Ripped off in the Capital and disrobed on the beach - Phnom Penh and Sihanuokville
20th December 2005

No left turn. Pay a 60 dollar fine or take a chance.
Not a bad city but short of attractions
The beach and many associated bums
Goodbye to Jan, I said goodbye to Jan ....

Phnom Penh - usual police hassles

As we rode the 100 miles to Phnom Penh, the trapping of infracture became increasingly apparent. Two-storey concrete houses, electricity and telephone wires strung across the road. The signs that had been liberally dispersed in the villages, for ‘the Cambodian People’s Party’ were now few and far between and in their place were, mobile phone signs, moped shops and paint sellers. The villages along the route, had different specialisms. There was the duck village, sensibily located by flood plains, where flocks of ducks and ducklings bobbed about; the timber village where every house had a lean-to filled to the brim with planed timber. Then there was the stone carving village with huge Buddhas and lions lining the roadside, the concrete stair makers and the brick manufacturing villages. This is all very well and it means that each village can train its residence in one skill, and the villages do not compete with each other, but what if you live in the duck village at one end and you want some bricks nearly 100km away in the furthest village. Does that mean that property prices of the middle villages are higher than the others? All rather reminded me of Coen and Karin’s ‘Settlers’ game.

Predictaby, the volume of traffic increased as the gap to Phnom Penh contracted. There’s an up side to this. Where the mad car drivers are happy to keep their foot on the gas and hoon past everything in sight out in the country, here there were no more gaps for them to weave in and out of so only one or two die-hard nutters continued the practise. We’d been told that PP is pretty low rise and easy to navigate and our first impressions bore that out. From the top of bridge crossing into the city the expanse was laid bare. We could make out the lake where we were planning on staying - just too easy. All of the side roads turning down the way we wanted to go seemed to peter out into muddy markets within 20 yards of the highway, though, and we madly sought a more practical access. It was not to be and so we grasped the nettle. The seemingly aimless twisting and turning down puddled sandy streets reminded me of the middle east and when we rounded a corner to come upon an enthusiastic group of hotel hawkers we could have been transported back to Egypt.

We were shepherded down alleys that were not really fit for the purpose of large motorcycle parking to shabby lakefront hostels inhabited by drug addled gringos. We’d been recommended one gaff by Jan’s Paddy acquaintances in Siem Reap but this too proved literally to be a blind alley. We settled for a quiet place at the end of the strip needing to just stop and get out of the gear. We weren’t even into the room before the resident dealer was asking whether he could interest us in ‘smoke’. Makes a change from the annoying offer of “Bob Marley” but still illicited a negative reponse from the gradually growing up Watty. We rapidly came to the decision that we’d do minimum time in this neck of the woods - mostly just to take in a decent sunset over the lake, and then move on to more mature accom elsewhere in town. These places on the lake were atmospheric, with verandas over the lake, perfect sunset spots, but the rooms although clean were shabby and unmaintained. We had kind of got used to a level of quality, and I wanted my all mod cons room for 6 dollars. I must be getting old.

We toddled off into town to case out alternatives and maybe get to the VSO office if time permitted - this was a Friday and we expected that like sensible folk all over the world, the afternoon would finish early. First hotel option seemed OK but we thought we’d check out others and see what best deal we could get. As I waited to turn left across the oncoming traffic I sensed something was wrong - the odd car beeped at me. I was sure I was far enough over to allow people to pass. Why were they so shirty? The traffic cleared and a turned into the awaiting arms of the law. Hippy had been reading the map, I’d been watching the traffic to avoid potential dangers and between us we’d missed a “No left turn” sign hidden behind a tree away on the right hand side of the road. In these countries where you can do what the hell you like on a bike there are obviously revenue stations set up to swell the coffers of the old Bill. It seems we’ve acquired the skill of locating them in short order and copping a fine. Humble apologies for being stupid foreigners newly arrived in the city were not going to be sufficient.

