Two Frenchmen arrive at the Phnom Penh airport late at night. Actually around 2:30. Morning.
I’m waiting for my flight, which takes off at stupid o’clock in the morning. The airport’s closed and won’t open until five. So I’m across the street from the airport in a park with about a dozen vacant litter-covered cement picnic tables with an accompanying array of chairs from all walks of life. I’m reading, munching on junk, smoking ciggys, with a lovely view of the entrance under lockdown and the dozing guard is slouched in a garden chair next to it. I got dibs when the sucker opens.
Two guys shouldering heavy awkward gym bags are making their way across the empty street casting shadows as long as the lampposts are tall. On sonar, they’d register as a detachment of heavy artillery, each of them making as much noise as a battalion of tanks.
Baptized Vin and Fromage (Wine and Cheese) from the get-go, they both sit behind me, acting as inconspicuously as two Frenchmen can in front of a deserted airport in the middle of the night in Cambodia. It's just as painfully subtle as seeing two Australians on Kuta beach puking their drunken guts on their sparse surfer shag at around the same time of day. Of night. Whatever.
I’m trying to read my book and they're bitching and moaning about waiting out here for hours with the rats scurrying behind the bin close to the glass door with the big 'Check in' sign painted across its two sliding panels. Something about not having any beer, the absence of women and the smoldering heat. There's also something about their putain de flight not being listed on the board.
They’re loud; as loud as Americans at spring break, with the class of Israeli tourists.
- Bla bla, bla bla bla bla, bla? Asks Vin.
- Bla bla.
- Bla?
Persistent this one…
- Bla bla bla bla bla!
Cheese obviously did not get enough sleep last night…
- Bla…
The conversation - try as I might not to hear it, it could not be avoided even had I slipped on my two-hundred dollar noise-cancellation earmuffs - was raging at approximately 180 decibels… per syllable!
But heavens be blessed, silence! A few seconds of quiet so I could get back to reading my book and operate in a mono-linguistic universe for a time. A very short time.
From two tables across, in French:
- T’as du feu? (Got a light?), says Vin, the little one.
Even if I didn't understand French, the dangling cancer stick between his lips is a dead tell.
- Tu parles français? (You speak French?)
He persists – again in French!
What the fuck! Is the name Louis tattooed on my forehead or did I wear my guillotine again without realizing? I did take a shower today…
So the little one goes again:
– Vacances ou aventure? (Holiday or adventure?)
Like there's a difference…!
By that time, I’m sitting at their table and I've surrendered my lighter and Wine’s pulling on his second drag and I'm still asking myself if I should answer in my all-American-by-association native English or expose my colonial past. Cheese says little, stares into space a lot. I decide it’s too late in the day to fully unleash my new level six asshole skills without the risk of someone getting hurt, even if the big one seems to be rapidly deflating in his plastic garden chair.
In French, I confirm the French myth of universality[1] which obviously is firmly implanted in the minds of those from the motherland who happen to be across from the Phnom Penh airport tonight:
- Un peu de boulot, un peu de vacances. (A bit of work, a bit of holiday.)
- Ahhhh, alors t’es Canadien? (So you're Canadian?)
- Québécois! (No English translation available.)
Very persistent this Wine! Maudit Français!
- Et vous? (How about you guys?)
- Nous, on est venu baiser de belles putes asiatiques. Les nôtres, chez nous, elles sont toutes Magrébines ou si âgées qu’elles étaient là quand la profession a été inventée ou si moches qu’elles n’ont pas besoin de déguisement lors de l’Halloween. Et aussi pour déguster les spécialités locales, la cuisine clandestine, la cuisine chimique quoi, si tu vois ce que je veux dire…! Tu sais, l’herbe thaï, un peu d’opium et des amphétamines plein la gueule! (Bla, bla, bla…!)
Fromage starts to laugh, a pig’s snort on rapid-repeat or a skipping record. I feel like asking them if they know Beavis and Butthead… Vin Beavis carries on, undeterred, focused. I can smell the alcohol thick on his breath.
- Où mieux pour trouver de quoi se régaler pendant les quatre semaines de vacances payées par notre gouvernement pourri! Le Triangle d’Or nous avait vraiment fait rêver avant d’arriver ici. Ici, on a bien rêvé! La Thaïlande c’était bien, les filles super, de la pacotille à rabais, de la bouffe extra. Le Laos, un petit coin de tranquillité où le stress n’existe pas et où l’Euro va loin. Le Vietnam, pas ma place préférée! Les gens sont hostiles, ingrats et ils brandissent des drapeaux américains partout! Le Cambodge, un bel endroit pour fêter avec des happy pizzas. Et partout, putain, il fait chaud! (We went to Thailand, Laos, Vietnam and Cambodia.)
- Vous êtes passés par Angkor Wat, j’imagine? (You went to Angkor Wat, I take it?)
- Encore? (Again?)
- Angkor Wat.
