Dun dun dun...another one rides the bus - 16/1/12
_
Cambodia
has been a mix of thrills, spills and nasty ills, but now it is over. I sit on
my balcony overlooking the sun setting over the Mekong
on the Laos island
of Don Det, part of the collective
known as 4000 islands. It is chilled, and I couldn’t be happier, except for
Italian Eugene, my next door neighbour, who likes to walk around in his tight underwear
far more than I would like. The journey to get here, however, was a lot more
fraught.
I truly believe that Cambodia is a country which will, given time, transcend in the world. It has the resources, work ethic and certainly the desire to take every American dollar available (after all, it was the most used currency here). Foremost, those in charge of both country and business should pull their heads out from the inner recesses of their collective rectums and sort out some of the most basic necessities of mankind. I know it's not that simple, however; anyone educated or born with any brain or talent was killed in the days of Khmer Rouge, because they were seen as a threat.
The buses have air conditioning, the rooms are reasonable if you find the right place, and everything is pretty cheap. On the other hand, the organisation is shocking, the food poor, the infrastructure weak and the litter and poverty is in dire need of attention.
Phnom Penh, although I considered it quite charming for a capital city, was unable to display to me its full box of tricks due to the illness that had stricken me. You’ll be pleased to know that the irritation in depths of my bowels has now gone, and life has not so much returned to normal but more turn into a mess of drunkenness combined with full on days of cultural activity or cocktail fuelled swimming pool sessions.
The bus station in the capital, from where we would catch the bus to Siem Reap, (the town closest to Angkor Wat) is a shambolic mess of people, rubbish and well…… mess. When our bus arrived it was an hour and half late, and arrived at our destination later than the allotted time. The Tuc Tuc driver we had on arrival obviously gets paid commission for the guest houses he took us to (all 7 of them), but we managed to settle on one which wasn’t on his list, much to his chagrin.
I truly believe that Cambodia is a country which will, given time, transcend in the world. It has the resources, work ethic and certainly the desire to take every American dollar available (after all, it was the most used currency here). Foremost, those in charge of both country and business should pull their heads out from the inner recesses of their collective rectums and sort out some of the most basic necessities of mankind. I know it's not that simple, however; anyone educated or born with any brain or talent was killed in the days of Khmer Rouge, because they were seen as a threat.
The buses have air conditioning, the rooms are reasonable if you find the right place, and everything is pretty cheap. On the other hand, the organisation is shocking, the food poor, the infrastructure weak and the litter and poverty is in dire need of attention.
Phnom Penh, although I considered it quite charming for a capital city, was unable to display to me its full box of tricks due to the illness that had stricken me. You’ll be pleased to know that the irritation in depths of my bowels has now gone, and life has not so much returned to normal but more turn into a mess of drunkenness combined with full on days of cultural activity or cocktail fuelled swimming pool sessions.
The bus station in the capital, from where we would catch the bus to Siem Reap, (the town closest to Angkor Wat) is a shambolic mess of people, rubbish and well…… mess. When our bus arrived it was an hour and half late, and arrived at our destination later than the allotted time. The Tuc Tuc driver we had on arrival obviously gets paid commission for the guest houses he took us to (all 7 of them), but we managed to settle on one which wasn’t on his list, much to his chagrin.
Siem Siem but not different
Room found, new place, heads down. No fun times for me, I was
still on my course of antibiotics. Ben, my aforementioned travelling chum and
I, get some sleep for the evening to wake up early and explore the temples of
Angkor Wat; 30+ sites dedicated to the Gods of both Hindu and Buddhist faiths (although all the heads of the Buddihist statues were smashed during the Khmer Rouge),
many of which are over 1000 years old. A 7am
start awaited, aided by a Valium induced sleep (24 tablets, prescription authorised
at home, can be bought for $2 in Cambodia).
In the morning, we hire some gearless bikes for a mere dollar for the day and hit the road. Before we even see a temple, we pull up to a group of Monkeys by the side of the road. Whilst taking pictures, one climbs on Ben’s bike and gives the appearance of riding it, before attempting to lunge into Ben’s bag in the basket to explore its contents. In doing so, the cheeky monkey tips the bike onto the floor and screams at Ben before running off scared into a tree.
Seven hours later, we return back to Downtown Siem Reap Guest House (otherwise known as ‘Wats Up Guest house) having explored many of the lesser spots of the area, bar one. ‘Bayon’ is a temple dedicated to Shiva, which contains a large number of heads facing the four opposite directions of the compass. As you climb higher into its inner sanctums, the place becomes more and more of a labyrinth, and although the site isn’t huge, its inner workings leave you feeling you are inside a stone hill which has been intricately carved out as opposed to a temple built from scratch.
