Ministry of Fish P’chum Ben party

Friday the 23rd
Ministry of Fish P’chum Ben party
P’chum Ben is a Khmer festival of the dead which lasts for 15-day in which people remember their past relatives, ancesters, loved ones that have passed on, et cetera.

17:30 we all meet up in the Ministry car park, I decide to follow them on my bike as I prefer the freedom to make a run for it from office parties here. (usually once the karaoke starts)
Following the cars is a challenge. The combination of rush hour traffic and standard suicidal Khmer driving tactics results in my losing sight of them.
Luckily Buntha had told me yesterday that it was at the same restaurant that we went to for the office Khmer New Year party.

Leaving Phnom Penh I drive over the Japanese Friendship Bridge, a narrow, steeply humped concrete bride crossing the wide and fast flowing Tonle Sap River, on the banks I can see the piles of cargo containers at the city’s commercial port. As well as, wooden fishing boats plying their trade in the waters below beneath a setting red sun and purple sky... Although the fast and densely packed traffic on the bridge does not allow time to enjoy the view.
Once over the bridge the next 5 Km contain about 50 restaurants. The restaurant I am thinking of is about halfway along, if I remember correctly.

Stopping at half a dozen places mid route I am unable to see the restaurant, or any of their cars. So I pull over to the side of the road to call Buntha. Alas, my phone has no credit left on it. Mobiles here are pay-as-you-go, but once you are under US$1 you can not make calls. You can however still send text messages - (.03c for a local text, .43c for an international one). So I send one to Buntha asking for the name of the restaurant.

A minute later my phone rings and it is Vuthy, our boss. However, I only manage to get as far as ‘hello’ before my phone cuts off – flat battery, damn !

So I decide to do another back and forth of the restaurants. After another 20 minutes pulling up and down restaurant driveways, looking at parked cars and asking various waiters if The Ministry of Fish are in their restaurant I pull over again and decide to see if I have enough credit and battery left for another text message – thankfully I do, I explain that the battery is flat on the phone and that I am driving up and down lost. Just as the message confirms the phone dies completely!

Deciding on one last sweep of the restaurants, over a wider search area I put the bike into gear and… - clunk, shudder, crack. It lurches wildly forward, shudders and I am almost flung off. The clutch cable has just snapped. I am over 5km from Phnom Penh, on an unlit, and busy, main road - well, that is to say; dirt track with no tarmac, mud, gravel, potholes the size of a water buffalo and HGV’s hurtling past at breakneck speed.

Finding a slight incline, I get the bike moving downhill and slip (crash, bang, wallop) the bike into second gear. At which point I just have to prey I do not need to stop, slow down or do anything that is not crawl along in second for the trip back to town.

Halfway along the road back to the bridge, the bike again starts to shudder, damn, running low on petrol! Fortunately there is a large Caltex petrol station up ahead and I pull into there – stalling the bike to a stop next to a slightly nervous looking 12 year old Khmer girl petrol pump attendant.

Slipping a few dollars worth of petrol into the bike I push it over to one side as I have spotted a small wooden stall at the side of the road which is the Cambodian equivalent of a payphone – basically you use the old woman’s mobile phone, she checks the length of the call on the display and charges you about double what it costs her.

Getting through to Buntha’s phone, Kimtek answers it (he works with Buntha and myself) between his pigeon English and my pigeon Khmer I establish that Buntha is not there and that the restaurant has in fact been changed, it is no longer the one over the bridge that we went too before, but one back in the centre of Phnom Penh. Not being able to get any answers out of him (in any language) as to the name of the restaurant or its location I give up.

Crash, bang, wallop, the bike is back in second gear and I am crawling back to home – 5km to the bridge and the another 4 or 5 to the south end of town where I live. Half an hour later I arrive home in a slightly peevish mood (to say the least) I plug my phone in on charge, have a shower (it started raining halfway home) and slip into some dry clothes.

At this point my phone rings again, sighing as I see Buntha’s name and number come up I answer the phone

“Bong Darren, where you now? We wait you long time. You come now or not?”

NB Language point - Bong in this context means Sir, or respected elder. (even if I am younger than Buntha…)

Explaining the catalogue of disaster that had befallen me this evening I said that I could not make it. He swiftly said that was not a problem and that he would be at my house in 10 minutes to pick me up. Before I could get another excuse out for my new antisocial mood he had hung up.

Sighing again, I head back into my room to get changed again for an evening out with the boys from work, and our boss.

True to his word, Buntha was outside in ten minutes, sounding his horn and waving frantically up at my flat. Ten minutes after that I am at the tiny Khmer BBQ restaurant joining my intoxicated colleagues (yup, they had had a second beer while waiting for me) and being handed plates of barbequed king prawns and glasses of ABC Stout (9%ABV)

So I set about eating some very good food, during which every 30 seconds, my colleagues keep going ‘cheers’ clanking glasses with me and shouting ‘finish’ (Special memory jogger there for Glen and Paul!)

Then, of course, the karaoke starts…

Now, Khmers take their karaoke very seriously and after a few songs they start asking me ‘Darren, Darren you sing a song, you sing a song’ as always in this situation I stall them as long as possible. But it gets to a point where if you do not sing, they start to think that you are not happy, that you are not enjoying yourself and that upsets them, they start to think that they are bad hosts because you are not happy and singing!?!

So, my lungs powered by the strength of ABC Stout (9%ABV) I join Kimchhea in a duet of ‘I just called to say I love you’ (do not ask, hell, do not even try to understand it, and for the love of all that is holy, do not try and imagine it !)

Halfway through the song I start improving and singing some of the songs lyrics in Khmer, my colleagues start falling of their chairs they are laughing so hard.

Thankfully, 10 o’clock rolls around and the party wraps up. Heading outside Buntha, Kimtek, Kimchhea and Bunna inform me that we are going to another bar to carry on the party (now that the boss, et cetera have left)
So driving a dozen blocks North (rather than the few south and to home) we pull up outside the Tip Top VIP Karaoke bar… aggghhhhh.

Making a swift set of excuses about having to meet some friends, I jump on a moto-taxi outside the hotel and leave them to it. Thankfully the karaoke bar is only a couple of blocks away from the new Peace Café and I call in there for a couple of drinks and some peace and quiet.

Arriving home at 11:30, I find that all of Heng’s girlfriends had left and that she was just watching TV, looking up from the sofa as I come in she asks, with a big grin on her face, ‘we go out now? No work tomorrow, I want to go out’…

Ten minutes later I am heading back up to the Peace Café and a couple more drinks…

Just as we are getting ready to leave, Pete comes in and I need to catch up with him regarding various issues we have with the new Khmer440 website, so it is back to the barstool and a few more drinks.

As 03:30 rolls around I am very glad that my moto-taxi driver is still waiting outside for us, even if he is laying flat on his back, legs over the handlebars, fast asleep on the Honda Dailim 50cc he drives !