The Pig’s Tale

I was sitting on the stall at the Russian Market in Phnom Penh, next to the old guy. He doesn’t say much. Just makes a lot of noise when he eats noodles. He spends much of his day watching old films on a tiny TV, and only looks up when someone stops to eye up his wood. The passers-by are a mix of Cambodians going about their day and tourists on a trip to the nation’s capital. They wander the dark, narrow lanes of shiny Buddhas, incense, and ‘I heart Cambodia’ t-shirts, trying to get a hit of air off a random stall fan.

I didn’t see her until she was right in front of me. She had walked up behind a line of Dutch backpackers, who for some reason are really tall. The dame smelled of Jaffa cakes, spiced rum, and a lifetime of bad decisions. She spoke to the old man, money changed hands, and no, she didn’t want a plastic bag. So what this chick lacks in bartering skills, she makes up for in environmental positivity.

We spent the four-hour bus ride to the coast in silence. Mainly because I’m an inanimate object and was in a shopping bag underneath a pair of jeans. In my opinion, she’ll never get those jeans past her thighs, but you’ve got to admire her optimism.

We go to a beach bar. Cute place. A straw-roofed shoreline shack with cushioned bamboo seats and eclectic music, played low. The sea affectionately slaps the rocks underneath the wooden terrace like a playful lover. The clientele is a mix of chirpy backpackers and ex-pats who look like they’re on the run from reality and/or their native legal system. I take my place on the shelf between the Mekong Whisky and Creme de Menthe.

I’m introduced to my new colleagues. Two sweet Khmer chicks with high-pitched voices and smiles that could melt Svalbard’s Seed Vault.
“He’s lovely,” says the one with the freckles, “what’s his name?”
The name’s Brak, I tell her, Chrouk Brak.
“Brian,” says the dame, while smearing me all over with a soggy cloth, “the tips pig.”
Brian?!!.. Well, fine then sweet-cheeks, if we’re naming things, I’ll just call you Doris.

That day was a long time ago. The sweet little Cambodian beach bar now just a memory, flattened by rich investors and several tonnes of concrete. She got out before the bulldozers came. Together we’ve covered some miles, from her native England to Greece and the Canary Islands.

She goes by the name S.A. Johnson.
But she’ll always look like a Doris to me.
You can find her at sajohnsonwrites@gmail.com