Free Visa Run - Pattaya to Sihanoukville by Peter Jaggs Page A

to find in keeping a straight face at the many weird and wonderful turns of phrase that littered the conversation of the bookish Anglo-Indian naturalist whenever I spoke to him—and it didn’t help my case when I heard his voice and accent sounded very much like a comical parody of some ridiculous Indian character.
    “Oh, my goodness! Surely you don’t live in Pattaya!” The Professor said, waving his hands around like Al Jolson and dropping his notes on the mating habits of the Surinam Toad on the floor in horror. “What a den of antiquity! Wild women wouldn’t drag me there!” When The Professor discovered I had never visited Cambodia before he immediately began to tell me how dangerous it was in Sihanoukville and how I would do well to return to Thailand at once. At first I couldn’t work out if he genuinely believed that danger lurked around every corner of the little resort or if he was just completely paranoid; or maybe he was simply attempting to scare me off and get the comfortable sofa, the TV and the two pretty neighbours to himself again. In fact, it didn’t take me long to realize it was a combination of all three of these reasons. If it was such a death-trap here, I wondered aloud, what the hell was he doing here at all? The Professor then assured me seriously how he was engaged in extremely important zoological research and told me a little pompously how it was sometimes necessary for guys like him to face great danger in the quest for enhanced knowledge.
    I told The Professor I was just about to explore the nightlife on The Hill and asked him if he fancied coming for a couple of sherbets later, but he shook his head firmly in consternation.
    “Don’t even think about it,” he said. “The bars are all run by gangsters and The Hill is full of twenty-dollar prostitutes and people getting drunk on cheap beer and smoking whiffs and squiffs.”
    Struggling hard to maintain a suitably serious expression I thanked The Professor for his portentious advice and left the Crazy Monkey guesthouse with a spring in my step. I was beginning to realize for the first time that Sihanoukville could possibly be my kind of place after all, and that there was a very good chance I might enjoy myself here despite my previous doubts.
    “Be careful,” The Professor warned me darkly as a parting shot with a classic head-wobble as I made my way out through the metal doorway, “let sleeping logs die.”
    I was ravenous, but I still couldn’t get the horror stories out of my mind that I had heard from my buddies back in Pattaya about the food in Cambodia. Many of them had assured me there was more dangerous bacteria than protein in Cambodian restaurant dishes, so I was still very wary of eating anything that might do serious damage to my insides. Of course, I knew had to take the plunge eventually, so I chose a small cafe pleasantly situated next to a couple of old-fashioned wooden houses. There were a couple of tables outside the little eatery so I sat at one of them to watch the world go by and hoped for the best.
    I took a look at the menu the Cambodian waitress handed me and was surprised to find that instead of the expected rat with rice and dead dog dishes disguised as beef and chicken meals, there was plenty of Western fare to choose from. However, when I saw the giveaway prices, I expected the worst. What the hell sort of fish and chips was a dollar fifty going to buy me? I thought, wondering what the catch was. Rather tentatively I ordered it anyway, anticipating something similar to the unappetizing, spiky little fish the young angler had captured by the pier at Koh Kong to turn up. Whilst I was waiting I sampled the first of many Angkor draft beers and was delighted to find it cool, fresh and tasty. At fifty cents a glass the beer was so cheap as to be almost free by Thai standards, so that was a relief, anyway. At least the amber nectar wasn’t going to be a problem here.
    The only traffic in the dirt road