God Bless Cambodia

by Randy Ross

  “I remember.”

  “So I gave Karen another week and another and another and she still ended up on my spreadsheet with the rest of them.”

  He put down his pen. “Having a thing for volatile women doesn’t explain anything. Lots of crazy people marry. I treat them. Marriage is no barometer of mental health.”

  “Are you calling me normal?”

  “I’m calling you a high-functioning neurotic who seems to have problems with relationships.”

  Tonight at the Bonobo, halfway around the world, I’m still single and at a loss. I think about flopping mackerel and death and dogs in wheelchairs. I think of myself on the bungee platform, looking at the rocks and trees below. There’s only one way to go from here, Billie Joe, and it’s not up.

  Ricki: Cell A46

  First encounter: Barbecue, Cambridge, Mass., August ’03

  She was petite with straight shoulder-length black hair, a barbed-wire tattoo around her right bicep, and black jeans and red high-top Converses. She moved like someone who exercised regularly. The little lines around her mouth indicated she was probably about my age, too old for Converses.

  The barbecue was in Cambridge, so it was a vegetarian, gender-neutral, low-carbon-footprint affair.

  I noticed her because she had brought a huge, bloody porterhouse that looked like a prop for a slasher movie. I watched as she wrestled it onto the grill.

  She glanced at me. She glanced again. “Having fun?” I asked.

  I don’t remember what she said but when I looked into her eyes, it seemed like she’d been crying. Or laughing. Or laughing and crying. Or maybe she just had indigestion. Looking deeper still, I could sense a disturbance, an electrical storm. I imagined her brain cells flashing, twitching, and jumping like herring chased by a large predator. I wanted to be that predator.

  On our first date, she showed up an hour late wearing Ray-Bans on an overcast day.

  “Apologies for my tardiness,” she said. “I’m a little hung over. I was up late at a Caribbean-theme party last night. I was the only white person there.”

  She had my attention. We went Rollerblading. Halfway down Oxford Street, I heard a loud “ka-thunk” followed by “Ah, fuck!”

  Ricki had slammed into a parked car.

  I was hooked.

  Our second date was a blur. Indian food, French movie. A handicapped bathroom. She locked the door. Two layers of toilet paper on the seat. My kind of girl. Jeans down. The burble and gurgle of pee. I kissed her. A double helix of tongues. When I peed, she aimed. A tightening grip, vanilla hand cream, a gluey handkerchief she saved in her purse.

  After a few months, we hit the inevitable plateau and began arguing. She had a list of complaints, the catalog of atrocities. I only had one complaint: her complaining. She yelled, I became passive aggressive. Eventually we crossed the 50 percent mark, where the bad times outnumbered the good ones. I made an appointment with Moody and she agreed to go.

  “What seems to be the problem?” he asked.

  “He’s a neat freak,” she said. “And a hypochondriac. And he’s got the worst taste in clothes and music.”

  She was wearing a snug black skirt that I’d never seen before.

  “And he’s a cheapskate. And he’s weird. Did he tell you he sleeps with a blindfold and mixes his food together like a four-year-old? Or that he’s obsessed with smells and refuses to poop in my bathroom?”

  Her eyes moistened and I thought back to our first encounter at the barbecue.

  “He’s so provincial and refuses to travel anywhere. I can’t stand it anymore. Please medicate him!”

  She turned to me and glared. I smiled, distracted by her wet lips and tan legs.

  “What would you like from Randall?” Moody said.

  “There you go taking his side! That’s the kind of patriarchal attitude that used to get women locked up in mental hospitals. I knew this was a stupid idea.”

  After the session, I called Moody. “Should I bail on this relationship?”

  “You know I can’t give you advice like that.”

  “If I said I wanted to bail, would you suggest I sit with it for another week?”

  “Probably not.”

  Outside the hostel, the Cape Town streets and balconies are packed with kids. I turn left on Long Street and pass an African tchotchke shop advertising authentic Zulu war axes, ceremonial dance hoes, and Ngulu execution swords, all 50 percent off. A block later, a familiar gaunt, black man with rheumy eyes and a red ski cap calls out to me from an alley. “You want some crazy, good fun?”

