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...