Milk was a bad choice

I sped into the convenience store parking lot in fourth gear at 95 kilometers an hour and screeched to a halt centimeters from a guard rail. Leaping off the bike, I thrust my backpack at Elliot, my terrified pillion passenger, and sprinted through the swinging glass doors emblazoned with 'Lucky 7 Supermarket' in English and Khmer. I made a bee line for a cooler at the back of the store, all the while roaring like a wounded circus animal.


You can get almost anything here in Phnom Penh. Every type of liquor imaginable. Pirated textbooks. Bush meat. Substandard English education from a moronic Australian with a beard. Fake petrol. One hundred percent pure Colombian cocaine ladies and gentlemen. Disco shit. Assault rifles. Hit by a speeding U.S. embassy Escalade SUV. Mature duck eggs for live consumption. AIDS.


Everything except dairy products. Short of risking life and limb on Monivong Boulevard to the absurdly expensive Soriya Supermarket, a dairy addict such as yours truly finds himself merely dreaming of cheese, flavoured milk and fruit yoghourt. Or any yoghourt for that matter. Is that even how you spell yoghourt?


Take this situation, teach a class focussed on the humble cow and allow your students to convince you that Lucky 7 Supermarket has a dairy cabinet. Soon you'll be careering up the aisles screaming 'Miiiiiiiiiiiiilllllllllllllllllk' while the staff shake with fear. Just as I was.


A few minutes and US$4 later I sat astride my bike and cracked the seal of my bottle of imported Thai milk. It was sweet and thin. But it was milk. Barely. 


Back at home, sipping the last of the milk I allowed myself a brief smile. Before my digestive system packed up and headed for the door. I hastily scribbled a note on the milk, literally threw it in the fridge and sprinted upstairs to my bathroom. Where I stayed for the rest of the evening.

Milk was a bad choice. 

Into the Heart of Let Downs

'So, ready to go?'


I gulped and gingerly placed the last bite of a greasy cheeseburger in my mouth. It was 2.30am. We were sitting on plastic chairs at a low table on the footpath of Street 51, taking a break from the evening to sample the local late night fare. A US$2 cheeseburger hit the spot pretty well, but the remainder of the evening beckoned.


I cast my mind back to our Safety and Security in Phnom Penh induction session earlier that day. 'Whatever you do,' an Australian expat named Rod had told us,' never EVER go to Street 51 after dark.' Check. 'And if you do go there, don't hang out on the street itself,' he continued. Check again. 'And I can't emphasis enough how important it is that you do not, under any circumstances, go to Heart of Darkness.' 


A few of us had heard of the infamous Phnom Penh nightlife institution where rich Khmer youth regularly kicked the living shit out of complete strangers for fun. Backed by their heavily armed bodyguards, these kids saw committing brutal violence as a kind of rite of passage. We'd also heard that the club was notorious for gunfights in which multiple participants emptied automatic weapons from the club's upstairs terrace into their victims on the exposed dance floor below. It was one seriously fucked up place. Which, before I knew it, we were in line to enter. Check. Uh-oh.

I was nervous. I began to wonder which moments would constitute my life and flash before my eyes. I regretted not writing my blood type on my shoes. Did life insurance cover nightclub war zones?


At the head of the queue two security guards patted me down. I had learnt some time ago that this was for the protection of the aforementioned rich kids and their bodyguards who always entered unsearched. A large sign above the door advised that firearms could be checked at the coat room for US$3.


Heart of Darkness literally lived up to its name. I struggled to see anything as my hearing was assaulted by absurdly loud techno music. Feeling my way around the walls I climbed some stairs for a better vantage point from which to observe the club. My eyes adjusted to the light to reveal ...


... a smattering of male tourists in thongs and football jerseys. Drinking Angkor beer from large bottles. And looking decidedly un-murdered. The myth began to deflate. And with it my fear. Roaming the club revealed that the only hardy souls braving the depths of hell were bored Khmer working girls and those tourists who classified 'dressing up' as wearing a jersey with a number on the back. 


We hightailed it out of there, in search of a place where we might realistically be shot at. Because here in Phnom Penh, safety is just boring.