Madhevi and Jay are American-born Indians who have come to Cambodia for their honeymoon, six months after their actual wedding. Jay’s profession is to check and diagnose problems from x-rays, CT scans and such like. Madhevi is an emergency contagion specialist. Between them, they are well versed in medical knowledge, and although it is the last day of my medicine, they assure me that now the course has finished I am allowed to resume the consumption of alcohol after a nine day hiatus. The delivery of a Jagaer-bomb, on their orders, puts any fears to rest and so restarts the corruption of my body. They tell me I should really have no more than six drinks (this is four in), which is advice I completely ignore. I mean, they started it.
Their flight is early the next morning, so we wish our best goodbyes to two of the nicest Americans I’ve ever met before indulging in the night life of Siem Reap, which is booming. The only problem is, which we discovered on each subsequent night, that the music in the main bars down ‘Pub street’ play nothing but the most unbearable chart music. As Ben said, you travel to South-East Asia to get away from this ‘gash’, and yet, the lithe movements of the opposite sex make it a little more bearable.
In the morning, we hire some gearless bikes for a mere dollar for the day and hit the road. Before we even see a temple, we pull up to a group of Monkeys by the side of the road. Whilst taking pictures, one climbs on Ben’s bike and gives the appearance of riding it, before attempting to lunge into Ben’s bag in the basket to explore its contents. In doing so, the cheeky monkey tips the bike onto the floor and screams at Ben before running off scared into a tree.
Seven hours later, we return back to Downtown Siem Reap Guest House (otherwise known as ‘Wats Up Guest house) having explored many of the lesser spots of the area, bar one. ‘Bayon’ is a temple dedicated to Shiva, which contains a large number of heads facing the four opposite directions of the compass. As you climb higher into its inner sanctums, the place becomes more and more of a labyrinth, and although the site isn’t huge, its inner workings leave you feeling you are inside a stone hill which has been intricately carved out as opposed to a temple built from scratch.
Madhevi and Jay are American-born Indians who have come to Cambodia for their honeymoon, six months after their actual wedding. Jay’s profession is to check and diagnose problems from x-rays, CT scans and such like. Madhevi is an emergency contagion specialist. Between them, they are well versed in medical knowledge, and although it is the last day of my medicine, they assure me that now the course has finished I am allowed to resume the consumption of alcohol after a nine day hiatus. The delivery of a Jagaer-bomb, on their orders, puts any fears to rest and so restarts the corruption of my body. They tell me I should really have no more than six drinks (this is four in), which is advice I completely ignore. I mean, they started it.
Their flight is early the next morning, so we wish our best goodbyes to two of the nicest Americans I’ve ever met before indulging in the night life of Siem Reap, which is booming. The only problem is, which we discovered on each subsequent night, that the music in the main bars down ‘Pub street’ play nothing but the most unbearable chart music. As Ben said, you travel to South-East Asia to get away from this ‘gash’, and yet, the lithe movements of the opposite sex make it a little more bearable.
Angkor Wat you talking about?
_ Siem Reap held us captivated socially, culturally and
chemically at various points for a week, and as much I would love to say I enjoyed the nightlife
of the place, I can’t; it frankly made me feel old. So in order to retract my
youthfulness the consummation of buckets, plied with vodka and red bull, were
necessary. As a result, blurry messes of drunkenness ensue, so I have nothing
more to say about it except I woke up next to no-one unusual and the town was a
sure fire sausage fest.
Back to Angor Wat, the temple itself isn’t really much to write home about. It’s great, structurally, and the carvings on the wall are fantastic, if you’re really into carvings. Which I’m not. I won’t lie.
They did become more interesting on our final day, however. In order to ‘expand my horizons’, ‘find myself’ or ‘be at one with my surroundings’, this day included a few tabs of Acid, which we were told would make an interesting place even more interesting. So I’m travelling…..why not?
Paulie has only been driving his Tuc Tuc for four months, and he is among the friendliest non-prostitute Cambodians I have met. And no, I didn’t pay for that anywhere, thank you very much. He was our driver for this unusual day, we dined with him for breakfast and dinner, and he was nothing but smiley and cheerful throughout.
Our driver takes English lessons for an hour everyday at 7am, before working on his Tuc Tuc for the day, before working at our guesthouse. He had to quit school when he was in grade 8, in order to work. When asked about his upbringing, he wouldn’t explain, except to say ‘it was hard’. When pressed, he became visibly upset. I pressed no further. Whatever occurred, it seems unfair to have happened to such a cheery soul.
