TONLE SAP

He calls himself Stephen but his name is Hun. 

He lives with his widowed father and speaks Korean too.

He likes motocrossing but for the whole of Saturday, we stirred red dust from the mostly upaved hematite trails as we pedalled through villages and a vast expanse of green ricefields, around the no-ticket zone of the first Khmer temple mountain before finishing in a tongue of dry land sticking into the water world of Tonle Sap.        

He made quick stops to show me the catch from a variety of casting nets, fishing rods and fish traps.

He waved and greeted back at children who seemed happy to see us and, after 20 kilometers, led me to an unfenced yard with a picturesque garden where a farmer's wife fed us with an amazing lunch of stir fried pork and vegetables, yellow noodles, and freshly picked chico and longan before hitting the hammocks to while the heat of the midday sun.  

I smelled of the gurami and basil leaves from our first two stops, and the taste of local snacks from a small village market near the Bakong Temple lingered with images of the crabs and snails gathered by two children fishing in a bridge. 

He said I looked 20 years young than 53 as we left our Merida bikes in the jetty for a boat ride to the Kampong Phluk Floating Village whose houses don't actually float but are built on stilts.

I smelled rotting fish and gave away notebooks and pencils at the village temple.

We waited for the sunset with two cans of cold Cambodia beer from the Bamboor Bar at the mangrove park but the huge golden sun I saw from pictures never came.

He was finally able to change my $100 with smaller bills after returning to Siem Reap by tuktuk.

I gave him a $30 tip as my appreciation of his effort to ensure that I enjoyed, which I did immensely.

I treated myself with a disppointing whiskey sour at Hanuman's then walked away from Pub Street as the crowd gathered for a halloween street party, to the street food stalls of Pokambor where I ended the day with a superb barbecued beef and an array of average grilled pork parts.

I walked back to the Old Market on Sunday afternoon for a futile search of Viet Cong souvenir caps and ended up with a cold beer at the Cozy Bar without the old and sad white tourists, and a succession of cuba libre, long island iced tea and mojito at Home Cocktail sans the mostly local crowd. 

I'm flying out later in the night and I want to leave happy.

THE MODERATOR

The Moderator was called as The Partition and all the conflicts it spawned manifested in a memorable breakfast of lamb masala and roti (never mind the dry taco al pastor and so-so ham sandwich) from the Salcedo Weekend Market in Makati versus a forgettable dinner of what can be bhindi masala and chicken vindaloo at Curry Walla in Siem Reap.

A truce was declared in Pub Street after a midnight meal of Khmer porridge on the eve of The Side Event and it was conceded that perhaps, the north indian chicken thali served by a confused Travancore waiter can also be a product of inclusive and responsible business that will be livestreamed from the familiar rooms of the Somadevi Angkor Hotel and Spa.

The Armistice held and the spirits of Krud and Hanuman, including Cambodia in an emerald bottle, finally caught up with The Enablers as they dine on Mahob Cuisine (Mekong fish ceviche, honey duck breast, fish amok, fried spring rolls, beef loc lac), security protocols and engagement plan for The Main Event.     

At the the Empress Angkor Hotel, The Team lost one to COVID-19, another missed a flight and 8 of 10 recognitions were handed out to women in the ASEAN women but from there onwards, everything was a blur including a demonstration of Khmer classical dance that was obscured by a hefty serving of Khmer barbecue and unlimited Angkor beer while reminishing three sessions of Khmer whiskey with coke.

We came, we engaged and we gnawed enthusiastically at skeletons fished from bowls of Khmer beef bone soup that even a sudden afternoon downpour, the regret of not taking a MLA-MNH-REP route and an impending red-eye return flight failed to dissipate.    

On the day of Emperor Maxentius' proclamation, The Phantom Biker finally emerged from the shadows of The Moderator to catch the peloton of a countryside bike tour that started without him, drafting behind a possible camel toe who smelled of crushed basil leaves as Tour de Siem Reap broke through ricefields, racks of oyster mushroom and the stalls of a village market with orphaned dogs and albino catfishes from the temple as escorts until the empty lotus farm and Pokambor Street where he was rewarded with grilled Khmer sausages and cans of cold regular beer served in tiny plastic tables with toddler plastic chairs.         

PARTS unKNOWN-ED 3: THE LAST SEASONS EDITION

Dear Tony,

The Season 9 titles don't match with the descriptions and the huge burger in Los Angeles has no name but still, the marmitako is easily sunk by the sai oua from Vientiene according to an Ilocano Yankee who collect stamps from Muscat for his correspondence with the expat community in the Port of Spain that are known for their fondness of snow-roasted penguins.  

I still have No Reservations but the pickled herring of Stockholm was perfectly aged with the ballads of Menudo that tasted like her mouth after chewing Tex-Mex grits and carne asada with a plate of Hyderabadi biryani served by an intern padang-style in Jakarta but with a shot of Jameson, a loaf of freshly baked sugar bread, fragments of Zionist bombs and Tillamook cheese from Oregon.  

The titles and descriptions still don't match in Season 10 so I bought a suitcase of tuktuk to Paris that were made from the bones of a fish head curry from Singapore and a cask of Bacardi to assuage Uche's complaint and muffle the angst of grunge to let Nipuna render a sensual salsa for the Pirates and the mafia of Francis Ford Coppola.

Still no match in Season 11 like how the Shenandoah River was kept flowing by the wet pussy from Edmonton who survived Noah's ark before being hijacked by the Tupamaros, wrapped in a gho and fed with Berlin's currywurst that tasted like Hong Kong's gú lóuh yuhk with the appearance of an overcooked jambalaya from New Orleans.

Oro, Plata, Mata.

Trining's lust, Maggie's breasts, ebony dicks.