We were offered a choice of a 60 dollar fine at the police station or naming our price on the street. I couldn’t believe the 60 dollar figure (we have now discovered that the real fine is 2000 Riel = $0.50) and so called his bluff and said we’d happily go to the police station. This was definitely not the answer he wanted and he refused to escort us there, saying that he would take us only when he went off duty a 6 o’ clock. I insisted that we go now and he started getting really rattled. When I turned my back on him and went off to sit down he started shouting. Shouting is considered a huge sign off lack of control and weakness in these parts and I was caught in a bit of a spot. Was he wound up enough to pull his gun out us and shoot us while ‘trying to escape’ or would he cave in. We sat down and let him consider our derisory offer of 3 dollars. Much to our annoyance he accepted. I had to go over to a gas station to get change to give him little enough. I fanned out the money and made a huge theatre of presenting him the money in the full view of all the passing traffic. He refused and pointed me in the direction of his assistant. Same thing, he directed me to the most junior officer. He also refused the money but pointed to the basket on the front of his bike. I thought of doing another round of offering it to hands and then pocketing it when refused but considered it had all gone on long enough.

We bailed out. The hotel we had made this illegal left turn to see turned out to be pretty grim so it was all an utter waste. By now the VSO office was closed too so we wouldn’t get to call in until Monday. Processing visas for Laos/Vietnam would have to wait as well and so we were set for a dull weekend. But Bolton were at home to Arsenal and it was going to be televised so it wasn’t the end of the world.

Personally I felt physically nauseous with anger. We had made it this far and without lowering ourselves to bribery, despite the sterling efforts of Jordanian border officials and the Peruvian police. We have now discovered that police get paid a mere $20 a month, so a bribe a day pays the food bill. In the circumstances it is hard to be harsh on them. What else are they to do? And in truth the policy did have the effect that we were much more careful about looking out for road signs lurking behind trees.

Sight seeing in PP, but there’s not much

Jan turned up a couple of days later so we headed over to the hotel where he’d come to roost and ended up staying next door. A far more mature kind of environment.

Phnom Penh bears out the theory that we developed from the book sellers of Siem Reap; there are precisely two aspects of Cambodia being touted for tourism, ancient Khmer ruins and the Khmer Rouge legacy. We rode out to the killing fields on the ‘well marked route’. Having gone further than the total distance to the site, we knew that we had perhaps missed a turning. We now discoverd roughly a 50/50 split in Cambodians; those who are really helpful and those who find it entertaining to completely ignore you. Jan has discovered a reasonably universal truism which was that it always seemed to him that you’ll get a better response from someone who is either reading, carrying a newspaper or maybe just wearing glasses. Sure enough, all of the people we asked from now on seemed perfectly obliging.

The Choeung Ek (sounds like the kind of think Killer Dawson would exclaim while throwing chalk at you, for non-Bolton School alumni, Killer Dawson was Pat’s maths teacher, not a Khmer Rouge assassin) killing fields were something of a dissapointment. There is a matrix of 40-odd pits where bodies had been heaped after erradication and a monument built around a huge display of the skulls that had been disinterred. The monument seemed to be in decline - unmaintained. Is the horrific recent past becoming just boring old history so soon? There was little in the way of informative display to fill one in on the background. Rather naively, the sign board told us that this was a site more horrific than the German extermination camps. Err excuse me, there were 8,500 or so people executed here and in Auschwitz alone (if my memory serves me correctly) millions bought it. No contest. By the way, the full name of the place sounded a bit odd to the British ear; Cheoung Ek Genocidal Centre gave the impression of a continuing enterprise rather than a memorial.

