Almost Intrepid | A Tale of Milk & Coffee – Cambodia 2

…Continued

Cozy Elephant made lousy coffee, but when you accept that coffee-making was not everyone’s cup of tea (so to speak), it becomes easier to deal with caffeine deprivation. Coffee was the price I paid for treading southeast Asian soil in search of cheap adventure. I had discarded long ago the probability of obtaining a decent cup my senses approved of, but hope for a good cup never dies in the heart of a coffee lover.

Nature, I have reason to believe, employs strange methods of appeasing caffeine-deprived souls. Okay, so it had some- thing to do with Steven. I am a little ashamed saying this, but a night spent puffing the magic dragon and dirtying the sheets with him had changed the meaning of one-night stands.

Ninety-nine times out of hundred, a strategically placed kiss gets you the results you want, it being the best alternative to butt-kicking when wanting to ruin someone’s slumber. An example of that was Steven, who, waking up to an exploratory tongue, grumbled a half-hearted good morning through a busy mouth and showed no annoyance at being woken up.

There are pleasantries, and there are slap-and-tickle pleasantries guaranteed to fire your senses, and suddenly bad coffee doesn’t feature on your mind and the bright ideas you had thought up earlier fade away. And no, I was NOT turning into a regular slut. I mean, Steven, or any other traveller for that matter, couldn’t deny that physical urges did exist and if someone told you “they did not dream of scoring up on the global list”, they were only trying to be funny.

***

I am not about to prove myself as an expert, but breakfast talk almost always centred on the happenings of the night gone by, so there was no business of hide-and-seek—the only exception to that rule came when non-budget travellers walked in, shaved and scrubbed, and then conversation turned around to ridiculing their methods of travelling.

“Bloody tourist”, someone would say on sighting a bored- looking couple who had spent considerable time under the shower. “The typical Lonely Planeter whose noses you cannot see—and why? Because it is always buried in a Lonely Planet, that’s why.”

“They come with a ‘Do Not Approach’ sign too,” someone else would chip in maliciously.

I haven’t figured what it is about backpacking that brings out their competitive side. But a major pastime is to speculate which of us spends the least amount on hotels and food, and this is done every time a new face walks in.

“I bet I have spent only a quarter of what they have and yet had the best time so far,” is the most common announcement I have heard.

Okay, I have been a part of it too, but I have never really understood this cheapness competition. To me, being a backpacker has nothing to do with how much money you spend, but is about how you spend that money. But try explaining that to Steven, who launched an acid attack on a couple who ordered eggs with pancakes for breakfast.

“The UN-types, I bet”, he began. “Cambodia has them by the hundreds; each employed somewhere, sightseeing on people’s money. Look at them, so superior to the average tourist…why? Because they have been there. See, you can tell them by their skin, damn it, even the local grime sits comfortably on it.”

‘Then there is, err, your kind, though am not sure what that is supposed to mean…you know, the restless, flighty types.”

I don’t think I particularly liked the tone of his voice, but there was some truth in what he said. One learns new things every day.

“My breed? There is such a category then?”

“I don’t know about the others, but I can tell about you. I can bet my last dollar, which under the circumstance is a very easy thing to do seeing that I am nearly there, that you will leg it to the next point on this Earth without rhyme or reason, but what you need to do is learn to relax.”

This was not typical marijuana talk. Last night, Steven had been all praises for my “type”. Whatever that meant.

My resolve to keep an open mind and respect differences and opinions kicked in a second before the need to establish the backpacker hierarchy did. Coffee saved the moment.

For the second time that morning, I gagged on coffee and managed, in some mysterious way, to turn all heads in our direction.

“Bloody hell, what was that? I mean, why would anyone want to poison me? This isn’t coffee…this is…is…vengeance…”

I couldn’t find a suitable word.

I don’t know if the stares directed at me were compassionate or amused, but it brought forth a very worried

waitress clucking concernedly in Khmer eager to attend to our need, if any.

“Could I have some milk, please?”

People of Kampot, even though not well versed in the Queen’s tongue, would never mistake an order of baguettes, coffee, pancakes, beer and such like, but they would, when asked for milk, stiffen and go cold.

I don’t know if you have ever faced a flustered Khmer woman, but it gives you the horrible feeling of speaking to an iron wall without a chink and you know you are not likely to get very far, even if you chipped away all your life.

Not ready to face milk-less coffee, I tried gesturing—curling my index fingers into C, placing it on my head where horns were likely to be and gave my head a good shake in what I thought was an imitation of a cow.

The cow imitation didn’t help, so Steven suggested milking an imaginary cow. Mine and Steven’s Khmer was as good as her Chinese, or so it seemed.

I pointed to my breasts. Anyone in the world would know what that meant!

At last, I told Steven, I could relish my coffee. “Nothing like fresh milk to help the mood along, right?”

“You bet.”
The woman reappeared with a tin of condensed milk. “Aakoon,” Steven said.
“Ah…damn,” I said.

And with that, the restaurant quickly transformed into one of those places you crowd in for a cheap laugh, where everyone throws in their two-penny worth of yarn that grows sillier as the table-thumping gets louder—and vulgar.

“Hell, how do you order bananas hereabouts?” someone put in, “or a melon?” To which someone else replied with a “pull your pants down and face the wall…” That being the cheekiest thing I heard since my arrival in Cambodia, I didn’t see any reason to stay aloof.

It was another thing that I had put my foot in the mouth; I suppose it was only a matter of time before my foot took up residence there, but it improved the atmosphere a great deal. A bunch of foreigners in a strange place, with strange customs and a language barrier was enough to create the perfect comic set-up, what with the misunderstanding and ensuing confusion.

Coffee forgotten and more suggestive rejoinders later, everyone settled down to cursing the rains that threw a monkey wrench in the works, and resigned themselves to lounging about loud, smoky bars to study the world through the glass, watch the rains and piglets, and generally appreciate the good life.

The heavy clouds, hanging menacingly low, indicated that if you placed your trust on the bus to bring you safely, you were overestimating Cambodian technology or under- estimating the Cambodian storm. Either way, you were doing something wrong. But bucked up, as I was with my little idea of adventure, I proceeded to Kep with Steven, on a hired bike because there was only so much staring at piglets and downing beers that I could stand without getting a crap-attack.

I don’t nurse a strong liking for the lager and I wasn’t looking for a conversation with myself or the wall or bar stool.