Back at Angor Thom, the largest of the temple sites, we began our experience, quest, journey…..thing. After walking around a wall for quite some time, we found a few temples bereft of warning signs or tourists and had a good climb around, and began to find things interesting, to more interesting to fascinating. Not that we were walking around, mouth agape, looking like dopey and dopier; we simply had a very enhanced day. It was like looking at a crumbling piles of blocks on normal TV to watching it in HD with included super slo-mos. Paulie directed us to some of the quieter temples, and by the end of the day I was taking pictures of Ganesh and Shiva at Banteray Srey, the farthest temple out, in order to have them tattooed somewhere on my being later that night (which, fortunately, I didn’t).
Back to Angor Wat, the temple itself isn’t really much to write home about. It’s great, structurally, and the carvings on the wall are fantastic, if you’re really into carvings. Which I’m not. I won’t lie.
They did become more interesting on our final day, however. In order to ‘expand my horizons’, ‘find myself’ or ‘be at one with my surroundings’, this day included a few tabs of Acid, which we were told would make an interesting place even more interesting. So I’m travelling…..why not?
Paulie has only been driving his Tuc Tuc for four months, and he is among the friendliest non-prostitute Cambodians I have met. And no, I didn’t pay for that anywhere, thank you very much. He was our driver for this unusual day, we dined with him for breakfast and dinner, and he was nothing but smiley and cheerful throughout.
Our driver takes English lessons for an hour everyday at 7am, before working on his Tuc Tuc for the day, before working at our guesthouse. He had to quit school when he was in grade 8, in order to work. When asked about his upbringing, he wouldn’t explain, except to say ‘it was hard’. When pressed, he became visibly upset. I pressed no further. Whatever occurred, it seems unfair to have happened to such a cheery soul.
Back at Angor Thom, the largest of the temple sites, we began our experience, quest, journey…..thing. After walking around a wall for quite some time, we found a few temples bereft of warning signs or tourists and had a good climb around, and began to find things interesting, to more interesting to fascinating. Not that we were walking around, mouth agape, looking like dopey and dopier; we simply had a very enhanced day. It was like looking at a crumbling piles of blocks on normal TV to watching it in HD with included super slo-mos. Paulie directed us to some of the quieter temples, and by the end of the day I was taking pictures of Ganesh and Shiva at Banteray Srey, the farthest temple out, in order to have them tattooed somewhere on my being later that night (which, fortunately, I didn’t).
Day Tripper
_ At the end of the trip I saw one of the most harrowing
things I have ever seen. A woman, I would guess aged 30, with patches of
mottled skin where she had been burnt, an arm that ended in a stump and a
shuffled walk that suggested numerous other problems. Her deformed mouth
couldn’t make any noise except moans and groans, and I didn’t have the strength
to meet her eyes for fear of what they would have said.
At the end of this day we met up with Susie and Shannon, British and Australian respectively and both incredibly good conversation, who we had previously met in Koh Rong. We enjoyed drinks, food and a day at the pool with them on my final day in Siem Reap, in which I got to experience poolside drinking on a little chair in the water for the first time in my life.
Our first night out with our re-aligned posse involved, after a lot of groundwork, me losing out on a 19 year-old ex-model to Beardy Kind Face.
The bus awaited at 5 am, so staying up late in X Bar (complete with rooftop half-pipe) seemed the most logical conclusion. Ben and I paid up with Paulie, got pissed, I said a fond farewell to Ben, who has been a superb travelling partner, Shannon and Susie and got on the bus an hour and a half later than originally told.
I was told the bus would directly take us to the Cambodia-Laos border, so I dropped a Valium and went deep into an uncomfortable sleep on a bedless bus. Awoken five hours later by a kind European lady, I was told we had to change bus, and wait for an hour at yet another grotty ‘service station’, so lethargically and dopily I moved my things to the side of the road and promptly fell asleep on them.
We change bus, which we are told will take us to the border. At around 5pm realise that we are nowhere near our destination, so we speak to our ‘guide’, who is practically fluent in English and French, and he informs us that we will not make the border in time before the border control closes. He informs us that our only option is to stop in the town of Steung Rung at around 9, ‘stung’ feeling like the operative word, as he attempts to take all 20-odd foreigners to his guest house. I ignore him and find more than suitable accommodation for $7. At this point, everyone is too shattered to complain.
Note - for that entire 9 hour leg, I was sat next to a mother and baby, whose nappy was changed twice in the duration, and then left in the netting on the back of the chair in front. The smell wasn’t pleasant.
At the end of this day we met up with Susie and Shannon, British and Australian respectively and both incredibly good conversation, who we had previously met in Koh Rong. We enjoyed drinks, food and a day at the pool with them on my final day in Siem Reap, in which I got to experience poolside drinking on a little chair in the water for the first time in my life.
