Boeng Kak at sundown
December 11, 2004
Despair…and Hope
Like nothing else I’ve seen on my travels – not even the devastating effects of war in Vietnam – the legacy of the Khmer Rouge shook the very foundations of my belief in humanity. At the same time though, the capacity of the Cambodian people to live in harmony and move on from their troubled past has given me more hope for the future of our race than anything else I’ve ever seen.
It’s difficult to describe in cold, hard words just what you witness when you visit the notorious Killing Fields or the brooding silence of Tol Sleung. For several days it left me saddened and little disconnected from daily reality. No offence to anyone with the stomach to take photographs of these places of death, but I deliberately left my camera at home in the belief that there is something macabre in photographing mass graves and torture chambers. I’ll certainly never need any visual reminder of what I saw…the images are deeply graven in my mind.
Tol Sleung, known as S-21 during its period of use 1975-79, was a former school which was converted into a mass prison and torture facility for Phnom Penh’s intellectuals. On arrival you see four large, white-washed blocks positioned around a peaceful looking central courtyard. From the outside, the only give-aways that it is no longer a school are a ticket booth and a predominance of barbed wire. On closer inspection, you notice graves (of the 14 victims tortured to death as the Vietnamese Army closed in to end the Khmer Rouge’s reign of terror), a gallows and a large wooden sign displaying the institution’s regulations: the latter threatening electrocution or beatings for transgressions such as talking or urinating without permission. The only crime of the thousands of in-mates, who spent 6 horrifying months here before being transported to the Killing Fields, was to be in possession of an intellect. The ‘essential’ information they were tortured into providing was the whereabouts of their families and associates. The sick, twisted Khmer Rouge dream of an idealistic agrarian society had no room for money, infrastructure or brains and, as well as exterminating well-nigh all of the country’s intelligentsia, ruthless Pol Pot and his comrades were determined to stamp out any source of vengeful rebellion. Sickeningly, and by far the worst of the Khmer Rouge’s crimes, young children were indoctrinated into the ‘revolution’ and put to work as torturers and gaolers. Deprived of love and parental guidance, immersed in a world of pain and anguish, I can only imagine that their minds retreated from nightmare reality. They became the harshest and most brutal oppressors and were even, in some cases, known to have meted out punishments to their own relatives. Of all the atrocities committed by the Khmer Rouge, this rape of childhood’s innocence is the one I find most abhorrent.
The prison itself has been divided into two sections now. The first block going clockwise is one of the two that has been left exactly as it was found in 1979 by the advancing Vietnamese. The 21 ground floor torture chambers contain basic iron cots (with no mattresses) and the tools of torture – including leg irons, blunt instruments and electrodes. Over the beds on the wall of each room is a stark, black and white photo of the scene that greeted the Vietnamese: the grotesquely scarred bodies of the final 14 victims (buried in the courtyard) and the 7 barely-breathing and equally badly maimed survivors. It was a horrifying insight into the depths of human depravity.
Block 2 was one of the two that has been renovated and now houses museum displays. It was, however, no less harrowing…the first two rooms were filled with the grim, poignant mug-shots of the regime’s victims. The Khmer Rouge seemed to have a fascination with documenting their atrocities. Every single inmate of S-21 had been photographed with a caption board displaying an ID number. Some of the faces were smiling; some with defiant expressions, others cowed; on some you could see the marks of punishment and on others nothing but the weary look of resignation. One thing is certain: for six months they lived in fear and misery, before being carted down the road to be slaughtered. The sheer number of faces on those walls and display boards was deeply disturbing. As I looked into each and every set of eyes, I felt sad and angry that each of their lives had ended prematurely for no good reason. In the last room, were gruesome, artistic depictions of the torture methods used and some of the instruments thus employed…this is detail I don’t wish to go into.
Block 3, again, had been left in its original state. The ground floor had been divided into brick cells 3ft by 6ft where the male prisoners were kept in solitary confinement. The first floor was similarly divided into wooden cells for the solitary imprisonment of women. On the top floor were the larger mass cells for the rest of the prisoners. In these they were kept lying flat on the hard floor, locked to long iron bars by their ankles along with six others. All movement and noise were strictly prohibited under threat of torture. Please, for a moment, imagine lying there in silence and deep discomfort, watching your cell-mates being beaten and hearing the screams coming from the torture chambers across the way. Really think about it. Do you think you would have stayed sane? Do you think you would have had the will to resist giving up your friends and family when it came to be your turn?