  I pause and scope the area: a black woman with Ben Wallace afro, a black guy with zebra-striped baseball hat. Orange keffiyeh. Purple fez. Paisley top hat. I spot a white guy, but he has dreadlocks and doesn’t count. I am well outside my comfort zone.

  On the next block is a place called Dele’s Sports Pub. An oblong light fixture shaped like a rugby ball hangs from the ceiling. A couple of old white guys with white moustaches and silky dress shirts unbuttoned to their navels sit at the bar watching a match. Two black kids in yellow security smocks are playing pool.

  I take an open bar stool as a group of black guys comes in off the street. They hassle the yellow smocks playing pool. The smocks leave. The black guys peck at their cell phones and swing the pool cues at each other as if they were Zulu war axes.

  I stare ahead at a blackboard behind the bar: “Slap Chips, Bunny Chow, Sarmies, Peri Peri, Bobotie.” I’m guessing that’s food.

  A thirty-something black guy sits down next to me. He’s wearing a white dress shirt. I can’t stop myself from thinking: Oh, crap. A carjacker on his day off.

  A Coloured barman asks for my order. “Windhoek, please,” I whisper. The guy next to me orders a Windhoek too. I stare up at the overhead TV so hard my eyes start to burn.

  Our beers arrive at the same time. The guy catches my eye and gives a little nod. He swills. I swill. We swill together.

  He pounds his empty beer on the counter two gulps ahead of me and smiles. “One more time,” he says.

  As we’re halfway through our second beers, he yells out, “Ag, no man” and smacks the bar with his hand. I flinch without taking my eyes off the TV. He’s going to put a pencil on his shoulder and dare me to smack it off.

  He points to the TV. “Ag, Ag.” Apparently, there’s been some kind of penalty. One player probably smudged another player’s mascara.

  While he’s distracted, I down my beer. He laughs. “You cheat, man. One more.” The alcohol starts to kick in, my eyes start to clear, and I notice he has put on reading glasses.

  “What just happened?” I ask.

  “High tackle.”

  “Is that like a nuggie?”

  “Nuggie?”

  I open my mouth, wrap on my skull with my knuckles, and produce a sound like an empty coconut.

  “You funny, man.”

  “And you’re a fast drinker.”

  “Ag, I’m going to meet a woman I’m supposed to marry.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “How you marry someone you only meet once? You married?”

  “Funny you should ask.” I take a sip of my beer and look up at the TV. “Looks like a penalty for a wedgie.”

  He stares at the label on his Windhoek. “She’s supposed to be big and healthy and obedient.”

  “Obedient means fewer fights over who’s supposed to take out the trash.”

  Suddenly I’m no longer funny.

  “I am twenty-eight,” he says. “I had it with courting.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  And so he does.

  His name is Chata and he sells authentic Nigerian throwing spears made by his family in Zimbabwe to the local tchotchke shops. He doesn’t explain how Zimbabwe family members make authentic Nigerian products and I don’t ask. He says owning a business should make him a good catch, but Cape Town women keep dumping him. For months, his parents have been sending photos of marriage prospects from Zimbabwe. He’s
says he’s done waiting for love. He’s ready to settle.

  I offer Chata a beer. He accepts and offers me an opportunity to invest in the family business. I decline.

  As we sip and watch the match, some teenage boys run into the bar and bum cigarettes from a mustachioed guy in a half-unbuttoned dress shirt. They seem to know each other.

  Chata finishes his beer, stands to leave, and points to the mustachioed guy. “You should know that later on, this place fills up with gay people.”

  He gives my shoulder a sloppy slap. “Relax, man, you’ll be fine.”

  My mood lifts. I’m leaving South Africa tomorrow for Bangkok, the promise of someplace new.

  Pittman says solo travelers often fall into a pattern. Leaving and arriving become the high points of any destination. Arriving, everything is new and fascinating. Leaving, you’re optimistic about the next place. The problem can be the time in between when, inevitably, you get bored, lonely, and depressed. Sounds like most of my relationships.

  The Chronic Single’s Handbook

  Chapter Two

  Personality Test: Are You Marriage Material?

  I. Give yourself one point for each item that applies.

  1)You can tolerate boredom:

  •After sex.

