The bus to Trat came at 19:45. Armed with my stash of Dunkin Donuts, I said goodbye to Rayong and boarded for Trat, some 3 hours away. Trat is the last major town before the Cambodian border in the south. It’s a nicer town than Rayong, because Rayong just felt like a stop on the way to somewhere. Trat on the other hand, felt more like a destination. It’s a common jump-off point to Koh Chang, an island famed for it’s nice diving sites. I would have to spend a night here also, due to the lack of buses to take me to the border town of Hat Lek. As the bus pulled into the station, I wondered how I might go about finding a hotel.
As with all things in this part of the world, I didn’t have to search. The answer came at me from multiple angles. I had only barely set the second foot on the ground when a lady was in my face with a booklet of glossy photos.
“You need hotel?” she said.
“Uh, yeah.”
“I have hotel many. You wan I have room and taxi. 120 baht.”
That was a pretty good price. Another guy arrived on the scene and proceeded to talk over the top of the lady, despite my attention was with her and I was completely ignoring both him and his alcohol-tainted breath.
“The hotel is close to here?” I said. “I need to catch the bus early.”
“No problem, but take you here tomorrow you catch. Where you go?”
“Cambodia.”
“Bus here to Hat Lek tomorrow. You stay hotel?”
“Yes I’ll stay there.”
That was what she needed. She shouted a few words to another lady behind me who was leaning against her taxi. The woman with the shiny pictures departed to find another lost traveller, while the drunk taxi driver continued to extol the virtues of choosing his mode of transport. To the back of my head, as it was.
Just as we were about to pull out, me and the taxi lady, another bus arrived and a bunch of people joined me in the back of the taxi, an old Swiss couple on their way to Koh Chang, a quiet Canadian guy and some other guys who appeared to be locals. We drove 10 minutes to the hotel, run by a German guy and his Thai wife. The hotel itself was ok, save for the small patch of my elbow where some bugs bit me in the night. They continue to itch days later, souvenirs of Trat. In the morning, the sign I had conviently ignored which said “No food in rooms because ants will come” turned out to be true to it’s word. Ants did come and they dined well.
Then, as I readied myself to shower and continue my journey, I recalled an event of the previous night as we travelled to Trat. The bus had slowed, and there were flashing lights up ahead. There were a bunch of people crowded around a car and the remains of a motorcyclist on the road. It really brought it home to me that when you ride, especially here, death rides by your side.
The trip to the border town was pretty straight-forward. More scenery, nothing new. Arriving though, well that was where the Wild West feeling started (or should I say Wild East?). Hat Lek was a dusty village. There were a bunch of shops to the right, an atm and money changer to the left and in the distance, about 40 meters away was Cambodia. All that separated me from my destination was a little hut where they would stamp my passport as having exited Thailand. As a matter of course, I had a bunch of little friends trying to help me with everything under the sun, I supposed in exchange for payment. They wanted to take my passport and give it to the officials, fill in the paperwork for me, etc, etc. I held all documents close to my chest, while trying to film everything around me.
Over the border town, Koh Kong is the first Cambodian town. It’s where the bus left for Sihanoukville at 2pm. It was only 11am at that point. The city was 14km away (according to them, anyway) so my new friends drove me there in their cars. I suppose I could’ve taken a motorbike taxi for a cheaper price, but my haggling wasn’t too bad for the service and paid them $5 for their service. They also took me to a money changer and changed forty dollars into a big wad of cash. I then asked one to give me a tour of the town by bike he complied for another $4 and I got to see the sights of this dusty little town. These were, the bridge, the market and… wait, I’m trying to remember.. did I mention the bridge??
A few foreigners own businesses in town. There is really only one type of business that foreigners own here and in Thailand that is the restaurant/bar/guesthouse type. There were a number of them here in Koh Kong, and I did not a few westerners around, but not many. This place felt like an outback town might feel in Australia, but this one had a river running through it. Koh Kong itself is surrounded by jungles, mountains and more jungles. Apparently you can hire dirtbikes and go riding through the mountains, finding remote villages along the way and see tigers and elephants. However, as exciting as the prospect of riding through tiger-infested jungles miles away from civilization and with no phone coverage sounds, I decided that for now I’d just try the major Cambodian cities.
The bus from Koh Kong to Sihanoukville took about 5 hours. We drove over newly formed roads of red dirt, with construction vehicles shifting earth almost all the way. On a few stretches of the road there were sealed roads, but these were the exception, the road being so dusty and bumpy most of the way that it was almost impossible to film anything clearly.
The journey also involved 4 river crossings on ferries.
On each side of the rivers were usually little villages with a few huts and fishing boats. Every village had at least ten dogs running around and other miscellaneous farm animals. Roosters were also a hot favorite. Along the roads, oxen frequently wandered aimlessly, running away when people got too near. Probably scared of being made to pull something I guess.
