Middle March

So yes, as I was saying, Markku Uotila, who is possibly my all-time favourite travelling companion and whom I'd not seen for nearly eight years, arrived in Phnom Penh on 10 March. We toasted his arrival and my birthday on my balcony with a French brut that he picked up in the Singapore airport.

Happy bubbles, indeed.

Mark is one of those irksome polymaths -- architect, tobacconist, photographer. He graciously agreed to give me the untouched photos that he took during our travels this past month, and I give him due credit for all the photos in this post, although I know he would certainly edit them before he let anyone see them. For Mark, photography is an art. For me, it's a memory tool.  He creates photographs; I take snapshots.

The cats, Crumpet and Maneki -- the former a strumpet and the latter a raving neurotic -- both adored him. The result was a bunch of feline portraits that are priceless to me.  

"We are going to be shot, Crumpet."
"I know... isn't it marvellous?"

We spent a week in Phnom Penh, during which Mark ordered a couple of pairs of shoes from Beautiful Shoes (this seems to be the obligatory thing for all my visitors) and two new pairs of eyeglasses from the optician near my house. We combed local markets for cooking ingredients, went to see Mr. Turner at the Flicks (and if you haven't seen this biopic of JMW Turner, the English painter, you must!), roamed the streets and visited with friends.  

It is the hot season. Naps are called for.

This, however, is a level of napping expertise I've not yet mastered.

Mark was dazzled -- as well he might be -- by one of the Phenomenal Penguin's phenomenal number of chandelier purveyors. 

Wiring? Sure, we always need more wiring.

Speaking of which, Mark's long been fascinated with the massive jumbles of wire that hang from Asian poles. We saw a night-time raid on some utility poles not far from the Flicks, in which Cambodian army and police officers were watching as electrical utility workers cut down swaths of wire from the poles, presumably in an effort to sort out which ones were legitimate and which were bootleg. Meanwhile, the whole street was dark.  

The fellow in the photo below is not wearing the blue uniform of the electric company, so we can assume he's doing some personal, creative sort of wiring.

This is directly behind the Ministry of Urban Planning.

Like me, my friend Malcolm, and so many other expats and visitors to the Phenomenal Penguin, Mark was moved by the spontaneous smiles that light up the Khmer faces when we least expect it. I've lived here full-time for just over a year now, and these smiles can still make my day.

Happy rice vermicelli man!

We made a few trips to the Russian market for this and that. At one point, Mark had talked about doing a proper photo session in the market, but it didn't happen. I'm pleased just to see the quick shots he took. When I go to the market, I'm usually on a specific mission. When I'm with visitors, it gives me a chance to slow down and look, and I'm grateful for that, and Mark's shot of the hand-made noodle lady gives me a whole new level of appreciation.

Doing her accounting, perhaps.

We did quite a bit more shopping at Phsaa Boeung Trabek, the produce market nearer my house. I shop there regularly for vegetables, eggs and fruit, but Mark wanted to cook some seafood. This was a new part of the market for me, and not altogether a pleasant one. Many Cambodians have no electricity, which means they must shop and cook for each meal. Freshness is imperative, and most of the fish come to the market alive. Watching the vendor brain the squirming fish with her cleaver, decapitate and then gut the still writhing body was something that tested my nerve. The other fish vendors looked at me, wincing and cringing, and laughed. It was a luxury, though, to eat the fish in a lemon-white wine-caper sauce. 

This fish market made for one very happy Finn.

The Finns, like the Russians, take their "salt cucumbers", AKA sour pickles, very seriously. This is possibly the greatest point of dissent between Mark and me. I like my pickles vinegary and crisp; he likes his more salty and soft.  I made two jars of pickles before his arrival, and he politely ate a couple of them before forming a more significant relationship with the pickle vendor in the market.

Squishy. Overly salted, not enough vinegar.
He loved them.

We got our Vietnam visas and bought our bus tickets from Phnom Penh to Ho Chi Minh City. The bus was to pick us up opposite the Vietnam Embassy, which is just behind my house on Monivong Boulevard.  The bus was a bit late, but Mark kept himself entertained. Families of three just don't ride around Helsinki on a motorbikes with ladders.  

In fact, there's probably a law (or 10) against it.

As we neared the Cambodia-Vietnam border on the bus, we saw dozens of the infamous, open "cattle trucks" transporting exhausted Cambodian factory workers, most probably coming from garment factories in Vietnam. It was after dark, and the women were packed into the backs of the trucks, all standing -- in the wind and the blowing dirt, and the rain whenever it pours down.  The trucks were creeping along the road past enormous, glittering, flashing casinos.  That trip is worth taking if only to notice the stark differences between the two countries. Vietnam, although far from affluent by western standards, seems very much more developed. They share a border (albeit often disputed), and the languages are remotely related, but Vietnam and Cambodia are really different worlds.