  •After lithium.

  •Fuck you.

  2)Your nesting instincts:

  •I have no furniture.

  •I have college furniture.

  •I once went to Pottery Barn for a free wine and cheese reception.

  3)Your girlfriend asks you to get a video for her preschool daughter’s birthday party. You choose:

  •Borat.

  •Death Wish.

  •Caligula.

  4)You miss your ex most when:

  •Eating alone.

  •Watching a movie alone.

  •Paying the mortgage alone.

  5)If a significant other says “no” to sex, you:

  •Take her to her favorite restaurant because she’s probably having a difficult week.

  •Take her college-aged daughter to her favorite restaurant because you’re having a difficult week.

  •Visit Yvonne, the double-jointed masseuse.

  6)Your ideal frequency for seeing a significant other:

  •Once a week.

  •Once a month.

  •Once a year.

  7)Your mother:

  •Call her once a day.

  •Call her once a year.

  •Her body is lashed to a rocking chair in the attic.

  8)Your last relationship failed because:

  •You forgot her birthday.

  •You forgot her phone number.

  •You forgot her name.

  9)It’s your anniversary and she is expecting something special, so you:

  •Go drinking with the boys.

  •Go skiing with the boys.

  •Visit Yvonne, the double-jointed masseuse.

  10)How well do you understand women?

  •When a woman says, “No” she means, “Feel my breasts.”

  •When a woman says, “Let go of my throat, you’re hurting me” she means, “Feel my breasts.”

  •When a woman says, “Get out now or I’m calling the police,” she means, “Feel my breasts.”

  II. Scoring:

  •One to five: Clueless

  •Six to ten: Hopeless

  •Ten or more: The next NFL commissioner

  CHAPTER FIVE: BANGKOK

  Life’s journey is about finding your place on a beach with kind eyes.

  —W. PITTMAN

  Bangkok.

  Bang. Cock.

  The name alone sounds skeevy, and from the moment I get off the plane, I’m on high alert. The guidebook warns about transsexual ladyboys, tuk-tuk scammers, and locals that play volleyball using their feet. The decor in the airport isn’t helping matters: smirking Buddhas, sneering Buddhas, a gang of Buddhas pummeling a giant, three-headed snake.

  I just survived South Africa and my third red-eye flight in a month. Now, outside the Bangkok terminal, a statue of a willowy, female Buddha beckons with four arms. Her belly button is at half-mast, sleepy, peaceful. Her eyes are at halfmast, knowing, welcoming. Kind eyes. I imagine a sloppy slap on my shoulder: Relax, you’re meant to be here.

  An airport bus drops me downtown on Sukhumvit Road, a boulevard that’s supposed to be two blocks from my hostel. On the corner stands a local woman wearing a T-shirt that says “University of Nepraska.” That’s Nepraska with one “p.”

  The street is peppered with food carts selling noodles and soup for thirty baht, or about one dollar. Most people are wearing flip-flops. I’m wearing my Keens and stand a head taller than the crowd. The sooty, humid air stings like a lungful of red ants.

  I approach a guy with a mossy, blond beard growing down his sternum. He’s wearing a fishing vest and shorts, and the chinstrap on his wide-brimmed hat is pulled tight across his jowls. The air is still, but he looks like he’s bracing for a typhoon.

  “Excuse me,” I ask. “Do you know how to get to a street called Soi 28?”

  He points down the block. “You from the US?”

  “I’m from Bost—”

  “Yeah, I’m from Texas. I was an MP back in Saigon, one of the last guys out, last guys out.”

  “Saigon. Wow,” I say, taking a step back. “Is it OK to eat at the food carts around here?”

  “You don’t want to hang around here. Soi Cowboy is just a few Skytrain stops, Skytrain stops.” He tugs twice on the travel wallet around his neck.

  The Skytrain is Bangkok’s subway, which is supposed to be clean and safe. Soi Cowboy is a red-light district, which is supposed to be neither. Cousin Joey said the Cowboy is worth seeing. “Bring rubbers, if you have any left,” he said.

  The man from Texas looks off in the distance. “This whole Sukhumvit area is built on a swamp. I’m going to retire here, retire here.”

