SubGenius in Cambodia - Part 1
Author: Sven Serrano <shinpath@gol.com>
Date:1997/03/06
Forum:alt.slack
As the Royale Air Cambodge Boeing 737 dropped its flaps and began its
final approach to Pochetong Airport the importance of my mission began
to weigh heavy in my thoughts. As the first true SubGenius to set
foot in Phnom Penh I would have my work cut out for me - first, to
spread the word of "Bob" in these the few remaining months before
X-Day two, to party my ass off on behalf of those who could not
accompany on this holy incursion and three, to get that same booty
out alive and in one piece. Little did I realize at the time that
everything in my life, including my previous travels and my training
as a SubGenius monk, had amply prepared for the tests I was about to
face. The tires kissed the tarmac in the early evening of February 3,
1997 and I quickly went through the motions of rubber stamps and
visas. I was soon on my way into town to begin the trippiest trip I
have ever taken in my life.
A brief bio of myself.
Age: 38
Nationality: U.S. citizen of Mexican-Finnish descent (this qualifies
me ALONE for mutant status). Holder of Japanese resident visa since
1989.
First exposure to SubG: Sometime in 1979 when I saw a small "Bob"
sticker pasted up at UCSD in La Jolla, California
Claims to fame: Interviewed William S. Burroughs for a 'town-gown'
throwaway newspaper in Bloomington Indiana in 1981. Saw "Bob" shot at
the Victoria Theatre in 1984 in San Francisco.
Current ranking in Church: As a result of my residency in Osaka
(since 1989) and my combined contributions of over $200 to the sacred
PO Box, plus my associations with Puzzling Evidence and Dr. Hal Robins
of the KPFA show I claim the title of Pope of all Western Japan.
Personal data: Married and divorced 3 times, no children
Cambodia, in its 5th year of relative 'peace' since the departure of
the United Nations peace keepers, is an amazing place. On the main
drag of Monivong St. there is a 'gold rush' feel that comes with the
arrival of fresh money, most of it in the form of Malaysian and Thai
investment. But a close look at the Khmers reveal a 9th century
people hurtling headlong into the 21 century, still heavily armed and
scared from the years of great evil when the Khmer Rouge shook the
entire country like an Etch-A-Sketch and wiped the slate clean. More
that any other place, Slack for most of the people is a good dinner of
rice and black carp. King Sihanouk, a wacky Louis XIV type, still
presides over a government divided between the nominally royalist
FUNCINPEC party and the former Vietnamese-backed People's Party (who
still control the bureaucracy even though they lost the election).
Add to this a bunch of squabbling small parties and different groups
of KR defectors and you have a nice strain of political instability.
The King, by reason of his hobby of making really bad movies, deserves
minor SubG sainthood. Vive le Roi!
My first stop at a lovely, lakeside guesthouse shows why Phnom Penh
and Cambodia have become popular among the backpacker set. The rooms
are $3 a night and by mid-afternoon everyone is toking and smoking the
semi-legal False Frop which the Cambodians have grown for centuries to
use in their cooking. While the American Drug Enforcement Agency is
running around trying to get the Cambodians to burn the fields and
stop the transshipments no attempt is made to curb activities of the
casual foreign smoker. How long this will last is anybody's guess. I
snorted in disgust, thinking of the pale white crystals of pure
Hapafropazipulops encrusting "Bob's" pipe and set about on my mission.
Subject: A SubGenius in Cambodia Part 2
Date: Sat, 08 Mar 1997 03:14:13 GMT
From: shinpath@gol.com (Sven Serrano)
Reply-To: shinpath@gol.com
Organization: Setsunan University
Newsgroups: alt.slack
Ahhhhh. Beatific waves of pure slack rolled over the length of my 6ft
1 in frame as I lolled in my hammock back at the guesthouse on Boeng
Kach lake in Phnom Penh. Around me the normals were merely
'relaxing.' Big difference. I looked up on the wall and saw the
Dobbshead smiling down on me, commanding me to go and save the heathen
and shethen. I knew what I had to do next.
