STINKY'S RETURN 2007

Back in 2007 Nik Reiter and I decided to avoid the madness of Songkran by leaving Pattaya for Cambodia. My wife was up-country. She was seeing family. Things weren't good between us.

Nothing like a road trip to cheer up a man," Nick said and he booked a van for the border.

The next morning the van stopped at my house on Moo 9.

Nick was already inside and looked unhappy.

"What's wrong?"

Take a whiff."

I inhaled the air.

Damn."

"Someone stinks."

"That Dutch cunt in the back."

Stinky was a young backpacker.

We hated travelers.

And they hated us ex-pats.

"Where's he headed?"

"Sihanoukville."

"Same as us."

"Damn."

The Thai driver thought the same and drove with the window open.

We opened ours too.

Stinky complained.

Nick and I told him to fuck off and slept with the warm wind in our faces.

The mini-van skipped the food stop and we ended up at Trat, the last big town before Koh Klong, the Cambodian entry point.

"This stop," announced the driver.

We got off and Stinky asked, "How do we get to the border?"

We walk. It's only a half-mile." I wanted rid of Stinky. " But we're going to have some beer, so piss off."

The mini-van driver was complaining to the other Thais about the Dutchman's smell, but stopped upon hearing the tone of my voice.

"Piss off?" asked the blonde Dutchman.

"Yeah, fuck off." Nick shoved him and the driver muttered, "Pai ke kii."

Stinky got the message and wandered off toward the border.

It was another fifteen miles away.

When I explained that to the driver he laughed and we drank a quick beer before continuing to the checkpoint at Cham Yeam.

We saw nothing of Stinky.

At the crossing we tipped the driver 200 baht.

Passing through the Cambodian frontier was easy.

$25 for a month-long visa.

A young boy wrote out the particulars and offered to drive us into Koh Kong for $5. We bought 4 beers and got into the car. Nick laughed to himself.

"What's so funny?"

"You throwing Stinky off the bus."

Ï didn't throw him off. I just gave him the wrong information."

"Same result. We're breathing normal air again."

The driver paid the toll for the bridge over the river. I had stayed in Koh Kong before. It's a sleepy border town. No beaches. No go-gos. No tourist attractions. Just beer drinking. Not a bad thing, but the driver could arrange forward travel to Sihanoukville.

5-6 hours on a mini-bus, but we needed one other passenger.

"Wouldn't it be funny, if it was Stinky." Nick chuckled under his breath.

"Yeah, funny, but not ha-ha."

We drove into town. Cambodians were splashing water, yet without the viciousness of the Thai Songkran. The driver tried to entice us into a visit to the Chicken Farm. "Have many girls?"

"How many?"

"50."

Nick and I shook our heads.

Most of the girls would be sleeping off the last night's labors. Plus he's faithful to his girlfriend and me mine. Not that we're good guys, but unlike Bill Clinton we don't make exceptions to the rules of monogamy.

Except in cases of extreme discretion.

We arrive at the guest house. The mini-van was waiting in the driveway. So was Stinky.

"That wasn't nice." He hadn't changed his shirt and smelled as bad as before.

"What wasn't nice?" I acted innocent.

"Telling me the mini-van didn't go to Cambodia."

"I didn't tell you that."

"Yeah, we were wondering why you got off the bus." Nick backed me up. As an English football fan he hated the Dutch. "And you still smell."

"I can't help it."

Nick looked at me. His eyes said he couldn't stand 5-6 hours with Stinky. The driver spoke Thai and I said to him, "We pay more if only two people."

The driver could smell Stinky too and agreed to the deal.

We loaded our bags onto the bus. Stinky tried to get on. The driver stopped him.

"No go Sihanoukville. Go casino. Two men. Come back for you 30 minutes."

Thirty minutes later we were speeding over a red dirt road.

Stinky nowhere to be seen, heard, or smelled.

And we were very happy men

DA CHICKEN FARM IN SIHANOUKVILLE by Peter Nolan Smith

In 2007 I was losing my mind. The mother of my daughter has deserted me to live in the hicks or 'bannok'. I had given up everything to move to Thailand and be a father. Angie's mom was scared that I was planning to kidnap her. She was stupider than a bucket of mud. I would do nothing to hurt my daughter, but it was too late to make things right. I was lost in Asia.

