“Tonight, we go dance, and go music.”
So, it was decided by Buhn, my Cambodian friend.
Night falls quickly over Phnom Penh and with it the tempo of the city changes. Under cover of dark it appears to take itself less seriously. It’s calmer, almost playful in the warm honey glow from the overhead streetlights. No brash neon street lighting here. Or perhaps after the harshness of daylight it’s a welcome relief. In daylight the streets are a constant roiling mass of traffic. Footpaths, such as they are, are pitted and crumbling. People walk on the road taking their chances amongst the traffic. Night is when the Khmers come out to eat, relax, exercise, socialise, and yes even play. The night-time promenade has begun.
Across the city at dusk the large open parklands that sweep between the boulevards become the social hub. Exercise groups dance in numbers to blaring music, sometimes hip hop, sometimes the strains of traditional Khmer music and song. Even the Macarena got a run. Joggers and shufflers alike share the cement pathways. Small pockets of exercisers have brought games to be played and shared, like badminton. Ladies walking groups pound the footpaths enthusiastically. No one messes with these gals. Some carry and use fans to beat at the city heat even at night. They obviously have right of way, and people step aside to let them through without breaking stride. In brightly coloured and patterned pajama outfits they giggle and natter loudly. I wonder, are they discussing politics, or maybe talking up their kids’ achievements, or simply swapping recipes.
More importantly, for the youth of Phnom Penh it is a chance to meet and flirt and romance each other. The streets are lined with motos (motorcycles and scooters) as the younger kids take this opportunity to strut and parade for each other. Of course, they have no private space of their own to meet, so night-time is lived outdoors, in large social groups. Some couples seek out the darker reaches for privacy.
As wonderful as this is to see, it must never be too far from their minds that although the evening is free, lives are not always so. An English language newspaper reported detaining a couple caught kissing in a public garden. Police said the public display of affection was embarrassing and called on the couple to limit themselves to expressing their love in private. The couple said they always sat and kissed in the garden but agreed after being “educated” by police they would restrain themselves in future. With liberty curtailed at a whim, and police “education” the repercussion, it’s understandable then it was with some trepidation I agreed to accompany my Khmer friend to the Chaktomok Dance Club.
Off in the tuk-tuk down Sisowath Quay, the riverfront road that is the main tourist strip T intersects with streets 130, 118, 102. By the time we start getting into double digits, street 90, 82, 70 it’s dark and deserted. Although still in Phnom Penh I become aware I am heading a long way off the tourist track. No other Caucasian will be there. I speak NO Khmer. Oh, what the hell! This is an adventure, right? No time to ponder as we disappear under the Chruoy Changvar Bridge, and really do enter the dark side. No electricity this side of the bridge. It is my understanding if there was we would be in the red-light district. I surmise this by the string of roadside girls with reflector strips on their high heels. Ingenious!
A sudden right turn off the road and we launch full-tilt into what appears to be a blockade of shop fronts and enter a go-down. Barely the width of a motorcycle handlebar, these tiny laneways run off main roads, and as the name implies, go down where real Khmer life is lived. We zipped between a row of tenements, old cement triple deckers, corroding and collapsing but still home, and spun into a gravel car park styled enclosure that backed onto the Mekong River. Here it was dark, no cars, but the feeling of eyes watching made me aware we were not alone.
Squeals from the river alerted me to what was the Chaktomok Dance Club.
A big squat barge sat wallowing in the river. Central to the deck structure was a large, windowed room, not unlike an old-time paddle steamer, or Mississippi gambling boat, if you let your more romantic imagination get away from you. All that was missing was a paddle wheel at the rear. Shabby, but afloat, it was moored to a narrow wooden swing bridge being the only access to and from the makeshift car park onto the Chaktomok Dance Club. Unlike the rest of the area the boat had power cranked up by diesel generators. That sure was the more pervasive of smells riding the night air.
The squeals, accompanied by wild waving, caterwauling, and blown kisses, came from about fifteen flamboyantly dressed young women hanging over the deck railing who, from the distance, seemed very eager for us to come onboard. I gathered it was because we were the first revellers to arrive at the Dance Club tonight and they were all out to make us welcome. Through the dark a squat vision in red and black approached crunching gravel underfoot, beaming, high-heeled, this woman clearly was in charge.
“Me Ma’am,” she said slipping her arm through mine and steered me towards the swing bridge. “I good girl, no husband, you big, I like big,” she giggled.
Aha, someone who speaks English after all. And the picture became clear. Not a floating brothel, a beer bar with hostess girls. Lots of noisy, young, hostess girls. We were taken to the open rear deck, full of tables and chairs, and made comfortable. Ma’am swatted away eager hostesses until she had ascertained the best course of action, meaning, where the money was coming from. As the Caucasian it was correctly deduced I would be paying and, unasked for, was rewarded by the company of a very petite young lady who was pushed into the chair beside me. My Cambodian pal got a homey, chatty local. And then the jugs of Angkor beer started arriving. I found this very disquieting, and repeatedly removed the young girl’s hands from between my thighs. Beer was followed by a whole fish cooking on an open hot coal barbecue, also placed on our table.
