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.
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Milk was a bad choice.
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.
.JPG)
Milk was a bad choice.
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