The fourth building housed displays of artwork by survivors, testimonies of former Khmer Rouge cadres and photography of some of the excavations at the Killing Fields. After this final assault on my compassion, I sat in the courtyard under the shade of the tree – trying to get my head around what I’d just seen. Far from the peaceful oasis I’d seen at the start of my visit, the courtyard had assumed a brooding, menacing air…the keeper of dark secrets and a witness to untold miseries. After a couple of minutes, I no longer wanted to be there and I almost ran across the road to the café that the three of us had agreed to have lunch at. Twenty minutes later, Mark and Mel joined me and our mood was certainly very sombre.
After lunch, we hooked up with our drivers again for the 15km ride to Choeung Ek. The last 8km were on a dusty, red, pot-holed track. By the time we arrived, I looked like the victim of a bad experiment with St. Tropez and my mouth had acquired a slightly mealy texture. The first thing that struck me about the Killing Fields was how innocent they looked - ridiculous of me really to expect land and trees to harbour the guilt of the past deeds of men. From a distance – much like Tol Sleung – there was a tranquil, unspoilt feel to the surroundings. However, once you realise that almost 9000 bodies (mostly blind-folded and tied) were found in several mass graves here, the illusion is soon shattered: once you realise that innocent children and even babies were slaughtered by other children; once you realise those white sticks lying on the ground are bones; once you realise that the central memorial monument contains thousands of human skulls…
I really wanted to get my head round this – to really understand what had happened here and try, at least, to learn the horrific lessons that the scene was trying to teach me…but I couldn’t. In the end, the sheer scale of those past horrors was just too much for me and I was left dumb-founded, staring silently at the mausoleum. Standing around one of the graves, a group of Cambodians seemed to be holding some sort of memorial service. As the strains of Amazing Grace brought memories of my great grandfather’s funeral flooding back to me, I saw several of the participants crying and leaning on each other for support. It was the only open expression of grief I have seen expressed by any Cambodian over that terrible time…the 3 years, 8 months and 21 days that are forever engraved in the hearts of the people who survived.
After a day like that – without the ability to grasp what I’d seen – there was only option. With no way of making sense, I decided to de-sensitize altogether and got absolutely annihilated.
The following day saw the departure of Mark and Mel. Still in a strange mood after the previous day, I feel my farewell may not have been as effusive as it should have been. I had really enjoyed their company and they had certainly been a big, positive part of my Vietnam experience. Our final outing was another trip to the Khmer boxing and this at least brought us out of our shells a little. They went straight to the airport from the boxing and, as they left, I felt somewhat bereft. I’d shared some great experiences with them and was certain that we’d meet again in the future.
The other pressing news of the day was that Philipo had decided to sack-off going home for Christmas. He and Jane had been debating the pros and cons since our arrival and the lure of a beach Christmas had proved too much, it seemed. For the next two days, we hung out on the deck of New Lodge. Food was eaten, books were read, beer was drunk and eventually I realised that I too was waiting for the rest of the crew to return from Sihanoukville. Phil and Jane hadn’t told any of them that he was staying and the thought of surprising them with our presence, coupled with the desire for company kept me in Phnom Penh longer than I’d intended. The other mitigating factor was that the boat I’d wanted to take to Kratie (home of the freshwater, irrawaddy dolphins) doesn’t run outside the wet season…and I had no intention of taking the bus!
It’s difficult to describe in cold, hard words just what you witness when you visit the notorious Killing Fields or the brooding silence of Tol Sleung. For several days it left me saddened and little disconnected from daily reality. No offence to anyone with the stomach to take photographs of these places of death, but I deliberately left my camera at home in the belief that there is something macabre in photographing mass graves and torture chambers. I’ll certainly never need any visual reminder of what I saw…the images are deeply graven in my mind.