My good friend Nick Tottenham suggested that we leave town for Songkran and head over to Cambodia. I rejected the trip at first, but Nick recognized the depths of my depression and said, "Mate, nothing says you've fucked up like a binge through Cambodia. Beer, pussy, and me will cure your ills."

It was worth a shot and we took off two days before Songkran to Sihanoukville.

The beach resort had been a nothing town for decades. The Khmer Rouge had seen to it that beaches were off-limits to the masses. A major pollution spill in the 90s had scared the most durable of backpackers, but beachfront property was a seller in the 2000s and we pulled into a forgotten town on the verge of a boom.

I had been here several times and we booked rooms at the Angkor Arms. The hosts were two Froggies named Roland. Beers, the Who, and ganja killed the early part of the evening, but Nick was used to spending his nights with women.

"Ou est les femmes?" Nick asked the straight Roland. The other Roland was asexual.

"Les putas ou les filles?" Roland understood Nick's query.

"Whores."

"The best place is the Chicken Farm."

"I know where it is."

On my three previous solo trips to Sihanoukville I never ventured over to its infamous ‘Chicken Farm’ or street of ill repute near the harbor. Red light districts are never really fun, unless you’re with a friend.

“You ready?” Nick paid the bill. $5 for five beers and cheaper than Pattaya, which was why many farangs on a budget had offshored their retirement to Cambodia. Money went further. Rent was cheap, but due to a fatal accident a year ago the governor prohibited westerners from riding motorcycles in Sihanoukville, so we stepped into the street. Two motorcycle taxi guys appeared as if they were beamed from the sky.

“Where you want go?”

“Chicken farm.” Nick and I said at the same time.

The drivers knew the way to ‘Phum Thmey’ or the new village.

As we rode down a dirt road, my driver explained that the port expansion had wiped out half the shantytown of working girls. The remaining brothels exuded an aura of authentic seediness untouched by trendy travelers. The offerings were mostly older women and they were fat.

Nick’s driver said, “New Year. Many girl go home.”

They drove up to BIBA.

The hottest disco in the Chicken Farm.

Nick and I entered the dark karaoke lounge. Girls snapped to attention. None were under 30. It was a horror show. The girls smelled of bad food. No one wanted them home for the holiday. We bought them a round of drinks. It cost us $20.

One of them begged me to go into the backroom.

"I do everything cheap." She probably had worked sailors for $2 a go. Her breath stank of rotten teeth. I guessed her age to be close to mine. The red light made her 30. I gave her $20. Tears warmed her eyes.

"I do more than everything."

"I don't want anything." Sex was a destination a long way from the BIBA.

"You no think I pretty?"

"No, my wife leave me. I have a broken heart."

"I sorry."

"She is not. You want some tequila?"

"Yes." She understood broken hearts better than a professor of romance languages at Harvard. "We forget."

"Forgetting is everything."

After three shots Nick and I fled the BIBA and told the drivers to go to Victory Hill for drinks. They detoured by every possible knocking shop in Sihanoukville, hoping for an extra pimping charge.

We blanked every one of them.

The drivers dropped us at the Angkor Arms. The Rolands were waiting in the bar. Two girls sat at a small table. They were better-looking than any of the girls from the Chicken Farm. Nick booked them both. I wasn't in the mood. Angie's mom had put me off women. He went upstairs and I ordered a Tiger beer for me and the Rolands.

"What about your friend?"

"He's English. He shoots quick. He'll be here soon enough."

And that was the truth.

Snake Farm A Go-Go Sihanoukville

After several hours of drinking gin and tonic's at the Zig Zag bar, Roland, the manager of the Angkor Inn, suggested a night cap at the snake farm.

"Ze girls there dance with snakes." Roland is French, hence the ze instead of the.

"Lead the way." Nick was a great admirer of the exotic arts.

The Snake Farm was on a dark road. The road sign was promising.

Dancing girls. Snakes.

The place looked like someone had spent a lot of money of his go-go dream, only the Snake Farm was emptier than Phnom Penh after the victory entrance of the Khmer Rouge. Not completely. A few listless bargirls lazed on the sofas. They didn't even smile. One might have rolled her eyes.

No snakes in sight. No go-go dancing. We were the only customers.

I couldn't have been more disappointed. Nick almost cried. Roland said sorry.

We headed to his place and went to sleep with dreams of better things to come in Phnom Penh.