This Human Stream

As published on SubStack, 4/6/24:

[Phnom Penh, 4/6/24]

Pity the man without access to SouthEast Asian alleys. To those who have come all this way just to avoid the same, I blast you with an evil eye! As for natives who would rather pay four bucks for a caramel macchiato at Starbucks, they’ve already given themselves the death penalty!

Actually, I’m sitting in air conditioning at a shopping mall. Inside those alleys, they mostly eat white rice with deep fried fish, fried chicken or grilled pork with stir fried vegetables. Such a starch and vegetable oil combo would send me to the morgue. At Sorya Center Point, I can have a much healthier meal, such as sour fish cakes wrapped in banana leaf called songvak, with herbal leaves on the side. On a menu board, I see “Nail Soup Cows” and “Beef Brain and Bowels Soup.” If younger thus more insecure, I might give nail soup a try, but not in my dotage. Staring at her phone, the lady at the counter has the sweetest smile.

Unable to pig in alleys, I still go there daily for spiritual nourishment. Even before dawn, I snake through them. Though I can’t talk to hardly anybody, I recognize faces, and some of them, at least, must have gotten used to seeing this creepy foreigner who shows up episodically.

There’s a Vietnamese woman who sells banana fritters. Sitting on a low stool, she’s just inches from the ground. Chubby, she’s often cheerful and chattering away. Though dirt poor on paper, she’s probably richer than you.

Ten yards away is a thin lady who sells rice with fish or pork. Today her unmatched elegance is ruthlessly highlighted by a long black dress with daisies. Bought used, it had likely been discarded by some depressed broad in Ohio.

Before I got sick, I’d eat her loving food, but now must walk by in silence and shame. I imagine her deeply hurt by my inexplicable betrayal. Late at night, she sobs convulsively while staring at a dirty wall smeared with children’s fingerprints and decade old boogers. Sitting up, her husband must again growl, “Stop thinking about that stupid Chinaman!”

Within sight of the long dress lady is an old man who’s most generous towards monks. Waiting for them each morning, he sits at the same table to eat rice gruel with pig’s innards. Done, he lays out packets of instant noodles and bottles of water. I don’t know why these damned monks don’t just boil their water, but I’m not a theologian, at least not professionally. Today, a monk in his late 60’s sat down to chat with our friend. How each person holds a phone, yawns or appears pensive requires decades of practice, but the way this religious smoked was truly a worldclass performance. Had Bogart seen this monk with a cigarette, he’d stop smoking.

After a week in Phnom Penh, I’ve talked to exactly one Cambodian. Chann’s English was so bad, I understood almost nothing. His three big words were “development,” “profit” and “advantage,” so a minute long monologue would go something like this, “Gargle shootak rubrab profit phooey blob! Nasin woebarf wah well advantage, no? Mud mat fee development flip foo profit shish.”

Since Chann hadn’t had many chances to practice English, he kept blathering. A good sport, I kept nodding and grinning while trying my best to keep my glazed eyes from popping or rolling backward into my skull. Finally, I had to say I was too exhausted to converse so seriously about so many interesting topics, so had to go. Completely satisfied, he shook my hand.

Traveling is mostly about looking. This is true of traveling through your own country, even. Too self absorbed or distracted to hear properly, and prohibited from touching, we mostly just look. This entire world, then, is like a go-go bar, but with so many laws, conventions and taboos, it’s a miracle anyone ever catches a glimpse of anything. Most don’t even try.

Yesterday, I got my three-month visa for Vietnam, so finally, I could buy a plane ticket to Saigon. I’ll be out of here in 48 hours. Though I shouldn’t have feared being stuck, you never know. With so much geopolitical turmoil, borders can suddenly close again.

In Vung Tau, I still have my cheap room in a great location. My neighbor Dzuy will be gone. Though a nice, friendly guy, his USA worship was beyond disgusting.

“I hear a 40-year-old American can still borrow money to go to college,” he said.

When I explained millions of Americans have gotten useless degrees with borrowed money they can’t pay back, Dzuy just grinned. Everything must be perfect in that faraway land. Dzuy has never traveled.

Even Cambodia and Laos are doing better than Vietnam, he insists. China is crumbling. Russia is led by a genocidal KGB guy. Only Western countries are thriving.

Though his claims are absurd, millions if not billions share them, so I’m the nutcase.

To puncture his American fantasy, I showed him photos of a Camden whore, Amanda. A junkie with rotten teeth and a nasty stab scar on her belly, she’s usually filthy, with each day a frantic struggle to snag enough “dates” to get her fixes. No matter how long she sucked, one guy just wouldn’t come, she shared with me, half laughing. Seeing Amanda shooting heroin in a garbage strewn lot, Dzuy could only conclude, “At least she’s doing it herself. Vietnamese whores are injected with heroin!”

That detail, he likely read on FaceBook, for the man doesn’t go anywhere or see anything. On a rare visit to Saigon, he had to stop in an alley for some cheap food, so complained afterwards of the “human smell” [“hơi người”].

I once gave Amanda money for a bus ticket, which she of course used on heroin. Such a whore would have no clients outside the USA, but this point was lost on Dzuy. Like most people, he’s ideologically driven, a secular fanatic, with the USA his religion.

Done with this, I will wander through some alleys, for their human smells, sights and laughters. It’s a blessing to be sucked into the human stream. What else is life? Without understanding a word, I will soak in the emotions and music of conversations.