moderatelyExcessive

I step off the plane and the heat is upon me. I am immediately reminded of the stone sauna of the 10th Street Russian baths. I take a long, deep breath, hoping that my lungs will make the adjustment before I pass out.

I have slept for all of an hour on the journey here. Time means nothing to me right now - it has been streaming past me and I have hardly taken notice.

As I enter the terminal, a man is holding a sign with my name on it. I point to him to acknowledge him and quickly remember that pointing is considered rude, so I extend the other fingers of my hand hoping he didn’t notice my mistake. He hands me a blue document filled with Khmer script and wordlessly walks away. I surmise that this is my business visa voucher and I am so taken by the text that I stop to take a photo of the document itself. An airport guard comes to me and motions for me to put my camera away. No argument from me.

My visa is issued efficiently, and I am now exiting the airport. Two young women stand outside holding signs with my name on them. Nari and Sapea seem to recognize me from my photo as they smile at me before I have had the time to acknowledge their signs. They usher me to a small van and we get inside. The van’s air conditioning seems to be fighting a losing war against the heat, but at least it provides a breeze. As we drive, Sapea is asking me about myself in English, while Nari seems unable to understand most of what we are saying. I am talking, but my mind is on the swarm of motos and tuk-tuks encircling us as we drive, the huts and shacks that line every centimeter of the sidewalk on both sides of the road, the unidentifiable scents coming through the air-conditioning vent.

The streets remind me of the rows of chop-shops behind Shea Stadium; sun-roasted men and women  cook or fix motos in groups while cracked coconuts and durians sit aside piles of moto parts in front of almost every building.

Without traffic lights, the traffic moves about like a large flock of birds — everyone seeming to read the mind of the drivers around them. How drivers seem to know when to stop at busy intersections is beyond me.

Soon I am in front of Rory’s guest house, my place of rest, and Nari and Sapea have driven off. I check in, and return to the street. Within seconds there are four moto drivers vying for my business. They are relentless, and don’t seem to accept that I merely want to take a walk. Their offers start with a simple ride, but soon include incentives: marijuana and ladies.

“Girls, very young — very nice,” one of them says.

I do my best to dismiss them and I walk to a massage parlor run by a few blind men and women. An hour massage costs me $4, and in Cambodian terms, I think I overpaid.

After the massage, I am floating again.

I walk to the Mekong River, and now the scents of the city are all over me. Some are welcome: curry, coconut, and an occasional whiff of cheap perfume. Others are discouraging: rotting garbage, human waste, and is that the scent of an ungutted New Orleans house?

I wander for an hour or so, and the heat is inescapable and oppressive. Moto drivers approach me and I do my best to dismiss them, but then it happens: a girl of about five approaches me wearing nothing but a pair of shorts. Her bare feet are blistered, her ribs are pronounced, and she is making crying noises as she makes the unmistakeable motions begging me for food. I try to continue walking, but she is beside me and she is tugging the bottom of my shirt. I know that this is something I have to grow accustomed to, and I know that I have to learn how to say no to these requests. But it’s my first day, and I relent. I offer her some money, but she shakes her head and puts her hand to her mouth again. I buy her some chicken and rice, and she waits quietly while it is prepared.

I head back to my guest house, drenched in sweat, wondering whether I can adjust to this world.

The sun eventually sets and rain begins to fall. The rain doesn’t diminish the humidity, but it does provide a measure of relief. The streets are dark. There are no streetlights, only the glow emanating from bars and restaurants. I don’t know where I am headed, but I begin to wander again. I want a beer. Badly.

I pass The Shanghai - a hostess bar where young women dressed in revealing clothing are wedged behind the bar like in a clown car, waiting for Western men to enter. A pair of Western men sit inside surrounded by a half-dozen women who smile and laugh, but hardly seem to understand the conversation taking place. As I step inside, four women launch themselves over the bar to greet me, and I reflexively step back outside and continue down the street.

I pass a building called the Heaven Hotel. A colorful neon Cherub adorns the outside of the building while a dozen young women wait just inside the doorway wearing what look like prom dresses.

I continue walking, and occassionally women sprint towards me and begin conversation, or negotiation, depending on how you look at it.

I finally find escape in a small bar whose name I don’t recall. The two hostesses are extremely friendly, and the beer is extremely cheap and cold and delicious. One of the hostesses, also named Sapea, stands aside me, hand on my shoulder, throughout the evening. She laughs at everything I say, and encourages me to keep drinking. Before I am really aware of what is happening, she has me agreeing to meet her in the morning for a tour of the city, starting with a shopping trip to the landmark French market a few blocks away. I am past resistance. It is 2 a.m., and I am done for the evening. As I return to the street for the walk home, I know that I will not meet her in the morning — it has been days since I last slept and 8 hours will hardly be enough to revive me.

I return to the guest house and a few guys I met earlier in the day are gathered at the bar and invite me to join them. I do — time be damned.