The Angkor Series

Chapter 3

Sihanoukville is a strange creature. On paper this should be a thriving resort in the style of the South of France. After all, it is Cambodia’s only real beach destination. The reality however is a little different. The more upmarket hotels cling to the boundaries as if afraid to dip their toes into the sordid interior. Cheap beach bars crowd the central beach area, home to drug dealers, prostitutes, and thieves, and that’s just the tourists. Shoddily put together sound systems pump out plastic music from dusk until dawn and the beach is littered with discarded bottles and cans. The police are virtually non-existent after dark, scurrying home as if they realise the tea-money opportunities are far less when the creatures of the night come out. The road leading up from the beach is a mixed bag of establishments from low-cost, low-standard dorms to some more upmarket backpacker accommodations like Monkey Republic. Restaurants in the area range from spit on the floor to pig on a spit with the odd unexpected hidden gem in there too. Move away from that central area and things go up or down depending on the direction you take. Beyond the town to the West lay Otres: some of the best beaches in the area and accommodation split between the decent budget places on Otres 1, and the slightly more gentile resorts of Otres 2. Otres 1 was also home to the decent music scene, well my sort of decent music, of Snooky, though sadly there was still a fair sprinkling of psy-trance in among the wondrous techno, jungle, and dub sounds. Go East/North-East from the central beach and you had downtown: a mix of low-rent guesthouses, low-cost expat bars, and the bulk of the local businesses. Go a little further out and you reached Victory Hill: formerly a lively and bustling area, but now a sad shadow of its former self. This was also home to ‘Entertainment Alley’, a collection of neon-lit girly bars where quality did not always win out over quantity.

But, despite all its flaws, I loved the place. There was a certain gritty rawness about the town that most resort destinations in Thailand had long since lost. And despite its largely exaggerated reputation for crime, I never felt a portion of the threat I had experienced elsewhere in Asia. The only thing I really hated was the stratified cliques that seemed to exist within some of the expat community. From the generally aloof Russians all pretending to be gangsters to the cheap-Charlie alcoholics always chasing a 50-cent beer to the seasonal hipster crowd that staffed half the Serendipity Road businesses. To say that Snooky had its fair share of wankers would be an understatement.

The imaginatively titled ‘Bob D’s Sports Bar’ lay not far from the town centrepiece, the Golden Lions roundabout, a typically hideous piece of Cambodian modern design with the gaudiest lion statues anywhere in the world. The complex where Bob had his bar had been given the rather grandiose name of ‘Golden Lions Plaza’, though ‘Golden Lions Alley’ may have been a more accurate description. It was a collection of about 10 bars, all of them slightly different in presentation, but all of them run by at times overly optimistic expats. The biggest problem with this town was it was so seasonal. Where Siem Reap and Phnom Penh had year-round tourism, the very wet rainy season here meant the town virtually shut down visitors wise for around half the year. Turnover of businesses for sale was extremely high, and if your business model didn’t tick the right boxes then you would likely be heading up National Highway 4 with your tail between your legs. Very few got rich here, but lots got broke. Bob wasn’t getting rich, but he wasn’t heading for broke either. Leaving sunny London, and a rather imposing tax bill, he had made his way to Sihanoukville via Thailand and had ended up buying what was then the town’s only sports bar.

Upgrading it with extra screens and a better pool table than before, he had managed to tick some of the right boxes and was making a fairly decent living, one that meant HMRC back home would likely never get their hands on him. I’d known Bob from the rave days. I’d been a DJ, promoter, and occasional supplier of fine chemicals; he had owned the security firm that we used for nearly all our events.

Despite his disability of being a Chelsea fan, (I had been an Arsenal fan since conception) we had always got on like a house on fire, and I was looking forward to a few weeks of decadence and debauchery with the little bastard. He’d found me a house to rent five minutes from the beaches and bars, a snip at $200 per month, and I settled in to enjoy some time without worrying about Thai generals or wannabe mafia types.

The few weeks ended up turning into six months. Where Sihanoukville in wet season can be a miserable place to be, lacking in visitors and bringing out the whingeing expats, in dry season it was an addictive location. Sun, sea, sand, and s*x. They don’t nickname it ‘Sinville’ for nothing. I’ve never been a big fan of pick-up bars, or to be more exact I have never been a big fan of paying for s*x. I think that old cliché/excuse of, “but mate, we all pay for it in the end,” is utter bullshit, so I normally prefer meeting my ladies the old-fashioned way. In my second week there, I met this stunner called Aya. She was everything that is gorgeous about Khmer women: great figure, that shapely butt that Thais seem to lack, and eyes you could dive into. She wasn’t a bar girl, but the cashier at one of the better venues in town. She caught my attention on one of the regular pub crawls organised by Tony, the boss at Charlie Harper’s, and for once I forwent Tony’s usual ‘drink until you fall’ ethos to stay and chat to Aya at the bar.

