Read Online Visa Run - Pattaya to Sihanoukville by Peter Jaggs - Free Book Online
Authors: Peter Jaggs
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he returned my smile and gave me a thumbs-up salute, before returning to gut-hooking his wriggling breakfast.
I took a seat at the back of the boat amongst the rows of cramped, peeling plastic chairs, wishing fervently that the boat was seaworthy. The small port holes were all screwed down firmly, there were no life jackets, and the only entrance was the small door twenty yards to starboard where the passengers had boarded. If the boat did sink, we would all be drowned like the rats an old farmer I knew in my boyhood days used to delight in drowning in a large water barrel he used as his execution pool. As it happened, I need not have worried. The journey was surprisingly comfortable and despite the warnings of the naysayers back in Pattaya, the unusually long boat was smooth and safe and slid across the water effortlessly like something out of the credits of a Cambodian episode of ‘Baywatch’.
I looked out of the tiny port holes at the passing scenery. On one side was the vast expanse of the Gulf of Thailand, and on the other, the undulating, tree-clad coastline of Cambodia. A few flying fish skimmed across the shining water like bouncing, silver torpedoes and as we left Koh Kong the rubbish-strewn waters became clear.
Sitting behind me was a young mother and her two small children. The woman had to virtually drag her poor little daughter past me as she looked up at the hideously ugly farang with wide, scared eyes. Mum was dressed in a blue-checked krama and wore a battered straw hat. Her young son—who was around five or six years old—was nowhere near as timid as his sister and stared at me with unblinking interest for the whole of the trip until the family got off the boat at Koh Sdach, an island stop about two hours into our journey. Every time I glanced a the bright-eyed young boy he squeaked a “Hello” at me and grinned. His mother didn’t seem to approve of this, because every time he did so, she pinched him hard and mumbled something unintelligible to him in the Khmer dialect. The bruises her son received seemed to be no deterrent to his friendly—if monotonous—salutations, and the poor lad must have been black and blue by the time they got off the boat. Tough kid. He was prepared to collect a painful nip simply to gain a smile from the funny looking foreigner with the big nose. It was already becoming plain to me that the Cambodian children were not yet as familiar or bored with visiting farangs as their rather more sophisticated counterparts in Thailand.
Koh Sdach consisted of a cluster of wooden shacks and huts built both over and beside the water and a long pier made of rickety wooden planks nailed together provided access. Colourful fishing boats bobbed on the water and there were bundles of nets and traps lying around. Lots of the passengers left the boat at the island, and a strong Cambodian guy hefted a sack full of rice up onto his shoulder. As he did so, a split appeared in the canvas and a cascade of hard white grains spilt onto the wet, footstep-spattered wooden deck of the boat. When the man had re-adjusted his burden and walked off down the gangplank a very old Cambodian woman came from the back of the boat and began collecting the fallen rice. Her broad-fingered peasant’s hands scooped up the dirty grains and put them into an empty packet; it seemed to me as much dirty water as rice went into the plastic bag. The grey-haired lady’s tattered blouse fell open and her withered breasts dangled as she worked, but she didn’t seem to care. I guessed she had seen times when an amount of rice such as she had recovered could probably have saved a life. We only stopped at Koh Sdach for five minutes, then we were away again. Throughout the journey, every so often there was a loud cheer from the Captain’s cabin as someone won the pot in the game of cards he and his cronies were sitting cross-legged over.
There was a group of British backpackers sitting in front of me who were having a loud,
I took a seat at the back of the boat amongst the rows of cramped, peeling plastic chairs, wishing fervently that the boat was seaworthy. The small port holes were all screwed down firmly, there were no life jackets, and the only entrance was the small door twenty yards to starboard where the passengers had boarded. If the boat did sink, we would all be drowned like the rats an old farmer I knew in my boyhood days used to delight in drowning in a large water barrel he used as his execution pool. As it happened, I need not have worried. The journey was surprisingly comfortable and despite the warnings of the naysayers back in Pattaya, the unusually long boat was smooth and safe and slid across the water effortlessly like something out of the credits of a Cambodian episode of ‘Baywatch’.
I looked out of the tiny port holes at the passing scenery. On one side was the vast expanse of the Gulf of Thailand, and on the other, the undulating, tree-clad coastline of Cambodia. A few flying fish skimmed across the shining water like bouncing, silver torpedoes and as we left Koh Kong the rubbish-strewn waters became clear.
Sitting behind me was a young mother and her two small children. The woman had to virtually drag her poor little daughter past me as she looked up at the hideously ugly farang with wide, scared eyes. Mum was dressed in a blue-checked krama and wore a battered straw hat. Her young son—who was around five or six years old—was nowhere near as timid as his sister and stared at me with unblinking interest for the whole of the trip until the family got off the boat at Koh Sdach, an island stop about two hours into our journey. Every time I glanced a the bright-eyed young boy he squeaked a “Hello” at me and grinned. His mother didn’t seem to approve of this, because every time he did so, she pinched him hard and mumbled something unintelligible to him in the Khmer dialect. The bruises her son received seemed to be no deterrent to his friendly—if monotonous—salutations, and the poor lad must have been black and blue by the time they got off the boat. Tough kid. He was prepared to collect a painful nip simply to gain a smile from the funny looking foreigner with the big nose. It was already becoming plain to me that the Cambodian children were not yet as familiar or bored with visiting farangs as their rather more sophisticated counterparts in Thailand.
Koh Sdach consisted of a cluster of wooden shacks and huts built both over and beside the water and a long pier made of rickety wooden planks nailed together provided access. Colourful fishing boats bobbed on the water and there were bundles of nets and traps lying around. Lots of the passengers left the boat at the island, and a strong Cambodian guy hefted a sack full of rice up onto his shoulder. As he did so, a split appeared in the canvas and a cascade of hard white grains spilt onto the wet, footstep-spattered wooden deck of the boat. When the man had re-adjusted his burden and walked off down the gangplank a very old Cambodian woman came from the back of the boat and began collecting the fallen rice. Her broad-fingered peasant’s hands scooped up the dirty grains and put them into an empty packet; it seemed to me as much dirty water as rice went into the plastic bag. The grey-haired lady’s tattered blouse fell open and her withered breasts dangled as she worked, but she didn’t seem to care. I guessed she had seen times when an amount of rice such as she had recovered could probably have saved a life. We only stopped at Koh Sdach for five minutes, then we were away again. Throughout the journey, every so often there was a loud cheer from the Captain’s cabin as someone won the pot in the game of cards he and his cronies were sitting cross-legged over.
There was a group of British backpackers sitting in front of me who were having a loud,
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