A Man's Boobs

If you head northwest on National Highway 5, from Phnom Penh, three-story apartment buildings will give way to petrol stations interspersed with one-room shanty-shacks. Eventually, rice fields will take the place of the petrol stations, and the shanty-shacks will be further back in the fields. Of course, there will be less of them as rice fields overtake everything else.

At the point at which you see rice fields interspersed with shanty-shacks, buckle your seat-belt and pull out your pillow; that's all there is until the provincial capital of Pursat four and a half hours away.

The proper way to travel to Pursat is by bus. Never travel with Phnom Penh Sorya Transport Bus Service. There is no air conditioning and, on a typically humid day, the bus converts into a sauna. I am truly sympathetic if you happen to be sitting next to an American, especially if that American is slightly overweight. You see, with morbidly obese people, you can easily switch seats because anyone can see that you're suffering. But, with the plump-bordering-on-fat person, it's harder to convince the conductor of your troubles. And when it's an American who happens to be sitting next to you, that's the worst. They most often just ate the crappiest crap they could find in the Lucky Supermarket before boarding the bus.

When you see such an American boarding a bus, put up your white flag because there's nothing you can do. Looking out the window, evading eye contact, does not work. Fate has a strange way of gluing westerners together in a foreign setting. Call it the white man's burden (actually, don't call it that. REALLY don't call it that. I'm begging you. That's awful). A cringe graces your face as you sense them stop at your seat. You can feel the bus shake as their cellulite-padded butts slam the seat. They always let out that "AHHH...UGHHH...it feels so good to sit down" grunt, as they tip their head back with that helpless, guppy-like expression. They say it to no one in particular, and you wonder whether it was an attempt at a conversation starter. What are you supposed to say? Oh, yeah, it sure is great to sit down. I mean, not with you, of course. You're such a sloppy American who probably only came here for the cheap sex and you most likely view this place as just another Guadalajara, Belize, or Hawaii. But I sure hope that the seat is wide enough to fit your ass because I don't want to be stuck here when the conductor has to grease down the sides!


On second thought, you keep your mouth shut. Unfortunately, they can't quite do the same.

Despite your one-word answers to their mundane questions,  they persist in their never-ending interrogation.

How many brothers and sisters do you have?
Four.

What do you like to do on the weekends?
Nothing.

I like red. What's YOUR favorite color?
Blue. 

I sure like pistachios. Do you?!
No. 

Words are not the only things that cause you to hurl.


The food exits their bodies three ways: their burps, farts, or--worst of all-- their vomit. You can smell the digested (or lack thereof) french fries as it stinks up your space. Then they talk about their indigestion (a typically white-guy thing to do), and insist that you identify with their problem because you, too, happen to be a Caucasian male.

(I caution you, though. As justified as you may feel in your curt manner, something strange may happen. You may begin to feel a kinship to this man, the man who finds this country as foreign as you do. When and if this connection develops, crush it. Otherwise, you may realize that you, too, are just as vulnerable and alienated as this man happens to be.  It's much easier if you turn his attempts at conversation into static noise. Play it safe; listening leads to understanding. In other words, you become that man, that poor fool who has found himself 8,000 miles away from all that is familiar.)

By the end of the ride, the sweat has gathered around their moobs and you can see their mammories through their cotton t-shirt. As you stand in the bus aisle (crunching your body to avoid physical contact, of course) they smack your shoulder, and say, "Good luck, man! It sure is a ZOO out there!"

Your shoulder moistens as the sweat of their hand seeps through the cloth of your shirt. With one fell swoop, you jump off the steps, gather your bags, and there you are! Pursat! The Emerald City! The Big Apple! The Land of Opportunity! The city on a hill (well, in a rice field)! So amazing, it's the Dayton, Ohio, of Cambodia!

But you catch yourself. Yes, you're just as ignorant as that American man on the bus.