Now there are a few ways a romance can usually go in this town. One option is her declaring love for you within two weeks and to start talking marriage. Another option is to come to “an arrangement” where you give your girlfriend what amounts to a monthly salary … and then there’s also the straightforward way of chat then date. I knew you couldn’t bar fine Aya, which suited my belief system perfectly, but I also knew this meant there was no way she was coming home with me tonight. So, it was down the traditional route of dating. I did have concerns that she was going to be an ‘option 1’ type of girl, but I was so mesmerised by her beauty that I thought I would worry about that later. One of the biggest problems in dating someone who works in the food and beverage industry here is that they do not get a lot of time off. And when you are as good a cashier as Aya was—great English, chatty and friendly, good with numbers and honest to boot—there was not much chance of extra nights off. So, our dating had to fit in with her work schedule.

This wasn’t so bad once we moved beyond the mating dance stage. I’d go to her bar at around midnight, sit and chat with her or play pool against the girls if it was quiet (but never ever Connect 4. If you ever visit Cambodia, do not play a bar girl/barmaid at Connect 4. If they made it an Olympic sport, then Cambodia would be multiple gold medal winners) then head home when the bar closed.

We would then have the bulk of the next day to chill on the beach, eat the lusciously fresh seafood, and take leisurely swims in the sea off Otres or Independence beaches. Days turned into weeks, turned into months. I could feel my feet beginning to get itchy. I was bored, and it was nothing to do with Aya. Much as I had loved my months of leisure, I needed something to occupy my mind and imagination.

There was no way I was buying a business, here or anywhere else on the coast. Far too much hassle for too little reward. Surprisingly, it was Aya who gave me an opening to the next stage in my business career, though it was one she may not have chosen willingly. One thing, among many, that I loved about Aya was her enthusiasm for getting away from the tourist spots whenever we could, especially if it meant visiting her parents. The first time I had been petrified. This strange barang heading into the village complete with tattoos, shaved head, and speaking pidgin Khmer. But I had grown to love them and looked forward to our monthly trips up Highway 4 to see them at Chamkar Chek.

I’d met most of the family by this point, though there was a mysterious older brother who I knew was ex-air force, and who I was more nervous of meeting than I had been with her parents.

Aya would only say that he was “connected”, which in Cambodia can mean anything from friends with government figures or involved in the mafia. As it turned out, Chamreun was both.

The occasion was Aya’s niece’s birthday. One thing you have to understand about the Khmers is that they love to party. And when it is a child’s birthday, they usually go all out. Food, drink, and of course those ubiquitous Cambodian birthday cakes that appear, to me at least, to be 85% coloured shaving foam. As usual I made a fuss of her niece, an angelic and highly intelligent eight-year-old called Davy who already had an amazing grasp of English and was destined to be both a heartbreaker and a potential millionaire. I’d had a friend send over an expensive doll from Thailand, and every baht was worth it to see the joy on her face when she unwrapped it.

From those initial nervous visits, I now got on brilliantly with her parents and younger siblings. Her dad now insisted on plying me with numerous beers and glasses of sra sor, a potent rice wine that was made locally. It was inevitable that I usually ended up drunk on these visits now, and sadly even more inevitable that I would clumsily try and follow the gracefulness of my hosts when the dancing started. The evening was about halfway through, the bountiful food half eaten, and I was about halfway to drunk, when a new and shiny Lexus pulled up outside the yard, and a handsome and well-dressed Khmer got out. Immediately all the kids started screaming ‘Uncle Chamreun, Uncle Chamreun!’ and rushed out to greet the prodigal son. Once he had managed to placate his younger fans and distribute gifts to the birthday girl, he greeted his parents and family then came and shook my hand. His grip was firm, and he looked me straight in the eyes as if weighing up my worth.

“So, you’re the crazy barang who took on my little sister then?” His English was almost perfect, and there was even a slight American twang to his voice, though that could equally have come from Hollywood movies as my first assumption of military training in the states for a while.

I smiled. “I’ve heard a lot about you too. Aya is very proud of you, Chamreun.”

He laughed, and I immediately decided I liked this guy.

“Aya loves that her brother is a big fish now, and she loves the presents I bring her every time.”

His light-hearted riposte was punctuated by a half-cry of pain as my lovely Aya, who had been hovering to see how we would get on, took mock offence at her brother’s jesting, and punched him in the arm.

