Visa Run - Pattaya to Sihanoukville

by Peter Jaggs

  On top of that, I’d been soaked to the skin and conned out of a buck by a champion sprinting ‘cripple’.

  Much more importantly, I was also extremely concerned for Stumpy the lizard’s welfare. I was very worried Chantavy and Chavy may have inadvertantly thrown Stumpy away with the trash when they last emptied the bin in my room. The little lizard was in the habit of foraging for prey amongst the wrappers and crumbs produced by the munchie-induced midnight chocolate fests I often indulged in, and I was terrified my little friend might have ended up in the crusher of the garbage truck that made its daily rounds.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  There was a house just up the track from Samlain the footballer’s restaurant that rented out a couple of dodgy-looking mountain bikes. The machines were battered and a bit rusty but they seemed to be serviceable. Although it had been a failure, Ron’s mission to find Psorng-Preng had at least put me back into adventure mode for the first time in years, so instead of spending my last day lying on the beach smoking ganga or drinking beer in a bar I thought I would take advantage of my remaining day of freedom to hire one of the bikes and take a spin around Sihanoukville, to see if there was anything interesting I might have missed.

  I stuck a couple of bottles of water and a map of Sihanoukville in a small rucksack I had brought with me and a dollar bought me the use of the better of the two well-used bicycles for the day and away I went.

  When I had been to the Snake Pit to look for Psorng-Preng the waiter there had told me to come back one day to visit the Snake House. He said this was a small zoo and crocodile farm that belonged to the resort that mostly consisted of—you’ve guessed it—snakes. So that was where I went first. I parked my bike up outside and locked it with the padlock the owner had given me.

  To be honest, I was expecting the Snake House to be a bit of a rip-off, but when I saw it, I had to admit I was wrong. Besides the huge aviaries containing a large variety of gorgeous tropical parrots, there were glass cases containing hundreds of different species of snakes and other reptiles lining the narrow walkways that criss-crossed the lush, tropical garden the small zoo was set in. There was also a score of large fish tanks where many species of freshwater fish native to Cambodia could be observed. Looking around me, I couldn’t wait to tell The Professor about the Snake House. This place was his dream day out.

  As I walked past one glass case, a manic looking cobra puffed up its neck and threw itself at the glass with its mouth open at such speed that it made me jump back in shock. I wouldn’t want to meet one of those evil reptiles in the wild. Just past this psychotic serpent at the back of the zoo there were several deep pits where the crocodile farm was housed. Crocs of varying sizes from nine-inch babies to vicious looking ten footers basked in the patchy sunshine with their yellow mouths agape and their wicked teeth showing. There was a lot to see at the small zoo, and I was surprised there were no other tourists about. It seemed I was the only customer there that day.

  Just inside the entrance to the Snake House there was a gruesome display of colour photographs on a large board nailed to the side of a shed depicting victims of snake bites. The swollen limbs, puss-filled abcesses, infected puncture wounds and dead bodies in the pictures were so graphic they put me off the can of coke I had been given with my two dollar entrance fee. You wouldn’t want your kids to see them. A curled, yellowing poster instructing what to do in case of a snake bite was also tacked to the side of the zoo worker’s hut in case of emergencies.

  When I was at the very back of the crocodile farm studying the evil-looking, grinning baby crocs, the rain that had been threatening all morning came down from the sky in a torrent of heavy drops. I made a run for the covered area where the parrots were. The red fronted amazons, african greys, cockatoos and huge macaws in the aviary were already enjoying the rain and the din they screeched into the downpour was deafening.

  I sprinted down one of the narrow, overgrown pathways as quickly as I could and rounded a corner in an attempt to avoid a soaking. Suddenly, I came face to face with a ten foot crocodile that stood in the grass in front of me. Somehow, it must have escaped from one of the pits.

  The massive reptile stared at me unblinkingly, its gigantic mouth wide open to reveal a set of razor-sharp teeth that looked ready to rip me to pieces. I had been blinded by the rain and legging it so fast I had virtually run straight down the monstrous creature’s throat.