- Mais là… encore s’il vous plaît? (Again, please?)
- Encore Ouate!
- Ah, non, ça je connais pas. Toi? (No, I don’t know. You?)
- Gros temples, grosses roches, pratiquement une des merveilles du monde? (Big temple, big rocks, practically one of the world’s wonders?)
I throw in this big hint, thinking it’ll help, hoping it might help… Fromage grunts indicating ignorance greater than I had ever expected from a Frenchmen.
- Tu sais, ça nous appartient tout ça, en fait. On n’aurait jamais dû partir! Ah, mais ce sont les vacances qui finissent ce soir, malheureusement! On retourne en France, demain matin. Où tu te diriges, toi? (This all belongs to us you know. We never should have left. We’re going back to France tomorrow morning. Where are you heading?)
- À la maison. En Thaïlande. (Home. To Thailand.)
- Tu habites là! Oh! trop chaud, merde! T’es sur Bangkok? Tu dois te les farcir à l’aise, toi, les petites Thais! Arrête! (You live in Bangkok?)
- Chiang Mai.
- Encore? (Again?)
- Chiang Mai.
- Milles pardons, encore? (So sorry, again?)
- Shieng maille, bordel! T’es sourd oui ou merde? (Chiang Mai, damn it! Are you fuckin’ deaf?)
Apparently Cheese is endowed with speech and can use it. Impressive. But he really didn’t get enough sleep last night… Tsk, tsk, tsk.
- Ah oui, Shieng Maille! Au nord! C’est bon, c’est bon! Et tu passes par Bangkok? Il est à quelle heure ton vol? (Oh yes, Chiang Mai! Up north! Nice, nice. And are you going through Bangkok? What time’s your flight?)
- Oui, par Bangkok, à sept heures. (Yes, through Bangkok, at seven.)
- Ah! mais tu vois, ce doit être le même vol que le nôtre, (See it must be the same flight,) says he turning to Fromage.
- Mais alors comment tu expliques que notre vol n’est pas affiché? Et que nos billets indiquent six heures? (So how do you explain that our flight isn’t on the board? And that our tickets say six o’clock?)
- Je sais pas, moi! C’est toi qui les as, les billets. C’est toi qui s’es occupé des billets depuis le début. (I don’t know! You have the tickets. You took care of the tickets from the start.)
- Bah, c’est pas parce que je m’occupe des billets depuis le début que ça clarifies quoi que ce soit! (It’s not because I’ve got the tickets from the start that it makes anything clearer!)
- Arrête de t’en faire avec ça, veux-tu? Ce ne doit être qu’une erreur administrative. On verra bien quand ils vont ouvrir les portes! (Stop worrying will you? It must be an administrative glitch. We’ll find out when the airport opens!)
Leaning back, I light another fag thinking that the French are really talented – grand talent! – they really master bickering to a tee and excel at flapping their lips very audibly. I can only imagine what Vin and Fromage sound like to a local Khmer - must be like hearing acid jazz for the first time. Well, I think to myself, it’s three thirty and still have a couple of hours to kill. Smells like entertainment to me. Might as well enjoy the show.
- C’est toi qui as parlé à la dame tout à l’heure, non? (Weren’t you the one who spoke to the lady earlier?)
- Si, et imagine-toi qu’elle m’a confirmé que l’aéroport était fermé! Dis, mec, tu vois de quoi on a l’air devant le Monsieur, là? Bourre-toi, conard! (Yes, and can you believe that she confirmed that the airport was closed! Yo, man, see what you’re making us look like in front of the gentleman here? Shut up, idiot!)
- Non mais, tu la fermes, oui? T’as quoi à te plaindre, là? C’est moi qui ai les billets et c’est aussi moi qui s’en est chargé depuis le début! (Are you going to shut up? What do you have to complain about? I’ve got the tickets and I’ve been taking care of the tickets from the start!)
- Mais, de quoi tu parles? C’est toi qui se plaint qu’on doit attendre ici avec les rats – pas vous, M’sieur! – pendant des heures! J’ai rien dit, moi! (What the fuck are you talking about? It’s you who’s been complaining that we have to wait here with the rats – not you, sir – for hours. I never said a thing!)
Fighting words! Scrap, scrap, scrap!
- Oh! mais quoi, t’as rien dit? Tu veux rire ou merde? Tu te fous de ma gueule? Écoute, c’est fini, je refuse de m’engager avec toi, ce soir. Pauvre con! (What the fuck, you said nothing? Are you kidding me? You takin’ a piss? Listen, that’s it, I refuse to do this with you tonight. Simpleton!)
The fight is canceled. The fighters return to their corners. No refunds for your tickets, sorry. If this silence draws on, I might just sneak a paragraph in while they kiss and make up which won’t be anytime soon judging by the sour cheese fouling the party.
- Je peux voir vos billets? Histoire de comparer le numéro de vol avec le mien… (Can I see your tickets? To cross-reference the flight numbers with mine…)
Why do I do this? Seriously, why get involved?