Our first night out with our re-aligned posse involved, after a lot of groundwork, me losing out on a 19 year-old ex-model to Beardy Kind Face.
The bus awaited at 5 am, so staying up late in X Bar (complete with rooftop half-pipe) seemed the most logical conclusion. Ben and I paid up with Paulie, got pissed, I said a fond farewell to Ben, who has been a superb travelling partner, Shannon and Susie and got on the bus an hour and a half later than originally told.
I was told the bus would directly take us to the Cambodia-Laos border, so I dropped a Valium and went deep into an uncomfortable sleep on a bedless bus. Awoken five hours later by a kind European lady, I was told we had to change bus, and wait for an hour at yet another grotty ‘service station’, so lethargically and dopily I moved my things to the side of the road and promptly fell asleep on them.
We change bus, which we are told will take us to the border. At around 5pm realise that we are nowhere near our destination, so we speak to our ‘guide’, who is practically fluent in English and French, and he informs us that we will not make the border in time before the border control closes. He informs us that our only option is to stop in the town of Steung Rung at around 9, ‘stung’ feeling like the operative word, as he attempts to take all 20-odd foreigners to his guest house. I ignore him and find more than suitable accommodation for $7. At this point, everyone is too shattered to complain.
Note - for that entire 9 hour leg, I was sat next to a mother and baby, whose nappy was changed twice in the duration, and then left in the netting on the back of the chair in front. The smell wasn’t pleasant.
See You Later, Money Taker
_
I sleep well, and am ready for the 9 am start we are told it would be and viola! By some
blessing the bus is on time, we pack in easily and we’re on our way…….for five
minutes. We get to a bus stop and told to buy crisps and drinks etc and wait for
20 minutes. 40 minutes passed, and a large number of other travellers board our
bus to go to Laos.
The fact that the morning after people are due to get on our bus suggests that
the bus was never going to make the border the night before in the first place, which was so
very irritating.
We get to the border, and after an hour of hanging around, we are told we can walk through the simple barriers blocking the two countries, a cost of $44 each, nine more than the original quotation. The two Canadians who are with us are told they have to pay $4 more, because they ‘are Canadian’. In other words, it’s a rip-off, corrupt mess.
Finally, 32 hours later, I arrive at Don Det island, find a bungalow, and set up my Hammock, from which I now write. After another bout of annoyance there are happy times, faces and shakes once more.
In Cambodia I saw:
- 5 Land Rover Defenders
- 7 people urinating in public in the day time
- 2 monkeys rimming
- A whole bunch of deep fried spiders (see above)
- 3 western white girls needing support and their hair holding back while they vomit in the street.
We get to the border, and after an hour of hanging around, we are told we can walk through the simple barriers blocking the two countries, a cost of $44 each, nine more than the original quotation. The two Canadians who are with us are told they have to pay $4 more, because they ‘are Canadian’. In other words, it’s a rip-off, corrupt mess.
Finally, 32 hours later, I arrive at Don Det island, find a bungalow, and set up my Hammock, from which I now write. After another bout of annoyance there are happy times, faces and shakes once more.
In Cambodia I saw:
- 5 Land Rover Defenders
- 7 people urinating in public in the day time
- 2 monkeys rimming
- A whole bunch of deep fried spiders (see above)
- 3 western white girls needing support and their hair holding back while they vomit in the street.
Brown Christmas - 6/1/2012
__
Drum and Bass is great fun…….. when you’re smashed. Right
now, the bar above is playing dirty, grimy music. It is packed full of pissed
up females, scantily clad, gyrating, swaying and drawing the eyes onto parts of
their body which, to be frank, I would’ve probably looked at anyway, but
would’ve only given a discreet glance compared to an uncontrolled gape. It is midnight. The set is perfect for say, a 27
year-old traveller with a short brown hair and a penchant for hammocks to
mingle into this crowd and flirt outrageously in the pursuit of sexual
gratification.
But no. Said traveller sits on a bed, writing a blog, full of frustration and infuriation and any other somethingtion that springs to mind, due to two, simple, unfathomable words:
Doctor’s Orders.
Hang on tight kids. My previous blogs have been sugar-coated, designed to be easily-accessible and non-offensive. In other words, fucking bollocks. Here’s the truth. For eight of the past ten days I have been seeping the most vile kinds of liquid from the largest orifices of my body. There have been moments where I have been rendered completely immobile, due to a queasiness and sickness that has resulted in bile, or the most vile anal cocktails the world has ever seen. On one day, I managed a whopping 22 trips to the little boys’ room. Since Christmas (and New Year aside, although I WAS sick then), the trip from Sihanoukville to Koh Rong back to Sihanoukville and on to Phnom Penh (from where this piece of oral diarrhoea comes from) has been mostly misery.