The ugali was uneaten, a pot of fabada boiled in rot, fungus coated the barbecue and a pizza failed to cook.

The Phantom Biker spent four days in the trails to offer an atang of nasi goreng from Yogyakarta for the spirits who abandoned Discovery+ in Bangkok and Siem Reap to abruptly conclude Season 12... 

PARTS unKNOWN-ED 2: THE LOST SEASONS EDITION

season 2

rows of jamon iberico curing at temple mount

the little mermaid sued by saul goodman and associates

corleone is the italian name of soweto 

geishas on strike at detroit's metro airport

season 5

scotch whiskey marinate in a sea of soju

key lime pie resting in a bubble of romazava spittle

strings of kolbasz adorn atlantic city 

the hula is the shit and not the dabke

season 6

pitchers of turbo flavored with aged sashimi 

embargoed dark rum stuffed in a smoked whole hog

vintage bordeaux, classic ayam pansuh

raki bottles smuggled into alcatraz

season 7

helen of troy is the ghost of o'hare international

for her, jesse ventura wrestled with jars of kvevri wine

sizzling sisig brewed in kolsch was offerred

but sadio mane got a world cup asado 

I have No Reservation so the escargot escaped Paris to model for Manong Marlo's painting of Joybeth's unrequited dream in a bowl of pho from Hanoi where Bagis Tikitiki's vacation got a rendang in Kuala Lumpur from Nanay Alona's kitchen and Kuya Rudy's real state investments that Tamerlane exchanged for a serving of dandan noodles in Tianjin and ramen from Osaka so the therapist from Bakal 2 can have a ceviche in Lima. 

In the High Water of Wroclaw, Laal Sing Chaddha caught up with the Phantom Biker as he pursued Forrest Gump and the topless Blonde in the ripening ricefields of Munoz, Sto. Domingo and Talavera for second booster shots, two bottles each of brandy and Red Horse in Bakal 2, and a Carlos 1 and Seagram's on the eve of a Sunday funeral...

PARTS unKNOWN-ED 1: THE DISCOVERY+ EDITION

Season 1 

It was black pussy night at 19th Street but not in Koreatown where the tall gay caregiver cut Cali powder with a Canadian credit card to entertain the dancing cobras in the Medina with shots of Pisco Sour that were laced with dark water from the Congo

Season 3

Neon colors from The Strip illuminate a Diwali feast of biryani and vin chaud dripping from the veins of Kukulkan to inspire Lula in singing the Delta blues on a block of frozen vodka from the Volga that sunk countless royal barges at the Chao Phraya 

Season 4

Bun cha powered John Stephen Akhwari's podium finish in Asuncion where vintage wine from Martha's Vineyard were aged in the Ming Tombs for a birthday party at 1520 Sedgwick Avenue that sent the Ayatollah to Nine Mile for a rasta conclave

Season 8

The barkeep of a deserted boteco in the vaults of Graceland loaded a single-car Shinkansen with parcels of purple penne for the ancient kitchens of the Forbidden City where sidewalk eateries in the Old Quarter cook for the lady boys of The Alamo

By Monday, the Phantom Biker was liberated by the Narco-Saints from 6 days of quarantine for a 4-day bike ride to Suriname to witness the cannonization of the martyred Pastor Jeon Yo-hwan as the second patron saint of druglords...

THE TWIN RED LINES

The massive firewall of sodium ascorbate zinc, K95 masks, 70% solution ethyl alcohol and self-induced demophobia was breached when Agent SARS-CoV-2 exposed the MILF from Bakal 2 as the woman with just one navel whose sultriness ignited a slight itch in the throath and a minor cough that failed to raise a mediocre sisig and leftover rellenong bangus from the aftermath of Super Typhoon Karding.  

Everything is confirmed --- from PR 521 to an expected reunion with Phnom Penh's refurbished Frangipani Royal Palace Hotel and Spa, to K6 105 for a much anticipated weekend bike tour in Siem Reap --- when two thin red lines manifested prior to a morning shower and the bus ride to Manila triggering an alarm that locked all the doors of the house in Bakal 2.

The Gentlemen who owns all cannabis farms in the United Kingdom: "The carrier is fortified by a super strength skunk that the airline pilot from business class smuggled into Suvarnabhumi Airport's Miracle Lounge". 

The Perfumier from Germany without a sense of smell: "The source is a vial of love perfume whose seductive power was unleashed by the flight attendant of PR 736 who intentionally crushed her pubic region into the arm that dangled from Seat 32H".

Lou, a renegade CIA operative who disappeared somewhere in the Pacific Northwest: "It's the Golden Girl whose son puked on the aisle of Golden Bee Bus 0112 or I'll shot myself in the mouth, Sherrif Rankin too and all the deer in Orcas Island".    

Such is A Jazzman's Blues when time passes through a computer screen in Hopewell, when the world slowly spin from a barred and screened bedroom window in Georgia, when three shots of Hexetidine Bactidol plus two puffs of Salbutamol + Ipratropium Bromide and a dose of Montelukast Levocetirizine make up for the cheap brandy and extra strong beer of Tuesdays and Thursdays in Bakal 2. 

Santo, after being unmasked in Madrid as a prominent transgender in Salvador de Bahia under the name of Barbara: "I Used to Be Famous in London. I ride my bike every morning, I go to the market every Sunday, I drink with my neighbors every now and then. Now, Netflix is my only window to the world".  

Meanhwile in Paris, a firestorm consumed the howling mob of Athena but spared The Shack and the people who talked in whispers on how Frangipani's breakfast sausage was wrapped in an Outcome Harvesting Report and delivered by bicycle to a Friday videoke party at Pub Street where lyrics on just energy transition and inclusive business were harvested as digital tools against two fading red lines...