Wish you were here&;#063;

Writing. Why do we do it, huh? Communication's what you need, so
said Spandau Ballet, but for what? What does language tell us about
ourselves?

I mean, it's funny how you learn a new language, the words and phrases
that you pick up first through necessity or want. Pragmatic learning,
context based. Kind of idea bearded, Guardian reading,
free-range-muesli-eating modern linguists go wild over in trendy
learning workshops before passing off the idea to wide eyed TEFL
Trainers at weekend retreats.

And each and every country has differing language context priorities
for the wannabe polyglot.

Take Thailand for example. I could order a six course meal in detail
within the first two weeks, and complain when the staff give me the
wrong beer as a futile attempt at screwing me for a few baht more. This
learning, because the food is, unarguably, divine and I am unarguably
greedy. But, hence also the swift learning of 'rip off'', 'born
yesterday' and equivalents of 'you're having a laugh matey' and 'not if
my pagoda depended on it you ruthless little gimp'.

Not mentioning the ever useful 'no thanks, I prefer real women', 'no
thanks, I prefer ladies at least past primary school age' and 'get your
filthy little pimp hands off me cos I aint into paying for women, you
little Thai weasel'.

This learning, because the Thais are, unarguably, undivine.

Khmer, for me, began with 'turn left/right' for the cartographically
challenged moto drivers, 'drive on the right you pillock' for the very
same people, ditto with 'if you really think I'm paying for the damage
for your bike AND the family of four you've just driven into you're
having a lark' and finally 'oh ok here's 100 riel then' (about
2p).

I suppose all countries have their 'must have' lingo. Turkey: 'take
your leering eyes off my girlfriend and stick your kilim up your...';
Finland: 'one more lash with the twigs deary, make it thrashy, and
steam me Nokia up nicely'; etc. etc.

God only knows what Britain's would be. 'Grim', 'morose', 'grey' and
'Australia win again' would be up there, along with 'America's arse
boy' and 'bugger me if it isn't another agricultural stuff up', one
presumes.

And so back to Cambodia. It does have some other interesting lingo
'must have' of it's own, too.

Take this week for instance. Where else in the world, save maybe Sierra
Leone, Afghanistan, and possibly Colombia would 'handgrenade' come into
the vocabulary of beginner learners. Even Beirut is back in the tourist
market, one hears. Some others from the week have been 'shrapnel',
'D.O.A.', 'widower' and several other cheery classics not usually to be
found in the back section of your Lonely Planet phrase book.

It has not, as is probably apparent, been a good week.

One would go as far as to say, even, a very bad week.

Last Wednesday night, myself and a friend went for a quiet drink and
game of chess at my old local, run by a very dear friend and his wife.
My first friends in Phnom Penh. Surrogate family in many
respects.

Beautiful people, and despite the fact that she is, sorry, was, Khmer,
it was a traditional marriage based on love and done in the proper
manner, not in the more usual local expat manner of strolling down to
the local massage karaoke joint and picking the
prettiest/cheapest/youngest lady of negotiable affection. Many, many,
many nights have been spent with David and Sokha teasing me for my
slightly cad-ish manner and romantic aspirations and allusions. A good
family bar, succesful financially in it's own little way, a great
family, and plans for the future.

Hmm.

But, I digress. So, a normal Wednesday night, drink, chess, drink,
laugh, conversation, drink, bill, home, bed. Normal for me, anyway, so
read into that what you will about my lifestyle options.

See, thing is, I left before the fun started. Not really a normal
Wednesday night at all. Continue in the bar from where I leave: drink,
laugh, chess, drink, conversation, drink, two pissed Khmers arguing in
the street, drink, argument gets heated, drink, go to close safety
shutters as precaution, grenade, shrapnel, no drink, no laugh, no
conversation, no Sokha.

No mother for a beautiful 18 month old baby, no wife for a loving and
destroyed husband, no beautiful friend and confidante for many of us,
no reason, no sense, no ... justice?

No God? Not for me to say, really.

Language is a strange thing, and does reflect the nature of its people
and its place of origin. Hence the famed 24,363 Eskimo words for snow,
the 762 Finnish words for sweaty rooms (3 of which non sexual), the
enormous number of profane expressions relating to genitalia and
orifice (because we are at heart ugly disgusting filthy minded
creatures, face it), the Turkish distinctions on woven rugs, and the 52
American words for ... well, their whole vocabulary.

