b e n f e e v e r: Holiday In Cambodia

It’s a holiday in Cambodia
It’s tough kid, but it’s life
It’s a holiday in Cambodia
Don’t forget to Pack a wife.
- Jello Biafro, Dead Kennedy’s “Holiday In Cambodia”

It’s quite customary in Thailand for foreigners to do a “border run” in order to extend their automatic 30 day visas, so they may prolong whatever business they are in town for (i.e. inseminating locals, smuggling muay Thai fighting children, eating Som Tam, buying tee shirts…). The easiest, quickest, most gut-frothing route, is usually to head to Cambodia for a renewal of said Visa. I listened to Jello Biafro, found myself a Colombian wife (friend Ximena), and ran for the border. I have seldom had my mind (and tastebuds) blown so many times in one day. What a whammy.

We planned our trip with a company called “Jack’s Golf Tours”—a company that involves absolutely zero golfing in their awesomely illegal business. It’s 2000 Baht (about 60 bucks) to take the trip, which departs from 7-11 at 430 AM. When you walk up to 7-11, there are these little Thai foreigner-wrangling cowboys, who smell border runs halfway down that rodent-shite addled block. They grabbed my wife and I, and pulled us down an alley and around a table, buzzing with other half-waking whitey cattle. They grabbed our money and asked for our extra picture. I didn’t have an extra picture. I DID however have that extra hundred Baht they required for no photo. That bill was stapled right where my photo should have gone. Yeah. Protocol rules. They prodded us into their VIP Jack’s Golf tour bus, which would soon be brimming with border runners. It’s called a “racket,” and they thrive in places where law is about as rigid as an old mango BM.

The wife and I found our seats on the main floor. We conversed about all things weddingable on the way up, and watched as the sun rose to the scent of Thaibus toilet. I love honeymoons. Several hours into it, chaos started building around the exterior of the bus, and the fluorescent lights and Thai music came piercing from above to rouse us from serenity. We were nearing our destination. The nice lady came by and gave everyone their passports back, all properly filled out, and ready for the ole in-n-out. Ximena was asked kindly to pay extra, simply because she comes from a country of Cocaine and terrorism, which is fair.

When the woman found me, she could hardly get my name out without chuckling. “Mr. Benjamin Fee… Heee heeee… Your picture look like lady!...” “Ohhh, Khob Khun Krab (Thank you), Thank you so much…” I bowed in appreciation and took my lady-like passport and stuffed that, along with my pride, into my pocket. My wife was very amused. I haven’t been called lady since I was 12 years old. I love this place. I feel so young again!

Soon thereafter I was approached by a man who draped a lanyard over my neck, with my name and job. Mr. Jutarat Sri-utayan! And I work “Gift”! A cultural chameleon I am! In line for the visa-age, I noticed on my paperwork that the picture of my 100 baht face was now blank. Where had my money gone? Was I to be trapped and questioned? There were people buzzing all around me, hyperventilating, salivating at the thought of getting something they wanted for very cheap. Whatever that may have been, it was about to be at their fingertips and in their passports. Southeastern Asia: The place of border-running, gender-bending, sex-swapping, fun fun! My money, that’s right. I flagged down that lovely lady who thought me a femme, and asked her where my Baht had gone, and what I should do about my photo. Great quote number 2: “Your money is working.” Fair enough. Apparently it was. The Visa man smiled at me, Mr. Jutarat Sri-Utayan, stamped the lady boy Benjamin Fee’s Passport, and motioned me into his land.

The border is fucking nuts. There are children asking for money for as far as the eyes could see, but not nearly as far as the line of hand-carters there were. Cambodians hustling and sweating to break into Thailand—the land of wealth. Our first order of business as a Cambodian golfing tour, was to get shoved into cars labeled “Tropicana,” and get hustled to the world’s worst casino, where we would yes, eat the world’s worst fucking food. I was actually wondering if the day would ever come when I would taste the world’s worst food. It actually happened on this glorious day. It is normal procedure, I found, to gather all of us into a dining hall, and set us free on the worst concoctions of consumption for up to 2 hours. All we could eat! COULD is the operative word. Neither myself, or my wife COULD eat very much. There was French Toasted, which was cold triangular semi-moosh, flavored like cinnamon fish crap. The orange juice, was orange colored syrup from the anus of a troll. Holy shit. We would have been doomed if it weren’t for the fresh fruit tray. Thanks Earth. You save us again!

After semi-eating we strolled through this place and watched all the unlucky visitors of the casino pray to the king of queen, who were gladly pocketing their hard earned pennies. When the bell tolled for the flock of us, we hustled back into Tropicana vans and headed back to our true destination: Thailandagain!

Oh, I forgot to mention that we only had our passports for about 15 percent of the journey. Where they were adventuring the rest of the time was beyond me. One thing is for certain, I’m pretty sure I saw a Mr. Jutarat Sri-Utayan with a shitty asymmetrical haircut and a lady boy face shopping at my 7-11 later that week. He had a terrorist wife too.