In the heart of PP is the old KR detention/torture facility S21 which was housed in a reasonably well put together three-storey secondary school. There are lots of excellent exhibitions of art in the old classrooms but again little in the way of comentary to explain exactly how all the nastiness kicked off. I was amazed at the cells; thin wooden partitions or brick walls that looked as if they’d fall over with a slight push. Of course the prisoners were all fettered and so couldn’t escape but then why bother with the walls? There was no point that I could see to the solitary confinement as the walls were all open above head height and so conversation could be carried out at will. OK, so conversation was not allowed but surely this would be easier to manage if the prisoners were all in full view. There is certainly plenty of reason for this period being known as the ‘madness years’.

Only 7 of the 1000s interned in S21 survived the ordeal, once forced confessions had been extracted their were taken to be executed. Their crimes it seemed were anything that may threaten the Khmer Rouge regime, which could be them being a speaker of a foreign language, being a teacher, wearing glasses or being caught writing a letter. In the KR years schools were closed, educated people rounded up and disposed of. Pol Pot planned a back to basics maoist society, and moved the towns people out to work the fields. Funnily enough the maoist peasant lifestyle did not apply to him or his side kicks. Although some of the KR militia have been prosecuted for war crimes, the leaders and Pol Pot himself were never brought to justice and some are alive and well in Cambodia. In an interesting film show there were statements by guards from S21 that have been since imprisoned, calling justifiably for the ring leaders to prosecuted. What struck me as odd was that all the statements of the guards said ‘I do not regret my actions’ Eh? I understand that if your life and your family’s life is being threatened then you may be forced to perform actions that you later (and possibly at the time, too) regret. Did they really believe it would do their country good to eradicate all the people with knowledge and skill? According to Jan this attitude is by no means unprecedented; Josef Mengle when brought to justice, said that he had no regrets because he had, with his ruthless, sick human experimentation advanced medical knowledge by 20 years.

What saddened me most was that this, I am sure, will not be the last such genocide. Since then there has been ‘ethnic clensing’ in Bosnia, ‘operation clean up’ in Zimbabwe, and seemingly an endless stream of wars. Why with so much media access and so many supposedly educated people in the world do people persist in convincing themselves that their reason for killing people is justified.

I was confused by the logic of US involvement in supporting the KR regime. It was a maoist revolution after all. You know, communism and all that. I think it went something like this; the KR deposed the monarchy in Cambodia on the premise of giving the country back to the peasants, giving them their ‘freedom’. The Vietnamese went to war with KR, to ‘free’ the Khmer people from the genocide of KR. The USA having lost to the Vietnamese, decided to back the KR, with funding and weapons, and huge bombing raids. Apparantly more bombs were dropped on Cambodia than in the whole of Europe in the Second World war. Look at a map, it ain’t a big country.

Mind you, should I expect logic behind US interference around the world. Isn’t this invasion of Iraq called ‘Operation Freedom’. Hello, ain’t much ‘freedom’ if people are being killed left, right and centre. In fact you are not even ‘free’ to try your own president for humanitarian crimes without US poking their nose in.

It was the usual capital city experience. Time drifted slowly on. Phnom Penh doesn’t have a lot of attractions to hold the imagination of the visitor. It was compounded by arriving on a Friday and it being a holiday weekend and the Laos embassy being shut till Tuesday. I’m sure that there are numerous less tasteful pursuits for the pleasure seeker like so much of SE Asia. One always gets the feeling that while condemning drugs and child sex, there’s an acceptance that this is a potential source of income and shouldn’t be entirely stamped out.

I’d assumed that VSO’s thrust would be in these kinds of areas along with rehabilitation of land mine victims but it seems that education and health are, as ever, the basis for the programme.

There is something of a a generational skills gap in Cambodia, after the KR years, with many of the teachers and health workers disappearing. There is now an effort to catch up with the neighbouring countries and most of the volunteers are sensibly in training post, teaching a new set of professionals.

