Processing Phnom Penh

I sat in that long distance taxi, be-masked at my journey' s beginning, alternatively a little anxious and a little excited.

I had left behind the keys to my former house, in Kuala Lumpur, in that small room at the children's charity, in Siem Reap. I also left behind my young Khmer friends and the beautiful hugs from twin sisters Sorphany and Sorphanin. I had clambered into that Toyota Highlander feeling sad, knowing that I couldn't stay any longer and that I had to start a new life, somewhere.

In the mild heat of the Cambodian morning I was driven by a driver whose name I never knew, through Siem Reap city,  past early morning markets, sellers of bottled petroleum, Khmer women in pyjamas, on bicycles, and men, their sarongs wrapped and tied around them, performing their ablutions on the pavement.

As we travelled, in roadside pools gracious pink lotus flowers blossomed, while advertising signs sprouted up and towered over us displaying Gansberg German Premium beer, Boostrong energy drink, Anchor and other beers, as the driver and I passed and the sun glowed shocking orange and brightening. 

We slowed through market laden small towns, greeted by stacks of locally woven baskets, piles of green coconuts and swathes of the fresh green leaves Khmer people love to eat. 

Outside those small towns, on that crazy ride to get a Covid-19 Pre-Departure Test (PDT) at the National Institute of Public Health Government building, thin white cows with short horns grazed; strange straw mushroom shaped haystacks with wooden centre posts seemed to grow as we passed. Then, all of a sudden, the driver pulled the car over to the side of the road, and onto the red earth verge. He exited the car and proceeded to urinate in the ditch. A call of nature, nurtured. 

We moved on by small brick kilns fronted by piles of orderly red bricks, saffron clad monks with yellow sun-masking umbrellas and white Covid face masks, emaciated horses with hair tied in small plumes pulling carts of long wooden planks, and curious tractor-lorries pulling their loads of coal black charcoal.

After five hours of alternate green fields and small towns we were suddenly there, driving across a bridge of the Tonle Sap river, Phnom Penh, caught up in a traffic jam. The first that we'd encountered all morning. My driver pulled the car up, onto the curb, outside the Government health building. He spoke with a young man who beckoned me to follow. Follow I did, through gaps between parked cars towards a side street. He then pointed, and I went where he pointed. There were signs, in English,TESTING THIS WAY, followed by red arrows painted on a pathway leading into the Government space, and around and in between buildings.

Eventually, after emulating Dorothy and following the yellow brick road there was a door. I went inside. There were rows upon rows of empty plastic chairs. I mooched towards the counter and was immediately shooed away. I had inadvertantly gone in through the out door. A man motioned for me to go out the way I had come in, and go around the building. Yes, yet another building.

I went round. There were no more arrows but, instead, men draped in personal protection gear at an outside desk. I proffered my papers. One of the Quatermass men pointed to a rope system, like those you see at the airport while waiting to check in. The path twisted hither and thither and was empty, nada, no human traffic, zero. Being the dutiful alien I traverse the path keeping my distance from the nonexistent fellow travellers. Around and around I went in that imaginary queue.

Worthy of Brian Rix, I eventually walked back into the building I had just exited, but by a different door. Then the fun began. Online, and in my haste, (and on my hand phone which tends to be too small for both my eyesight and my plump fingers), I had put my name as it is on my debit card, and not as it is in my passport (ie in full and not initials). This oversight caused a small amount of consternation as I attempted to explain to three different Cambodian Government health officials, why I had done so. Stupidity and blatant disregard for officialdom being the answers which sprang immediately to my mind. The scene before me was like watching chickens when a fox enters their coop.

Finally, and after much explaining, I was asked to pay US$130 and had another piece of paper added to my growing stack. I was requested to go back three stages and wait. By then there had developed a massive crowd of two (other victims). I waited in my Kafka dystopian nightmare until I was practically dragged into the presence of two women who were dressed in full surgical attire, replete with plastic shielded faces. I felt a little underdressed with my pathetic, flimsy, blue paper mask.

A swab was taken in my mouth, then I was told, in good but obviously accented English, to shut my mouth. No offense was given and none taken. A thinner swab (thank God for small mercies) was however rammed into my right nostril. It hurt, and I was surprised that there was no blood. I waited. Then I waited, and after waiting was eventually told to go. I asked if I had to return the next day. I’d done my reading, you see, and understood the procedure. In a round about fashion this date was confirmed. I was to return for my Covid 19 test results the next day, at 5pm.