Tol Sleung, known as S-21 during its period of use 1975-79, was a former school which was converted into a mass prison and torture facility for Phnom Penh’s intellectuals. On arrival you see four large, white-washed blocks positioned around a peaceful looking central courtyard. From the outside, the only give-aways that it is no longer a school are a ticket booth and a predominance of barbed wire. On closer inspection, you notice graves (of the 14 victims tortured to death as the Vietnamese Army closed in to end the Khmer Rouge’s reign of terror), a gallows and a large wooden sign displaying the institution’s regulations: the latter threatening electrocution or beatings for transgressions such as talking or urinating without permission. The only crime of the thousands of in-mates, who spent 6 horrifying months here before being transported to the Killing Fields, was to be in possession of an intellect. The ‘essential’ information they were tortured into providing was the whereabouts of their families and associates. The sick, twisted Khmer Rouge dream of an idealistic agrarian society had no room for money, infrastructure or brains and, as well as exterminating well-nigh all of the country’s intelligentsia, ruthless Pol Pot and his comrades were determined to stamp out any source of vengeful rebellion. Sickeningly, and by far the worst of the Khmer Rouge’s crimes, young children were indoctrinated into the ‘revolution’ and put to work as torturers and gaolers. Deprived of love and parental guidance, immersed in a world of pain and anguish, I can only imagine that their minds retreated from nightmare reality. They became the harshest and most brutal oppressors and were even, in some cases, known to have meted out punishments to their own relatives. Of all the atrocities committed by the Khmer Rouge, this rape of childhood’s innocence is the one I find most abhorrent.
The prison itself has been divided into two sections now. The first block going clockwise is one of the two that has been left exactly as it was found in 1979 by the advancing Vietnamese. The 21 ground floor torture chambers contain basic iron cots (with no mattresses) and the tools of torture – including leg irons, blunt instruments and electrodes. Over the beds on the wall of each room is a stark, black and white photo of the scene that greeted the Vietnamese: the grotesquely scarred bodies of the final 14 victims (buried in the courtyard) and the 7 barely-breathing and equally badly maimed survivors. It was a horrifying insight into the depths of human depravity.
Block 2 was one of the two that has been renovated and now houses museum displays. It was, however, no less harrowing…the first two rooms were filled with the grim, poignant mug-shots of the regime’s victims. The Khmer Rouge seemed to have a fascination with documenting their atrocities. Every single inmate of S-21 had been photographed with a caption board displaying an ID number. Some of the faces were smiling; some with defiant expressions, others cowed; on some you could see the marks of punishment and on others nothing but the weary look of resignation. One thing is certain: for six months they lived in fear and misery, before being carted down the road to be slaughtered. The sheer number of faces on those walls and display boards was deeply disturbing. As I looked into each and every set of eyes, I felt sad and angry that each of their lives had ended prematurely for no good reason. In the last room, were gruesome, artistic depictions of the torture methods used and some of the instruments thus employed…this is detail I don’t wish to go into.
Block 3, again, had been left in its original state. The ground floor had been divided into brick cells 3ft by 6ft where the male prisoners were kept in solitary confinement. The first floor was similarly divided into wooden cells for the solitary imprisonment of women. On the top floor were the larger mass cells for the rest of the prisoners. In these they were kept lying flat on the hard floor, locked to long iron bars by their ankles along with six others. All movement and noise were strictly prohibited under threat of torture. Please, for a moment, imagine lying there in silence and deep discomfort, watching your cell-mates being beaten and hearing the screams coming from the torture chambers across the way. Really think about it. Do you think you would have stayed sane? Do you think you would have had the will to resist giving up your friends and family when it came to be your turn?
The fourth building housed displays of artwork by survivors, testimonies of former Khmer Rouge cadres and photography of some of the excavations at the Killing Fields. After this final assault on my compassion, I sat in the courtyard under the shade of the tree – trying to get my head around what I’d just seen. Far from the peaceful oasis I’d seen at the start of my visit, the courtyard had assumed a brooding, menacing air…the keeper of dark secrets and a witness to untold miseries. After a couple of minutes, I no longer wanted to be there and I almost ran across the road to the café that the three of us had agreed to have lunch at. Twenty minutes later, Mark and Mel joined me and our mood was certainly very sombre.