Mostly.
Christmas Eve was spent lounging on the beach drinking cocktails and attempting to make friends (poorly) before boarding a boat at 8pm to head to a private beach to bring in the birth of our Lord Jesus Christ. 300 people descended unto this small patch of land for the oncoming celebrations, the area pre-decked with bar, lights, generator and stage. It brought me together with some genuinely interesting and nice people. It also brought me together with various pricks, but what the hell, it’s Christmas. Civility and cordiality must be adhered to.
The drinks were cheap, and not bad. The beach was nice. As I said, the crowd was mostly pleasant. However, the music was the biggest pile of unpolished turd I have ever heard. I mean, it was Christmas, a couple of songs from this festive season might not have gone amiss. Even the bloody Looney-Tunes Drum and Bass remix they are playing upstairs now would’ve been better, I mean it was a bloody festival. But no. Just like the vast majority of places in Sihanoukville, my anus has been pushing the boundaries (to a more enjoyable audio level, I might add) of music experimentalism than DJ No-idea and all the other DJ’s in the huts along the main stretch of Ochheuteal Beach.
But no. Said traveller sits on a bed, writing a blog, full of frustration and infuriation and any other somethingtion that springs to mind, due to two, simple, unfathomable words:
Doctor’s Orders.
Hang on tight kids. My previous blogs have been sugar-coated, designed to be easily-accessible and non-offensive. In other words, fucking bollocks. Here’s the truth. For eight of the past ten days I have been seeping the most vile kinds of liquid from the largest orifices of my body. There have been moments where I have been rendered completely immobile, due to a queasiness and sickness that has resulted in bile, or the most vile anal cocktails the world has ever seen. On one day, I managed a whopping 22 trips to the little boys’ room. Since Christmas (and New Year aside, although I WAS sick then), the trip from Sihanoukville to Koh Rong back to Sihanoukville and on to Phnom Penh (from where this piece of oral diarrhoea comes from) has been mostly misery.
Mostly.
Christmas Eve was spent lounging on the beach drinking cocktails and attempting to make friends (poorly) before boarding a boat at 8pm to head to a private beach to bring in the birth of our Lord Jesus Christ. 300 people descended unto this small patch of land for the oncoming celebrations, the area pre-decked with bar, lights, generator and stage. It brought me together with some genuinely interesting and nice people. It also brought me together with various pricks, but what the hell, it’s Christmas. Civility and cordiality must be adhered to.
The drinks were cheap, and not bad. The beach was nice. As I said, the crowd was mostly pleasant. However, the music was the biggest pile of unpolished turd I have ever heard. I mean, it was Christmas, a couple of songs from this festive season might not have gone amiss. Even the bloody Looney-Tunes Drum and Bass remix they are playing upstairs now would’ve been better, I mean it was a bloody festival. But no. Just like the vast majority of places in Sihanoukville, my anus has been pushing the boundaries (to a more enjoyable audio level, I might add) of music experimentalism than DJ No-idea and all the other DJ’s in the huts along the main stretch of Ochheuteal Beach.
Skype - Hype - Trype
_ I returned at sunrise, with new-best-mate-for-life Ellen,
and as we came back the sun rose on that Christmas morning to a most brilliant,
breathtaking blood-orange glow. Sleep hardly featured on the agenda before the
next day began, and I booked myself in for Christmas Dinner with all the
trimmings at half 6, allowing enough time to Skype the family before it began.
Or so I thought.
The worst, most frustrating thing about being in a country where it seems the word ‘technology’ hasn’t even been invented yet is that when you truly, really need something it lets you down. Admittedly, the entire ex-pat population is trying to contact home at similar times on the same day, but this cataclysmic Christmas Day phone call went as such:
1. The hotel WiFi goes down. The hotel say they have set-up a back-up. It doesn’t work.
2. I use their ‘high-speed, international phone call’ room. There are no microphones.
3. I cross the road, to a ‘PC Café’ offering similar lies. The first computer has no microphone. The second one has no Internet. I try to combine the two, and for my attempts, get electrocuted. I try to log onto their WiFi. Success! I’m connected……. but not to the Internet. They don’t know why. Fuck it.
4. I go next door and upstairs to Apple Guest house. The woman there gives me a lovely big smile, yet doesn’t speak a lick of the Queens. She merely points downstairs. I go downstairs. I pay $2 for the password.
