standing there smoking cigarettes and regarding the incident with interest so I guessed they had the situation in hand and left them to it. Shortly afterwards the police turned up and took the now-hysterical girl away, wrapped in nothing more than a bedsheet. The security guards told me later that the girl’s boyfriend had apparently sneaked off for a short-time in Soi Six under the guise of going for a game of golf. This indescretion would probably have gone unnoticed—aside from the dose of gonnorhea he had brought back and given to his girl as a holiday present. I couldn’t help thinking the lovebirds maybe should have gone to Southend-on-Sea where the ladies of the night are much less alluring.
Back on the minibus to Koh Kong I concentrated on ignoring Groucho and the moronic backpacker and contemplated the scrubby trees lining the sun-blasted fields on either side of the bumpy road. I was still only ten minutes away from Thailand, the Cambodian driver and his mate were still jabbering away to each other in a language that sounded very much like the chorus from Neddy Seagoon’s Ying Tong Song and I felt lost already. Thankfully, it wasn’t long before we reached Koh Kong; the port town where I was to board the boat for Sihanoukville the next day. The minibus pulled up outside a wooden guest house and everyone got off. I wondered if the driver had brought us here simply to earn a commision, but in fact the ramshackle guest house was situated right opposite the jetty on the river where the boat left for Sihanoukville in the morning, and at three dollars a night I wasn’t about to argue. In fact, to my surprise, although very basic, the rooms were spotlessly clean. The polished wooden floors literally gleamed and the little restaurant upstairs that looked over the dirty brown river served a variety of cheap and tasty meals and snacks, including sandwiches and toasties. My first meal in Cambodia was a not very exotic but certainly welcome bacon and ham sarnie, and as I tucked in I began to feel that perhaps I needn’t have worried so much about the horror stories I had been told in Pattaya about uncooked Khmer food and the subsequent food poisoning it was bound to induce after all.
After I dumped my bag I had a walk around Koh Kong to kill some time, but due to an horrendous smash up on the Rayong to Trat road involving a truck driver high on amphetamines who had wiped out several motorcycles, the traffic had been heavy and we had arrived late, so there was little time to explore the small town properly. Many people had told me that Koh Kong was a shit-hole, but I was surprised to find I disagreed. Sure, it is a shack-lined dustbowl of a town, but after the concrete metropolis of Pattaya, it was not without a certain charm. There were plenty of old-fashioned wooden houses and shops lining the quiet streets and motorcycles and bicycles in various states of disrepair spluttered along the dirt roads. Pigs in wooden trailers were being pulled behind some of the motorcycles whilst others dragged impossibly heavy looking tree trunks behind them that bounced dangerously on the bumpy surface. It didn’t take me long to notice there were also some extremely attractive Cambodian girls knocking about and this raised my spirits considerably. I also couldn’t help observing how young everyone looked. It was a hot day so I bought a cold can of beer and sat at a stone table outside a tiny store to drink it and watch the world go by.
I sipped the ice-cold beer straight from the can outside the open-fronted store—which was little more than a hut—and three small street kids sidled up to where I was sitting. The small boys were all barefoot and as grubby and ragged as hell. The oldest and biggest lad was around ten years old and his companions perhaps a year or two younger. I expected them to attempt to beg a note or two (there are no coins in use in Cambodia), but their grimy leader pointed a dirty finger at my drink and then
Back on the minibus to Koh Kong I concentrated on ignoring Groucho and the moronic backpacker and contemplated the scrubby trees lining the sun-blasted fields on either side of the bumpy road. I was still only ten minutes away from Thailand, the Cambodian driver and his mate were still jabbering away to each other in a language that sounded very much like the chorus from Neddy Seagoon’s Ying Tong Song and I felt lost already. Thankfully, it wasn’t long before we reached Koh Kong; the port town where I was to board the boat for Sihanoukville the next day. The minibus pulled up outside a wooden guest house and everyone got off. I wondered if the driver had brought us here simply to earn a commision, but in fact the ramshackle guest house was situated right opposite the jetty on the river where the boat left for Sihanoukville in the morning, and at three dollars a night I wasn’t about to argue. In fact, to my surprise, although very basic, the rooms were spotlessly clean. The polished wooden floors literally gleamed and the little restaurant upstairs that looked over the dirty brown river served a variety of cheap and tasty meals and snacks, including sandwiches and toasties. My first meal in Cambodia was a not very exotic but certainly welcome bacon and ham sarnie, and as I tucked in I began to feel that perhaps I needn’t have worried so much about the horror stories I had been told in Pattaya about uncooked Khmer food and the subsequent food poisoning it was bound to induce after all.
After I dumped my bag I had a walk around Koh Kong to kill some time, but due to an horrendous smash up on the Rayong to Trat road involving a truck driver high on amphetamines who had wiped out several motorcycles, the traffic had been heavy and we had arrived late, so there was little time to explore the small town properly. Many people had told me that Koh Kong was a shit-hole, but I was surprised to find I disagreed. Sure, it is a shack-lined dustbowl of a town, but after the concrete metropolis of Pattaya, it was not without a certain charm. There were plenty of old-fashioned wooden houses and shops lining the quiet streets and motorcycles and bicycles in various states of disrepair spluttered along the dirt roads. Pigs in wooden trailers were being pulled behind some of the motorcycles whilst others dragged impossibly heavy looking tree trunks behind them that bounced dangerously on the bumpy surface. It didn’t take me long to notice there were also some extremely attractive Cambodian girls knocking about and this raised my spirits considerably. I also couldn’t help observing how young everyone looked. It was a hot day so I bought a cold can of beer and sat at a stone table outside a tiny store to drink it and watch the world go by.
I sipped the ice-cold beer straight from the can outside the open-fronted store—which was little more than a hut—and three small street kids sidled up to where I was sitting. The small boys were all barefoot and as grubby and ragged as hell. The oldest and biggest lad was around ten years old and his companions perhaps a year or two younger. I expected them to attempt to beg a note or two (there are no coins in use in Cambodia), but their grimy leader pointed a dirty finger at my drink and then
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