After lunch, we hooked up with our drivers again for the 15km ride to Choeung Ek. The last 8km were on a dusty, red, pot-holed track. By the time we arrived, I looked like the victim of a bad experiment with St. Tropez and my mouth had acquired a slightly mealy texture. The first thing that struck me about the Killing Fields was how innocent they looked - ridiculous of me really to expect land and trees to harbour the guilt of the past deeds of men. From a distance – much like Tol Sleung – there was a tranquil, unspoilt feel to the surroundings. However, once you realise that almost 9000 bodies (mostly blind-folded and tied) were found in several mass graves here, the illusion is soon shattered: once you realise that innocent children and even babies were slaughtered by other children; once you realise those white sticks lying on the ground are bones; once you realise that the central memorial monument contains thousands of human skulls…
I really wanted to get my head round this – to really understand what had happened here and try, at least, to learn the horrific lessons that the scene was trying to teach me…but I couldn’t. In the end, the sheer scale of those past horrors was just too much for me and I was left dumb-founded, staring silently at the mausoleum. Standing around one of the graves, a group of Cambodians seemed to be holding some sort of memorial service. As the strains of Amazing Grace brought memories of my great grandfather’s funeral flooding back to me, I saw several of the participants crying and leaning on each other for support. It was the only open expression of grief I have seen expressed by any Cambodian over that terrible time…the 3 years, 8 months and 21 days that are forever engraved in the hearts of the people who survived.
After a day like that – without the ability to grasp what I’d seen – there was only option. With no way of making sense, I decided to de-sensitize altogether and got absolutely annihilated.
The following day saw the departure of Mark and Mel. Still in a strange mood after the previous day, I feel my farewell may not have been as effusive as it should have been. I had really enjoyed their company and they had certainly been a big, positive part of my Vietnam experience. Our final outing was another trip to the Khmer boxing and this at least brought us out of our shells a little. They went straight to the airport from the boxing and, as they left, I felt somewhat bereft. I’d shared some great experiences with them and was certain that we’d meet again in the future.
The other pressing news of the day was that Philipo had decided to sack-off going home for Christmas. He and Jane had been debating the pros and cons since our arrival and the lure of a beach Christmas had proved too much, it seemed. For the next two days, we hung out on the deck of New Lodge. Food was eaten, books were read, beer was drunk and eventually I realised that I too was waiting for the rest of the crew to return from Sihanoukville. Phil and Jane hadn’t told any of them that he was staying and the thought of surprising them with our presence, coupled with the desire for company kept me in Phnom Penh longer than I’d intended. The other mitigating factor was that the boat I’d wanted to take to Kratie (home of the freshwater, irrawaddy dolphins) doesn’t run outside the wet season…and I had no intention of taking the bus!
December 10, 2004
Phnom Penh
Back in the city, I headed for a little place called New Lodge, on the Boeng Kak lakeside. It had been recommended by my new friends and I wasn’t surprised to find Phil and Jane there when I arrived. Phil was due to head back home (I’d already given him a load of Christmas cards for posting) and he and Jane had had to leave the beach before the others if he was to have any chance of seeing Angkor before his flight out of Bangkok. One of the benefits of being there with these favoured previous customers was the preferential service I got from the staff. As soon as I’d checked in, the resident wideboy, Jay, was asking if I’d like to go and see the Khmer Traditional Boxing. Phil had previously told me that this was like a crazy, hardcore version of Mutay (think extreme Thai kick-boxing!) so I immediately signed up.
I wondered down the road to check my e-mail and found that Mark and Mel were staying just round the corner for this, the last two days of their trip. We met up and, as I suspected, Mark was well up for a little blood-sport. We had also heard that there was to be cockroach racing at a bar in town and decided to make Friday night ‘Sportsnight’. With the boxing between 5 and 7 and the roach races due to start at 9, there would even be time for dinner. Fleur had also decided to join us (Kirsty and Jo didn’t appear to be as bloodthirsty as the rest of us) so there was a veritable motorcade as we headed off to the Olympic Stadium for the boxing.