5. Back upstairs. Finally, I see my family’s faces. But they don’t move. All I can do is make the most awkward 20 minute phone call (with repeated interruptions) for Christmas. Great. Merry Christmas, family. Not only will my card (my only gift) arrive late but I can’t even speak to you properly either.
After calling it a day, it’s 7 30. I’ve missed dinner. I go to the beach and treat myself to Red Snapper, Shark and Barracuda fresh from the barbecue, a fine Xmas meal, shared in the company of amputees and begging children.
Ocean is 10. He tells me that he has no father, and that he has to work to pay his school fees. When I ask about his mother’s employment he skirts the question. He wants to be a basketball player. I give him a few dollars on the proviso that he will study hard, and put education in first place, or as much as he can. Later, I see him drinking a freshly-opened bottle of premium strength lager.
Boxing Day arrives, I head to Otres beach, a quieter beach around the bay and have the most blissful day of beach-based activities, and go to bed early. The next day involves a trip to Koh Rong, an island virtually uninhabited and about the size of Hong Kong..
The worst, most frustrating thing about being in a country where it seems the word ‘technology’ hasn’t even been invented yet is that when you truly, really need something it lets you down. Admittedly, the entire ex-pat population is trying to contact home at similar times on the same day, but this cataclysmic Christmas Day phone call went as such:
1. The hotel WiFi goes down. The hotel say they have set-up a back-up. It doesn’t work.
2. I use their ‘high-speed, international phone call’ room. There are no microphones.
3. I cross the road, to a ‘PC Café’ offering similar lies. The first computer has no microphone. The second one has no Internet. I try to combine the two, and for my attempts, get electrocuted. I try to log onto their WiFi. Success! I’m connected……. but not to the Internet. They don’t know why. Fuck it.
4. I go next door and upstairs to Apple Guest house. The woman there gives me a lovely big smile, yet doesn’t speak a lick of the Queens. She merely points downstairs. I go downstairs. I pay $2 for the password.
5. Back upstairs. Finally, I see my family’s faces. But they don’t move. All I can do is make the most awkward 20 minute phone call (with repeated interruptions) for Christmas. Great. Merry Christmas, family. Not only will my card (my only gift) arrive late but I can’t even speak to you properly either.
After calling it a day, it’s 7 30. I’ve missed dinner. I go to the beach and treat myself to Red Snapper, Shark and Barracuda fresh from the barbecue, a fine Xmas meal, shared in the company of amputees and begging children.
Ocean is 10. He tells me that he has no father, and that he has to work to pay his school fees. When I ask about his mother’s employment he skirts the question. He wants to be a basketball player. I give him a few dollars on the proviso that he will study hard, and put education in first place, or as much as he can. Later, I see him drinking a freshly-opened bottle of premium strength lager.
Boxing Day arrives, I head to Otres beach, a quieter beach around the bay and have the most blissful day of beach-based activities, and go to bed early. The next day involves a trip to Koh Rong, an island virtually uninhabited and about the size of Hong Kong..
Parasite Island
_ I arrive early to find Ellen and her party getting ready for
the same excursion, which was a boon. Boat boarded, we set off on the
two hour ride to the island, pretty uncertain of what we might find.
Eventually, it comes into sight. A few dozen palm-topped bamboo cottages dot
the beach at one end of this particular beach, a number of corrugated iron
shacks to the left. Estimated population: 150 (excluding tourists), devoid of beggars, wankers and sexpats. White
sands, palm trees, blahblahblah…..you get the picture. It’s as close to paradise
as I have come.
After a day spent on a deserted seven kilometre beach (complete with the most amazing, blood-red blahblahblah sunset), with a football and a new bunch of friends (including my new travel partner, Ben, a 23 year-old Electrician from Southampton, who can run backwards really fast), the illness comes. Before going to bed, we had a ruddy good knees up, and on the way home splashed in the water in the dark. I thought it was just the marijuana but no; phosphorescent plankton glowed eerily in the water every time a foot touched the ground. It was unbelievable. A footstep would leave a glowing imprint of where it was left behind, as if I had trodden on blobs of Predator blood.
Awake in the night, I stir, roll, feel an uncertainty in the pit of my gut and bend over the balcony to vomit heavily, like a lion’s roar with mass. This continues throughout the night, and although it enabled me to watch the sunrise, which looked kaleidoscopic through tears of pain, it made me spend the next day asleep in my hammock.
Illness prevented me from doing anything, including chancing my arm with the barmaid Mickey, who being half Inuit, was destined to be my wife, but my inability to join in on her group’s drinking games meant the moment was gone. Or so I thought. When leaving the island, she sat down next to Ben, myself, a French-Canadian and a Frenchman who was really too cool for school. Git.