It was a long moto-ride north of town on a very hot day. Fortunately
I had brought along a goofy looking cotton cap with French Legionnaire
neck flaps on the back. When I packed for this trip at the last
minute I had thrown into my bag a large number of wierd gadgets and
pieces of equipment which I thought I might need on this trip. Not
only did I use each and every one, there were key moments when they
SAVED MY ASS! More on this later.
(Proviso: the following contains references to paid services. Subs
know full well that our Epopt, J.R. "Bob" Dobbs is a famed vice master
and a whore monger. As is his companion Connie. SO DON'T WHINE TO
ME!)
When I arrived, I knew that I was going to do this right. Just relax,
get to know the people, have a few drinks, and enjoy the show. To top
it off it was a festive day, Chinese New Year, February 7th. So at
high noon I walked down the main dirt road of Svay Pak, also known as
Kilometer 11 and the girls of each one of the 12 bordellos stood up
and beckoned me towards them. "Hang on, honey, I'll be there in
minute." I eventually got to the end of the road and received a nice
invitation, one I could not refuse, from the ladies of House No. 45.
They pulled me to a chair, shoved a Tiger beer in my hand, and two of
these lovely ladies (all of whom are from Vietnam) plopped down on
each of my knees. The grin on my Dobbshead shirt (Available in the
Scatalog-BUY ONE NOW!!) grew even wider. "Thank you 'Bob'" I
whispered.
Like another one of my favorite English novelists, Graham Greene, I
enjoy the ambience and atmosphere of these places, even if only as a
non-participating spectator. And what a show. Khmer guys zoomed up
on motos and drove straight into the parlor, the girls shutting the
sliding doors behind the bikes as they rolled in. A car load of
Cambodian secret police with guns and walkie talkies pulled up and the
girls squealed and dragged them in for what was obviously a freebie.
Other dazed foreigners walked by, including a German who could only
mutter in disbelief "It's too much, too much." Then, as it was
Chinese New Year (Vietnamese Tet) a troupe came by to do the Lion
Dance in front of the house as a girl waved a charm on a stick in
front of the Lion dancers costumed head to the accompaniment of
exploding firecrackers. Too much. Heungghh!
The madam sat on her beach lounge chair, smiling and counting the
money. With the aid of a Vietnamese phrase book I tried to ask why
they had come to Cambodia. Lyn, a spritely 18-year old (They were all
over 18, by the way. I had my Fish and Game Dept. measuring tape and
if they weren't, I threw them back in the water) explained it to me in
her best broken English. "Vietnam no boom-boom. Cambodia..." and she
hand-gestured stacks of money. The going rate, by the way, for short
time, was $5. (FIVE DOLLARS FOR SALVATION!!!). But now it was time
for me to do my duty. First, I gave away a stack of American condoms,
much to the appreciation of the girls. The plague infection rate in
Cambodia is estimated to be around 30-40% as the Khmer men sadly
aren't wearing safety. The girls earlier had noticed the smiling
pipe-face man and when they asked I made a prayer sign and looked to
heaven. Then I reached in my bag and pulled out a sack of 8 1/2 x 11"
Dobbsheads. I shouted "Lucky money god! Lucky money god!" The girls
squealed and grabbed them, then rushed over to the Chinese kitchen god
altar. It is custom to burn little wealth charms in front of it on
New Year's Day. Up in smoke went the Dobbsheads, rising to heaven
like the clouds from "Bob's" pipe itself.
