Visa Run - Pattaya to Sihanoukville (24 page)

Seeing as it was my last day in Sihanoukville I decided to pedal down past the port and on to the Chicken Farm, intending to say goodbye to Nakry in shack fifteen with an afternoon quickie. On the way past the harbour gates a snarling dog came belting out of nowhere and I had to put on an admirable turn of speed to avoid being bitten. This seemed to immensely amuse some tough, Khmer lorry drivers from the nearby port who were sitting eating noodle soup at a truck stop. As I raced by, a tiny, wide-eyed Cambodian tot with straggly hair blowing around her solemn face in the breeze waved the front paw of a small puppy she was holding towards me.

During the daytime the Chicken Farm had lost its evocative feel of nights of old and looked like a complete shit-hole. The shacks were even more ramshackle and wobbly than they had appeared when disguised by the darkness and the low lights of night-time, and the red-dust road was so pot-holed I jarred my arse at every turn of the pedals. The large, scrubby field opposite was strewn with plastic bags and other rubbish from the port and a filthy, crap-filled ditch ran alongside the track.

Narith had been right. Visiting the Chicken Farm during the daytime was a waste of time. Although it was already around four p.m. most of the shacks were still closed up—including number fifteen—and nearly all the girls were still asleep. The few little knocking shops that were open didn’t look too inviting in the harsh sunlight, so I gave it up as a bad job and turned around at the end of the Chicken Farm road and pedalled back.

When I reached the port end of Phum Thmei again I turned left. Judging by my map, I was very near the fishing village and I thought it might be worth a look. I was right.

The waterfront in front of the fishing village was a crazy jumble of wooden houses on stilts and colourful old fishing boats. Dozens of tatty kids yelled greetings at me as I passed. One little girl of around six years old ran alongside me for five minutes as I pedalled, keeping pace with me. She didn’t stop until we passed a small shop where she dodged inside the gateway. She stood there for a while, still smiling and panting, and waved a small hand at me in goodbye.

The marketplace in the fishing village was strewn with rubbish and stunk of fish, but the further away I travelled from the area, the cleaner the red dirt road became. The tiny shops lining the sea side of the track were little more than wood and nipa shelters. They sold cigarettes and drinks, and bunches of bananas and plastic packets of sweets and candies hung on the coloured strings that dangled from the poles the thatched and tin roofs rested on.

The other traffic on the road consisted mostly of bicycles, some motorcycles and the occasional gigantic truck. The passing lorries threw up dense clouds of red dust that got into my eyes and made me cough every time one rattled along the fishing village road on its way to the port. Every so often, I passed cows and goats which grazed on the sparse roadside vegetation.

Joe Bucket the adventurer had the bit between his teeth now. I turned up an unknown, interesting looking tree-lined track, braving a couple of dogs sleeping in the middle of the dusty road in the process. The boys back in Pattaya would have been amazed to know I hadn’t enjoyed myself so much for years, even though there wasn’t a glass of beer or a go-go dancer in sight.

I was astonished to find myself pedalling down the centre of a massive breakwater that bisected the ocean. This unusual vantage point afforded me a superb view of the sparkling sea all around me as I jolted on my way. The path of the breakwater was wide enough to take one vehicle and was lined with gigantic boulders which I guessed were disturbed during its construction. Along one side there were a few large, rickety buildings that looked like something to do with the fishing trade to me.

About halfway up the track I passed a Sea Police station. There were some very expensive looking speedboats and a small gunship anchored in the dock there. The large guns were hidden under canvas covers, but the shapes of the big barrels were plainly visible and pointed ominously out to sea.

I stopped to take a drink out of my small rucksack and sat on the top of a flat boulder. Five large mackerel on the hunt chased a shoal of fry into the shallows where they darted and snapped at them. An Osprey flapped slowly overhead in the deep blue sky, and a small black and white wading bird twinkled along the shore, stopping every so often to dip its curved beak into the soft mud.

I gazed around me at this wonderful place I had never seen before. I was surprised to find I felt as happy and free as the Osprey that was now just a speck over the rusty, buckled roofs of the fishing village. My heart felt as light and as youthful as that of the young boy I had been the first time I had come to Asia more than twenty-five years ago.

Climbing back on my bicycle, I made a mental note that when I got back to Pattaya I would thank old Ron profusely for the boot up the arse he had given me that had enabled me to experience this fantastic buzz.

