Angkor Away

By Steven W. Palmer

Graphic designer Paul has a history. Having organized events on the London rave scene and supplied recreational drugs across the capital, he turns his back on his past life and leaves the UK to travel the world, picking up the odd bit of legal and illegal work on the way.

After meeting gifted Thai chemists, Paul sets up a lab in Northern Thailand, producing high-quality LSD. But there are others on the same turf who don't appreciate the competition. When his new business comes to the attention of a local crime lord, Paul has to take drastic measures to survive.

It doesn't take long for Paul to be pulled back into the world of drug trafficking, as he gets involved with the biggest cartel in the region. When things turn sour, a frantic hunt across South East Asia follows. But when Paul and his pursuers finally confront each other, the answers are not at all what he had expected.

This book contains adult content and is not recommended for readers under the age of 18.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Next Chapter
• Release date: Feb 18, 2022
• ISBN: 4824116503

Book preview

Prologue

Ask anyone to name their ideal activity in their ideal romantic city and the usual answers will come up: a gondola trip in Venice, strolling along the banks of the Seine in Paris, throwing coins in a Roman fountain, or dancing the flamenco in Seville.

But I doubt very much that anyone is going to put Phnom Penh high on their list. To many it’s an ugly, odorous, and at times brutal city. Arriving at the airport and taking transport into the city proper, your first impressions are of chaotic, almost psychotic traffic, a litter disposal scheme that seems to consist of just dumping everything by the roadside, and smells that veer from the wondrous olfactory waves of cooking street food to the nefarious stench of the overworked sewers. Then there’s the noise, sheer cacophonic noise that assails your already assaulted senses from every side with the sound of motors, moto horns, the harking cries of vendors, and the never-ending buzz of a fast growing city. Yet much as people say that if you scratch the surface of those ‘pretty’ cities you will find a dark underbelly, so the opposite can hold true with Phnom Penh. Scratch that ugly exterior, peek beneath the sometimes-horrific architecture and the cocktail of often unpleasant smells and sights, and you can find a thing of surprising beauty, an at times tender romanticism that casual visitors to the city might blink and miss. There are two sides to every coin they say, and that couldn’t be truer than here. Spend some time wandering the riverside on Sisowath Quay and you will see both sides of that coin. The ugly is the glue and solvent sniffers, some of them as young as 8, their lives already dissolving away in front of them in the same way as their nasal cavities are under the steady assault of the fumes of death. Or the sad faces of the child beggars often exploited by adults and denied an education. But scratch that ugliness away and start seeing the beauty of this city. My favourite time of day on the riverside is dusk, that’s when, for me, the Penh’s romantic side comes out to play. From the aerobic hordes strutting their stuff, the young lovers gazing at the Tonle Sap, the entire families picnicking on street food, to the groups of friends playing shuttlecock, there’s a magic in the air that, in my often world-weary opinion, rivals anywhere else I have visited. You never get the full effect from the strip of tourist bars and restaurants on the other side of the road, so I like to find a vacant bench, smoke a casual cigarette or three, and enjoy my voyeuristic moments.

But today? Not so romantic …

Chapter 1

It was a Tuesday, mid-August, and the downpours of earlier had given way to a sweltering and cloying heat that forced its way into every pore of your being even when indoors and close to a fan. The steam rising from the pavements and roads produced an almost otherworldly aspect to the cityscape, and I couldn’t wait to get back to my villa in Toul Kork and the relief of a long cold shower and an even colder beer. But business came first. I was waiting to meet Chamreun, a former air force colonel who was my main contact in Cambodia’s drug supply chain. And I don’t mean those shitty $15 bags of weed that the tuk-tuk drivers sell to dreadlocked rich boys and girls travelling the world on trust funds and mummy’s debit card. Oh no, this was primo quality weed: seeds imported from America and Amsterdam and retrained farmers in the provinces lovingly growing and tending the new crops that had seen their average monthly wage triple. But the big earners were the elite landowners and former forces personnel who had realised the potential of this new cash crop. From Koh Kong to Battambang, from Kampot to Kompong Som, acres of hidden fields were introducing Mary Jane to the Cambodian landscape. Not to mention the other pies we had our fingers in. Toyota Camrys were becoming Range Rovers and Lexuses. Two-bedroom apartments were becoming four-bedroom villas. Everyone involved, from their own comparative positions, was getting rich, and I was helping them do it.

I had first come to Cambodia many years before on a side trip from Thailand. It was the mid-90s then and the country was still recovering from decades of turmoil and civil war.

At that point, the only barangs making a buck were the NGOs and the UN workers, half of them preying on the very children they were supposed to be helping, and the other half lost in a haze of opium or alcohol.

Other than the wonders of the Angkor temples, I hadn’t been impressed much. There seemed to be a lack of vitality in the people I met, hardly surprising given the events of the preceding years. I didn’t return for ten years, and the difference was startling. Cambodia had got its smile back, and this second viewing had made me fall in love with the place. I spent a fantastic six weeks in 2005 wandering the streets of Phnom Penh, the riverside at Kampot, and the beaches and dusty roads of Sihanoukville. From that point on I visited at least twice a year. I loved the Khmer people and the changes you could see happening, despite the chaotic past, the corruption and the poverty.

Jump forward now to mid-2013. At this point I was based in Chiang Mai. I had nurtured a relationship with two of the brightest chemistry students Thailand had produced in a decade and between my funding and their laboratory know-how, we were churning out 20,000 hits of high-quality LSD every week. But one of them turned into what is known in the business as a ‘stupid bastard’. Took his burgeoning profits and started flashing them about: flash cars, flash clothes, and flash women.

And it wasn’t long before this attracted the attention of the local mafia which meant of course that the upper, and corrupted, echelons of Thailand’s armed forces were involved. I received a visit one evening from a rather jovial army colonel sent on behalf of his superior. My choice was simple. So simple that there was no choice.

They were taking over my business, my lab, and my two bright chemists. If I provided them with all my contacts and transportation knowhow, they would both let me live and, rather generously, pay me a stipend of $5,000 per month. It really was an offer I couldn’t refuse, especially the living part.

But they also knew that without a chain to market, their product only had limited appeal in Thailand. And every contact I had were old and trusted friends and one word from me would see them shut off the chain. So, the $5,000 was a small price to pay given the profits they would be raking in. There’s only so much acid you can sell on Khao San Road or one of the islands. The real profits lay in the west and the quality we were producing was taking $10-20 at street level. So, I shook his hand, shared a few Johnny Walkers, and packed my bags. Despite the seeming friendliness in the deal, I knew I wasn’t welcome in Chiang Mai anymore.

I wasn’t sure where I wanted to settle next, or even if I wanted to stay in business. My bank accounts were healthy and a chunk of my profits from the last few years was invested in several projects and portfolios scattered around the globe that gave me a pretty pleasant annual return. But a friend from back in London had recently bought a bar in Sihanoukville, on Cambodia’s southern coast, and he invited me down to chill out for a few weeks, so I had some time to consider my options. I packed up my trusty Mitsubishi Pajero with all my worldly goods, and in particular my collection of prized Thai Khon masks, and headed off on a road trip across Thailand and into the Kingdom of Wonder.

Chapter 2

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 sex. 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 sex. 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.