  I froze for a split-second, then gave a frightened yell and turned around and dashed away from the crocodile, all the while expecting to feel a set of prehistoric gnashers fasten around my legs and bring me down. There were two young cleaning girls taking refuge from the rain under a thatched shelter nearby. They pointed at me and howled and shrieked with laughter, and even in my terror I couldn’t help wondering about the strange nature of the Cambodian sense of humour.

  That was until I looked behind me and saw that the incredibly life-like stone model of a crocodile that I was fleeing from was—not surprisingly—still in exactly the same position as when I had first stumbled across it.

  I sheepishly pulled up and tried to make it look as if I had merely been running from the rain, but due to the laughter of the two young ladies, which had now become almost hysterical, I knew I wasn’t fooling anyone. Although it was still drizzling, I thought I had probably seen enough of the crocodile farm by now so I walked back past my static aggressor and the two sniggering cleaning girls shamefacedly. Then, I mounted my bike and set off to take a look at the nearby Wat Krom temple where I was sure even Joe Bucket wouldn’t be able to get himself into trouble.

  Wat Krom was a long pedal down a dirty, pot-holed road called Santapheap Street. The temple was set in a pleasant courtyard with lots of shady, impressive looking trees that someone had taken the trouble to label with wooden signs.

  I walked around the peaceful courtyard for a while, then peered around the back of the temple buildings to encounter half a dozen young, shaven-headed men taking a shower there. They were all dipping tin bowls into big earthenware pots and pouring water over their lithe brown bodies. Their orange robes were fluttering in the breeze and drying in the sun on a nearby clothes line. I withdrew hastily because I didn’t want anyone to think I was enjoying watching a bunch of naked monks shower.

  As I walked away, two flea-bitten temple dogs rushed out and began yapping at me. I soon drove them away by employing the old Thai trick of slowly bending down and pretending to pick a non-existant stone up from the dirt. The dogs—thinking they were going to be brained by a brick—both scampered away howling. Not for the first time in my life I felt grateful to the old Isaan man who had taught me the ruse a couple of decades ago in Korat. Next time the soi dogs give you a hard time, try it. It works every time.

  Half the temple grounds consisted of a neglected graveyard containing what looked like crypts set amongst the overhanging vegetation and long grass. It was a peaceful, quiet place and the only sound was the buzzing of insects and the cooing of doves. But stumbling through the knee-high grass in nothing but a pair of shorts and sandals soon brought to mind that deranged cobra and those appalling photographs back at the Snake House, so I retreated back to the cement courtyard for the second time in ten minutes.

  Right at the back of the temple grounds hidden amongst the trees I came across a small, rectangular shrine that was situated all on its own. I peered inside and saw it contained a large statue of a woman surrounded by burning candles. There were also bowls filled with money on shelves in the darkened interior, and for some reason, loads of bananas. The feeling of peace and serenity in the tiny building was tangible.

  Whilst I was looking inside the shrine a young monk came walking up to me and greeted me with a friendly smile. Like many people I met in Cambodia, it seemed he was keen to practice his English with a real farang, and he informed me that the small room was a shrine to a local diety named Yao-Mao.

  The teenaged monk told me how Yao-Mao had been the wife of a village headman from the nearby village
of Ream. Her husband used to spend months at a time working away in Koh Kong. One day she missed him so much she boarded a boat and made her way across the sea to meet him. On the journey to Koh Kong, a terrible storm sunk the boat and everybody on board was drowned, including Yao-Mao.

  Over the course of time, the local people came to believe that the spirit of Yao-Mao protects the villagers and especially the fishermen all along the Southern coast, and for years they have made offerings of money and bananas to this immortal being. They also light incense sticks and place them in the sandy soil under the nearby trees. Apparently—besides cash—bananas are the most common offerings because of their likeness to the male sexual organ; which Yao-Mao was missing so much when she went over the ocean to seek her husband.

  The monk told me there is another similar shrine to Yao-Mao on the hill at Pich Nil pass on the way to Phnom Penh, and how this shrine is choc-a-bloc with phallic symbols that have been left there over the years. He said nowadays though, devotees prefer to give bananas at the shrine at Wat Krom, because Yao-Mao is getting old now and had no need for all those phalluses anymore.