The boxing certainly didn’t disappoint. It’s not just about two guys knocking the crap out of each other – much as in Mutay, there is a strong spiritual and ritualistic element. There is also – strangely at first – an accompanying band consisting of several percussion instruments and the kind of flute/pipe you’d expect to find in the hands of a snake-charmer. Prior to the bout, this pipe starts up a slow skirl and a slow steady rhythm is pounded out on one of the hand drums. The boxers sway and glide around the ring, performing intricate pre-fight rituals. There are slow-motion kicks and punches, ritualistic offerings to the gods and plenty of good old-fashioned prostrated praying. All of this conducted in time to the hypnotic accompaniment and with the utmost respect for their fellow competitor. It certainly beats the shadow-boxing, prancing and hard-staring common at the start of your average Queensberry Rules fight. When the fight starts the music continues and after a short while you begin to understand its importance. The two protagonists close and begin to shuffle and sway in time to the music. Their blows and kicks come not from a sudden swift alteration of stance, but rather seem to flow as part of an intricate and deadly dance. As the tempo of the fight increases, so does the music – at times it’s hard to tell whether the fighters are conducting the musicians or vice-versa – but the result is a heady, intoxicating mixture of visual brutality and mesmerizing sounds. Elbows, knees, gloved fists and taped feet rain in blows from all angles and of such intensity that you feel both fighters must surely collapse any second. It thrashes the pants off all the combat sports I’ve ever seen on television – with the possible exception of Ultimate Fighting, which being somewhat of a freak-show, lacks the dignity of Khmer Boxing. The dignity and respect shown by these boys was something to behold…each well-landed blow acknowledged with a nod of the head; often breaking up a clinch by mutual assent before the referee’s intervention is required; grace in both defeat and victory. I can’t imagine any of these boys biting someone’s ear off when they thought they were going to lose (á la Mike Tyson). Suffice to say we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves and worked up a healthy appetite with all the excitement and shouting. Mark, Mel, Fleur and I went to look for somewhere to eat near the Ginger Monkey (venue for the roach racing), while Jane and Phil agreed to meet us there after a bite to eat back on the lakeside. As the four of us got stuck into some good tucker, I reflected on how pleasant it was to be hanging out with the same friends I’d met nearly three weeks and 3000km before.
After the excitement of the boxing, the roach racing was a total anticlimax. The only pulse-quickening moment being when the ‘trainer’ dropped one of his competitors, who tried to make a speedy exit up a lady’s skirt: ten seconds of squealing and frantic tottering around was as good as it got. I stuck around to watch the first race, which was a runaway victory for the only competitor that even left its trap. It got me thinking that they should maybe fix up a ‘hare’ made from rotting fruit to give the idle, over-fed insects some reason for moving their fat, carapaced arses. Rather than waste my time trying to sell this idea to the owners, I chose to ride a bike home and go to bed. Mark, Mel and I had made plans to visit Tol Sleung and the Killing Fields the following day and I knew I would need a good night’s rest in preparation.
I wondered down the road to check my e-mail and found that Mark and Mel were staying just round the corner for this, the last two days of their trip. We met up and, as I suspected, Mark was well up for a little blood-sport. We had also heard that there was to be cockroach racing at a bar in town and decided to make Friday night ‘Sportsnight’. With the boxing between 5 and 7 and the roach races due to start at 9, there would even be time for dinner. Fleur had also decided to join us (Kirsty and Jo didn’t appear to be as bloodthirsty as the rest of us) so there was a veritable motorcade as we headed off to the Olympic Stadium for the boxing.
