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First day of water festival in Siem Reap is past, my first hangover of the week present. I woke up, not alone. On the floor, on the outstretched white planket, on cooling tiles, mid of the kitchen. I hear water running. She is having maybe a bath. Tubs are expensive and a waste of water, so sort of a spa special for (my) cambodian people. The first night since 5 weeks, since I arrived again in Siem Reap, that I wake up in company. 5 days before I leave to Bangkok. It was about time. And yesterday was one of these nights…
But every night starts with a morning. Soya picked me up, 7.30. In tow two volunteers, young, courages but tremendously shy, quite, when talking becomes a whisper of shakiness. We were walking up and down the river, its shores equipped with food and sale stalls, from balloons for kids, washing powder for mommy and tractors for the daddies. Beergardens. Music stages. Grandstand for officals and other rich families. The shades of the palm trees for the mob. The water festival hasn’t taken place in Siem Reap since years. The big boats are in Phnom Penh. Up to 40 people standing, with fighting spirit oaring for pride and to honor the team and their spiritual sportsmanship, on a typical and traditional wooden long boat, adored with beautiful paintings, randomly name of the team and eyes in front, asking the spirits of the depths of the sea to pass. It is a feast for locals. Wonderful. And exhausting. Masses of everything. Humans. Music. Cooked, boiled, roasted, chopped, shredded animals lying in state. No idea who won the race. I even didn´t get the rules and nobody could explain to me either. I felt more than usual like a one man wandering circus show, a show in a show. Lots of cambodians from the countryside, haven´t seen a white drowning in ink. Exhausting. Different story.
A proper feast needs a decent finale. And there is one way and many others, but the loveliest and rewarding is drinking with my cambodian brothers. So we did. One by one. Can by can. fucking my liver with a warped cactus. Having a chat and my personal game with fire. How many foreigners, how many ex military special forces whatever humpty dumpty parade live in Cambodia? That´s the place to be, corrupt, disordered and such a haven for gits – and I use this british term on purpose. So I had this huge muscle in front of me, me leaning on the bar, waiting for my beer. “You are a satanist?” I laughed, turned around and realized suddenly, not a question to joke around, so I did. Playing with his drunkenness, low mindedness and jerking, starving knuckles. I missed that. Siem Reap is so my private Berlin. Tori standing behind the white hollow muscle, listening and gesturing I should stop immediately, otherwise I find my head in the toilet, in an asian toilet, long way down. But it was so tantalising. What was all about? I have no idea. I didn´t get the point if he is a fundamental christian or fundamental dumb. He was spoiling for a fight, too obviously. And I have too much patience, caused by a sincere anxiety for my health, especially this kind of fights are the flashiness of masculinity, macho shit. Not worth to, but an entertaining adrenalin rush. Even sometimes I´d love to be one of this drunken monkey kung fu style masters. Would that be fun! But I left without a scratch. He tried to crumble my hand saying goodbye, looking me seriously in my eyes, like “Mate, if I want to, now, I could smash the world, but first your face, so be grateful and don´t be fucking smart. I know you are playing.” – And I know you are not able to face this. Seriously! You can barely focus your seeing. Deal with your 24 hours, 7 days, 365 days a year blunted state of your life story.
We passed.
We left.
We had a last drink, three last drinks on our way and Pomsen, my loved brother, picked up his girlfriend and went on my apartment. Not for a threesome, for a night on the floor of my kitchen and for bum bum and a long bath for my brother.
Live my desires! Better you than me.

The second day of the water festival I will miss, suffering hang over and asking myself how to break through this circle of undisciplined loss of freedom of expressing your frustration having to feel alive. My body feels so misapplied. Where did I leave this silly manual for it, for him, for the male and the man, for the man and the macho, for the macho and the female. My flesh is the record of my war, a map of barbarity and self-disrespect.