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.

An eye opening plate of curry

So there I was, in central Hong Kong, about to greedily inhale another mouthful of unbelievably authentic Indian food when the aptness city's marketing tagline 'Asia's World City' hit me in the face like a hidden chilli in chana dahl.


I was sitting in one of the many nameless Indian restaurants in the cramped, light- and air-less labyrinth of small shops that is Kowloon's infamous Chungking Mansions. To get to it I'd fought my way through swarms of touts offering 'Suit, buddy?', 'Money change, buddy?',  'Hostel, buddy?' or 'Indian food, buddy?'. A random Indian guy who wasn't a tout eventually recommended this place. When I eventually found it, I ordered food in Hindi - none of the staff spoke any English. The food came, and may as well have been flown in from Bombay; it was incredible.

But I digress. One table over two enormous Ugandan men were talking with an Indian guy who spoke impeccable, Canadian-accented English. Their table was crammed with all manner of meat and biryani dishes and their conversation was hushed and serious.


Meanwhile, two Swedish guys in matching suits tapped earnestly on the keyboards of their MacBook Pros.  They were creating a slide deck. For what purpose, I wasn't sure - there was nowhere near enough room for a projector in this place. They eventually packed their things and marched off in single file.


Around us a United Nations of South Asian and Chinese men scurried about with stacks of goods - among them, an estimated 20% of all the mobile phones to be sold on the African continent in the coming year. People walked by eating doner kebabs, garlic naan, noodles and pizza. The collision of cultures was like nothing I had ever seen before. In a place which I had long regarded as the boring cousin of major Asian hubs.


The Ugandan/Indian table took a break from business talk. The Ugandans switched to French to converse between themselves whilst the Indian guy fielded a heated business call in ... spanish? I frowned, mid bite and promptly bit my cheek. That can't be right. Why would an Indian guy ... speak spanish? I continued to listen surreptitiously. Eventually the Indian guy waved his hands - his fingertips missing the ceiling fan by centimeters - and shouted 'mui importante!' which pretty much settled the issue once and for all.


The morning in Hong Kong yielded two soakings in the rain, one plate of phenomenally good food and one moment of discovery. Not bad for a morning's work.

Beginnings. Or 'why I started a blog.'

I sat down, rubbed my hands together and took a deep breath. Slowly, and deliberately I placed my hands in typing position on the keyboard as if beginning some sort of religious ceremony handed down through generations. Opening my eyes from an extended, choreographed blink, which I did for dramatic affect, I leaned toward the screen and …

… realized that I haven’t the slightest idea as to how to start a blog post. I was puzzled by more than just the thought you open with – I wasn’t even sure what the first word of the post should be. Hi? It’s not a letter. Welcome? Or a restaurant. Ever since bloggers became legitimate news sources, celebrities and political prisoners I had presumed that blogging was somewhat akin to breathing; everyone knew how to do it. More or less. Yet here I was stumped before writing a single word. But that’s a bridge I’ll cross at a later stage. This post has, after all, already commenced.

So, why a blog? In one week I leave for a year long, round the world trip and, as anyone who knows someone who has taken a gap year will appreciate, I cannot wait to start gasbagging about it. And with the advent of the internet, I don’t even have to wait til I get home. Plus I don’t have to suffer the indignity of being told to shut up. But there’s something in it for you too, dear reader. You see, I have a tendency to make god awful life choices. Not insignificant stuff like giving to beggars and cycling at night; I’m talking sheer poorly-thought-out idiocy which, in certain situations often causes complete strangers to yell out ‘I told you so.’ But don’t just take my word for it; have a read of this anecdote.  I call it, The Egg.

January 2010

Somewhere between Varanasi and Gaya, Uttar Pradesh, India.

Train #12623 NDLS Rewa Express. Coach D7, berth 36.

11.33pm

Empty trains make a lot of noise. Especially as they hurtle headlong into the inky black night of presumably electricity-free Uttar Pradesh. Evin, Lucy and I sat on the one berth, freezing. Around us were 6 other foreigners catching what was meant to be the morning train to Gaya to see the Dalai Lama. Except the train was delayed, and several hours later became the graveyard train. Which departed with only us aboard. As the most Indian person in our rag tag bunch, all eyes were on me to ensure our safe conveyance to Gaya. And all I could think about was my stomach. I was hungry. The train was curiously devoid of any itinerant salespeople normally abundant on almost every train on the continent.

An Indian man carrying a bucket climbed aboard at a stop so out-of-the-way it didn’t have a sign. Or a platform. He looked like he’d never been in shade and was weathered like an old baseball glove. His features were sharp and evil in the yellow glow of the train lights. He placed the bucket roughly on the compartment floor and leered at us. I was terrified. My stomach growled.

‘Egg!’ he suddenly yelled. We all jumped and soon after exchanged confused glances. What could he possibly mean? The man reached into the bucket and whipped out a stained hard boiled egg. ‘Egg!’ he screamed again. We understood – he was an egg salesman. Who just happened to be insane.

I decided to evaluate the merits of eating an egg. I needed my wits about me, I was low on energy and, well, if I didn’t I was pretty sure my stomach would leap out of my body and consume it for me. So I indicated to the man, still crouched on his haunches on the floor glowering at us, that I would like an egg. Please.

He fished an egg out of his bucket and in one swift motion, cracked the shell on the ladder leading to the top bunk. Specifically, he cracked the egg, which I would soon be putting in my mouth, on the part of the ladder where one places their foot. Its just the shell, its still good, my mind chanted. Next, he used a grimy black fingernail to peel the cracked shell from the egg.  I winced each time he gripped and rotated the egg. My mind was out of ideas. Surely, the torture had to stop here. Or was it just beginning? Removing a rusty straight razor from somewhere in the bucket, the man sliced the egg – still in his palm- into two pieces and dropped the razor on the floor. He rummaged around the train for a scrap of newspaper and placed the two pieces of egg in it. He then sprinkled them with a spice mixture he had extracted with a grubby thumb and forefinger from his back pocket. Handing the heaving cess pool of bacteria to me, he accepted my ten rupee note and stomped off down the carriage.

Everyone stared open mouthed as I pondered what to do next. The egg might kill me, but it was definitely the last item of food I’d have a chance to eat for the foreseeable future.   It might be my last meal for a while, or my last meal ever. There was only one choice.

I ate the egg.

The decision to eat the aforementioned egg, and many others like it, is the very reason you should follow this blog. This year will entail all manner of stupidity – and it’s already started. From organizing a volunteer stint in Cambodia which spans Phnom Penh’s excruciatingly hot summer to attempting to walk the Inca trail at the height of Peru’s rainy season, I seem to have set myself up for all manner of challenges. And in following this blog you can observe me meet (fail at) them.

All the hilarity, none of the mess. Enjoy.