He has this way of talking that reminds me of an American grandmother, for some reason, and I chat to him for a while. He shows me pictures of his paintings on his digital camera, and I have to admit, he's good. Some of the paintings are flamboyant and borderline pornographic, others more introverted and dark. He's definitely got a big deal of talent.

When we get up to leave for another bar, I don't decline to say goodbye to David's friends the way he does, and go through the double-air kiss-ritual with them. When it's the waiteresses' turn, he actually grabs my junk, and I back off swiftly and exclaim: "Whoa, man! 'the fuck?" He just bats his fake eyelashes, raises one plucked eyebrow, puckers his lips and dramatically says in a raunchy voice: "I know you have...a big cock!"

Me, David and Mike have a couple of drinks at a different bar before heading to Heart of Darkness, a nightclub where I usually wouldn't think of spending my Friday nights. It's pretty jam-packed with locals, expats and tourists of all genders and sexual preferences. Seeing how aggressively the Western guys try hitting on to the local chicks, I actually much prefer the company of the playful and gay gays, who don't take themselves so damn seriously.
Mike fetches the drinks, David takes to dancing, I stand in a corner watching the pre-mating rituals on the dance floors. There's a tiny, extremely effeminate guy rubbing himself all over David, who looks rather annoyed by the little munchkin, and tries shaking him off. When he takes a break for a drink, he tells me: "I don't like ladyboys." -"Are you more into the muscular blokes with shades and black hats?" "Leather bears? Oh gosh, no! I prefer mine muscular, but hairless. And I'm not into leather."

Mike comes around with a tray containing a few shots, and we down 'em. A few hours later, I kneel in front of the toilet back at David's place and puke my stomach's contents into the bowl. There's a knob on the side of the toilet that I take to be the flush, but I just can't seem to turn it, it seems to be jammed. I keep trying for a bit, but I'm too out of it to get it to flush, so I resolve to getting up early and trying again before David sees this mess. I rinse my mouth and go to the bedroom.
David's already sleeping, and for the second time on this trip I have the honour of sleeping in the same bed as a gay man. I lie down and pass out immediately. Later that night, I wake up as I feel something touching my skin. It's actually David's hand, and I push him away, but he tries again, putting his hand on my belly and working his way southwards. I push his hand away again and say: "Stop it!", and when he tries a third time, I get up, take my pillow and blanket, and go to sleep on the couch, which I probably should have done in the first place.

I battle my hangover the next day by walking to the Vietnamese embassy to get my visa. I have to leave my passport and come back later that day, so I go and roam around the area, eat lunch, and sit around reading until it's time to collect it. The procedure was very uncomplicated, and with that out of the way, I'm ready to make my way down south, towards the Vietnamese border.
I spend another couple of lazy days in Phnom Penh, just because I've grown to like it a lot. David doesn't mention the little 'incident' of the other night, and neither do I. I still sleep on the couch for the rest of my stay.

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