Fromage hands me the tickets.
- Vous avez la bonne date, c’est bon….! Mais, les numéros de vol ne sont pas les mêmes. Je suis sur le vol FD1765 et vous, sur FD1123. Ah, voilà! c’est là où ça cloche, les amis! Votre vol est à six heures…PM. Ce soir. Dans environ quatorze heures. (Well, flight numbers don’t match. I’m FD1765 and you’re FD1123. It’s the right date, yeah, that’s good. Oh but here it is, fellas. Your flight is really at six… PM. Tonight. In about fourteen hours.)
Vin takes the tickets. He’s got this blank look on his face like he’s just seen Angkor Wat for the first time. I can feel heat coming off him a meter away across the cement table. He’s steaming just at the idea and looking for confirmation right now… and he’s GOT IT!
- PM, crétin! PM! J’y crois pas! Non mais, j’y crois pas! Ah, l’abruti d’enculé! PM! Tu sais ce que ça veut dire “PM”? (PM, idiot! PM! I don’t believe this guy! I don’t believe this guy, urgh, fucking imbecile! PM! You know, “PM”?)
Ladies and gentlemen, return to your seats, our fight for tonight is back on! Our fighters are returning to the ring, ready to punch it out! It’s going to be a wild one tonight ladies and gentlemen, hang on to your seats!
- Mais, de quoi tu parles, toi? PM, c’est quoi ça? Allez, calme- toi, là! (What are you talking about? PM, what the hell is that? C’mon, just calm down!)
- Me clamer? Si t’étais pas toi, je te la fouterais sur la gueule! Tu sais pas c’est quoi PM? Sans blague? T’es simple à ce point? Ah là, je savais que tu étais de la famille bergère mais là, tu l’emportes à l’internationale! Putain d’con, merde! MERDE! (Calm down? If you weren’t you, I’d hit you so hard right now! You don’t know what PM stands for? No kidding? You’re that dim-witted? Damn, I knew you were brought up on a farm, but you’ve taken the international lead there! Fuckin’ asshole, fuck! FUCK!)
- C’est bon, là, c’est bon! Tu peux te rasseoir. C’est quoi le problème? (Ok, ok. You can sit down now. What’s the problem?)
- Le problème? Le problème c’est que t’es con. C’est que tu sais pas la différence entre AM et PM! C’est ça, le problème! (The problem? The problem is that you’re an idiot. It’s that you can’t tell AM from PM! That’s the problem!)
- Ouais, ben en attendant, on devrait rentrer en ville, se trouver de la bière et des filles. Ensuite, on discutera et on se rendra tranquillement à l’aéroport demain en fin d’après-midi. Mais enfin, c’est quoi c’t’histoire d’AM et d’PM? (So we wait a couple of hours. We go back to town, find some beer and some girls and we come back to the airport in the afternoon. And what’s this AM and PM shit?)
- Pauvre con! PM, c’est l’après-midi! AM, c’est l’matin! Ce sont des choses pratiques à savoir ça, tu sais! Pardon M’sieur, qu’est-ce que vous devez penser de nous, des Français… (Damn fool! PM stands for afternoon! AM stands for morning! Those would be useful things for you to learn you know! Sorry, sir, what must you think of us, the French…)
I didn’t answer. My father always said that if you have nothing constructive to say, better to keep your mouth shut.
- Mais écoute, six heures, c’est six heures. Dix-huit heures, c’est dix-huit heures! Tu vois ce que je veux dire? (Listen, six o’clock is six o’clock and eighteen hundred hours is eighteen hundred hours! You see what I’m saying?)
- Ah oui, ça explique tout! Sauf le fait que tu es toujours con! (Oh yes, it explains everything! Except the fact that you’re still an idiot!)
- Écoute, c’est clair, il me semble! Ce sont les bureaux qui se sont gourrés. S’ils avaient écrit, comme il se doit, dix-huit heures, on ne serait pas dans ce merdier! (Listen, it’s seems pretty clear, it’s the airline that fucked up. If they had written as they should have eighteen hundred hours, we wouldn’t be in this mess!)
- J’y crois pas! Tu vas blâmer la compagnie d’aviation maintenant et tu refuses d’admettre ton ignorance? Heureusement qu’on a quelques heures devant nous pour en discuter! (I can’t believe this! You’re going to blame the airline and refuse to admit your own ignorance? Thankfully, we’ve got a few hours to discuss it!)
They started packing imminently. As they were walking off to the taxi stand, I caught up with them, leaving my hand luggage at the mercy of the local rabid rats.
- Eh, dites, je peux prendre votre photo? (Hey, can I take your picture?)
Say CHEESE!!
[1] The myth goes something like this: everybody speaks French; at the very least, everybody should speak French. See “FRANÇAIS” in the Larousse dictionary.
No comments:
Post a Comment