(Go to alt.binaries slack to find jpgs with the title No45. Lyn
grabbed my camera and took these pictures)
February 8 found me on a fast boat filled with tourists, booming up
the Tonle Sap river, on my way to Siem Reap and the fabled temples of
Angkor Wat. For the next three days I explored the grand sandstone
edifices, which rival the great Pyramids and the Aztec and Mayan
palaces. Hindu and Buddhist legends are depicted on the massive bas
reliefs and I watched breath taking sunrises and sunsets from the top
of the towers themselves. The Air Nike super boot/tennis shoes, which
I had only bought at the last minute because they had my size in
Japan, allowed me to jump and and climb over the massive stone ruins
like a mountain goat. I had my picture taken in an empty army
checkpoint hut near Ta Prohm, sucking on my corn cob pipe. My alert
moto driver pointed to my "Bob" pin afterwards and said "You make same
same picture, like him pipe man." Clearly I was making progress
winning over the natives.
War ruins were in evidence as we passed an old Lon Nol era defensive
redoubt with three old U.S. M-113 armoured personnel carriers arrayed
in each corner. The K.R.s had fixed their hash. The bad boys still
operated by one of the northern ruins, Banteay Srei, and three tourist
had died trying to view them, even though they had an armed escort.
But the shortwave radio I had brought (another lifesaver) announced
more Khmer Rouge defections to the government, and the last of the
fighters decided to pack it in and make money like everyone else.
Only Pol Pot remains in his stronghold at Along Vieng, protected by
2000 fighters and eight miles of concentric rings of mines....
An amazing thing happened on the way back to Phnom Penh. I said
goodbye to Mr. Hong, the Chinese owner of the Sunrise Guesthouse in
Siem Reap, who was kind enough to post a Dobbshead in his
establishment at my insistence. ( I was down to one crumpled copy
when I went next door to the film shop and xeroxed 10 more at the
pittance price of 200 riel a copy). My moto man got me down to the
boat, the smaller, slightly more dangerous one. One of these had had
the bow drop off and sank a few weeks ago. Everyone had lived but
lost all of their gear. Clouds loomed over head and the only room
left was on the roof with the luggage rack. I began to hum the theme
song to 'Gilligan's Island' -"the weather started getting rough, the
tiny ship was tossed. Wedged on top next to me were a Cambodian Army
Colonel with brief case and a Japanese guy who had sunburned his face
on the roof of the boat on the way up.
We were halfway across the lake when the waves picked up and the rain
suddenly came down in buckets. Everyone on the roof was completely
exposed and all they could to was grab pieces of the the luggage tarp.
My shoes kept me from slipping of the slick roof of the boat while the
swells rolled us back and forth. I remembered the old, throwaway
collapsible umbrella I had packed without a thought back in Osaka. I
pulled it out and deployed it against the driving rain and wind,
thinking 'this will never work.' Amazingly it held. Suddenly I
partially protected. I reached in my bag and pulled out my walkman
headphones, not the little earplug ones but the full earmuff type. I
have these because the plugs never fit my mutant right ear. ALL OF A
SUDDEN MY EARS WERE COMPLETELY DRY AND WARM. I popped a cassette of
surf guitar from the Pulp Surfin' compliation. Suddenly I WAS DRY,
COMFORTABLE AND ROCKING OUT to my tunes while everyone around me was
SUFFERING AND EATING SHIT IN THE RAIN. I couldn't believe it, a true
air bubble of slack in this little hell. I looked around me. The
Cambodian colonel was trying desperately to keep his footing on the
deck. The Japanese guy was even worse off. The wind and rain was
PEELING THE SKIN OFF OF HIS SUNBURNED FACE LIKE SOME 'ALIEN' FILM
SPECIAL EFFECTS. And there I was, smiling and tapping my fingers. It
took all of my strength not to stand up on the top deck and do the
Watusi. And so it went for the next 3 hours as I only paused to
change tapes. NOW THAT'S SLACK!!!! (As practiced by the Shining Path
of Least Resistance)
to be continued
SPLR
Sihanoukville, also known as the port of Kompong Som, appears on the
map, but it lies somewhere in the imagination, on a coastline the
world has forgotten. Only a small trickle of tourists and off-duty
NGOs make the four-hour bus trip, which despite the guide books'
warnings, is now completely safe The town lies in a small valley and
beyond a few low lying hills are five different beaches and a busy
lmedium-sized port. The view from the Mealy Chenda guesthouse balcony
looks down on a clump of palm trees obscuring the masts of the waiting
freighters, a view which looks more Central American than Asian.
