Statistics

There are a few things Lonely Planet doesn’t tell you about Phnom Penh. Seemingly innocently enough, LP tells us the population of Phnom Penh is 2 million. Of those 2 million the actual number of people is 1,400,000  (which again begs the question, has anybody from the Lonely Planet actually BEEN to Cambodia?) Of those 1,400,000 the population under 15 years old comprises 40%.

Of the remaining 840,000 approximately 96% of these are Khmer nationals, leaving approximately 25,200 foreigners. Around one third of this figure represents families and children. An additional 15% are people married or in long-term monogamous relationships.

Now we are down to around 12,000 people – one sixth of which are sex-pat retirees in Phnom Penh to live off their meagre western pensions in an eastern paradise. So now we are at the real Phnom Penh - a city of about 10,000 young, singletons.

Beautiful, intelligent, funny, charismatic, kind, generous and brilliant women number – at last accurate count conducted on an empirical scale at Pontoon two Saturdays ago - 9,750. [Ed’s note: this was unanimously confirmed by a group of UK footballers who articulately remarked: “Holy sh** these chicks are sexy!”] Douchebags, assholes, jerk-offs (and other forms of the male species aptly identified by Kanye) number around 100. Males carrying waaaay over the 20kg limit in emotional baggage come in somewhere around 35. So there are fifteen eligible bachelors in all of Phnom Penh. Where was that fun fact, LP?

Of course some caveats are warranted to this statistical analysis: -

Firstly – you may ask what is the number of women who are not beautiful, intelligent, funny, charismatic, kind, generous and brilliant? Answer – zero.

Secondly – you may ask what marks a male as a douchebag, asshole or jerkoff? Well, keep reading this column and you will understand. If you are too cynical (or “too optimistic to believe that these tales amount to much more than the mere ramblings of a cynical spinster”?) it may assist your assessment to know that the douchebag, asshole and jerkoff survey was conducted from a safe observation distance outside the entrance to Heart of Darkness.

Thirdly – you may ask “eligible? What does eligible even mean?” Fair question. Eligible in Phnom Penh essentially means he makes an effort to at least find out your name and buy you a drink, pays for the tuk tuk home, has toilet paper and relatively clean sheets, is free from dubiously-obtained love bites, is a lover who brings the rubber and doesn’t give you the clap.

Welcome to the Phnom Penh dating scene.

Ed’s note: on revision of this post, and in particular my definition of “eligible” the number has subsequently been scaled back to 8 pending Finland opening and staffing an NGO for chivalry and courtesy education.

The Hidden Girlfriend

Unfortunately, we cannot enforce traffic light style dress codes on the men here: red for taken, green for all clear and orange for Hidden Girlfriend.

Gina met Tim at a mutual friend’s house party, one of the fabulous rooftop affairs that are blissfully common in Phnom Penh’s French colonial apartment buildings. Tim was a charming French businessman and had been working in Phnom Penh for the last couple of years, Gina had only skipped into town a month ago to work for an NGO for eight months. The two hit it off and mojito led to margarita led to multitude of stolen kisses in someone’s bedroom. The party was wrapping up, and Tim took Gina’s hand and, well, yaddayadda.

It’s a lovely yaddayadda, btw. Tim says all the right things, does all the right things, and takes a very charmed Gina out for breakfast the next morning. Tim calls, often and not too often. He takes Gina out for dinner a few nights later and then offers to cook her dinner at his place. Gina arrives at Tim’s place still O-struck by the weekend’s yaddayadda,  plucked, primed and perfumed to within an inch of her emotional stability. They spend some more time getting to know each other over several glasses of Argentina’s finest sub $5 a bottle  red wine (out of a case of seconds that got shipped to Cambodia because no other country in the world would take them). Laying on his couch, bare legs, fingers and soft lips intertwined, they discuss their work, their previous jobs, their home countries and their hopes for the future.

“Of course,” drawls Tim, in his perfect Parisienne accent. “I will return to France one day. It is where my heart is. Where my true love, the future mother of my children is.”

In playwriting we would call this a “[Beat].” In Harlequin Press they would call it a “steely silence”. In female circles, independent, career-orientated Western women call it a motherfucking slap in the face, but the Phnom Penh female calls it the “aha!” moment – as in “aha! I knew there was a flaw.”

From somewhere inside Gina’s ripped dreams she finds a “Your true love?”

