Oh my goodness, where to begin. In the past few days I have become a civil rights activist; I have had my first halluciation; I've hiked through the jungle at night an irate monkey would tear my face off like that lady on Oprah who has to wear a bee catchers hat at all times and my camera has broken.
It is Saturday in Sihanoukville, but my guess is every day operated pretty similarly. A few motorbikes are making noise as they gradually ascend and descend the hill that runs from downtown to the sea. The Corner is open and currently serving several foreigners, but I like to try new places so I make a lap, tie up my hair that I always try to keep down, at least for a few moments to be clean in the breeze, and locate and eatery that just happens to share real estate with a mechanic.
Cambodia jams waft through the air, as do some peculiar smells, but several people seem to be enjoying their meals here - my guess is they are all members of the family that owns the place - and when the proprietor and matriarch sees me she simply says 'noodles, mamma?' - Sold!
Shortly thereafter iced tea and meatball soup are served.
Traditional breakfast seems to be a sweet ramen served with a variety of meats. Sometimes I am adventurous enough to tackle, others I am not.
Breakfast complete, I pay $1.50 with one American dollar and 2000 riels. I have not seen a single coin while in this country, but their paper currency seems to function quite the same and with American currency readily accepted it seems appropriate to pay most places with both.
I go to a few places that offer to rent motorbikes, but all seem to want to hold onto my passport which makes me exceedingly uncomfortable so I compromise by doing so at the hostel next door to mine. The helmut doesnt fit, the gas gauge says empty and the speedometer doesn't read so I figure I am good and hit the open road. After taking several wrong turns I find myself in the city center with large plainly stated signs leading me to Otres Beach, my destination for the day.
Just as I am coming around the roundabout, a large golden Lion in the middle serving as a major landmark in these parts, two police officers waive me over. My initial thought is good god - I still have a ticket to pay in New York state and I don't even have a car there. I literally cannot get into a motor vehicle (or in this case on) and not get a ticket, regardless of whether or not I am actually piloting.
I pull over.
The police officers inform me that the chin strap on my helmut is not snapped.
Initially I pay the proper amount of reverence one does to an officer, snap it, apologize and make moves to continue on the road.
They persist.
This shocks me because, if you've ever been to Southeast Asia, or any third world country is it totally normal to see a 2 year old at the helm of a motorized vehicle, sometimes with several oxen tied to the back. From time to time they will be drinking a local beer while doing so.
As I stand there many many people drive by with nary a helmut in sight.
They inform me I will have to pay. Being terribly American I exhale and prepare to be handed a ticket or something remotely official to pay a fine. Then as they proceed to list I can buy them a bottle of water, or some food I am in complete and utter shock.
I have been racially profiled. Pulled over for no good reason and now I am being blackmailed.
The public defender who lives not so deeply inside of me instantly comes to action and instead of handing them a buck and continuing to the beach I continue the conversation. Repeatedly telling them I will not be paying them anything and I will not be getting off my bike.
Now I am getting angry.
And so are they. The chattier of the two officers repeatedly reminds me that he is the POLICE, pointing to his uniform that says so just in case I am confused by my native tongue.
To be perfectly frank - I don't give a fuck. How dare you attempt to extort me for money, pulling me over only because I am a foreigner and you know it.
We go back and forth for 10 minutes or so and he keeps gestering behind me telling me to talk to his boss. He says in no uncertain terms that I need to get off the bike, but my body won't let me.
At first he puts his hand on mine, a clear sign of authority. Then he physically attacks me, pulling me off the bike with all 150 lbs of his brut strength, hops on the bike himself and speeds away.
I am in disbelief. Stunned. And livid.
I have to return that bike to get my passport and I have to have my passport well, to pass back into the United States so I know I at least need to address this.
Not 3 minutes later I am at the "Police Station" which consists of two men sitting at a card table under a tent with what appears to be the sort of cash box used as school carnivals.
Now the boss man is confused. There are a handful of caucasian people, heralding from all over the globe. The German couple pays immediately and the French couple gets away with the we are French and don't understand. But I have not attempted to kill these motherfuckers with kindness. They have the audacity to request bribes, loudly in daylight and aren't the slightest bit ashamed. I go back and forth with the police chief for maybe 30 minutes before he becomes so irritated with me he begins to yell at me and his henchmen "escort" me back to my bike.
My motorbike prowess is limited and I cannot get the bike started, to which they yell more. At this point I am so angry and upset, tears are sliding down my freckeld cheeks which only makes me more angry because they no doubt think I am some scared little girl, but really I want to clock them in their smug faces.
With only one pass to the famous beaches down here I am landlocked, as the police set up shop there for just these sorts of incidents, though I would imagine usually less violent.
