Maladroit Joint

I manage to rouse myself out of bed by 11:30 and what do you know, it's yet another beautiful day of perfect Boracay weather. Do people in nice climates just never have long dark nights of the soul? It's ridiculous, I can't get any proper introspection done in these conditions.

I wander around the D*Mall looking for breakfast and succor from the powerful, loving god of commercialism.

As a treat, I find the fanciest-looking breakfast I can, which for my money is the mango French toast at the Lemon Cafe. I follow up with a raspberry mango smoothie, because mangoes here are incredible. Filipino food may be blander than the soft rock DJ at a church fundraiser, but on this island I've been enjoying the best mangoes of my life, which until now I always thought of as kind of a garbage fruit.

Because the D*Mall is so ridiculously upscale, it even has the D*Wall, a climbing pinnacle with three routes and belayers standing by. I have a little time before my flight, so I let them strap me into the hard route. After all, I just climbed in Railay that one time therefore I'm probably back in top form.

Thus I climb, and for some reason I am unable to manage the last couple of grips to get to the top. The equipment must have broken, and I think my hands were sweaty so it wasn't really fair. The belayer guy definitely did not have to keep asking if I was gonna make it or not, exercising his sole window for passive-aggression in a job he must hate.

And that's that for the Philippines. It's been...okay to good, all averaged out. I check out of Bella Casa, get a trike to the airport, fly to Manila, wander around the terminal, and realize it's the wrong one. The shuttle for terminal transfer is out of gas, so I have to take a cab that never turns on the meter and likely overcharges me. Dang. After a caramel frappuccino and some unfortunate beef teriyaki, I'm finally in the air cruising to the Singapore airport, which is itself my next  destination. I'll explain.

Singapore's Changi airport has been repeatedly voted the best airport in the world for years, and boasts a number of gimmicky attractions to occupy a waiting commuter. Free movie cinemas, massage chairs, a rooftop swimming pool, even a flippin' butterfly garden. Since I hardly saw the airport when I was last in Singapore, I arranged for a long layover here before moving on to Cambodia, and the likely end of my trip. Basically, I like gimmicks, and this probably didn't actually need so much explaining. Lemme at those butterflies!

The thing is, I forgot that I was flying a budget airline. All that time in Boracay hobnobbin' with affluent Aussies and eating hella bourgeois French toast, I must've straight forgot I was brown water trash. Unfortunately, and I probably could've seen this coming, all the attractions of Singapore's airport are past the security checkpoint and thus require a boarding pass. A boarding pass that will be a long time coming since budget airlines only open a couple hours before the flight. And I arranged for a solid 10 hour layover to reeeally put those gimmicks through their paces.

So. After trying to sleep across three chairs in that way that always works and is super comfortable in an airport and definitely isn't just going to result in nonstop fidgeting and back ache, I get some kaya toast and coffee and look around for some damn thing to enjoy in this pre-security fucker. What I find is a gallery showcasing dioramas of the Singapore airport throughout the years. By which I mean that I find nothing. Because no one could possibly find this interesting, and that includes the people who made the gallery.

After a simply cruel number of hours have passed, I finally receive my boarding pass and rush around the airport with about an hour left to see...well, in the end a koi pond, some cacti, and a room of hotly anticipated Lepidoptera.

I'll hand it to the folks at Changi, the butterfly garden's an impressive setup.

Is it a setup worth a 10 hour layover? Of course not, I'm just a goddamn maniac. Still, with expectations low I bet you can have some good times great oldies.

In fact, even cooler than the butterflies is a carnivorous plant exhibit, which is very special if you ever grew up with a friend whose mom bought him a Venus Fly Trap when you were kids, and you were so wracked with jealousy you totally screen-looked every time you both played GoldenEye even though when he accused you of it you said you totally didn't.