It was a long time since I had ridden a bicycle, and back in my room at the Crazy Monkey, I realized how stiff, sore and tired I was. Despite feeling as though I had run a marathon in diver’s boots, I considered I’d had a great day. After thinking about things a bit more for a while it was then I realized that thanks to the old sailor back in Pattaya, I had in fact, had a great month.

I sighed. If only I had been able to find Psorng-Preng, everything would have been perfect.

When I had taken a welcome shower, I lay on the bed to chill out with a spliff intending to rest my aching legs before heading out for my last night on The Hill. Suddenly, I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye and to my delight, Stumpy the lizard appeared from his crack in the wall. Only the scurrying little reptile wasn’t alone. Trailing after Stumpy were five perfectly formed, minute replicas of their mother. Stumpy must have laid her eggs in the recess behind the electricity box where she had made her home and now they had hatched.

I was dumbfounded. All this time I had thought Stumpy was a geezer! I was also ecstatic to see my tiny friend had not met her fate in the jaws of the garbage truck’s crusher after all, but had merely been attending to family matters.

Later on, when I came back from the Shark Bar, I apologised profusely to the lizard for my embarrassing mistake. By way of an apology I put an extra large helping of sugar down on the bedside table that night, and Ms. Stumpy soon taught her children how to eat their fill of the ants that came to investigate the sweet grains.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY

I travelled back to the Thai border on a minibus. Narith told me that apart from a couple of unfinished bridges where the river still had to be crossed by ferry, the new road from Sihanoukville to Koh Kong was now finished. He said he was sure it was possible to make it back to Pattaya by road in a day now, whereas if I travelled back on the boat I had come in on it would be necessary to spend a night in either Koh Kong or Trat and continue my journey in the morning. This was because the boat to Koh Kong arrived at the border town much later than the minibus.

So at seven in the morning, I asked Narith to drive me from the Crazy Monkey to the bus station where he said I could easily find a minibus to take me to Koh Kong. I said goodbye to Srey-Leak and her two lovely daughters and The Professor shook my hand and bid me farewell in his own bewilderingly inimitable way.

“I am sorry to see you go,” he said. “When I first met you, I thought you were one of those guys who thinks he is the cat’s penis,” he continued, sounding like a bad stag night comedian in an English working mens’ club telling an Indian joke in very poor taste.

“It just goes to show you should never judge a tiger by its spots,” he finished, with his usual unerring inaccuracy.

I was very disappointed not to be able to say goodbye to my friend Stumpy the lizard. Although her new babies were happily running around on the walls and ceilings and causing havoc amongst the resident ant and mosquito population, their mother was nowhere to be seen.

When Narith dropped me at the bus station I got off his bike for the last time and paid him a dollar. As he had been so useful to me, I also gave him my spare watch to remember me by. It was only a plain old stainless steel Seiko, but by the bone-breaking hug the motodop driver gave me and the shine in his eyes, you would have thought I had given him a Rolex Submariner. Narith gave me a last crushing embrace and kissed me French-style on both cheeks before he sped away. As he roared off, he narrowly missed a head-on collision with a pick-up truck that was passing by because he was so busy admiring his new timepiece that he neglected to watch the road.

To my surprise, the road from Sihanoukville to Koh Kong was straight, wide and had a very smooth surface. Despite Narith’s advice, I had been reluctant to attempt this bus journey at first because I had been told that this road was awful as well as dangerous, and was pitted with giant, axle-breaking pot-holes, and that the journey could take hours. That may well have been the case in the past, but nowadays there is no doubt that the new road is fine and the minibus flew along. There was very little traffic about, probably because there was nowhere to go except to the border, and it was noticeable how there were no side turnings at all along the road. We followed another minibus full of Cambodian children all the way to the border who smiled and waved from the back window for the whole journey. Also accompanying us along the route were a couple of Scandinavian motorcyclists with big panniers fixed to either side of their powerful machines. They would stop to take in the sights every so often and then blast past us again, then we would catch up with them at the ferry crossings. The road was safe for biking and it was a beautiful, sunlit day and I envied the riders their freedom.

The scenery was extremely rural and we drove by many small houses made from wood with corrugated tin roofs. I noticed how there were no power lines, TV aerials or even telephone lines serving the majority of the villages we passed.