"Sihanoukville?," I thought, nursing a glass of Coke and Mekhong
Whiskey on my first afternoon,"It looks more like Duvalierville." I
could imagine Graham Greene in a white jacket and a panama hat walking
up the abandoned boulevard to the sailors' brothels north of the port.
I hiked across the beach rocks (using another piece of essential
equipment - a pair of Nike Reef Walkers, rubber swimming shoes that
give your feet frog/amphibian footing) to the next two beaches, ending
up at Independence Beach. Standing there, overlooking the coast is
the seven story Independence Hotel, an edifice inhabited by one
caretaker, some squatters, perhaps one guest, and the ghosts. The
empty ball room echoes Cambodian lounge music and crush of rustling
tafetta. Down at the beach, there are chairs, umbrellas and drink
vendors, but only a handful of sunbathers, mostly Cambodians on
Sundays. The water is warm and clear and I spend several slackful
afternoons here, blissfully alone. But I came to snorkel and dive as
well and after a few days I go off in seach of the one dive shop in
town.
It is in Pet's Place, the one Australian bar in town, that I learn
that Steve, the owner of Condor Dive and Survey, is busy all this
month on a salvage operation. But it is there that I meet John-John,
the Jack-the-Lad of Sihanoukville. "Sure, mate, I can help you go
snorkeling," he said in strong austalian accent. Mistaking him for an
Indian, I discover John-John is a Khmer who grew up in Australia.
Over beers he tells me about his father is a major official in the
Foreign Ministry, partying in Australia's rave scene, and how the
family decided to move back to Cambodia in 1993. "But I've had with
this country. Do you think I could get a job in Japan? How easy are
Japanese girls." His eye suddenly blinks and his head whips back in a
split-second spasm which he tries to cover up as if nothing has
happened. One too many Es.
So the truth is now obvious. John-John is completely broke. He
explains that his father is one of those incorruptible bureaucrats who
does not accept bribes and who does not distribute the wealth to his
offspring. He is what the Yiddish call a 'Luftmensch,' a guy who
lives off the air, with no viable means of support. I pay the bill,
no problem. John-John later shows up at my guest house, with the
purpose of sneaking into one of the empty bunks. He jovially
entertains the other guests with boogieman stories of the Khmer Rouge
and cadges them for drinks. But it turns out I have a project in mind
for John-John.
In my Lonely Planet Guidebook is a short description of what was once
the premier secoast resort town of Cambodia, a place 120 kilometers to
the Southeast in Kampot province called Kep. Known as Kep-sur-Mer, it
was where the French and the francophone IndoChinese elite started
building their villas in the 1930s. A mini-Riviera, the haute
bourgeoisie elite enjoyed the famous seafood and sun, as well as
swimming, yachting, soirees and gambling in the one casino. Then it
all came down in 1975. As the guidebook reads "Under the Khmer Rouge,
the town and its many villas were completely destroyed - not neglected
and left to decay but intentionally turned intor utter ruins. The KRs
also turned the underground petrol tank of the the old Shell station
into a mass grave. By 1979, not a single building remained intact in
Kep." Such a place I HAD to see for myself. Other travellers in I
talked to in Phnom Penh had made the day trip and then stayed the
night in Kampot. Another attraction nearby is the hill station at
Bokor, which my guidebook wrote off as dangerous for foreigners. I
told my plan to John-John and offered him $15 a day as guide and
driver.
A little political instability proceeded our departure in Sville. On
Thursday, Feb 19, responding to tension in other parts of the country,
the various police and army units, all affiliated with either the
FUNCINPEC Royalist Party and the former Vietnamese-backed People's
Party decided to show their colors to each other. "You've got guns,
we've got guns. Do you see our guns? We see yours." Trucks of
troops with RPG-7 rocket launchers drove past police HQ as the cops
cleaned their heavy maching guns on the front lawn. I remarked on
this later to a local resident at the Angkor Arms. "Yeah," he shrugged
"happens once a month."