Indeed, going back to profanities, 'fuck' is, I believe, the most
pliable and durable and multi functioning word in the English language.
And much maligned, so if you don't like it, my apologies for using it,
but fuck off now.

And so, but, in any language, no matter how base the people, or the
environment, I challenge any of you to give me a word that adequately
describes someone who throws a grenade, a weapon of indiscriminate
evil, a weapon of war, into a street in an argument over a fucking
karaoke song. Indeed, a person who even carries around such a thing on
the off chance that you may need to use it. I know many of you reading
this speak a variety of wierd and wonderful tongues and languages, so
please, one of you, give me a word that relates to someone so fucked in
the head, so low, so unimaginably fucking debased and yet ironically so
fucking trivial. A simple fucking noun.

A word that I now need to learn.

Just so I can say "He is a fucking _______".

I'm not holding my breath.

So, while closing the shutters from an argument not anything remotely
related to her, Sokha is killed by a piece of shrapnel no bigger than
the eraser on the end of a pencil, no bigger than the thought process
of this fucking ________ , the only one that flies towards the bar,
that flies from the explosion 8 metres away, pierces the metal shutter,
and goes straight into her heart.

Bullseye.

30 seconds and you're gone. Do the countdown conundrum or something. If
you're going to go out on a triviality, embrace it.

Million to one chance? One second earlier or later, one inch either way
and it'd have been just a bad injury, one tiny change in the
composition of the grenade, one more half spin in the throw, etc. etc.
Heard it all before. Doesn't help the grief, though. Makes it worse, in
many ways.

And there's the rub. Triviality. "hey, it's my turn to sing next".
Bang. One life gone, one destroyed, one motherless child, and no
answers why.

It even made the front page of David's family's local newspaper in
Birmingham. Here's your 15 minutes, matey. Bet they've never run
grenade victims on the cover before. Must be a nice change for the
headline writer from canal upgrades and curry houses.

So, what happens. Cremation. Wake. Buddhist seven day festival. Then,
to look forward to, the 100 day festival.

Karaoke ad infinitum!

And the beat goes on.

And the beat goes on.

And the beat goes on.

And nothing changes for millions and millions and millions, unaware of
the fact that there is one more debased fucking ___________ (fill as
appropriate) who has destroyed something beautiful for nothing.

Well, not for nothing, for the Khmer equivalent of 'I will survive', or
some such.

So, as a language learning experience, wonderful. Set the context, pick
up the vocab, practice your past tense.

But, people keep telling me, constantly, that it's more than just a
language learning thing, that there are more lessons here.

I'm finding it hard to see quite what.

Possible lessons learned:

1) Don't get too attached to anyone or anything. Be ready and able to
leave anywhere or anybody at the drop of a hat. No hurt. Because, when
things are going well, when you're happy, when laughter and love are
permanent bedfellows rather than occasional whores, life has this
annoying habit of ripping your mouth open and shitting down your
neck.

Maybe.

2) This city is a hole and the people here are lacking in some basic
human ways.

Reminds me of something: Jeremy, a friend who left two months ago with
his baby after his wife died of AIDS and he had been screwed by the
government (see above re mouth ripping and neck shitting) had only one
piece of advice for me - enjoy your time here, but leave as soon as you
can because this place is poison.

Again, maybe.

3) Life is cheap, people are transient, and existence is ephemeral, so
enjoy it to the full, max it, take the kahuna burger when you're
offered it and don't have no regrets.

Hmmm.

4) Buy thicker steel shutters.

Hmmmmm.

Of the lot, of them all, I think the only one I can go with is number
four.

Trivia.

Because, after all, there are no lessons that can be learned, no great
wisdom, no Eureka in a bath, apple from the sky, or bulbs above the
head. Theres nothing to learn except that there isn't any great truth
that we can ever learn.

We're a race of Canutes, facing a sea of insecurity and depression. We
can learn language to better insult each other, we can learn language
so we can better pass on platitudes and falsehoods, and we learn
language so we can at the end of the day stuff our selves full of
absolute trivia.

Because someday, you see life's arse towering over your throat for the
last time and watch helplessly as the turtlehead appears.

So while waiting agape for the rectum of fate, let's all join in
together:

"First I was afraid, I was petrified ........"

Hmm.