One of those sweltering days, it must have been by the end of July or the beginning of August, our man arrived. Our man from Louisiana. Our man was not in a good shape. His toenails had grown to a length that we had never ever seen before. He walked slowly and could only walk the spiraling stairway up to the third floor taking pauses. When he started talking, he had a stutter and often could not remember the words he wanted to use. He had had a stroke.

Our man was not in a good shape though his accent still was. A lovely accent. A Louisiana accent. Melodious and enticing to the listener. With a banjo on my knee he would repeat over and over when we — Mr Photographer and I — mentioned Louisiana. He had been in Malaysia and Thailand, and wanted to visit Cambodia. Our man kept his spirits high.

Malaysia yes, the highlands. In a way to say thanks for having found some friends at the dorm we both received a sachet of black tea. Looking at the way I hang all my clothes suspending from the bed frame triggered a memory. He had been a sailor working for the US merchant navy all his life he told me. There was more. He had a son. A son in Texas with a very negative attitude. A son who would only complain to his old Dad. He did not want to listen to his son anymore.

One afternoon … he started stammering “I gotta … I gotta leave! I gotta … gotta leave! We really did not get it. What did he mean? He seemed to be fine before.
Absorbed with our own issues and struggles we forgot to ask for details.

Dumb asses we had been.
“I gotta leave! I gotta leave!”, had been his way of saying I cannot pay anymore. The guy temporarily in charge of the hotel while the manager was on a study trip had told him to pack and sack. So, he did. Once I realised that something was definitely wrong I tried to give him a call. No response. No answer, and again and again .. no answer.
Our man from Louisiana was gone…