The boxing certainly didn’t disappoint. It’s not just about two guys knocking the crap out of each other – much as in Mutay, there is a strong spiritual and ritualistic element. There is also – strangely at first – an accompanying band consisting of several percussion instruments and the kind of flute/pipe you’d expect to find in the hands of a snake-charmer. Prior to the bout, this pipe starts up a slow skirl and a slow steady rhythm is pounded out on one of the hand drums. The boxers sway and glide around the ring, performing intricate pre-fight rituals. There are slow-motion kicks and punches, ritualistic offerings to the gods and plenty of good old-fashioned prostrated praying. All of this conducted in time to the hypnotic accompaniment and with the utmost respect for their fellow competitor. It certainly beats the shadow-boxing, prancing and hard-staring common at the start of your average Queensberry Rules fight. When the fight starts the music continues and after a short while you begin to understand its importance. The two protagonists close and begin to shuffle and sway in time to the music. Their blows and kicks come not from a sudden swift alteration of stance, but rather seem to flow as part of an intricate and deadly dance. As the tempo of the fight increases, so does the music – at times it’s hard to tell whether the fighters are conducting the musicians or vice-versa – but the result is a heady, intoxicating mixture of visual brutality and mesmerizing sounds. Elbows, knees, gloved fists and taped feet rain in blows from all angles and of such intensity that you feel both fighters must surely collapse any second. It thrashes the pants off all the combat sports I’ve ever seen on television – with the possible exception of Ultimate Fighting, which being somewhat of a freak-show, lacks the dignity of Khmer Boxing. The dignity and respect shown by these boys was something to behold…each well-landed blow acknowledged with a nod of the head; often breaking up a clinch by mutual assent before the referee’s intervention is required; grace in both defeat and victory. I can’t imagine any of these boys biting someone’s ear off when they thought they were going to lose (á la Mike Tyson). Suffice to say we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves and worked up a healthy appetite with all the excitement and shouting. Mark, Mel, Fleur and I went to look for somewhere to eat near the Ginger Monkey (venue for the roach racing), while Jane and Phil agreed to meet us there after a bite to eat back on the lakeside. As the four of us got stuck into some good tucker, I reflected on how pleasant it was to be hanging out with the same friends I’d met nearly three weeks and 3000km before.
After the excitement of the boxing, the roach racing was a total anticlimax. The only pulse-quickening moment being when the ‘trainer’ dropped one of his competitors, who tried to make a speedy exit up a lady’s skirt: ten seconds of squealing and frantic tottering around was as good as it got. I stuck around to watch the first race, which was a runaway victory for the only competitor that even left its trap. It got me thinking that they should maybe fix up a ‘hare’ made from rotting fruit to give the idle, over-fed insects some reason for moving their fat, carapaced arses. Rather than waste my time trying to sell this idea to the owners, I chose to ride a bike home and go to bed. Mark, Mel and I had made plans to visit Tol Sleung and the Killing Fields the following day and I knew I would need a good night’s rest in preparation.
December 06, 2004
Beach Life
After slogging hard through Vietnam, I had already decided that I was going to head south to the beaches of Sihanoukville for some much-needed R&R. In the morning I got myself hooked up with the wireless broadband I’d been craving all the way since Romblon, before catching a hot, uncomfortable coach to the sea. The road, at least, was flat and smooth (the result of a National Highway improvement programme that means the six busiest roads in Cambodia are actually passable by bus!), but I cocooned myself in trance and tried to ignore the unpleasant sensation of hot vinyl under my bum and a total dearth of legroom. At the start of the journey I’d seen a large horde of English getting on together. There were eight of them all told and I swiftly made up my mind not to get involved with such a large group…my thought being that hanging out with a big group of my fellow counrymen was something I could do quite easily at home and that I’d see and do more if I kept myself to myself. I was, in some respects, right…but I’m glad I didn’t stick to the original plan.
At a rest-stop I got chatting to one of the girls, who immediately insisted that I come and meet the rest of the gang. Jane, her boyfriend Phil and her brother Sid were with Tom and Adam from Manchester, Andy from Essex and Anton and Sandra from Brighton. They had all bumped into each other in various parts of Laos, China and Vietnam and had decided to hang out together for one obvious reason…they are all unbelievably sound people!
For the next week, I’m happy to say I did absolutely nothing but lie on the beach, play Frisbee, eat, drink and chat with this happy band of travellers. Down on Serendipity beach, calm and tranquil but for the exceedingly cute and very persistent beach urchins (more of whom later), every like-minded English traveller who came our way swelled the ranks until we had a veritable army. Mark (Aussie) and his girlfriend Angie (Canadian), whom I’d met through Mark and Mel in Hoi An, even turned up…and it turned out that Jane and the gang had met them before too. On one evening, when Fleur, Jo and Kirsty turned up from Saigon, there must have been at least twenty of us sprawled around the beach in front of Uncle Bob’s Bar.
