young girl’s behind. The boy seemed unwilling to let a deal slip by without more solid confirmation and he stuck out a small hand.
“You promise,” he ordered me, adamantly. To shut him up I agreed, and shook his hand, marvelling at the strength of the little fellow; then he grabbed his young brother by the ear and they both shot off across the sands after Miss Sihanoukville. Poor kid. We both knew full well however long he lived, however hard he tried, and whatever business courses he completed he would never possess the attributes necessary to put him in the same sales league as his sister. In fact, I tried to wriggle out of the deal we had made, but I was forced to buy a handful of his shells in the end as he was obviously going to make life unbearable for me until I kept my promise. As for his sister—after I had been in Cambodia for a while and when the gorgeous girl decided I had bought enough crap and was not a complete plonker—she relaxed enough to tell me something about herself.
“My name is Jorani, which means ‘radiant jewel.’ I am nearly eighteen years old and I was fortunate enough to be born very beautiful. My husband, Heng (meaning lucky), is twenty-eight. He runs the little bar under the big Casurina tree opposite Snake Island where I first saw you. The bar cost nothing to set up because the land is owned by a friend and the wood we used was washed up during a storm. I bought the first bottles of drink with money I made selling trinkets to the tourists. It is a lucky place and many farangs come to cook themselves in the sun there and swim in the sea. Of course, I always tell people on the beach that I am not married — especially the men — because this is better for business. I earn more money than my husband’s bar does, simply by selling the souvenirs I make and cutting the finger and toe nails of tourists.
My best customers are the farang men who come to our country to have sex with Cambodian and Vietnamese girls in the Chicken Farms and the new bars that are opening up around town and on Victory Hill. When they see me — just like you did — they will usually buy a bracelet or two for a price that it would take a good Cambodian craftsman two days to earn. I spent two years teaching myself to speak English with the help of an old phrasebook a backpacker left in the trash-bin in a room of a guesthouse after he had checked out. The cleaning girl salvaged it and I bought it from her for fifty cents. That book changed my life. Being able to speak English — together with my looks — allows the farang men to engage me in conversation. Many of them do so just to see if there is a chance I might be desperate enough for money to have sex with them. They also often want manicures just to keep me around.
Some of the really ignorant men try to touch my breasts and bottom as I work but when they do this I stop what I am doing and leave. I make sure that they pay me first, of course. Last year a smelly, fat Englishman got very angry when I would not take no for an answer and told me to fuck off and hit me across the face. I told Heng and he found out that the same farang had been bringing very young girls back to his room and doing bad things to them. A little later the farang was found dead with his throat cut on the beach outside the bungalow he had rented. I don’t know who did it and Heng says he doesn’t either and refuses to talk to me about it any more.
Some of the men think I am a poor, naive Cambodian girl and try to trick me into coming to their rooms by telling me they would like to marry me and make me rich. Of course, not all the farang men are bad. Many of them are just having fun on holiday and want to talk to a beautiful Cambodian girl who can speak English very well.
There are many farang women on Victory Beach too, and I paint their nails and braid their hair. Some of them ask me bad questions and seem very interested to know just how far a lovely young Cambodian girl will go
“You promise,” he ordered me, adamantly. To shut him up I agreed, and shook his hand, marvelling at the strength of the little fellow; then he grabbed his young brother by the ear and they both shot off across the sands after Miss Sihanoukville. Poor kid. We both knew full well however long he lived, however hard he tried, and whatever business courses he completed he would never possess the attributes necessary to put him in the same sales league as his sister. In fact, I tried to wriggle out of the deal we had made, but I was forced to buy a handful of his shells in the end as he was obviously going to make life unbearable for me until I kept my promise. As for his sister—after I had been in Cambodia for a while and when the gorgeous girl decided I had bought enough crap and was not a complete plonker—she relaxed enough to tell me something about herself.
“My name is Jorani, which means ‘radiant jewel.’ I am nearly eighteen years old and I was fortunate enough to be born very beautiful. My husband, Heng (meaning lucky), is twenty-eight. He runs the little bar under the big Casurina tree opposite Snake Island where I first saw you. The bar cost nothing to set up because the land is owned by a friend and the wood we used was washed up during a storm. I bought the first bottles of drink with money I made selling trinkets to the tourists. It is a lucky place and many farangs come to cook themselves in the sun there and swim in the sea. Of course, I always tell people on the beach that I am not married — especially the men — because this is better for business. I earn more money than my husband’s bar does, simply by selling the souvenirs I make and cutting the finger and toe nails of tourists.
My best customers are the farang men who come to our country to have sex with Cambodian and Vietnamese girls in the Chicken Farms and the new bars that are opening up around town and on Victory Hill. When they see me — just like you did — they will usually buy a bracelet or two for a price that it would take a good Cambodian craftsman two days to earn. I spent two years teaching myself to speak English with the help of an old phrasebook a backpacker left in the trash-bin in a room of a guesthouse after he had checked out. The cleaning girl salvaged it and I bought it from her for fifty cents. That book changed my life. Being able to speak English — together with my looks — allows the farang men to engage me in conversation. Many of them do so just to see if there is a chance I might be desperate enough for money to have sex with them. They also often want manicures just to keep me around.
Some of the really ignorant men try to touch my breasts and bottom as I work but when they do this I stop what I am doing and leave. I make sure that they pay me first, of course. Last year a smelly, fat Englishman got very angry when I would not take no for an answer and told me to fuck off and hit me across the face. I told Heng and he found out that the same farang had been bringing very young girls back to his room and doing bad things to them. A little later the farang was found dead with his throat cut on the beach outside the bungalow he had rented. I don’t know who did it and Heng says he doesn’t either and refuses to talk to me about it any more.
Some of the men think I am a poor, naive Cambodian girl and try to trick me into coming to their rooms by telling me they would like to marry me and make me rich. Of course, not all the farang men are bad. Many of them are just having fun on holiday and want to talk to a beautiful Cambodian girl who can speak English very well.
There are many farang women on Victory Beach too, and I paint their nails and braid their hair. Some of them ask me bad questions and seem very interested to know just how far a lovely young Cambodian girl will go
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