  Whatever the case, I could see that the local Cambodian people took the legend of Yao-Mao very seriously indeed. I was astonished to see that even in a country as poor as Cambodia, several of the collection bowls around the statue of the deity contained twenty, fifty and even hundred-dollar bills.

  I said goodbye to the young monk and thanked him for the fascinating story. I then pedalled back up the dirt road away from the temple and took a right past Independence Square, intent on making my way to the Catholic Church in Soviet Street. I had wanted to check out the church since old Mrs. Krom on The Hill had told me how it had been used as a prison during the Khmer Rouge regime.

  Saint Michael’s Catholic Church nestles in a shady yard down yet another bumpy track just off Soviet Street. There is a small fountain just inside the gate of the well-kept grounds. After the gaudily coloured temples I was used to in Asia, it was rather strange to see the cross on the roof of the church rising above frangipani trees festooned with exotic, yellow flowers and the deep green fronds of waving coconut palms.

  I wandered in through the open doorway. I couldn’t imagine the Khmer Rouge could have packed many prisoners inside the little church. Although very well-made, it looked like a large block-built, rendered tent with a high triangular roof made of red tiles. The front and sides of the church had an interesting brickwork design and a small, tarnished bell hung from the rafters outside. Still interested in the prison aspect of the building, I paced the floor out and found it to be twenty paces long by twenty wide.

  As I was measuring the dimensions the curate appeared and he told me some of the history of the church. He said the structure was designed by a very famous Cambodian architect named Vann Molyvann and the building work was completed in 1962. From 1975 to 1979 the Khmer Rouge packed the little church with prisoners and conditions were very bad indeed. I asked him some more questions about the church’s prison days but he seemed reluctant to tell me more, so I didn’t push him. The curate told me how after the Pol Pot regime had crumbled the house of worship was simply used as a storage space until it re-opened again in 1993.

  The pretty little Catholic church with the short but remarkable history now caters to a congregation of over fifty Catholic families, many of whom are Vietnamese.

  When I left the church I continued down Soviet Street until I saw the big Cambrew brewery buildings. Then, I turned right into a smaller track which suddenly became a very steep incline. Sweating and puffing, I struggled up the Sihanoukville mountain until I reached a spot just past Wat Leu temple. There, I sat on a pile of boulders to take in the magnificent view over the sea and the town.

  Plenty of the panoramic vista was still clad in the greens and browns of grassland and trees. The red tiled roofs and painted white sides of the newer buildings hadn’t really made their claim on the resort town yet, but remembering a similar view twenty years ago from the hill in Pattaya where the Big Buddha serenely sits, I could almost feel history repeating itself.

  It didn’t take psychic powers to perceive that one day in the not too distant future—if the Cambodians played it right—Sihanoukville too would be a mass of bricks, iron, cement and stone populated by farangs who had finally had enough of the joys of the Eastern Seaboard. Indeed, I could see how ‘progress’ had begun already in Sihanoukville in the form of the foundations of the giant marina being built by Russian investors that looked like some massive, earth-eating monster had taken a huge chunk out of the landscape like a gigantic bite out of a ripe apple.

  Just like back in the early days in the quiet fishing village of Pattaya, building work was going on all over Sihanoukville already. Around town and behind Victory Beach there were often as many construction workers around as tourists. Like their counterparts back on the building sites of England, the Cambodian labourers often worked shirtless, but there the similarity ended. Instead of the beer bellies, tattoos and bum cleavage peculiar to balding British building workers, the clean-skinned, muscular Cambodians looked more like fit athletes than labourers as they hefted bricks and trowelled and shovelled wet cement in the burning rays of the tropical sun.

  If you want to see Sihanoukville as it is now, go there soon. In less than a decade even the locals won’t recognize the place.

  I popped my head into Wat Leu on my way back down Sihanoukville mountain and took a quick look at some old Buddhist paintings Mrs. Krom had told me not to miss. However, what with the temples and the church I’d had about enough of religion for one day, so I didn’t hang around for long after I had seen them. Not surprisingly, I came down Sihanoukville mountain on my bicycle a whole lot quicker than I had gone up.

  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 sid
e 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.