Sihanoukville: The land that personal space forgot

Watching the sun go down amidst the soothing sounds of begging

One of the key steps to easing into life in Phnom Penh is getting the eff out of here for the weekend. With that in mind, I headed down to the resort town of Sihanoukville with nine fellow near slaves. That’s right — we live together, we work together, we vacation together. I think I have enough experience with this sort of situation to know that our future is full of rainbows and unicorns.

A weekend in Sihanoukville is basically like a weekend at Point Roberts: waking up late, investing just enough locomotion to get your ass in a beach lounger, and then gauging just how long you have to wait before it’s socially acceptable to have that first beer.

Too early for a beer, apparently

There are a few key differences, of course. At Point Roberts, strangers don’t rub your shins and exclaim over the amount of hair you didn’t have the energy to shave before leaving the city (this is of course followed by an offer to thread the stubble from your legs). No one touches your stomach and offers their opinion on its firmness. Children don’t trick you into pinky swearing that you’ll buy a bracelet from them later.

Or, for that matter, hustle you at the pool table.

'You take picture? Fifteen dolla.'

This child beat four of the grown-ass adults I was with, winning the right to sell them $1 bracelets. What can I say — Sihanoukville is a bracelet-based economy.

All of the begging and bargaining were worth it, though. We spent the weekend gorging on ‘lobster’ — probably some type of humongous prawn, though a former shrimp-boater among us called it ‘sea lice’ — and fresh mango. When we worked up the energy to go exploring, we were serenaded from above by Khmer teenagers.

'And affa all, you my wunnerwall..'

The downside of any weekend away, of course, is heading home. As we hit the outskirts of Phnom Penh, it finally hit me: Phnom Penh is my home now. Not sure how I feel about that.