Finally the dirt road turned into a sealed one. We had connected to the Sihanoukville – Pnomh Pehn highway and it was smooth sailing from here on in. The other two passengers in the bus got out earlier and so I hopped in the front seat for a better look of the road. It was dusk by now. The road was filled with cyclists, motorcyclists, walkers and other random traffic. All the way, my driver would overtake, beep his horn, flash his lights and cut motorbikes off. It was just the way it was done.
As I looked at the road I suddenly saw something on the other side of the road. I looked closer, it was a body lying face down. I exclaimed to my driver that there was someone on the road who had obviously been hit. “I didn’t see it,” he said and kept driving.
In Cambodia, as I would soon be told by others, there are no hospitals. There is no insurance. You get sick or get hurt here, you have to fly to another country. It’s no joke. They have doctors here, sure, but most people recommend going to the pharmacy and asking the pharmacist what you should take. For that man on the road, there would be no flight to another country. He didn’t have a couple of thousand dollars for it, not even to save his life.
Later, as I was getting some dinner in one of the bars, I asked the Cambodian girl behind the bar how much she made working there. $55 she said. A day or a week? I asked. A month, she said. Everything is cheap here, although on different scales. There does exist a definite distinction between local prices and foreigner prices. A dollar for a motorbike ride is actually quite a lot, which explains why there are so many touts here. They are like seagulls actually. Last night, as I enjoyed my second night in town, I felt like a bit of fresh air and a walk along the street. I left the bar and strolled out. As I stood by the street, three motorbike guys came up to me. They all stared at me and asked me if I wanted to go somewhere. No, I said, I’m just enjoying the night. They didn’t look away. They were sitting there, ready to go. My friend, they said, where do you want to go. Nowhere, I just want to stand here. Two other motorbike guys, seeing the commotion joined the crowd of motorbikes. I had five pairs of eyes staring at me. “You wanna smoke something?” one asked.
An aside. Cambodia is extremely porous, especially near the ports. Sihanoukville is Cambodia’s biggest port and so naturally, a great deal of goods find their way into the country, duty free. I had asked someone about this, and the ease with which drugs were available here. “Oh yeah,” they said, “you can get pretty much anything here.” I enquired where the marijuana came from. “The police.”
“The police? You mean they confiscate it, then sell it?”
“No, they grow it.”
So that explained that strange smell everywhere I went. I now also understood why that pizza shop was called Happy Herb Pizza. I put it on my list of things to try.
Ten eyes were waiting for my response. No, I don’t want to smoke anything. I just want to walk. I couldn’t help laughing. It was like a little motorbike party we were having. I shared my thoughts with them and they told me there were no parties in town but they could take me to find some girls. I laughed and laughed. These guys were hilarious! Some of them grew impatient and went away. I didn’t need a ride ‘cos I was walking, I didn’t need dope because I had already smoked enough at the bar and I didn’t feel like company. When this reality and my constant laughter at their shenanigans fully hit them, all of them sped away, bar one. This guy, just sat there and stared at me. Not staring in a harsh way. Just staring in the way one does when they are waiting for a page to load on their computer. It was an expentant pause, punctuated with “you wanna ride somewhere?” every ten seconds or so. I decided that if it was just me and this guy, I’d have to walk away if I wanted to enjoy any peace. I took a few steps. He started up his bike and pulled up beside me, five meters from where we had been, his expression the same. I stood there ten seconds more. Then another few steps. Moto guy started up again and circled me. He was the most seagull-like of all of them, his expression, his manner. I started to laugh again. After the third time, when I started walking, this was too much for him. He went back to the bar to wait for the next guy who didn’t need a ride.
The first night in Sihanoukville I had stayed in a guesthouse called 171 which was pretty foul. I was tired and had chosen in haste. The bed had bugs and a sewer just outside the window gave me the fresh air of human waste in the morning. So I moved to Utopia, a bar/guesthouse where the dorm beds were free. That sounded great. I moved my stuff in, found the dorm was virtually empty and went off to find the gym. Later that night, when I would return to the guesthouse, I found everything closed. The gates to the place were shut. I pushed the doorbell a dozen times. No response. I ended up sleeping in another bar on the beach called Frog Shack, which also offered free accommodation. I woke up to morning on the beach from the armchair I had commandeered. Around me, revellers were arguing about something or the other and some other party-goers were also asleep. I went back to Utopia, found a gate open and then crashed on my bed. Before I slept, I made a note to change my accommodation. A place for $5 would be reasonable for somewhere I could actually get into.
So today being my second real day here, I’m feeling like leaving the beach. It’s nice to be here, I guess, but the water feels like a warm bath and I can’t hire a motorbike here because the local police have a deal going with the motor taxi guys or something. So I pedal about on a girls bike which is way too small for me. I need some real culture anyway. Here it’s just beach culture, and foreigners everywhere. The big city is calling. I am now heading to Pnomh Pehn and beyond.
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