Our funds $80 down and Laos visas eventually in our passports it was time to head to the coast. There was some kind of strange scam going down in PP. Our guesthouse had said they could get visas for 33 US per person, so you could understand our shock at the $40. Now this makes no sense. Surely the visa agencies charge a fee for their services, so it should be more. There are 3 possible explanations
a) the guy in the embassy is pocketing some for himself - possible, but he did show a sheet with the fees for differing nationalities.
b) with the people in SE Asia able to copy pretty much anything, why not a visa in the passport. This is also a reason why we were not sure about allowing a visa agent to disappear for 24 hours with our passport. Time enough to create another 100 Helen Antcliff’s travelling on a nice new shiny passports.
c) there is some kind of discount for bulk visa applications - unlikely (but ultimately proved true)

In theory, we had plenty, plenty time in PP to type and do website-y things. But the truth was that we were enjoying the company of Jan, too much. Not to mention the difficulty of concentrating on typing with Khmer noisy, eating habits in your earhole. It seems that burping, slurping, crunching, smacking of lips, is all part of a good wholesome Khmer eating experience. It was the snail eating that was particularly resonant, not doubt a left over from the colonial days - the snail eating that is, not the resonance.

Our final bit of culture in PP was something of a divide and conquer event, Jan went to the Silver Pagoda, we to the national museum. The museum was a bit of a dissapointment. I’d assumed that all the finest examples of Khmer carving would have been collected here but, although there were some nice pieces, there was an awful lot of random artifacts lumped in. I guess the really exquisite pieces that I was expecting are as like as not housed in the British Museum or its equivalent in Paris. We regrouped for refreshments at one of the oddest but coolest places we’ve ever been. Set between a rather redundant looking fairground and the river front were a collection of shelters with hammocks arranged in grids. Between each set of four hammocks was a table where one placed beer or, perish the thought, soft drinks. I wondered about the use of space and whether this concept might work out profitable in Britain. Swinging in a hammock swilling ale could catch on. Fire regulations would almost certainly rule against filling a bar room with knee-level hazards, though. Shame.

Hippy was in need of a sun fix, Jan is just passing time until his parents and girlfriend arrive in Thailand in January and so a journey to the coast was called for. It’s funny what a difference it is riding with someone else. In four years, we’ve only ridden with Sculley in Africa, Christian and Paulina in Chile, Mark Davies in New Orleans and a couple of hours with Dave Twelker in California. Of those, only with Sculley were we fully loaded and really travelling. In some ways it’s great - you see different things and point them out to each other, it’s a little more relaxing as you can take it in turns to lead and the follower doesn’t have to concentrate on hazards quite so much and, on a seemingly trivial level, you can take pictures of each other. Speed can be an issue, though, and it was clear that Jan’s bike’s ‘sweet spot’ was 5 mph faster than Berthette’s. You have to remember that poor old Berthette is over 16 years old and in bike years, she should have retired by now and going for Sunday potters in the countryside. Where, Jan’s bike is only into healthy middle age. Or maybe his bike just goes faster. My concerns about Berthette deepened when we topped up at the petrol station - calculations would suggest that economy had dropped to an all time low of about 20 to the gallon. On reflection it ocurred to us that maybe someone has been stealing the life juices out of the tank. Pesky varmints. When you realise that our tank contains getting on for 40 litres and petrol weighs in at 90 cents per litre, coupled with the fact that yer average Khmer earns less than 20 dollars per month our stash of gas is rather attractive to anyone with a vehicle to fill.

Vamos a la playa

The ride was nice, the flat landscaped transformed by hills. Sihanoukville, if unspectacular, in itself. It sprawls, in a dangling uncoordinated fashion, from a port at one end to beach hippy hang outs at the other. It is the beach that people come for, and the beach we headed for.

Motorcycle hawkers, began trailing us, to tout their guesthouses. We normally, being on our own transport avoid most of the hassling that the public transport backpackers are subjected to. We knew we were in ‘Vic Falls now, brother’. There was the offer of ‘free accomodation’ at Khim’s place, but it was a little too basic and insecure even for us.