After flying to Phnom Penh, I share a tuk-tuk from the airport with this New Zealander filming everything. According to him, photos are so last century, and when he's done traveling he'll compile all his footage into a music video of his trip. He's headed all the way to Siem Reap, and asks if I'd like to join. Though secretly jealous of his forward-thinking traveloguing, I gotta pass. I don't have too much time left, and still too much to see here first. I get off the tuk-tuk at the Lazy Gecko guesthouse, which isn't a bad set of digs.

For one, they've hung a bunch of what I must assume to be paintings of beloved transvestite Divine everywhere, which is a fun, kooky touch.

Taking a minute to enjoy the balcony, I meet Frenchmen Alex and Sebastien. They're busy smoking whatever the cool French word for reefer is, and don't bat an eye when I mosey up alongside them. I let them know that I'm on the level by telling them how much I too enjoy the reefer, making sure to pronounce it "ree-FAIHR" in a very authentic French accent. They can tell I'm obvs not a narc, and I clearly know my shit. Alex offers to sell me a bag for $10, which seems to me to be decent bud (I'm fairly certain this is a real term), but then I'm the guy that bought the fifty dollar bag of tobacco back in 'Nam. I'm gonna with my gut.

Unfortunately, I'm actually broke at the moment, so the frogs are left hanging, but they promise to still be around later. It's as good a time as any to go exploring, so I buzz by the Friendship Monument and the Royal Palace, the latter at which I make the acquaintance of an Italian girl named Angela, herself just back from Siem Reap.

She's chill and I manage to pretend to be a normal human being long enough that we get along great. Together we check out the Royal Museum, which is...another museum. I can't keep up. Believe me, I looked at every single display case, read every placard I could, really tried to take an interest. None of it stuck. Probably my own failing.

We head riverside to eat at the internet-recommended Green Vespa, which is shockingly expensive for Cambodia. In fact, as a whole Cambodia is a lot more expensive than I expected, which still doesn't make it an actually expensive country, but noticeably pricier than similar places like Thailand and Vietnam. It's something to do with their own currency being reliant on the American dollar, which you will use far more than their own Cambodian notes. It's highly reminiscent of the situation in Myanmar. Really, everything in Cambodia is reminiscent of other, surrounding countries. Except for the Khmer script on the storefronts, you'd be hard-pressed to tell a photo of a random street in Phnom Penh from any other large Southeast Asian city.

At Green Vespa I enjoy some pasta carbonara of which she is extremely skeptical. She goes on to add that she'll never eat Italian food abroad, because she's Italian and and has her Italian standards. Which makes a lot of sense to me, Italians not eating Italian food abroad, because the Italians have no clue what pizza actually is. Like most things, Americans had to take the original Italian idea of pizza (that is to say, circular toast smothered in olive oil with just a pinch of mozzarella) and unleash the potential hidden within. Have I been to Italy? No. Do I feel confident in judging their local cuisine regardless? Remarkably so.

Anyways, she orders something boring like a chicken sandwich, and then agrees to hit up a film night at local indie theater The Flicks. The movie makes absolutely no impression on me, and even less on her. We agree that it was a movie, and now it's time to call it a night. Despite our obvious chemistry we part ways firmly and chastely, but with plans to meet the next morning to see the S-21 Genocide Museum and the Killing Fields. Some very choice romantic spots, to be sure.

As promised, Sebastien is on the balcony in the morning, and sells me a bag for $10 he bought himself from Alex. "No profit," he assures. Is there always, everywhere in Southeast Asia a French dealer who's got what you need? Gosh, it is just super okay to say whatever you want about the French. Just a few paragraphs back I called them frogs! That's probably not going to be okay in like thirty years. But who gives a shit, it's the French.

Unfortunately, Sebastien doesn't have anything pre-rolled. Being a true red-blooded American, I'm used to enjoying the invention of this thing we call "pipes", and have no clue how to roll a blunt/spliff/doobie/that cross-joint thing in Pineapple Express. When I sheepishly ask if there's any possibility Sebastien could roll me something, he misunderstands and happily points out that the corner shop sells all the rolling papers I could ever need. Fuck.