The rest of the evening passed in the usual way. As well as being the prodigal son, Chamreun was also a prodigious drinker, and we had moved onto a bottle of Jack Daniels he had produced from the car to counter the potency of the rice wine. After all the excitement, the younger members of the entourage had been packed off to bed, and the adults continued the festivities accompanied by one of the seemingly numerous uncles playing on the chapei dong veng, a sort of two-stringed guitar that I had seen the famous Kong Nay play a few months before.

The uncle’s voice was otherworldly, a combination of what sounded like blues mixed with traditional Khmer vocals. As he sang, Aya translated the words to me through the tears streaming down her face. It was the tale of two lovers during the Khmer Rouge era, forbidden to be together but determined to fulfil their love. They ran away from the farm they had been sent to when the commander announced they would be forced to marry strangers.

Finding their way deep into the Cardamom Mountains, they managed to hide out for six months until betrayed by a local villager. Rather than be returned to the camp and tortured and probably executed, they joined hands and jumped to their deaths from a high waterfall on Mount Aural.

The combination of Aya’s telling of the story, (I have abridged it here) and the plaintive melancholy in her uncle’s voice had the tears welling up in my own eyes by the end. I think it was at that moment I decided I loved Aya. Maybe it was the tale of lost love, maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was just how happy she made me, but that was the point I decided I had found my life partner.

As the night grew darker, the women began to gather up the dishes and clear away the detritus of the evening’s festivities. Chamreun looked over at me and said

“Come, Paul, walk with me for a little while.” I wondered what was coming next, probably the old ‘Hurt my sister and you’ll be found dead in a ditch somewhere’ routine, but the reality was not what I expected.

“So, Paul, I have been doing some checking up on you. A very interesting life you have led until now and one I think may be of interest to me and my associates.”

“Chamreun, I have no idea what you mean mate, so please explain.”

He took a small notebook from his pocket and flipped it open. I stared.

“I will. Paul William Johnston. Born 24th of August 1971 in Haringey, North London. Father a policeman, mother a midwife. Attended Coleridge Primary School then Fortismere School. Left in 1988 and went to Goldsmiths University to study design. Got very involved with the growing rave scene in London and, so I believe, designed some of the most iconic flyers and posters over the coming years. Promoted a number of illegal nights and a few legal ones, started, allegedly, a well-known pirate radio station, made a name for yourself as a DJ, and yet still managed to get through your degree with a first-class honours. Also, according to police intelligence, you were one of the biggest ecstasy and LSD suppliers in London at the time, and only gave it up when the gangs moved in, and things got violent. Got offered a job on graduation with your placement company, Pentagram, and proceeded to dazzle the world of design for the next few years before packing it all in and heading off to travel the world.

“Over the next decade or so, you spent time in California, Oregon, Asia, China, and Canada before seeming to settle in South East Asia. And the whole of that time, you seemed to manage to live a life of comparative luxury while not doing any real work beyond the odd freelance design job. Then you settled in Chiang Mai for over two years, again living a comfortable yet not ostentatious lifestyle. But for some reason you suddenly departed from there six months ago. Now I know for a fact that beyond the police suspicions back in London, you have never appeared on any law enforcement radar, and you’ve only been arrested once, at a student demo in 1991, but have never been convicted of any crime. Now what I want to know Paul, is just how involved you were in the international drugs trade and just how many contacts you still have?”

I stood in dumbfounded shock.

“Just who the f**k are you, Chamreun? And how the hell do you know so much about my life? You know things I had forgotten about.”

Chamreun laughed again.

“Don’t worry my friend. With my former position, and indeed my current one, I have good sources who can find out anything for me. At first, I just wanted to find out what sort of guy was dating my sister. She was seeing this total asshole, American guy, a couple of years back. I did a check on him as something did not seem right.

“Turned out he had a few arrests for beating his ex-wife back in the states. I made sure he was out the country before he could do the same to Aya. I love my sister, Paul and would do anything to protect her or my family. So, the mystery of your carefree lifestyle intrigued me. A friend in the police here contacted a colleague in London who he works with on paedophile cases and got the interesting pieces of your background.

“Apparently, there was quite a file on you back then because of your involvement with the rave scene. They suspected you were a relatively big supplier but could never prove anything. And you were not high priority because you avoided involvement with organised crime. Now I am pretty good at filling in gaps. I am guessing you were sourcing most of your drugs direct from Holland and taking care of transport yourself. I’m also guessing that you have had some involvement with the scene over the years since. Now before you turn any whiter, I am not here to set you up for deportation. Nor do I disapprove. You seem to have been that strangest of creatures, a drug dealer with morals and ethical standards. And more importantly from my perspective, you have kept a low profile and are likely to have a lot of very interesting people in your contact files. I want you to come and work for us.”

