Frans Amsterdam in Pattaya (part 13), from the old box: Phnom Penh 2015

Frans Amsterdam has settled down again in Pattaya and entertains us, until there are no more 'like' ratings, with his experiences in a follow-up story.

I woke up all alone. I had kicked my date out early because of official behavior (she had suddenly fallen asleep at her workplace). Can happen to you once, it is not symptomatic for Cambodia. Just pretend nothing happened and pick up the thread again.

The sun shone brightly. I could try to get a little tan on the balcony. There are comfortable chairs. At least that's what they look like. Sitting on them is second, because they are boiling hot. I lasted five minutes, then I gave up. I'd rather just die. It was showering without a faucet, so hot. Then a real shower to rinse off the sweat.

I went to have breakfast, write my story, upload photos, it takes a few hours. The afternoon shower lasted a long time today. When I saw him coming it was time to go to the Laundry. 9000 Riel for 1.8 kilos. It looked neat again. I went to return the package to the hotel. Meanwhile it started to rain lightly. I was right on time.

Half an hour later it stopped raining lightly. This was made of thick wood. I wondered how much rain fell. For lack of anything better, I put a glass on the balcony. It just didn't float away. The glass was 7 centimeters high and within 35 minutes it overflowed, while the rain only increased. I got up and slipped, nearly tripping on my jaw. The floor was wet. The water on the balcony did not drain properly and now entered the room through the sliding doors. There are tiles on the floor, that's not so bad. But there is wood under and around the playing field, and that was a shame. I grabbed all the towels I could find to protect the wood. That wouldn't last long, I reckoned. I called the reception. There was no recording. Then just walk down. They sat outside under the roof and came upstairs with them. I thought they would have washed this little pig more often, but there was no evidence of that. The only solution they knew was to kick the water with their bare feet. Of course that didn't work. For half an hour they persisted in this completely pointless occupation, then they gave up. With twenty towels you could have gotten the water out of the room, I think, and built a little dam at the level of the sliding doors, but now the whole room was flooded and it spilled into the hallway.

I was given another room, without a balcony, and they would check the next day if it had dried. They had never experienced this. The room without a balcony only has a window, and behind it is a kind of bay window with frosted glass, so you have light, but no view. Wondering if I will get a refund, because these rooms are cheaper. Without being able to look outside I knew it was still raining. Water sounds everywhere. I had some overdue writing work, I had time for that now. The anniversary party at the Mr. I had to pass up Butterfly Bar and the girl with the perpetual smile. I'd try my luck at the Platoon Disco then. After a few hours of good sleep I left at a quarter to one in that direction.

About thirty people were hanging out on the street in front of the disco. I don't know what's interesting about that, maybe they were trying to go with someone who would pay the $8 entrance fee. A group of American back-pack girls dropped out when they heard the prize. Most Cambodian girls were apparently richer then. Inside it was well stocked. I had to hunt for a spot at the large U-shaped bar for fifteen minutes. There were many middle-aged expats walking around, many groups of tourists and of course Cambodian – and perhaps Vietnamese – girls. I immediately made myself known as a newbie to the bar staff by ordering an Angkor Draft, when they only have Tiger on tap. I knew it!

Well, how was I going to handle that here? I couldn't remember ever entering a disco on my own where I didn't know anyone. And certainly not with the aim of working it out with the two of us. There was all kinds of fun going around, here they could have reported one by one for an introduction, but they didn't. The girls who were not already in the company of a gentleman often sat and stood in groups, or walked back and forth between the different groups. They were all no strangers to each other.

How exactly did that work, picking up such a freelancer? I actually had no idea, but if I didn't take some action myself, not much seemed to happen. To my right, one bar stool apart, were two girls who were probably not here just for fun. Before I had come up with a good excuse to move up one stool, the place was taken by an expat of about forty-five years old, two meters tall, type Anton Geesink. He did not sit on the stool (fortunately for that stool) but stood behind it and held the bar with one arm outstretched. Well, she could have something. My plan to move up was no longer realistic. He drank a drink unknown to me, it looked most like a glass full of beer foam. He ordered them in pairs and in fifteen minutes he had knocked back eight. Then he sat down on the stool. If the music hadn't been so loud, I definitely would have heard the stool groan. The girls on the right were now invisible and unreachable. In the meantime, a lady had also taken a seat to my left. It apparently belonged to the bottle of wine that had been sitting there in a cooler for some time. She filled her glass to the brim. It was Italian white wine. She was not so young anymore, but certainly not unattractive and very slim.

Suddenly I had an idea how I could handle it: I could just reverse the roles! When she lifted her glass, so did I, moving my glass towards hers, and saying, "Chook a moei!", the only Khmer word I know.
She toasted back and the glasses touched.
Now it was simple, I said: 'How are you?', 'Where are you from?', 'What's your name?' well, you know the tune. Everything was neatly answered, including the question 'You want boom-boom tonight?': 'Yes.' 50 bucks longtime was good. I estimated her at 28, she was 39. Cheerful type, reasonable English, I was very satisfied.
She wanted to dance first. I was too lazy for that. No problem, she would go dancing with a friend for half an hour. I was fine with it. She came back after 25 minutes. There was one glass left in her bottle, then we would go.
She leaned towards me and said:
Darling, can we talk?
"Sure."
'Can you give me more money?'.
'Why? Maybe tomorrow, ten or twenty more, if you are very good girl.'
'No. I want it now!'
'No way, goodbye!', and I turned 180 degrees.

Anton had disappeared, and so had the two girls. A beautiful girl walked by, high heels and tight jeans with twenty rips. I don't remember exactly, I think I just grabbed her and pulled her to me, just like the girls in Pattaya do.

After some negotiation, we settled on $80 until eleven. There is no barfine and not a drop of booze either, she went to get her own bottle.

At half past five we left by Tuk-Tuk to Mekong River Restaurant. I took fish fillets, she had Thai Tom Yum soup, they have that here too.
It was virtually extinct, and quiet on the street. There was still a drenched air from the rain the afternoon and evening before. At five o'clock I heard something. It came from very far away and did not sound pleasant to my ears. She confirmed my suspicion. There was a call to prayer. Muslims. It came from the other side of the river. That's where she came from herself. She pointed in three different directions; where she was born, where she went to school, and where she now lives.

"Do many Muslims live there?" I asked.
That was not too bad, most of them were more to the north, on this side of the river.
"Nice people?" I asked.
Well, she'd always just hung out with those kids. They were nice kids. But those men, they always told her parents that they wanted to know if she was fit to marry. The last time six years ago, she was seventeen. Then she had enough and came to work in the city to earn money and she picked out a friend herself, if she felt like it.
“You said 'last six years ago'. Has that been happening for a long time?'
'Since I was seven. But I still love my parents, you know.'
The call to prayer died in the silence.

– Relocated in memory of Frans Amsterdam (Frans Goedhart ) † April 2018 –