Lunch beckoned. It was my first time at the New Season Indian Restaurant, with its commanding river vista.  I had no expectations, good or bad. I asked and was told that yes they do have Dosa, Masala Dosa. When it came the Dosa was folded neatly into a triangle, and really did look appetizing, as did the chutneys too. But looks can be deceiving, howsomever this wasn't. The Dosa (and it's chutneys) were all that I could have hoped for, bringing back happy memories of my travels in India. And the lassi was good, so good that I drank 3 glasses. That's something I've never done before. I just have to go back…

Like various Asian cities, Phnom Penh was quite the enigma. There were main roads with copious high value cars sharing space with low rent tuk tuks which vie with the Indian made Bajaj and Honda made motor scooters. Adverts for the rich, or the wannabe rich, peered down, while in back streets Khmer life continued as it has done for millennia. Women scooped rice from sacks to sell, others had set out their vegetable or fruit stalls selling dragon fruit, or durian. Still others sold fresh pork and the Khmer version of Chinese Lap Cheong sausages, by the side of the road.

While waiting to fly back to another life I was finally on holiday and enjoying Dosa, Dim Sum and Udon noodles in that conflicted city.

4pm came and went. No driver was evident.

In Cambodia you frequently have to add an extra half, or even a whole, hour to your expected time frame. However, trying to be positive, no amount of waiting is actually wasted. As I sat waiting for my perennially late driver, three hornbills few past the hotel. I had no idea that hornbills even existed in Cambodia, let alone in a city like Phnom Penh. I'm British and male, I noticed many other kinds of 'birds' here, but never expected hornbills.

The driver eventually arrived and I returned to that mildly chaotic testing centre. I followed the arrows again, but this time there was a multitude of humanity not obeying the two metre rule of pandemic safety.

There was jostling and pushing with no evident queue or system. I was pushed so that I inadvertently arrived at the front and, simultaneously, with hopeful others thrust my receipt forward. A fully covered individual looking like someone out of the Quatermass Experiment took my piece of paper, folded it and marked it with the number 2. It is only then that I saw the writing on the wall, literally. Numbers 1 to 3 were scrawled on the wall. I had number 2 on my receipt, and stood before it, or as much as I was able to. 

Again my outstretched arm gained attention and I received an official looking A4 paper proclaiming me to be Covid 19 free (for now anyway). Whoopee, I was free to fly back to Blighty and spend ten days sequestered in one room. Ah what fun.

Of course, I really didn't need to worry about my results, for reason alone dictates that had I been proved positive in the test, there would have been a squad of police and medical professionals at my door long before I had even thought of going out that day.

Before my stress levels were allowed to drop, there was Immigration to endure. It is at that point when things could have gone terribly, terribly, wrong. Would I be dragged off to an overstayers prision ready for eventual deportation, or simply allowed to pass, as I was leaving anyway. Bear in mind that I had overstayed for thirteen months after all.  Phew! It was the latter.

But, before that, there were five hours at the airport to consider.

Phnom Penh airport is not Siem Reap airport where all kinds of facilities await the eager traveller, inside. No, Phnom Penh airport has facilities, though less, outside too, although only one was open selling filled croissants. In these Covid days Phnom Penh airport 'Departures' was closed until 3pm. Five hours of aicon-less air was already too much only 1 hour in. It was business as abnormal in Phnom Penh airport, and I could actually count the number of people there.

On reflection, that morning was interesting. I had taken an early breakfast at 'The Rising Sun English Restaurant", and ordered a 'Half English Breakfast', though I'm not terribly sure if hash browns count as being English. The owner was half Chinese and half Khmer (she said when I asked). 

The food was good, and after its consumption and a small chat with the establishment's owner, I wandered along the river side watching earnest looking men release cages full of small birds back into the wild, which is a custom of gaining Buddhist merit called Fang Sheng. Those actions were accompanied by a small Khmer orchestra near a Buddhist shrine. I need to research why.

There was a lot of admin to do before the flight, specifically arranging Covid tests after my arrival and signing in to the UK Government Passenger Locator Form. My poor eyesight and pudgy fingers found those tasks Herculean. Ho hum. I persisted, with a lot of venting, words I've not used for a long time, it must be the effect of returning to the UK. But I got through it, well sort of. We'll see.