“Ok Chamreun, you have my attention, you could hardly fail to grab my attention with the amount of info you’ve gathered. Who exactly are ‘us’ and what are you up to?”

“We are a collection of like-minded individuals, from forces personnel to businessmen to people in the government. We see the move worldwide to laxer narcotics regulations and we believe Cambodia could be a huge producer and exporter of m*******a and think we should get in on the money now. We already sell all across Cambodia but have our sights set on international markets. We have other plans too. Have you heard of safrole?”

“Of course, mate. Principal precursor for making MDMA.”

“And did you know Cambodia is one of the principal sources of this substance?”

“To be honest, no. That’s a new one on me.”

“Well, we have access to large quantities of safrole and are looking for buyers. Would you have access to such people?”

Did I? Of course I did. One of my main contacts, and friend of many years, was a genius in Groeningen who had been churning out high quality MDMA and ecstasy tablets since the late 1980s. But I wanted to play some cards close to my chest for now.

“I’m not sure, Chamreun. It’s been a long time since I spoke to any of the guys involved in that. They could be retired or in prison, or even dead for all I know. But what’s your plan with the weed?”

“Our m*******a is top quality. The seeds are imported from the US and from Europe. We had an ‘expert’ come over and train our farmers and supervisors over the course of a year, and I would argue now that our crops are the best quality and strength in the whole of Asia. But Cambodia is a limited market, we can’t make inroads in Thailand without upsetting people and there is also only a limited market in Vietnam. What we can do is arrange delivery to any port in the world. All we need from your end are people who can arrange for the shipments to be received safely. It’s one of the reasons you intrigue me.

“I noticed you did not deny your Holland connections and I am also guessing that people you know, or friends of people you know, can likely arrange a safe reception at a port like Rotterdam. And from there the entire European market is open to us.”

I whistled under my breath. One thing was for sure, this guy had done a lot of homework.

“Right Chamreun, let’s say for argument’s sake that I do know people there who could help you. What sort of quantities are we talking?”

“That depends on your friends. We are able to produce around 1000 kilos of safrole each month, but we already have around 10,000 kilos stockpiled.”

I whistled again, but this time aloud.

“As for the weed, we can harvest around five tons per month. We are using polytunnels and some hydroponic systems as well as outdoor cultivation so we can guarantee year-round production. However, we are also interested in some, how do you say it? Quo pro quid …?”

“It’s quid pro quo,” I laughed.

“Yes, that. We are hoping that your contacts would be able to provide us with some goods as well as money in return for our products. Especially the MDMA made from our safrole, and also good quality LSD. We have tried to make our own MDMA here in Cambodia, but our chemists just don’t seem able to get right. If they can get it on transport here, we can easily have it bypass customs.”

I wondered to myself if I could negotiate a deal with the general back in Chiang Mai. It would cut down on the albeit minimal transportation risks for them and would also maybe put me back in enough favour so that I could enjoy the odd visit to my former home base. This was shaping up to be a high-returns, minimal-risk venture for me. I wouldn’t have to physically touch any of the products myself at any point, all I would be doing was facilitation.

We’d started wandering back up the track as our conversation came to a close.

“Okay, Chamreun, leave it with me. I’ll make some calls and see who is still alive and what interest there is initially. Then we’ll have to meet and discuss figures. If they all add up and everyone’s happy, then things will start to happen.”

As we neared the house, we saw that the women had finished clearing up the detritus of the party. Aya was looking anxiously down the track towards us, obviously wondering where we’d been and what we’d been talking about. I smiled to reassure her that all was well and turned to shake Chamreun’s hand. As I did, he pressed a business card into my palm.

“Here’s my contact numbers, Paul. I hope to speak with you again soon. And of course, I already know your mobile number. Is there anything I can do to help with secure communications?”

I laughed again.

“Don’t worry about that my friend. On that part of the equation, I am well ahead of the game and have ways of talking to people that even your fantastic sources couldn’t keep up with.”

Aya was impatient to head home. The one disadvantage of the parental visits was that no matter how much they liked me, tradition dictated that they had to disapprove of Aya and I living together, and that meant absolutely no chance of sharing a room when visiting.

We’d tried it the parents’ way a couple of times, but it just didn’t feel right being only a matter of metres apart in the balmy heat of a Cambodian night. Luckily Aya wasn’t a big drinker. So, she had gladly assumed the role of designated driver on our road trips and had grown used to me drunkenly nodding off on the journey home. Once we’d said our goodbyes to the family, and a knowing glance exchanged with my new colleague Chamreun, we loaded up the Pajero and headed back to Sihanoukville.