Big, grey buffaloes with long curved horns pulled heavy carts slowly along by the side of the road and worked in the fields alongside their straw-hatted owners, something that is a rare sight in even the most rustic areas in Thailand now. Long-legged egrets followed the beasts through the fetlock-deep mud, sheltering from the blazing sun in the shade formed under the buffaloes’ hairy bellies. Small flocks of the heron-like waders also foraged for prey in the slime of the pastures and paddies, and yellow and black mynah birds whistled and perched jauntily on the wrinkled backs of the buffaloes as they went about their labours.

Broad-leaved deciduous trees and fruit trees and huge stands of bamboo plants grew along the borders of the deserted road, and massive boulders that had been disturbed during construction lined the edges of the tarmac. There had previously been four river crossings on the way to Koh Kong, but now there were only two. A pair of huge, new bridges had been built to replace the first two ferry crossings and it looked as if the remaining brace were very nearly finished as well. These last two bridges were so close to completion I guessed I was probably one of the last tourists to make the ferry crossings.

The ferries that took the vehicles and their occupants over the wide expanse of river were simply flat wooden and metal platforms. Each ferry was able to take seven cars. The strange craft were powered by a small brass propeller fixed onto the end of a three-metre bamboo pole wielded by a wiry Cambodian teenager. The whole bizarre contraption was run by an old car engine bolted onto the deck. The banks of the river were lined with dense tropical foliage and banana and coconut trees, and tiny fish fry and small garfish swam alongside the ferry as we crossed over the water. It all looked and felt extremely dodgy to me, and although I enjoyed the experience, I was very glad when we reached the other side of the river.

On either side of the ferry crossings were tumbledown stalls where vendors sold food and drinks to the waiting passengers. I guessed that when the two remaining bridges were completed—which seemed imminent—all of these people around the river would be out of business and would need to look for another means of income. I suppose that’s life in Cambodia for you.

It took around five hours to get to the border. After I had passed through the immigration checkpoint on both sides, I found a waiting minibus to take me all the way back to Pattaya. Driving away from the border on the Thai side we were stopped at three seperate checkpoints, and a young Thai guy who was sitting next to me was searched at one of them. The Thai soldiers asked him for his ID card, then questioned him politely for a couple of minutes. As well as the name of the Thai Prime Minister, they also asked him what the alternative name for Korat is and wanted to know which colours make up the Thai flag. When the Thai traveller gave them the satisfactory answers the soldiers clapped him on the back and let us drive on. I guessed they were looking for Cambodians entering Thailand illegally in the hope of finding work.

As we drove along the Sukhumvit Road back through Sattahip and into Pattaya the first towering hotels and apartment blocks of Jomtien came into sight. I had only been gone a month, but after my absence the massive buildings seemed to be bigger and taller than ever. I couldn’t help wondering what the first impressions of the now huge Thai city must seem like to visiting Cambodians who have never been out of their undeveloped country before. Shortly afterwards, the minibus struggled along the traffic-choked Central Road and turned into Soi Buakhow and I was home.

I thought it only right that I should go and see Ron and give him his money back and the bad news of my failed mission right away. Before I did so, I pulled the soiled clothes from my travelling bag in order to take them to the laundry. From experience, I knew if I didn’t do this at once I would probably forget, and then the dirty washing would end up smelling like a Thai boxer’s jockstrap the next time I stumbled across it.

When I threw the rumpled clothes onto the bed there was a flash of yellow and Stumpy the lizard dashed out of a screwed up shirt and darted up the wall. I was astonished and thrilled to see that my Cambodian friend had apparently decided to emigrate to Thailand with me. Over the following weeks, Stumpy seemed to have no trouble at all adapting to his new abode and nationality, so I guess ants and mosquitoes must taste the same in any country. The sociable little lizard stayed with me until I left for England nearly three months later.

Back in Sihanoukville, The Professor had told me how
Hemidactylus Frenatus
can live for over five years in the right conditions, so I guess old Stumpy could still be in room 419 of the Happy Home to this very day.

Before I had left Pattaya for Cambodia a month ago, I had fallen into the habit of riding a songthaew on even the briefest journey, often when the distance was easily short enough to walk. This evening though, I was surprised to find I wanted to walk to Ron’s apartment even though it was a fair distance. As I made my way along the crowded Central Road, I became aware of a marked change in myself. I suddenly realized how I had been looking at Pattaya with blinkered vision for much too long now, and I felt a rush of fondness for the city that has given me the best times of my life.

