The Perils Of "The Pot"

The expats (or "Pot-Pats") as they are known hereabouts had gathered.  The venue The Rusty Keyhole, on the river next to the old bridge in Kampot, Cambodia.  The occassion - Rugby Union World Cup Final, New Zealand vs France.

As you'd expect, in a sleepy former French colonial town,  in this bar the supporters of Le Bleus had the numbers.  One of them had sacrificed much to the cause.  Moto accidents following the quarter and semi final win celebrations had resulted in an arm and leg respectively in plaster casts.  No one was sure whether he would survive another victory!

An all day happy hour was in effect and the mugs of ice cold Anchor beer at 3000 riel a glass were flowing. 

The game got underway and it was tight.  Outside storm clouds gathered.  The locals were wary.  They knew the risks.  Then the  rain started to fall.  Lights dimmed and fans slowed.  Power outages were par for the course in these parts.  Then as the rains pounded down even heavier the TV image froze and went to black.  A single line appeared on the screen - Signal is Scrambled.   Another hazard of Satellite TV.  WiFi was still up.  Someone found the commentary on their phone but the speaker was weak.  Three heads gathered together to listen in.  Five minutes later just before half time the signal was back.  No one had scored.  No damage done.

The second half got underway, it got even tighter.  Fifteen minutes to go and New Zealand up by the narrowed of margins 8-7.

Then our worst fears were realised.  Another even heavier squall hit - Signal scrambled again.  Heads went back to the smart phones.  Only one had the commentary.  Updates were relayed to the crowd.  A penalty to France.  Where? Everyone wanted to know.  The All Black 22.  A kick to touch.  Another penalty this time to New Zealand.  Another kick to touch.  Still the rains came down and the signal remained stubbornly scrambled.  Suddenly a squeal of joy.  Its all over.  The All Blacks had held on, and claimed the Webb Ellis Cup.

Now that it no longer matters, the rain eases.  Across the river the sun peeks through the clouds above the Bokor mountains.  The fishing fleet chugs downriver on the way out to sea for another nights fishing.  Its about  time to head out along the riverfront promenade to search out a bowl of bok l'hong, and perhaps another beer to watch the sun set behind the wonky old bridge.

As days go, it doesn't get much more exciting than this in The Pot.