I begrudginly drive back to my hood, crying the whole way and return to the Queenco which has a small if unimpressive strip of sand and Wifi so I can call back home and speak of this injustice, ironcally enugh, to a black man who seems to have a grasp on my indignation.
I will never pretend I know what it is like to be a black man in America. It would be foolish and insenstive for me to do so. But I do believe that an experience like this gives me just a taste. And let me tell you, it doesn't taste good.
After several hours of lapping waves and sunshine my resting pulse has lowered below apooplectic levels and I am able to relax, a little.
Japanese male tourists are here in droves, maybe for the local industry of local girls, maybe to take a leisurely dip in the Gulf of Thailand and then bask in the sun at the outdoor restaurant in their still wet boxer briefs, spread eagle, leaving very little to the imagination. But leaving a whole lot to wonder about whether or not those stereotypes we've all heard are true or not. Never having seen an Asian penis, I casually glance from time to time looking for signs of life but fruitless and a bit "To Catch a Predator" of me I decide instead to return my attention to the beautiful blonde woman to my left with the beautiful body and the beautiful baby (I hate her) and my main man - Mr. Chuck Klosterman.
After an American priced meal on the beach I head back up the hill where a Dave Gahan lookalike informs me of his gig at Club Mojo around the corner from the girly bars while perched upon his hog. My interest is piqued, but I have to return my motorbike, to a woman who hands me a burgandy passport, crack staff they have here. And besides - I think I have Sihanoukville - hookers and crooken cops. I'd rather stay in tonight and hop on a boat outta here tomorrow.
Luckily the staff at Out of the Blue hostel can facilitate both. The ticket is $25, which seems wrong, but what are you gonna do, so I buy a Sun Tours ticket to Koh Rong Salmeon, a small island off the Southern coast of Cambodia and hope for the best.
I spend the night looking for accomodation for the folliwing evening, there is a $110 a night gorgeous yurt that would transport me to Santorini, but I am in Cambodia, so I pay $16 for Freedom Bungalow and call it a day. This trip is already becoming more expensive than I anticipated, but they always do.
My bag, now barely containing same amount of stuff I brought with me, perhaps my sweatsuit just takes up too much room in 90 degree weather, is slung over my shoulder as I exit room #2 and head down the holl to the dock. Today is absolutely the kind of day I wish I had my standard issue backpack currently still residing in California, but for now its just me and this duffle, and we're making due.
It is always interesting wonce you've spent a few days in a place how it changed and I can now see a much more efficient way to get from point A to point B. When I arrive at the pier in minutes flat I wonder why I was ever so discombobulated.
I have, of course, arrived at the pier early, a mix an inability to sleep and wanting plenty of time to figure things out. A number of speed boats are docked alongside a huge white ship seemingly rented out by the country of Japan. None of these watercrafts are my overpriced Sun Tours so I sit, and I wait.
It is as I am waiting in the morning sun I hear an 'excuse me,' and as I turn around it is the young woman from my hostel. Apparently I left without paying my balance. The women at the front when I left just stared at me blankly so I took that as a sign we were good to go. I hand her a 20 and in exchange she offers me some valuable information about Snake Island, a lot of snakes used to live there, and a tiny island just beyond that illegally acquired by the Russian government. I am grateful for the info as well as her assurance that I am, in fact in the right place and we say goodbye.
Sitting on the pier only enforces my 40/60 theory (thanks again, Lorelai Gilmore) about this town. I would venture to guess that at least half of the Sihanhoukville population is a 60 something Caucasian male with a 40 something Cambodian bride. I hate that the cynical side of me questions the hand holding and gold bands as somehow fake or inauthentic. Maybe they are realy in love. Maybe marriage means different things to diffierent people. Maybe my concept of passion, love, commitment and conflict resoultion is puerile in it's conception.
Finally Sun Tours 3 decker, Staten Island Ferry inspired ship docks and I happily board the monolith for some classic rock and modern pop tunes, a provided meal and 2 hours on the open water.
The thought of eating and shipping at the same time is a daunting one and it is my earnest hope that the boat just rides steadily enough that the included meal doesnt include me losing it over the side. Motion sickness is a terribly affliction from which I have always suffered and one a former boyfriend used to insist was all 'in my head' until one bumpy cab ride uptown literally turned me green.
Our first stop is a tiny island. A patch of pure vegetation an hour off shore and immediately the backpackng crew of young twentysomethings began to leap from the top level of the shop. This while the throng of old Chinese ladies, replete with life vest and blow up floaties I witnessed them inflating while on board - stood idly by, not even attempting to get wet.
I was content to sit and read and hopefully get some quiet if everyone was out in the sea - but then I thought - when is the next time I will get this experience, so I put the book down, disbrobed, and lept. Feet first into the salty sea, riding me of any nasal congestion as well as the top to my bikini almost instantly. The current was strong and steady so my childhood award winning swimming skills came in handy bobbing in the sea. I took the time to chat with some fellow travelers briefly and a thickly accented man immediately said, 'American?' to which I, of course replied yes. I asked the perfunctory and you. He was Norweigan. Then I took a beat.
