| The locals agreed that the Ben and Prawn show was always a hoot Posted Wednesday, 06 September 2006 | ||
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| After several days of pondering upon genocide we decided some r and r was in order and headed down to Sihanoukville - the Brighton of Cambodia, the Khmer Costa del Sol and the closest this country gets to Thai style beaches. We knew getting to Sihanoukville would be something of an adventure. Unlike Thailand , Laos and Vietnam Cambodia hasn't really discovered backpacker tourist transport in a big way so you have to rough it and go local. Bearing in mind this is the poorest country in South East Asia we knew it would be cheap but we also suspected it might be somewhat basic. Maybe an old coach? Maybe even the open air? Hell, for all we knew our trip to the south would be on an open air cart pulled by two old shire horses. Actually, it wasn't at all and as ever Cambodia confirmed and compounded expectations. As we reached the melee of the central market where the coaches departed it seemed your typical third world sun-drenched dusty scene of chaos. Hawkers everywhere, bags of provisions strewn on the street and a general air of franticness. But the ever friendly Khmers ensured we queued for the right bus despite a bewildering array of options. They ensured we had tickets, our bags were OK. I ambled off to get a sweet baguette for the journey but turned down the offer of several pairs of sunglasses or an Osama bin laden fun lighter. Our coach, far from being an open cart, was actually an air-conditioned near-enough 80's National Express number which had TV screens dotted around playing Khmer comedy TV shows and music videos. For the four hour trip you couldn't get away from the incessant noise of the TV, which most of the Khmers found extremely captivating and amusing. Except the man next to me who, despite my tired state, insisted on practising his English on me for the entire journey. He was a chef from Siem Reap (the city next to Angkor Wat) and was visiting his father in Sihanoukville - a day's journey of around 12 hours. Everyone in Cambodia wants to learn English - it's a way out of poverty. And if they spy you speaking the language they impel you to teach them new words and phrases and listen to their pronunciation. Which is all well and good - but for four hours non-stop? By the time I reached the coast and had talked to him at length about how difficult it is to find the perfect woman, I was exhausted. The sight of the Angkor brewery, Cambodia 's premier beer, was gratifying - at least it wouldn't be in short supply. The sight of a dusty car park, loads of moto drivers and the usual melee at the bus stop meant more haggling and broken English, But before long, bags and all, we were speeding pillion towards our guesthouse marvelling at the sights of Sihnaoukville which so far consisted of a 24 hour Shell station, an Australian theme pub and a roundabout, the centrepiece of which was a giant and rather badly rendered sculpture of a lion dipped in gold paint. At night, it was bathed in a golden glow, its intense brightness acting as a dazzling landmark. It's dazzle was helped, somewhat, by the fact it was just about the only bit of street lighting in the whole town. And then we flopped. There really is little else to do in Sihanoukville but grab a moto and go to one of a dozen beaches, eat food, get massages by blind Khmers and drink until the wee hours in beachside bars. And after the Killing Fields it was a welcome change. A welcome change aside from the afternoons when it always pissed down. And the fact that the only travellers we knew in the town were a bunch of absolute fuckwits who, when confidently discussing the Cambodian genocide, proved to be patronising, ignorant and naive all at once. In fact one poor Scottish girl almost got beaten up by Wendy when she recalled, with much glee, how she took up the Moto driver's offer of going to shoot some guns after a trip to the Killing Fields. "Can we go? Now!" said Wendy,” get me away from these bastards." The beaches were great, however, and our little quartet seemed to make up about one fifth of the entire tourist population of the town. So, on the white sands, the hawkers would make a beeline for us. But when they are selling fresh lobster and squid for a dollar it's hard to say no. At night we would head to one of the beach bars who, sensibly as it was low season, opened on alternate days so as not poach anyone's custom. Even more sensibly the same bar staff worked in every bar so as to maximise their earnings. And I think I heard the same guy owned every bar as well - which seemed equally sensible. There we would buy pints of Angkor beer for a dollar and watch as lily-gilded Khmer prostitutes tried to bag a new passport. In one bar I met a Bollywood star who was jacking in India for a music career in London . But, even at three am, the music deal she described did not sound watertight. I also met a gay boy who was a sabbatical officer at some uni or other in the UK and who made such good friends with his campus' dinner ladies that when one of the poor luv's house burnt down it was he she turned to in the middle of the night it happened knocking on his door with a tear in her eye, a bag on her back and bottle of vodka in her arms. He always got second helpings. That night, however, I didn't even get to pick at a side dish. Wendy, somewhat unfortunately, got laid low by the squits. But there are worst places to not have to do anything in than Sihanoukville. As Wendy recovered Karen, Doug and I made a break for a tourist attraction - the Ream National Park . There we took a two hour boat trip through flooded mangrove forests dotted with storks and sandbanks to a large inlet where warm water licked at your feet. We headed over a headland, past a local school where the children were completely unfazed by us, through a small forest and, via a small deadly black snake, to a deserted sandy beach where I tried to boogie board. But with no board. So it was just boogying really. But I did better than at Bondi where I managed to hurt myself in water somehow. Then it was a fabulous lunch of fresh fish, bread and Pepsi and back to Sihanoukville, which was beginning to feel like a metropolis compared to the countryside around it. | ||
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