Conversation arose, aided by the rotation of a few spliffs between the group, which reminded me exactly why I no longer smoke weed sober, as I retreated into my head when I should’ve been making conversation. I could manage nothing more than a pathetic “Oh you’re half-Inuit, it must’ve been tough growing up”. Ben said that they don’t like to be called Inuits, so I had insulted her from the off. Then, because the beercan-ashtray was next to me, we end up face to face as she puts her cigarette out, I weakly go to say “I would’ve done that for you”, but realise she has her headphones on, completely overthink the situation and just stare at her blankly for what seems forever as she moves away again, a seemingly scared look upon her face.
After a day spent on a deserted seven kilometre beach (complete with the most amazing, blood-red blahblahblah sunset), with a football and a new bunch of friends (including my new travel partner, Ben, a 23 year-old Electrician from Southampton, who can run backwards really fast), the illness comes. Before going to bed, we had a ruddy good knees up, and on the way home splashed in the water in the dark. I thought it was just the marijuana but no; phosphorescent plankton glowed eerily in the water every time a foot touched the ground. It was unbelievable. A footstep would leave a glowing imprint of where it was left behind, as if I had trodden on blobs of Predator blood.
Awake in the night, I stir, roll, feel an uncertainty in the pit of my gut and bend over the balcony to vomit heavily, like a lion’s roar with mass. This continues throughout the night, and although it enabled me to watch the sunrise, which looked kaleidoscopic through tears of pain, it made me spend the next day asleep in my hammock.
Illness prevented me from doing anything, including chancing my arm with the barmaid Mickey, who being half Inuit, was destined to be my wife, but my inability to join in on her group’s drinking games meant the moment was gone. Or so I thought. When leaving the island, she sat down next to Ben, myself, a French-Canadian and a Frenchman who was really too cool for school. Git.
Conversation arose, aided by the rotation of a few spliffs between the group, which reminded me exactly why I no longer smoke weed sober, as I retreated into my head when I should’ve been making conversation. I could manage nothing more than a pathetic “Oh you’re half-Inuit, it must’ve been tough growing up”. Ben said that they don’t like to be called Inuits, so I had insulted her from the off. Then, because the beercan-ashtray was next to me, we end up face to face as she puts her cigarette out, I weakly go to say “I would’ve done that for you”, but realise she has her headphones on, completely overthink the situation and just stare at her blankly for what seems forever as she moves away again, a seemingly scared look upon her face.
Snake eyes
This wee lad, with his friends, had just beaten the snake around his neck to death not five minutes before. They insinuate that will be dinner.
Back in Sihanoukville, Phillip Ratcliffe, a Suwonite with whom I shared many a good experience in Korea, joins us for the New Year celebrations. When night fell on New Year’s Eve, the true bombardment of the sky could be seen; Shock and Awe on Baghdad had nothing compared to this. The entire beach expunged a constant stream of rockets and roman candles into the air, which did not cease until a non-specific time which I couldn’t tell you about.
We obtained some rather strong Whiskey and Red Bull mixtures and began to really get down to business – however, at 11 30pm, I drank a whole plastic-cup full of warm rancidity, managed to get myself to the shoreline, and up came the BBQ fish from before. Empty stomach delivered, the party continued onto sunrise, and a whole cocktail of cocktails filled the gap. In basic format, we met some people, danced a lot, Phil and Ben went to the casino and bought shirts while I made friends while debating some debatable substances, we all met up again, Ben went home, Phil and I stayed out, the party winded down, we went home. The next three days, for me, consisted of this (in no particular order):
1. Bed
2. Football, Wrestling (to my distaste), Inception, Tron, Inglorious Basterds, Cars, Avatar, Tom and Jerry.
3. Vomit.
4. Explosive Diarrhoea.
Finally, we packed our things, got out of that sweaty, hot, twin-bedded room and headed Phnom Penh. The bus journey was dizzying and horrendous, I had to do everything in my power to avoid throwing up on the mother and child next to me. When we arrived, we were taken to the worst guesthouse, and as I was grumpy and ill, I demanded we stay there. It was a very, very poor choice. However, a King’s Speech and a good night’s sleep later, I woke up feeling better, if not solid. Phil, however, was rough. Very rough.
Back in Sihanoukville, Phillip Ratcliffe, a Suwonite with whom I shared many a good experience in Korea, joins us for the New Year celebrations. When night fell on New Year’s Eve, the true bombardment of the sky could be seen; Shock and Awe on Baghdad had nothing compared to this. The entire beach expunged a constant stream of rockets and roman candles into the air, which did not cease until a non-specific time which I couldn’t tell you about.