Not one to leave any stone unturned I said - do I look America or sound American.
And his reply was simple and concise. "The confidence. It's nice."
I chose to take him at face value and choose to say here, thank you strange Norweigan man for some unsolicited kind words.
As the boat rocked along lunch was served and the line to dig in wrapped around the bottom deck. I insinuated myself amongst the young folks and, as it happens, right behind a friendly old soul from New Zealand named Zack.
He was suffering from motion sickness and, being a lifelong member of that club I offered some friendly suggestions and we began to chat. He felt like the elder statesman of his tour group at 28 and when we docked just a short time later neither one of us wanted to end the conversation so we sidled up at an outdoor eatery, and I use the term eatery loosely and decided to grab a drink.
Electricity is limited on the island and I am going to blame that on the fact that when we were told a mojito and pina colada were all that was available today on the drink menu that Zack received grass trimmings in a highball and I got a cup of cream of coconut with a splash of rum. Needless to say they were disgusting and replacement Klangs were ordered immediately following.
As we sat and talked movies, books and travels I told Zack that I was a photographer, but fancied myself a bit of a writer too, though these entries may prove otherwise.
Not being shy I admitted to Zack that life had been rough, though not going into detail and that I was a bit of a crier. Though we had just met he told me he was surprised, because I seemed to strong. My response: You can be both.
He told me I spoke like a writer.
I enjoyed the comment immensely.
Being the almost gentleman that he is, I was walked to my accomodation for the night, Freedom Bungalow. As we travereed the beach each and every business, of which there are few, simply pointed further down the beach and exclaimed something along the lines of all the way.
It turns out when booking my room the night before I passed up on plenty of perfectly good prospects to choose the cheapest private room I could find on (Matt) Saracen Bay in exchange for convenience. Freedom Bungalow was not only at the far end of the beach, there was construction, so you had to hike up into the jungle, take a right at the shantytown and decend again before you located this perfectly lovely, if hidden, gem.
The irony in my decision to unknowingly choose the place that required the most dangerous and arduous route was not lost on me.
Perhaps some of my decision making acumen needs adjustment.
I bid adieu to my new Kiwi homie Zack and handed him my business card in the least obnoxious way possible as I would be here, in Koh Rong Samleon for a few days and he was heading back to Thailand to get his Muy Thai on.
Once check into room 23 there was no sign of any B. Or any wifi. Or any electricity before 6pm. And no access to the main beach. With less than 100 pages left in my book I panicked, if only mildly.
In all honesty though, this place is beautiful magical, otherworldly and if I were not concerned with first world needs like an available meal before 6pm, or were with a paramour or, I were very very high, it would truly be heaven.
Cambodia, if I am doing the math correctly, is country #37 for me and it has been pretty rate in my experience thus far to feel like I am in a world so different from my own. Renting a thatched roof cottage on the beach for 20 American dollars to enjoy white sand beaches and clear blue waters miles off of the Southern coast of Cambodia feels pretty far.
I really have been to some of the most romantic places on earth. Alone.
Blue Green offers a reprieve from the heat of the sun with its outdoor patio and happy hour specials.
I post up at a table for 4 with my book and a Coke when a little orange kitty comes to say hello. I am always hesitant to touch animals in these parts of the world, but I say hello and take a couple of pictures. Then, out of nowhere his white friend decides to get in on the action and both are now atop my table. 9000 miles away from home, in a country I am sure doesnt share the same stereotype and I have become a cat lady. It is pointless to resist. I may as well buy an arsenal of house dresses, throw on some chancletts and put rollers in my hair and call it a day.
The kitchen opened about an hour later and a bowl of delicious green curry is served to me by a shirtless, nipple ringed young Spanish man who may or may not have been smoking a doobie when delivering said meal.
Once the Wifi is turned on I am an a roll and when I hear a familiar language being spoken behind me I make fast friends.
Gary is a pilot currently flying out of Siem Reap who popped down for the weekend to get some sun and some apparent food poisoning. After a few minutes of friendly conversation I ask if he is Liverpuddlian and he seems equal parts surprised and impressed by my adept accent determining skills. When he asks how I knew he was from the North my answer is simple, accurate and predictable: The Beatles. If you don't know what Paul McCartney's accent sounds like you've either been living under a rock, or you're an idiot.
Once a friendly German traveler from a table over joins the conversation its basically a full fledged party.
Dinner and internet have both been consumed and it is time for me to take the long walk, down the latnern lit beach, over the river and through the woods, barefoot mind you, to Freedom.
