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Right outside the hotel where I'll be staying at (again....) is a long cowboy-town stretch of road littered with bars, pubs, eateries and a kickboxing school. Although certain parts can be a little dodgy its still rather Holland V-ish. I'm looking forward to that 25baht fishball noodle
but not the tedium of night. The worst cowboy town I've been to was this small stretch of vice and grime on the outskirt of Phnom Penh in '96. Camouflaged from the main road by a ring of shophouses, its a sickening sight that's impossible to shake off. Like the stench of puke litted by neon-pink lights.
The U.N. peacekeepers were still there then. Two prime ministers were wrestling for power. One morning hand grenades were thrown into a group of protestors outside parliament. Dozens dead. A hundred over injured. Despite the heavy police presence, no culprits were caught. I got to the carnage an hour later. Slippers belonging to the injured and dead were strewn around. People were milling about where joss-sticks lined the kerb. There were traces of blood but most of it had been splashed away. A couple days later we were inside the royal palace. I could have sat next to Anne Parillaud. We ate some fine French cuisine. We stayed at the best hotel and were brought on a visit to a floating casino. Then I walked the pot-holed roads and dark destitute streets. Saw a four or five year old kid-beggar whose arms and legs were cutoff by begging syndicates. Went to a popular cinema and saw a local blockbuster about the Pol Pot Regime. The kids giggled when someone got shot or blown away onscreen. Our driver told us every single family have had at least a couple of immediate relatives murdered under Pol Pot's rule. Every pub has a security guard with a pistol. The big clubs have a few armed with pistols and AK47s. The first time I saw an AK47 up close. Inside there were pole dancing and the works. Inside the inside is another exclusive zone with more clients made up of small groups of middle-aged men. I heard someone muttered in Singaporean accent and another slang in KL mandarin.
I don't really know how to describe how I felt then. One really disjointed topsy-turvy ride rolling between despair and the morbid to pleasure and illumination. I went back to Phnom Penh about 2 years ago. The pot holes are gone. Now there are street lights at night. The once gritty Foreign Correspondent Club is a swanky cafe-restaurant. People are happier. I haven't seen those AK47s around. Most of all I so hope that cowboy town had been shut down. The amputated kid is probably dead by now. If not he should probably be 14 or 15 years old today without arms and legs.
I hope Nuance find some time to record something. For now let's enjoy this.
but not the tedium of night. The worst cowboy town I've been to was this small stretch of vice and grime on the outskirt of Phnom Penh in '96. Camouflaged from the main road by a ring of shophouses, its a sickening sight that's impossible to shake off. Like the stench of puke litted by neon-pink lights.
The U.N. peacekeepers were still there then. Two prime ministers were wrestling for power. One morning hand grenades were thrown into a group of protestors outside parliament. Dozens dead. A hundred over injured. Despite the heavy police presence, no culprits were caught. I got to the carnage an hour later. Slippers belonging to the injured and dead were strewn around. People were milling about where joss-sticks lined the kerb. There were traces of blood but most of it had been splashed away. A couple days later we were inside the royal palace. I could have sat next to Anne Parillaud. We ate some fine French cuisine. We stayed at the best hotel and were brought on a visit to a floating casino. Then I walked the pot-holed roads and dark destitute streets. Saw a four or five year old kid-beggar whose arms and legs were cutoff by begging syndicates. Went to a popular cinema and saw a local blockbuster about the Pol Pot Regime. The kids giggled when someone got shot or blown away onscreen. Our driver told us every single family have had at least a couple of immediate relatives murdered under Pol Pot's rule. Every pub has a security guard with a pistol. The big clubs have a few armed with pistols and AK47s. The first time I saw an AK47 up close. Inside there were pole dancing and the works. Inside the inside is another exclusive zone with more clients made up of small groups of middle-aged men. I heard someone muttered in Singaporean accent and another slang in KL mandarin.
I don't really know how to describe how I felt then. One really disjointed topsy-turvy ride rolling between despair and the morbid to pleasure and illumination. I went back to Phnom Penh about 2 years ago. The pot holes are gone. Now there are street lights at night. The once gritty Foreign Correspondent Club is a swanky cafe-restaurant. People are happier. I haven't seen those AK47s around. Most of all I so hope that cowboy town had been shut down. The amputated kid is probably dead by now. If not he should probably be 14 or 15 years old today without arms and legs.
I hope Nuance find some time to record something. For now let's enjoy this.