We obtained some rather strong Whiskey and Red Bull mixtures and began to really get down to business – however, at 11 30pm, I drank a whole plastic-cup full of warm rancidity, managed to get myself to the shoreline, and up came the BBQ fish from before. Empty stomach delivered, the party continued onto sunrise, and a whole cocktail of cocktails filled the gap. In basic format, we met some people, danced a lot, Phil and Ben went to the casino and bought shirts while I made friends while debating some debatable substances, we all met up again, Ben went home, Phil and I stayed out, the party winded down, we went home. The next three days, for me, consisted of this (in no particular order):
1. Bed
2. Football, Wrestling (to my distaste), Inception, Tron, Inglorious Basterds, Cars, Avatar, Tom and Jerry.
3. Vomit.
4. Explosive Diarrhoea.
Finally, we packed our things, got out of that sweaty, hot, twin-bedded room and headed Phnom Penh. The bus journey was dizzying and horrendous, I had to do everything in my power to avoid throwing up on the mother and child next to me. When we arrived, we were taken to the worst guesthouse, and as I was grumpy and ill, I demanded we stay there. It was a very, very poor choice. However, a King’s Speech and a good night’s sleep later, I woke up feeling better, if not solid. Phil, however, was rough. Very rough.
Blam Blam thank you Sam
_
Sam, 33, drives a Tuc Tuc by day, but has his focus
elsewhere. He is part of a water-filter project to provide clean water to the
most impoverished parts of Cambodia,
working with the chiefs of the area, financed by a British hippy. He would
become our guide, driver and chum over the next few days, and is still partying
with Ben and Ellen as we speak. He has an amazing London
rude-boy accent, yet he has never been to the ‘ends’. Innit.
Sam picked us up and took us to our new guest house, called ‘Top Banana’, a name which still makes me chuckle, but it was darn good to be fair. Phillip barely improved, so Sam drove him to a clinic. This morning, before visiting the killing fields, I went to the same place. $50 later, and a heap load of prescriptions of solidifiers, antibiotics and other weird things, and the road to recovery seems to be widening and more easily signposted.
Sam took us to a shooting range first, which is the kind of place where if you have the money you can pretty much shoot anything you want at anything you like. It was a Cambodian military base, so the $40 I spent on a loaded magazine with an M16, along with the $80 Ben and Phil spent on AK47s, was going straight into their coffers.
After blamming off the rounds, posing with big guns and climbing over a tank, Sam took us to the killing fields, a grim death camp in which 8968 bodies have been unearthed since the end of the Khmer Rouge. The centre piece is a 17-levelled monument, filled with the bones of the victims who, usually on arrival, were bludgeoned with anything that could be found, to death. Bullets cost money, so blindfolded, these people were hacked, mauled and beaten out of existence merely because they were rich, talented, educated, thoughtful, or basically anything other than a peasant. Not only this, their children were too.
So, a rather quiet Tuc Tuc ride to the airport ensued, where goodbyes to Phil were said, as he headed off for Bangkok. Ben and I returned to Top Banana, where I am now, feeling better, feeling solid, yet utterly annoyed that I have not been able to socialise evening-wise on a quite frankly opportunity-laden Friday night.
Night all.
Sam picked us up and took us to our new guest house, called ‘Top Banana’, a name which still makes me chuckle, but it was darn good to be fair. Phillip barely improved, so Sam drove him to a clinic. This morning, before visiting the killing fields, I went to the same place. $50 later, and a heap load of prescriptions of solidifiers, antibiotics and other weird things, and the road to recovery seems to be widening and more easily signposted.
Sam took us to a shooting range first, which is the kind of place where if you have the money you can pretty much shoot anything you want at anything you like. It was a Cambodian military base, so the $40 I spent on a loaded magazine with an M16, along with the $80 Ben and Phil spent on AK47s, was going straight into their coffers.
After blamming off the rounds, posing with big guns and climbing over a tank, Sam took us to the killing fields, a grim death camp in which 8968 bodies have been unearthed since the end of the Khmer Rouge. The centre piece is a 17-levelled monument, filled with the bones of the victims who, usually on arrival, were bludgeoned with anything that could be found, to death. Bullets cost money, so blindfolded, these people were hacked, mauled and beaten out of existence merely because they were rich, talented, educated, thoughtful, or basically anything other than a peasant. Not only this, their children were too.
So, a rather quiet Tuc Tuc ride to the airport ensued, where goodbyes to Phil were said, as he headed off for Bangkok. Ben and I returned to Top Banana, where I am now, feeling better, feeling solid, yet utterly annoyed that I have not been able to socialise evening-wise on a quite frankly opportunity-laden Friday night.
Night all.