But hold on. Angela is Italian, and Italy is in Europe, ergo she should carry the joint-rolling genetic trait. It still means I probably won't be able to see S-21 stoned as a friend suggested, but then that sounded like a SU-per bad idea in the first place. Gonna have to give the baked bummers a big ol' pass and just see the Genocide Museum sober and respectful.

Angela's awaiting at our designated meeting spot, The Lazy Gecko, calmly and respectfully psyched for the day. We tell a tuk-tuk driver we want the full package, S-21 and the Killing Fields, but no rifle range. They always try to slip in a visit to shoot off an AK along with the genocide tour, and don't seem to understand why a person might not be in the mood to fire an automatic assault rifle after seeing the atrocities of man laid bare. We're just weird like that, sorry tuk-tuk bro.
One of the first things you'll see entering the grounds of S-21, or rather the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum, is a sign prohibiting visitors from smiling or laughing. Not a big ask, believe me.

So in case you didn't know, S-21 is a former high school that the Khmer Rouge turned into...you know what? I'm gonna go ahead and drop the "serious travelogue of Southeast Asia" ruse. Just a little while ago I was talking about ornate French Toast and being awkward around girls, so I've got a hunch that if you've stuck with me this far, you're not super interested in the tonal whiplash that a detailed description of one of the Khmer Rouge's main execution centers would inflict. I will say this, that one of the survivors was there, telling his story and selling his memoirs. I gave him money, but did not take his book. It was too real. I feel bad now about not wanting to feel that bad, but that's being a tourist for you.

We move on with whatever the opposite of pep would be in our step to the Choeung Ek Killing Fields, which has multiple signs asking visitors not use any alcohol or drugs. I'm again glad my pathetic drug preparation skills have allowed me to appreciate the place with a clear mind. Actually, my teeth hurt and my stomach is on the verge of ruination from some nefarious earlier meal, but that's kind of the perfect mood for a tour of the Killing Fields. No one talks at any point during our entire tour. Even the guide seems to be as terse as possible. Can't imagine it's a job you spring out of bed for.

I keep trying to think of how I can describe the experience, and want to mention the story of the- no, too dark. Perhaps I'll talk about the- no, definitely should stay away from that.

Suffice to say, like S-21 the Killing Fields are not something I want (or even possess the ability) to talk about and not something I imagine you want to read about, not in this format. You will feel sick and you will feel hopeless for the rest of the day, and that comes as my recommendation.

Angela and I are nothing if not thorough sightseers however, so we struggle on for a jaunt around Wat Phnom, a presumably important temple located smack-dab in the center of the city. From Wikipedia I gather that it is the tallest religious structure in city as well, being built on a little hill that has a few steps to climb, but nothing close to the hikes I was making in Burma.

It's got a lot of stupas and pointy bits and some very nicely manicured grounds to walk around and looks a lot like a lot of other Buddhist temples I've walked around that that had a lot of stupas and statues and very nicely manicured grounds. I am so templed out, and I still have Angkor Wat ahead of me. Verdict: if you've already seen the majority of important Buddhist temples throughout Southeast Asia and just came back from walking the sites of some of one of history's worst genocides and just really aren't into the mood, you can probably give Wat Phnom a pass.

We grab lunch nearby. Angela is on her way to Laos, and needs to get her passport back from the Laotian embassy. Of course the second we finish eating, the skies close up and drop down a flash tropical storm. Despite the torrential rain, Angela still takes the time to really put the mustard on haggling with the tuk-tuk drivers outside, their numbers dwindling as they drive away with other, drier passengers. Eventually, her winning style of bargaining (half-pointing, half-glaring, all-yelling) crushes the spirit of one driver enough that he agrees to take us for however many tens of cents less she demanded.