Any lingering doubts about dancing were put to rest when a four-piece band struck up from inside that enormous, windowed cabin. And the band had singers, three of them, the most disinterested vocalists I had ever heard. Evidently the charm of Chaktomok had worn thin for them. I was asked to dance, not by my grabby hostess, but by my Khmer friend. Sure, of course I would. We left “our girls” chugging beer and he walked me inside, hand in hand, and we hit the dance floor.
It was like stepping into a land time forgot. I love dives, but this exceeded all expectations. Central to the whole affair was a wonderful old circular wooden dance floor over which a mirrored disco ball tilted and tipped and did its utmost to turn. What I was listening to was Khmer pop music. What I was dancing was something like a combination Barn Dance, Gypsy Tap, cum Gay Gordons. Choreographically it was three steps forward, one to the side, rock back and forth, then lurch two steps back. The footwork accompanied by what I took to be traditional Khmer hand gestures. All this executed in a giant circle of dancers except, unlike the Barn Dance, you don’t swap partners. Now, I have been known to be quite snake hipped in my day and can pick up steps quickly. I went at it with gusto, and I could tell by the nods of approval and smiles of my partner, and all the others around me, I was doing quite well. Goodness knows at 188 centimetres tall I also danced head and shoulders above everyone else and was hard to miss. I felt a little improvisation on the theme was in order, so I threw in a spin, a full 360. What I saw behind me mortified me. I was being followed at very close quarters by seven men, all of whom had abandoned their partners, and become mesmerised by my swinging hips and arse. I was a touch self-conscious at the spectacle I had created. I also felt I may have committed cross-cultural social death and humiliated Buhn by my shameless and wanton display. But no. Everyone was all smiles. Several pats on the bum later by my admirers and we returned to the outside deck where another surprise awaited me.
The hot coals had been stoked. There was a second fish on the barbie, plus a huge platter of rice noodles and vegetables, two more jugs of beer, and another two people. Turns out they were wait staff and were hungry and thirsty. My heart raced to my wallet thinking how the hell am I going to pay for all this. On Aussie dollar reckoning all this would have me up for well over one-hundred quid. I hastened to the dunny to check what I had. Twenty bucks. This was not going to go well. I indicated to Buhn it was best we got going and that I had concerns about how all this was going to end. “Khut loi!” He called for the bill.
Eighteen dollars. All that for eighteen dollars. Phew, I was home and hosed. I handed over the twenty. The two dollars change I gave to my hostess. This was the accepted “sit, chat, and drink” rate. We made to leave via the swing bridge. But no. Some brute who had been hiding in the darkened carpark was called onboard and blocked the exit boat side. Also, legs astride and hands on hips, was Ma’am. Glowering. Her ability with English suddenly evaporated. There was no giggling and girlish tossing of her raven hair. It was eyes narrowed; red lips turned to string. No one spoke a word!
Even with my friend there at my side I felt a sudden fear. I had a blinding flashback to a moment inside a third-floor brothel in Ho Chi Minh City. I went for a squiz even as I realised what Karaoke Bar was a euphemism for. Having looked about I begged misunderstanding, threw some dong, the local currency, on a table and made to leave. Silly me, of course there was only one way out and it was being manned by a very exotic Madam. I’d bet her skill with a knife ran deeper than those displayed by the delicately carved fruit platter she only moments ago placed before me. Skills, I imagine, acquired at a time she’d previously lived as a man. Three floors up, the only escape route blocked by the Madam who, even in heels, would out do me somewhere on the narrow staircase down. The only language anyone understood now was money. Dong, and lots of it, which I didn’t have. For the first time, I understood petrified. That I am here testifies I got out. How much, and how I managed to get it, I will not recount now.
The onboard transgression had been at my hand. The change from eighteen dollars, paid for with a twenty on this boat, apparently does not equal two. I had therefore inadvertently cheapened and insulted the girl by giving whatever the amount of crumpled riel was I had left in my hand. My protestations that it was them who ripped me off with incorrect change fell on deaf ears. Raised voices only drew more unwanted attention on and off the boat. Even if we got off the boat we still had to get out of the pitch-dark car park. Buhn finally raised extra cash and hastened me off the boat and over the bridge. It was a far more unceremonious exit than the arrival only a matter of hours beforehand.
Up the darkened go-down, and back onto the main road the traffic started to surround the tuk-tuk. The proximity of people did not calm me. I was exposed and vulnerable. I feared that the night could suddenly produce a knife-wielding transsexual hell bent on revenge. I heard Buhn shout over the noise, “Tomorrow, we go sing karaoke.”