The beach front accommodation was understandably at a premium. In the end, we got a lovely gaff, an en-suite wooden bungalow, with veranda and hammock, for $6, poor Jan on a tighter budget than us was paying 5, by himself - ooh, the expensive of travelling single! I know readers back home find these figures ludicrously cheap, but if you are on a budget of 10 dollars a day, each dollar counts. You can argue I suppose that if your budget is low, you should stop travelling and work, like normal people. But if you can manage to travel on this, why work? There seemed to be some price fixing between the oligopoly of restaurants in the area. They had the same menu at all the same inflated prices. I remember learning in my economics lessons about the paradox of competition, that ironically competition often breds more of the same odd rubbish, rather than variety. It seemed illogical at the time, but a stroll past these bars, proves the paradox. The same old terrible techno music, and uninventive menus.

It was a relief to know that despite Jan’s relative youth to ourselves, he had the same loathing of ubiquitous Trance and overplayed Bob Marley music. The setting was lovely, sea breezes, candle-lit tables, soft sand, the sea lapping against the shore-line and still we sat like grumpy old men, mithering about, the music and the prices. For once it was not just the two of us. We must have found a soulmate.

There was the sun, calm sea to swim in and enough farangs (foreigners) to make it acceptable to don a bikini. It was time to do some sunning. While Jan and Pat sat sensibly, in the shade, talking boys’ talk, and giving point scores to the female farangs, I lay toasting in the sun.

There was a steady stream of hawkers; children offering bracelets, bead encrusted prawn effigies, scarves, women offering their services, massages, waxing, each taking great delight in telling I’d missed some hairs while shaving my legs, and manicuring. I tried to explain that I am not really very ‘girly’ but I think it was lost in translation. Chocolate doughnuts, Vietmanese rolls, fried lobsters and kebabs were amongst the culinary offerings balanced on head or carried Libra-style from the shoulders.

With so many young tourists and bars, meant that each bar was offering some kind of deal in the evenings, 2 for 1, free Mekong (cheap whisky), all you can eat BBQ. To me they were missing the point, if they all offer deals at the same time, then again they are still equivalent. What you want is one to stand proud of the others. One night, one did just that, promising free food, free drink and even free lift there and back by moto-taxi. Sounded a little too good to be true, would they demand money with menaces when you tried to leave? We went on our own bikes to check it out, so that we had our own get out, if it was all a con. We were too late for the free beer, but Mekong was free (usually it costs $2 a bottle so they were not really losing much), but mixers were not. The free food was by far the dullest we have had since the USA. But it was a cheap night.

Jan seemed to be on a mission, Pat and I were a little more conservative, knowing that we had a bike to ride down a soft sand road to get back to our wee bungalow. In his cups, Jan became flatteringly confessional. He admitted that our apparent ‘squareness’ would have put him off in the real world, but now he realised that actually, we had transcended squareness, we are not merely unfashionable, but we do what we do out of pure practicality rather than conventionality; fashion has absolutely no place in our bearing. We carry tailored shirts only so that we have something to wear to embassies. Oh, and they dry more quickly than t-shirts. We wear each others clothes not to be equally dull, but so that out of our meagre space for clothes we have a little variety. We were flattered. Jan had also educated us, that sporting a silly trendy beard (no offence meant, junge) does not mean you are a brainless fashion victim who likes techno.

We were quite pleased with winning the ‘Square Award for travellers’. It led us onto a whole new lot of options for our book title if we ever write one; “Doing it the square way”, “It’s a square world.” But a poor sincere, young Canadian sat with us was at a loss to understand why we not upset by this apparent insult. European humour was lost on him.