The week was an endless blur of Fish Amok (the local coconut curry made with Barracuda), crayfish, fresh fruit, sunshine and saltwater. The beach kids (mostly homeless) continuously pestered you to buy there wares…cajoling, nagging, pleading or making puppy eyes to elicit promises of later business. Adam, whose good natured amiability made him an easy target, was literally festooned with the free embroidered bracelets they gave to their best customers.
Anton – a kindred spirit of the gentle giant variety – and I got seriously into our crayfish. Every day the lady would come up the beach with a basket on her head of freshly-cooked, foot-long crustaceans. To order, she shelled them, rubbed salt, pepper and lemon juice into their meaty flesh and watched with evident pleasure as ‘Wonton’ and I ploughed our way through an endless supply. We were buying in such bulk, she even gave us a wholesale discount.
Suffice to say we got battered pretty much every night (there’s always a happy hour on some drink or other!) and it was always a competition to see who could roll out of bed and onto the sand last. I must recommend the curative powers of clean seawater (and tropical sunshine of course!) to anyone suffering from a hangover…nothing perks you up better…and it certainly leaves you ready for the next night’s episode.
There isn’t much more to tell – white sand, turquoise sea, food, drink and the pleasure of good company…what more could a man need? After six days of doing nothing, I felt my batteries recharged enough to take on the rest of Cambodia.
Apologies for the lack of photos in this section – buying new batteries for my camera was such a big hassle, I didn’t manage it until the day I left. Bear in mind that this is the same person who didn’t walk more than 40 yards down the beach in either direction for the first three days…
At a rest-stop I got chatting to one of the girls, who immediately insisted that I come and meet the rest of the gang. Jane, her boyfriend Phil and her brother Sid were with Tom and Adam from Manchester, Andy from Essex and Anton and Sandra from Brighton. They had all bumped into each other in various parts of Laos, China and Vietnam and had decided to hang out together for one obvious reason…they are all unbelievably sound people!
For the next week, I’m happy to say I did absolutely nothing but lie on the beach, play Frisbee, eat, drink and chat with this happy band of travellers. Down on Serendipity beach, calm and tranquil but for the exceedingly cute and very persistent beach urchins (more of whom later), every like-minded English traveller who came our way swelled the ranks until we had a veritable army. Mark (Aussie) and his girlfriend Angie (Canadian), whom I’d met through Mark and Mel in Hoi An, even turned up…and it turned out that Jane and the gang had met them before too. On one evening, when Fleur, Jo and Kirsty turned up from Saigon, there must have been at least twenty of us sprawled around the beach in front of Uncle Bob’s Bar.
The week was an endless blur of Fish Amok (the local coconut curry made with Barracuda), crayfish, fresh fruit, sunshine and saltwater. The beach kids (mostly homeless) continuously pestered you to buy there wares…cajoling, nagging, pleading or making puppy eyes to elicit promises of later business. Adam, whose good natured amiability made him an easy target, was literally festooned with the free embroidered bracelets they gave to their best customers.
Anton – a kindred spirit of the gentle giant variety – and I got seriously into our crayfish. Every day the lady would come up the beach with a basket on her head of freshly-cooked, foot-long crustaceans. To order, she shelled them, rubbed salt, pepper and lemon juice into their meaty flesh and watched with evident pleasure as ‘Wonton’ and I ploughed our way through an endless supply. We were buying in such bulk, she even gave us a wholesale discount.
Suffice to say we got battered pretty much every night (there’s always a happy hour on some drink or other!) and it was always a competition to see who could roll out of bed and onto the sand last. I must recommend the curative powers of clean seawater (and tropical sunshine of course!) to anyone suffering from a hangover…nothing perks you up better…and it certainly leaves you ready for the next night’s episode.
There isn’t much more to tell – white sand, turquoise sea, food, drink and the pleasure of good company…what more could a man need? After six days of doing nothing, I felt my batteries recharged enough to take on the rest of Cambodia.
Apologies for the lack of photos in this section – buying new batteries for my camera was such a big hassle, I didn’t manage it until the day I left. Bear in mind that this is the same person who didn’t walk more than 40 yards down the beach in either direction for the first three days…
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