One of those reporter guys.
At the Pyongyang Cold Noodle Restaurant in Phnom Penh, one of a dozen plus eateries around the world owned by the North Korean regime, beer flows as freely as the blessed waters of the Kuryong Falls. An experience there is a grand show and, like any fiction, it is enhanced by alcohol, which is brought to you by spotless women in puffy joseon-ot dresses.
The humanitarian mercenary, who I recently met for beers off Khao San Road in Bangkok, goes by “Doc” in the Middle East and, here in southeast Asia, “Fox.”
I showed up twenty minutes early to our rendezvous at the Rainbow Hostel. He was already there, eating naan, when I arrived. Fox chose the place, a cramped spot “run by an Indian Sikh, a friend of ours,” he had said over email.
Nobody told me that the beaches in Batu Ferringhi would be too hot for leisure in April. The heat in Malaysia is punishing, and when I got there I found that on a clear day the beaches were deserted except for a sweaty construction crew hammering together a new dock.
The roti man was both an abuser and a creator. In his ancient storefront, he pulverized the dough, stretched the dough, pulled the dough, and, finally, when it was stretched thin and face-sized, he let it brown and crisp on his griddle.
The way you say Boston Tea Party in Chinese translates to Boston Dump Tea Time. As I sat down to a breakfast of wonton soup, I remembered that I had learned this the evening before during a boisterous dinner. My mind was still watery from a night of drinking and memories were coming back in drops.
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