  He exhales into his hand and sniffs his breath.

  In less than two minutes, this guy has confirmed my worst fears about Southeast Asia. This place can do things to you, permanent mind-warping things. But I’m only in Bangkok for three days, a pit stop. I can hold a sooty, humid breath that long.

  I put on my hat, tighten my chinstrap, and walk away, walk away.

  Five blocks later, I spot a concrete blockhouse with a gnome-sized bamboo garden and a koi pond large enough for three fish. The Sukhumvit Hostel.

  The Sukhumvit is the guidebook’s pick for budget accommodations in Bangkok. It’s centrally located, which can mean either close to everything or near nothing. The simple, clean decor is supposed to appeal to the Buddhist in you. The thirty-dollar-a-night single rooms appeal to the Jew in me.

  My room is on the second floor and includes a bed, a lamp, and a wall tapestry, but few other distractions. I drop off my bag, head down to the front desk, and confirm the additional 50-percent room discount Pittman promised.

  In the lobby, I meet a group of twenty-somethings, including:

  • Adler, a nervous little German who recites from a Bangkok guidebook as if it were a bible. “Thai people eat tarantulas, lizards, and rats,” he announces to the group. They ignore him. Adler probably got picked on at school and scored poorly in the class slam book. He’s young enough to be my son. I adopt him.

  • Pam and Peggy, two American girls wearing T-shirts that say “University of Stanfurd.” I point to their shirts: “I hear that’s a good school, except for the English department.” They laugh. Pam has cheek bones. Peggy has chins. But I don’t care: After my adventures with Ola and Anika, I’m done with women in their twenties.

  • Two annoying British guys, probably not gay. They don’t offer their names and I don’t ask. After my T-shirt joke, they turn their backs to box me and Adler out of further conversation with the girls.

  Adler, unfazed, blurts out, “Thai people don’t like it if you touch them on the head or point at them with your feet.”

  I say, �
��Thais have a thing for the king too. Use his name in vain and you go to the slammer.”

  I turn to the Brits and wave a disapproving finger: “Never refer to the old boy as a shitehawk, arse bandit, or nancy boy. OK?”

  The Brits look me in the eye, expressionless.

  The girls laugh. Pam points to my UMass T-shirt: “Hey, my brother goes to UMass.” She is long and blonde. She probably has a sparkly navel. Not that I care.

  I suggest we all grab dinner on Khao San Road, Bangkok’s version of Long Street, the backpacker district, a must-see shit hole, according to Pittman.

  Khao San Road is a thicket of high-volume restaurants, yellow neon, and street vendors. There’s a fish and chips place called “Oh, My Cod” and a food cart selling “pan cake with eeg.” The moist air smells sweet and sour like a Chinatown dumpster. Street signs are written in Thai, which uses characters that resemble Greek letters crippled by arthritis.

  We settle on The Smiling Thai, the first restaurant with the name spelled correctly. Pam and Peggy sit first. The Brits act as if someone just shut off the music and snag seats on either side of the girls. Adler and I sit on the other end of the table.

  I order the green curry extra, extra spicy to impress the group. The waitress is not impressed and trots off to the kitchen.

  Our meals arrive. My curry has as much zip as a bowl of Cream of Wheat. “Mine rots. How’s yours?” I ask our group. Grumble, grumble, grumble, grumble, grumble. A unanimous five-grumble rating.

  Adler recites from his guidebook: “Thailand is known as the Land of Smiles and displaying anger is a sign of mental illness. The smile can be used to convey different emotions: happiness, hostility, or hatred.”

  “Thanks for the info, Adler,” Pam says, winking.

  She asks about my trip. I say I’m traveling around the world for four months. I mention clausurado in Venezuela, Beaufort 7 in Greece, and bungee jumping in South Africa. She is impressed. The group is impressed. I am impressed. I enjoy a moment of serenity and self-acceptance. Pam takes my photo for her blog. I think about my blog and spoil a nice moment with one question: “Do your friends from home ever call or write?

  Girls: No.

  Brits: Speaking of shitehawks . . .

  Adler: My mother writes every day.

  One of the Brits puts his arm on the back of Pam’s chair, claiming her. He smiles. I smile.