We left Jan to complete his mission, and before we became too drunk to navigate back we left him in the grips of the sincere Canadian. Back at the bungalow, I began to worry like a mother. Should we have persuaded Jan to come back with us, would he be OK on his bike. He is 30 odd and has travelled half way round the world by himself, he is capable of making his own choices, I told myself - but still I lay awake, till I heard him stagger into his bungalow. Morning confessional revealed that not only had he been sick on the beach but he dropped his bike when turning it round in the sand. Score one to the sad squares.

Days were consumed, doing nothing very taxing. The boys complaining about the lack of Swedish girls on the beach (I must protest, at no point did I do any more than concur with some comment of Jan’s and I certainly never bemoaned the lack of Swedes), I nursing sunburn and trying to get the rest of me burnt.

The beach was a hive of activity, beach footy, harpooning fishermen (seems a cruel way for fish to get their revenge) with floating baskets to store their catches, children watching their bikes and harvesting litter for their recyclability.

We had a civilised night with the VSO’s who happened also to be weekending in Sihanoukville. Contrary to what is generally considered normal VSO behaviour, they were not getting squiffy on the cheapest liquor in the country but had met up for a very civilised meal at a quiet restaurant far from the maddening crowd. We were a bit shocked, actually, by the price of dishes on the menu and surreptitiously selected the cheapest scoff on offer.

Matt and Win are part of a huge intiative in Cambodia aiming to raise the standard of education. The majority of their work is to observe lessons and schools and make recommendations (not forgetting heaping praise on present efforts) as to how to move forward. They told us of the usual problems faced by volunteers the world over. The main problem with teachers in Cambodia is that they are paid so little. Only receiving 20 dollars per month they have to supplement their income with working one or two other jobs. There’s a tendency to scoff at teachers in Britain; that they have the long holidays and short working days. In our experience, though, the vast majority of teachers are appropriately dedicated and work at least two or three hours outside school marking and preparing and use up huge chunks of their holidays planning for the term ahead. It’s hard to expect dedication like this from staff whose time is taken up with other work.

Meanwhile the remuneration for VSO’s which is normally set at the level of a graduate teacher is in the region of $380 per month. There’s fair reason for this. The program started here when things were not quite so politically stable and so pay levels were set to ensure that volunteers had a good stash to get them out of the place should the balloon go up. Now they feel a little embarassed by their huge wealth in comparison to their colleagues. I guess it must be hard to accept a drop in pay and so a drop in standard of living. You really have to be dedicated to your principles. When the matter is discussed soon at a conference, I hope they have the resolve to drop their salary. When the locals hear (which of course they will sooner or later) they will think that either the volunteers are mad or the VSO organisation the meanest folk going. It’s funny how peoples view of the same events differs so much.

And so we say farewell to ....

For our final evening in Sihanoukville, we gathered on Jan’s veranda to be educated on his music selection, ranging from Pakistani pop to Taiwanese Country and Western and the Scandavian heavy metal band, Hide, known in circles as the sound track for a rather saucy Kylie Mongue video. My personal favourite was a song about ‘stinky, angry, hairless little people’. I leave you to conjecture which group of people to which it refers. Patrick in turn, introduced Jan to Richard Thompson, and Alan Patridge. It was all a bit weird. The evening we ended in an appropriate fashion by drinking a toast in our adopted seat on the beach and watching the moonlight skipping on the tops of waves as they rolled in to see us.

We had enjoying sharing our time with Jan, but our visas were on the way out and we neede to head North into Loas. In the morning we said our goodbyes, I hope not final ones. We may well take Jan up on the suggestion of meeting him in Koh Chang in January.

Failing that, there is a fantastic network of ‘world motorcyclists’ who are connected by an immensly useful web site, Horizons Unlimited. They arrange gatherings of like minded adventurous folk and we thought that it would be appropriate for us to meet up at something like this some time in the future. Jan’s concern is that these gatherings probably consist of a bunch of his fellow countrymen who exchange GPS data. We promised to gather other information to exchange; world best looking people, strongest and cheapest beers and the like. I guess he brought the youth out in us.