Sure, things have changed a lot in Pattaya over the last quarter of a century, but it is still one hell of a good place to live.

I could barely believe how a simple visa run to Sihanoukville had heightened my senses to the extent it had. The month I had spent hunting for Psorng-Preng in Cambodia had revitalized me. The sights and sounds around Pattaya seemed more intense than before I had left, and the energy of the city more palpable. The colours appeared to be more vibrant than ever, and even the girls who passed me by seemed to be smiling more than usual. Perhaps they had noticed the new spring in Joe Bucket’s step.

It wasn’t that I hadn’t liked Cambodia. In fact, despite my preconceptions of the country, I had loved Sihanoukville. I had enjoyed nearly every moment of my stay there, and to my way of thinking, it would be hard for anyone not to have a great time in the little resort. As old Ron had said, the girls are pretty, the beer is cheap, the food is magnificent and the beaches are sandy. I also found the attitudes of both Khmer men and women to their
farang
visitors at least as good as that of the tourist-tolerant Thais, and that counts for something in Asia. What more could Joe Bucket want?

So, will I go back to Cambodia? Of course I will. It’s a great place for a holiday. I have already planned my next visa run and I intend to visit Angkor Wat, the killing fields and perhaps even get up-country for a bit. But it is doubtful that even Heaven could take the place that Pattaya has in my heart. Like an elderly married couple who have grown old and ugly throughout the years—not to mention smelly—the city and I have been together for a long time now and we know each other’s ways.

There is little doubt that as time goes by, the resort of Sihanoukville will change in very much the same way as Pattaya did. Those going there for the first time now will be able to look back at the small port city and especially Victory Hill when they are both bar-filled, bustling tourist traps. They will recall Sihanoukville in much the same way as Big Nobby, Burnsie, Mickey Dylan and myself and all us old Thailand ‘sex-pats’ do when reminiscing and remembering Pattaya, when she was little more than a fishing village herself. The way things are going, it is highly likely that in the not-too-distant future Pattaya could find herself with a little sister just across the border.

When I arrived at Ron’s condominium I was surprised—and immediately worried—to find the door slightly ajar. I knocked hard twice, but there was no answer. Cautiously, I opened the door and entered the apartment.

When I walked into Ron’s living room I was dismayed to see that all the old sailor’s treasures and mementos had disappeared. There were faded, square patches on the walls that had been made by the sunlight where all his framed paintings and pictures had hung. White dustsheets covered all the furniture. The apartment appeared to be deserted and I instinctively knew I was too late to give the old man either his money back or my thanks. I looked around the abandoned room disconsolately, remembering the evening I had spent with the old man, and I was surprised to feel a lump come into my throat. The retired sailor had brought my spirit of adventure back to life again, and I wasn’t even going to be able to thank him.

A sad sigh escaped my mouth and I turned to leave the empty apartment.

There, parked in the doorway was Ron’s wheelchair, and the old sailor was sitting in it and brandishing a baseball bat.

“God’s teeth!” he yelled at me, lowering his weapon. “Joe Bucket! What the hell are you doing creeping around like that! You’re lucky I didn’t brain you, boy!”

I couldn’t believe how much fitter and stronger Ron looked, and I don’t know if myself or the old man was more surprised when I ran over to his wheelchair and gave him a big hug. After several seconds Ron pushed me away from himself with surprising strength.

“Let’s not get married, boy,” he growled at me, although I could see the pleasure in his vivid blue eyes which were shining brighter than ever.

Ron told me how just after I had left, against everyones’ expectations, he had taken a turn for the better. So much in fact, all that was left of the vile colostomy bag he had previously needed was a round, white scar where the plastic tube had entered his body. The doctors had been amazed to be able to tell Ron that although he would probably never walk again, there was a great chance he could have a good few years left in him yet. He told me he was completely out of pain now. To celebrate, he and Nan, who had just gone out to get a bottle of rum, had decided to have the whole apartment redecorated as he would be living in it for a while, after all. Hence the empty walls and dustsheets.

“But you haven’t come here to hear about my guts!” the old man said suddenly. “Tell me about Sihanoukville!”