Yes, my lover, says Tim. We have an understanding, says Tim. We have an open relationship, but our bond, it is so strong, says Tim.. Of course we can see other people, everyone has physical needs, says Tim.

At this point, Gina’s chief physical need was to somehow stand, and GTFO.

So Gina, as many before her, and many after her, came to stumble upon an unavoidable Phnom Penh dating syndrome – the Hidden Girlfriend. Most commonly disguised as a distant lover in an open relationship, the Hidden Girlfriend can also be disguised as the “ex”-girlfriend. “Ex” in the sense of “we only broke up because I left for PP and we still love each other.”

Gina, a Phnom Penh new comer, shocked and disgusted, seeks counsel with her older, wiser more Phnom Penh acclimatized sisters.

The counsel laugh at Gina’s naivety.

One lady exhales blue ara cigarette smoke as she calmly says “Action’s action, you’re lucky you got that far.” Gina now knows she was fortunate to find out about Tim’s other half (or third, or quarter) through his honesty – the standard medium for unveiling the Hidden Girlfriend is usually profound Facebook stalking. And thus Gina enters the minefield that is unmarked men – no red, green or hidden girlfriend lighting.

Toto – you’re not in Kansas anymore. Welcome to the Phnom Penh dating scene.

Pluggers, Jandals and Flippy Floppies

There seem to be a multitude of cultural namesakes for everyone’s favourite rubber slip-on shoe. New Zealanders call them ‘jandals’ which connotes some kind of holy Jesus-sandal. Americans, of course, call them Flip Flops. Aussies even call them ‘thongs’ (Ed’s note: items I do not want wedged in my tush would include a thick chunk of rubber that has been on the ground). Cultural namesakes, even within the English language can lead to all sorts of confusion and misunderstandings. However, be it thongs, jandals or flip flops – one thing certainly does strike across the cultural divide in Phnom Penh: and that is the Flippy Floppie.

Melinda had met Grant at everybody’s favourite backpacker pick-up venue, Top Banana. Melinda had been in Phnom Penh just long enough for the sexual pulse of this city to heat her. Grant was travelling from the US with his best mate in crime, and their travel plans through Cambodia vaguely aligned with some of Melinda’s public holidays.

As is often the way, a cocktail after work quickly evolved into a night of debaucherous drinking and at three in the morning on a school night, Melinda found herself dragging Grant back to her place. This moment had been brewing in no uncertain dance moves all night, and as they kissed in her hall, Melinda could feel Grant’s very own sexual pulse. Clothes unravelled, breath quickened, Melinda reached for her top drawer and as Melinda arched her back, Grant kneeled away to glove the love and then –

Nothing.

Grant is as firm as Grandma’s butter tea cake, as hard as not-yet-set jelly, as erect as – well, you get the idea. Melinda has been struck by the curse of the Phnom Penh Flippy Floppie.

Never one to despair, the resourceful lass knows she can wait until the next night to try again. So, she (with great difficulty) curbs her frustration, arranges to meet Grant the following night for dinner and tucks herself into bed for a wee nap before work.

Dinner involves more than a couple of bottles of red wine, and, like a bad case of déjà vu, later that night Melinda finds her arched back slumping, completely unsatisfied, again.

Upon a quick survey of every other Phnom Penh woman she sees that week, Melinda discovers this problem is far from an unusual one and, alarmingly, appears to be an exceptionally more prominent occurrence in the Pulsing Penh.

The drinking culture here is heavy; and six to seven cocktails are prerequisite consumption foreplay. The city is hot. It pulses. And then flippy floppies strike like wild cards. Or kind of like Jacks of Death.

In one last vain attempt to cure her now ravenous sexual desire, the next night, Melinda accosts Grant at Top Banana straight after she has finished work. No alcohol fuel to fight. And yet – !

Melinda stops. She sits up and crosses her arms. “You! U Care. Go!” She snaps, directing Grant to the nearest Western pharmacy, U Care, with some very specific instructions for some little blue pills. Grant hesitates, uncertain whether to laugh, but after Melinda picks up her book and begins reading, he gets the hint.

One hour later, satisfied and smug, Melinda meets her older girlfriend for a Sling and recounts her MacGyver-like tale of resourcefulness.

“Oh honey!” says her friend. “Hasn’t anyone told you yet?” The woman opens up her purse and right there in a permanent place between the separated riel notes and US dollar bills is two packets of little blue pills.

“Never leave home without it.” She winks, gazes across to three Frenchmen playing pool, and sips her Sling.