Never Judge a Book

"You know Jim, there are two types of Cambodian girls" that’s what he said as we stepped off from the platform of the long wooden boat. It has been a long trip from the island of Koh Phangan. The sun was out in full force and the Singha Beers did not help any. My dehydration did not discourage Martin’s enthusiasm as we walked into the territorial grounds of Cambodia.
"As I said," he picked up his backpack from the floor, readjusted its straps and walked on "there are two types of Cambodian girls, there are those who charge twenty five per night and then there is the other type." Then he paused as if he was waiting for me to play straight man.

"Ok, I give in, what is the other type?"

"Those who charge more." You should have seen the smile on his face, he stood there like some kind of a perverted peacock who mistook his record of Asian whore mongering to be a worthy accomplishment for all loyal subjects of the great British Commonwealth.
Martin and I met on a scuba diving trip out in Koh Pi Pi. For any and all of us who scuba as a way of life, there are no better waters that those of the Thai islands.
Martin stood over six feet tall. He was the perfect antithesis to the two American travelers who joined us back in Bangkok. They were young and foul, while he was the quintessential English gentleman.

Martin always said "Thank You" and "No need". Every sentence that came out of his mouth was preceded or followed by an " I beg your pardon". Martin used the right fork with the right hand, he never spilled his beer nor did he ever interrupt a conversation. Even after a long day of diving, he showed up properly for dinner. His pressed white button down shirt was something out of the ordinary around their T-shirt circles.

Martin seemed like the kind of a man that was so proper and straight that he could himself poor the purest Earl Gray tea into Queen Elizabeth’s own tea cup.

But you should never judge a book by his cover that is what they always told me.

Later on, in that small village, right outside of Sihanoukville, we walked into the Smoking Bandit brothel. At least, that was the sign that they posted for the tourists. This was my first time in an official brothel. The prostitutes along the small outside bars on the main drag of the island of phuket do not count.

A short woman around the age of forty welcomed us into a well decorated room that was furnished with bamboo and red cloth.

Her name was Jorani and she explained in broken English that it meant beautiful jewel. Lady Jewel did not speak much. The only words she knew referred to drinks, women and money to be collected.

A couple of Angkor beers did the trick and we were ready to go.


Jorani walked us into the other room were we had to choose. Each girl went for about Cambodian Riel, the equivalent of ten American dollars.

Miki and John took their time and then selected their woman. Miki liked them taller. John was looking for a bustier woman, which as we all know, is a rare commodity around these parts.

Then it was Martin’s turn. We all waited to see who the great English gentleman was going to select. I suspected that he would take that one girl from the left who seemed to be just a little more classy than did the rest of the prostitutes.

But Martin was full of surprises just like the many other characters that I met along my travels.
First he chose Lin and then Min and then Ling. But he could not stop. Six women walked into the bedroom with the great English gentleman, Queen Elizabeth’s tea steward, the great emblem, satisfaction and delight of the United Kingdom of St. George and the rose.

There were three women left but I selected none. I went outside and smoked another cigarette as I waited for the boys to complete their task.

Twenty minutes later, I grew bored and paid Jorani fifteen American dollars for a massage. Her hands were experienced and worth every penny I spent. At the end, she gave me a short hand job, just to make things right.

Two cigarettes later and Miki reemerged.

"So what do you say about his Martin character?" He laughed as he inquired.

"What do I think about this Martin character? What do I think about all of us? Well Miki", I inhaled another breath of cigarette smoke and then smiled "I guess that you can never judge a book buy its cover."



Hard-Boiled Men