Through the downpour we can see some sort of protest going on in front of the French embassy, with whom I assume must be locals kneeling in front of the gate.

Whatever's going on over there seems way more interesting than any Wat, but we're in a tuk-tuk, and it's really wet outside, and what am I going to do: shout "Later, idiot!" at Angela and jump out so I can try to ingratiate myself with some very miserable people so later I can write a Vice article about how one time I crashed a minor Cambodian protest?

Post-embassy we grab drinks at Mao's, an entirely Mao-themed upscale bar that for some reason exists in a country with a...strained relationship to communism. The kitsch inside is pure dead magic.

Everything in the bar is red and covered with some sort of Mao portrait, and I wouldn't have ever believed you could buy this many commercial products adorned with the image of such a staunch enemy of capitalism had I not seen it for myself in Shanghai, so many moons ago.

After a tasteless dinner of unremarkable Cambodian fare, again very reminiscent of Myanmar, I bring up the subject of smoking illegal drugs, which is always a delicate situation with new companions that I almost certainly botch and make weird every time. Fortunately, Angela's a fan of the pot, and suggests we go to a shisha bar where we can smoke it semi-incognito. This is a great plan that fills us both with a lot of confidence as we get to a shisha bar, find a tucked-away corner booth, and I reveal my contraband. Then she asks me to roll.

There's no point in prevaricating, so I tell her the truth. I can't roll joints because god dammit, I'm an American and we have civilized fucking glassware that make it so you never have to worry about goddamn "skins" or all this prep work that I am sure only exists as a way for some stoners to put themselves above other stoners, regardless of how often they say words like "One Love" and "irie".
"I can't roll either, my friends have always rolled for me," she replies. We stare at each other in the dimly lit booth with expressions far, far graver than this situation should elicit. This table cluttered with a superfluous hookah bought only to act as a cover has now become a proving ground. This is going to be a trial. By fire. LITERALLY.

Passing back and forth, we agonizingly construct a half-dozen crooked, lumpy bastards that fall apart under the slightest pressure until, at last, I put together something starting to resemble what a human person could call a "joint." Angela still has to take it apart a bit, give it a slight re-roll, a little more skin for support, some TLC here and there, but it's done. It's still crooked, it's still very lumpy, but it's smokeable. And just like that, Angela and I share this maladroit joint that keeps going out, and doesn't want to light, and burns really unevenly, yet it's still the best joint because we built it together. I think this story finally got the thematic conclusion it needs to officially count as coming-of-age and thus have a unifying narrative arc! Go team!

There's an open mic at an Irish pub, and it's about as disappointing as every open mic at every Irish pub. Maybe a little less. Who cares. After one song, Angela says goodbye and leaves forever, since we never exchanged contact information. It probably wasn't the open mic act that made her leave, but still people, be careful out there.

The night is still young, however. Wikitravel makes a big deal (or did at the time) of warning people against one specific club with the ominous name of Heart of Darkness, where a fatal shooting occurred about 6 years ago.

Heart of Darkness is indeed a seedy, over-decorated nightclub with a dangerous reputation, and after touring some atrocities and kinda sorta doing some drugs, I feel dangerous myself. Of course, I don't actually do anything of note, just sit by myself and have a drink and no one except the waitstaff interacts with me at all, but I certainly feel my badass power level go up a few points. In hindsight....I've got a strong hunch actual badasses don't talk about power levels. Also, Heart of Darkness is kind of lame unless you want to hire a prostitute, and it probably isn't even great for that.

But hey, how funny is it that I've been to bars called both Heart of Darkness and Apocalypse Now, because Apocalypse Now was based on...damn. Not actually that funny. Phnom Penh, I'm done. Time to head North, and see...oh god more temples. So many temples. There's just no way Buddha was that cool, guys! No way. But then...then I will at last fly back to Seattle, where I never have to see another temple again. Unless they serve craft IPA or something, then we'll see how it goes.