On Friday morning we were off. But our departure at 6:30 a.m. had a
little local color as the Vietnamese whore John-John had snuck into
his bunk wanted more money. She followed us, cursing as we jumped
onto a moto. A taste of things to come.
At the Sville market John-John negotiated passage in a Cambodian taxi
to Kompot, 7 people crammed into an old Corolla. I remember the
feeling of dread as we turned off of the main highway to Phnom Penh
and started down the worst road I had ever seen in the 3rd world. Red
packed earth, pocked with bomb-sized craters, klick after klick of
bumps and bounces. And at each bridge a gaggle of obviously
under-paid soldiers glaring and kicking the dust. Fourteen times the
driver slowed and dropped a payoff of 400-500 riel. John-John told me
to keep my head down. No problem.
At the border of Kompot province, a major checkpoint. The soldier
looked at John-John's long hair and earring. "Where are you from?"
"I'm a Khmer," replied my guide. "Oh no you're not." and both of us
were ordered over to the guardhouse while the other cab passengers
marinated in the sun. My passport got me through but John-John
without either an ID card or his Australian passport was in big
trouble. "I'll make it cheap for you - 100000 riel" said the head
honcho, a mandarin looking officer with a big black mole on his cheek
with a long hair sticking out. They both haggled for almost half an
hour while I distributed all of my cigarettes to the curious troops.
I pulled out my wallet and gestured to John-John, "how much is this
really going to cost?" Suddenly it was all over wnd we were back in
the cab. "What happened?" I asked. "Sorry mate, I had to wait until
the right moment to tell him who my father was. He didn't believe me
so I gave him his number and told him to call." What doubt I had I in
his story disappeared as we headed off, under the watchful gaze of the
1,800 ridge of Bokor Mountain.
In Kompot things got hairier. The gang of moto-drivers, the only
people we could rent a motorbike from, were run by an off-duty cop.
"Sure, we'll rent you a bike, but two of us have to follow you and
make sure it doesn't get stolen." It was the only deal in town so we
took it for $14. Immediately we impressed them when I fell off of the
end of the bike while John-John was trying to park at a restaurant for
lunch. The license plate was nicely cracked, put it on the bill.
They set us up in a decent hotel by the river and while we were
getting ready in our new room I taped a Dobbshead to the wall.
John-John's eyes widened. "I'll explain it to you later," I said
hurrying with my camera and film. Finally, with the cop, now changed
into his uniform top and cap, we set off down the road to the
once-fabled resort of Kep.
When we reached the outskirts the cop and his buddy started pointing
out the ruined villas, stark concrete frames against the sun, with
John-John translating "There's Air Force General's home, where he used
to land his helicopter on the roof. There's the famous singer's
place. There's the villa of one of his mistresses." We reached the
short black sand beach, which I knew from a amazing bit of optimism, a
current postage stamp with the legend 'Plage Kep-Tourism.' At a
seaside stand we feasted on some of the famous crabs with hot sauce,
washed down with more Tiger beer. Then we went about exploring the
villas. The guide book was wrong, it seemed. The KRs killed the rich
and their servants but left the homes alone. It wasn't until the
Vietnamese come in 1979 did the destruction, sparked by rumors that
the rich had hidden gold in the walls and floors. Beautiful homes,
with patioed driveways where the servants must have lined up when the
Monsieur and the Madame arrived in their Citroen, now gone to ruin.
In many places the jungle had taken over. You could feel the presence
of the ghosts everywhere. The most amazing sight was the old casino,
now taken over by the grottiest market I had seen in Cambodia. Under
an old rotunda, now open to the sky, in the very place where the
roulette wheel must have been, an old woman was cutting a small
dogfish shark in half, one hand holding the knife while the other
shooed away the curs and the flys. Amazing. Like visiting the ruins
of Disneyland, now inhabited by squatters.
