Thursday, August 16, 2007

Gilligan

I loaded my stuff on to the back of a moto driver's bike. The moto is the station wagon of South East Asia. If a family of five can fit on one, then me, the driver, my suitcase and my guitar can. My suitcase goes between the handlebars. My knapsack on my back. Holding it like a dance partner I balance my guitar case on my knee.

We took off from Shianookville and I can't say I was sad to be leaving Cambodia. I had had a good time. An adventure, but I was ready for some less adventure and more hanging around. Getting a massage every day, that sounds appealing right? We got to the port where huge container ships loaded and unloaded freight onto trucks custom built for this job. We passed by the more official looking buildings and onto a dirt road. There was the shitty little town that seemed to spring up wherever wooden fishing ships were painted and repaired.

The moto driver did not want me to see what kind of commission he got when he bought my ticket for me. It must of been pretty good. The ticket was 20 dollars, almost a months pay in most professions here in Cambodia. I gave up trying to look over his shoulder and went into the dilapidated little office where the port police made out the ships manifest. He wanted my passport number in case they had to turn over a list to the embassy of foreigners missing at sea. One big fat cop lay on a single metal frame cot next to the ancient wooden desk. His shirt was open and he held a hanky in one hand like a distraught opera diva.
"He sick"? I asked the cop with perfect penmanship who was taking my information. His pale green uniform was crisp. He was beribboned like a 5 star general.
"Yeah." He said.
I stood there waiting for the extortion to begin but the general said nothing and just handed me back my visa. That was the last good thing to happen that day.

The boat looked sleek and fast from the outside. It looked like the kind of boat James Bond would jump onto and karate chop the Captain while he kicked the machine guns out of the first mates hands. But when you got close you could see how beaten it was. Inside the seats were all cracked blue plastic with black greasy frosting. From the advertising on the backs of the chairs it appeared to be in second service after a long long time at sea in Malaysia. On top of the boat there was a dozen or so Westerners sitting just inside the small metal hand rail that separated them from the open water. They had big grins on their faces.
"The saps." I thought, grinning back. "They've never been on one of these trips before."
I think they were surprised that I didn't join them. I had no intention of climbing on top of that vessel. I was just looking around to see where they kept the life jackets. There were going to be too few on board and I wanted mine in advance.

The trip started out ok. We would make one stop on an island where the locals swarmed over the ship and tried to sell us food and water. Then we headed for open sea. The water in the bay was calm but the horizon looked bleak. It looked like the kind of grey haze that was going to push black thunder clouds in front of it and roil the waters in its wake. In the gulf of Thailand the waves were going to be big. Bigger than that boat. We were going to be going for a real roller coaster ride and that is exactly what happened.

The waves were so rough that at times it felt like the boat was submerged. After the thunder passed over the rain came in sheets. We would roll starboard, smash into a wave and then list wildly to the port side. As the tiny ship was tossed I gripped the seat before me. The theme song from Gilligan's Island replayed itself over and over in my head.

A leg appeared in one of the windows near the sealed cabin door. One of the topsiders made his way onto the tiny ledge that ran the rim of the ship and pounded on the door. A smiling Khmer opened it up for him. Soaked to the skin, the westerner made his way inside.One of them having made it safely, the rest came pouring off the top and clambering into the cabin. I had to chuckle.

Inside the boat the soaked passengers gripped the seats white knuckle. The cheery old Khmer who had opened the hatch made his way down the center aisle of the rolling boat handing out yellow plastic bags. I was one of only a handful of passengers who did not puke. By the time we got to port the boat reeked of vomit.

At Koh Kong I climbed on back of another moto and went to the shitty little overpriced fairy hotel where I would spend my last night on this side of the boarder. The driver tried to sell me on all kinds of local events.
"I take you to Chicken Farm" He gleefully offered.
"I don't want to see no chicken farm." I said.
"You know what Chicken Farm is? Famous here."
And then it slowly dawned on me what he was talking about.
"I think I'll pass."

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