Posthumously Yours in Phnom Penh
Posthumously Yours in Phnom Penh
A very short piece of non-fiction about a very short piece of fiction I wrote about those who see the Cambodian capital as the end of the road.
EARLIER THIS YEAR, OR LATE LAST YEAR, I posted a very short story here that was set in Phnom Penh. The narrator is an ageing expat who’s well aware of his true purpose in the Cambodian capital. He’s there to live out his last days on the cheap. He’s okay with his impending demise. It’s just the thought of his life getting the post-mortem treatment on the country’s online message boards that bugs him. So, before he kicks the bucket, he posts an open letter of sorts.
If you didn’t read it, a version of the story has now been published here by Eksentrika. I trimmed it down a bit from the original Substack edit, and having done so, as always, I worry it lost some of its rough around the edges energy. But fuck it, for better or worse, the die is cast (I’m reminded of an author’s quote I read somewhere, sometime ago: “How do I know when a story is finished? When it’s published…” Like, duh).
Anyway, in case anyone might wonder, the story took its inspiration from going online trying to find out more about the death of an American man I knew who died in Phnom Penh in 2019. For the record, the story is NOT about him at all. Trying to investigate his death is just the reason why I found myself scrolling through posts on the ‘Cambodian Expats Online’ forum, where I discovered many, many stories/ news reports about different expats who had died alone in a hotel/ hostel/ guesthouse room in Phnom Penh. These expats were of all ages and there was a decent spread of nationalities. Some deaths were clearly overdoses. Others were due to taking ‘bad medicine’. Some causes of death were unknown. There were also broken necks from drunken stumbles. And just some old fashioned cardiac arrests/ strokes.
There’s a real grim feel to the details (for example, listing what was in the room, a few hundred dollars, some pills, etc) to these lonesome deaths, which is one thing, but then there’s also the anything-goes comments below the line [insert Edvard Munch Scream emoji]. The cynicism, callousness, and coldness – that’s what had me writing the opening line in my notebook: “When I am found dead in a Phnom Penh guesthouse, I have one request. Please don’t read a report on my demise, on one forum or another, and leave a comment below the line.”
Some other elements were taken from memory, my last visit to Phnom Penh being in 2016, when I was on assignment for a travel magazine. I spent my time there interviewing hipster business owners (you know, like craft beer producers, tattooed mixologists, farm to table coffee shop/ restaurant owners, bearded entrepreneurs who make bespoke chairs made from salvaged wood, you know, people who help to make Phnom Penh ‘cool’ and accessible for affluent travellers, because they help it sound a little like Brooklyn).
Along with the filmmaker and photographer Morgan Ommer, I stayed in some cheap digs in the middle of town. Between interviews, whenever I wandered around I would see the kind of decrepit and/ or degraded white expatriate men that the story zeroes in on. Needless to say, seeing one such ‘pitiable wretch’ trying to communicate with some Khmer school kids sipping on yoghurt drinks — a scene which is in this story — stayed with me. Phnom Penh really is the end of the road for some of these fellows. And it ain’t pretty to see.
But… perhaps I should finish up by saying, um, please don’t let this story put you off visiting the Cambodian capital [insert desperately grinning emoji with one bead of sweat flying off its forehead]. It’s cool. And hot. Stay somewhere nice by the river. Eat some amok trei (steamed fish curry in banana leaves). Have a G&T at the Foreign Correspondent’s Club. Zoom around in a tuktuk. See some temples. Go to Bassac Lane for a night out.
Whatever you do, just make sure you don’t ever look at the online forums.