We left Kep at 4 pm and made the run back to Kampot where more
adventure awaited. The cop and his buddy dropped us off at the hotel
and promised to return at 7 and show us around the town. Alone in our
room, John-John asked me about the Dobbshead. I took out one of the
remaining copies of the #2 Screed & membership application and said to
him, in my very best Elmer Fudd voice, "Dis is a vewy, vewy impotant
pampwet. I want you to weed do hoa ting,." John-John dug in and was
soon getting clued in on the major tenets of our faith. After an hour
or so, the cop and his bud were there, with an extra friend who wanted
to meet the foreigner. I knew what was in store. "Look John-John," I
said my instinct is to lock the door and hide under the bed until
morning. But I am going to go out and party with the cops tonight in
Kampot! Do you know why?" He shook his head. I point swiftly at the
Dobbshead on the wall and said "BECAUSE 'BOB' TELLS ME TOO! My
religion gives me courage! What does this tell you???" John-John was
visibly impressed. Then we went out to start one of the wilder nights
of my life.
to be continued...
Shining Path of Least Resistance
SubGenius Ministries for all of Western Japan
2-14-22-18 Shimanouchi, Chuo-ku Osaka Japan 542
shinpath@gol.com
A SubGenius in Cambodia - Postscript
Author:Sven Serrano <shinpath@gol.com>
Date:1997/03/13
Forum:alt.slack
I made it back to Phnom Penh to do a little
'mopping up' before heading home to NE Asia. This included buying a
few wierd souvenirs (Cambodian perfume, a hammock, cigs), visiting
Kilo 11 and No. 45 one last time to give away copies of the snapshots,
and hit a few of the bars I missed on the first visit. The news was
hilarious as usual - King Sihanouk had threatened to abdicate again,
saying that all his life he had never really wanted to be King anyway,
but the two Vice Prime Ministers from the two bickering political
parties had to talk him out of it.
I wondered about John-John. He had said he would get a haircut, lose
his earring, and try to get a job again. Was his father really in the
Foreign Ministry? Could he get his act together and work out a
regular meal ticket, or was he doomed? "Well, we're all doomed -
except for those of us who get on the saucers on X-Day," I said to
myself. If he could get an address to me I vowed to send him some of
the valuable crap that Japanese routinely throw away. I could also
get his address out on the Net and make him a charity poster boy (You
can help John-John, or you can turn the page). Still, my best wishes
went with him. He was a crazy guy in an amazing country and we had
shared that wild time together in Kep/Kampot.
At the Royale Air Cambodge office I got a nasty shock. There were no
seats on any flights to Bangkok that weekend. Some Thai holiday or
something. As my connection was out of Bangkok and I HAD to be back
in Japan on Monday I was frantic. The only options were to do a
runner up Route 5 To Battambang and the Thai border through bandit
country or to go back down to Sihanoukville and jump a smugglers boat
to the Thai coast. But I had less than 72 hours. What to do? I went
back and looked at the schedule. Wait! What was this, a flight that
evening to MALAYSIA??? THE HOME OF DOBBSTOWN??? A few seats were
left so I handed over the money and got my ticket on the spot. I
would fly to Kuala Lumpur that night, make connections with the
Butterworth/Penang train for Bangkok, and at the 3 hour stop at Bugit
Makkassar I could make a quick afternoon visit to the fabled Dobbs
Ashram. I went back to the hotel, struck camp, put on my pack and my
jaunty legionnaires cap, and jumped a moto to the airport. The rest,
well... that's another story...
Shining Path of Least Resistance
SubGenius Ministries for all of Western Japan
2-14-22-18 Shimanouchi, Chuo-ku Osaka Japan 542
shinpath@gol.com
Sven A. Serrano, Setsunan University
2-14-22-18 Shimanouchi, Chuo-ku Osaka 542 Japan
tel (06)212-1830 fax (06)211-3244 shinpath@gol.com