— Chapter Seven —
The brightly lit stadium was full to capacity with people shouting, and large amounts of money changed hands .as Cambodians and Thais, jumped up and down on small tatty wooden benches in order to get a better view of their fighter. They cheered every time the man, who they had bet on, scored a punch on his opponent. Two fighters stood in the centre of a makeshift ring lined with sand, which was splattered in blood. Their hands were covered with a gauze material that blood had seeped through at the knuckles. Both their faces were swollen and bloody as they punched and kicked each other in a ferocious frenzy, with each one trying to kill or maim the other; it was brutal and the crowd loved every moment.
One fighter landed an elbow to the side of his opponent’s temple, which stunned the other fighter and allowed blow after blow to be thrown against the now defenceless man’s head, he was finished him off with a viscous roundhouse kick. The crowd went wild, some cheered some booed, and yelled at their fighter to defend himself; this was futile, the man was knocked unconscious by the kick and dropped face first to the floor. The victor raised his hand and chopped at the back of the fallen fighter’s neck, to ensure he would not get up; he then stood over the fallen fighter, and waved to the raucous crowd, who had now lost interest.
Two men, dressed in shabby jeans and T-shirts came and dragged the fallen fighter out of the ring and to the back of the stadium. He wasn’t dead and would recover and live to fight another day, he was one of the lucky ones. Two more fighters made their way into the ring and stood at the ring-side while the sand got raked over. The victor walked around the audience trying to get a tip from the crowd of people, he had put on a good show and this they were allowed to do in order to subsidise their meagre earnings. ‘Slim pickings tonight,’ he thought and, as he was favourite to win, not much money had changed hands against him, so no great winnings meant no great tip.
The victorious fighter returned to the changing area, cursing and muttering under his breath with the noise of the next fight ringing in his ears. He took a bowl of water from a large ceramic drum and poured it over his head. The changing area was outside of the basic stadium. It was just a corrugated-iron fenced area with a 60 watt light hung over it. The fighters changed and warmed up there, punching and kicking sand filled sacks hung from makeshift beams, their clothes piled up in rows. There was no theft here, usually because they had nothing worth stealing, with the exception being four nights ago, when one of the fighters had his clothes stolen .The fighter took another bowl of water and washed the dried blood from his mouth and nose. He spun around and came face to face with a man wearing jeans and a white T-shirt, his head shaven and a rucksack on his back.
“What do you want?” snapped the fighter.
“I want to find this man,” said Pon, in Cambodian, showing him the charcoal drawing of Dam. “Do you know him?”
The fighter looked at the picture and recognised a young Dam, whom he had known for several years and had fought many times. Dam always came off the victor, but as friendship amongst fighters was rare, Dam had never killed him, only knocked him unconscious on several occasions.
“Yes,” said the fighter and, not asking the reason behind Pons search enquired. “How much money will you give me?”
Pon had reached the ‘meeting point’ in Pong-Nam-Rom in the early hours of the morning, but the food stall was closed. He sat down, took the mobile phone from his bag, and switched it on. It peeped into life. He checked that it had a signal and dialled the number on the card given to him by Cenat. A sleepy sounding Taksin answered
“Hello,”
“Hello’ said Pon, “My name is Pon and I am....”
“Hello” again said Taksin, unable to hear a response.
Pon, realising Taksin couldn’t hear him tried to call again.
Fortunately one of the stall owners went over to see what the noise was and noticed the monk held the phone upside down, the stall owner took the phone from him and turned it the right way and Pon replied to the now agitated ‘hellos’ from Taksin.
Taksin explained that he had a friend in Phnom Penh who worked for the Thai consul and had seen a Thai monk in a boxing stadium a few hours previous. Taksin could not do much as it was Cambodia and didn’t know if the information was relevant. However it was something, so he gave Pon the location and details, Pon thanked him and declined Taksin’s offer of his friend’s help.
He threw the phone in his bag, and the stall owner offered him some food, he accepted and while the owner cooked, he sat at a bench and looked again at the picture of Dam.
It had been a long hard trek for Pon to reach Phnom Penh. He had walked the few kilometres and stopped at the market directly in front of the border crossing, he swapped his mobile phone for some jeans, T-shirt and a rucksack from a bemused market trader. He put his robes and other items in his rucksack, and tied his sword onto the back. He knew he could not cross the border without papers, so he walked around the back of the market to where a small stream, a tributary of the Mekong River meandered under a bridge at the border crossing. This was covered by dense foliage. He waded in and followed the shallow, brown water stream for about six kilometres until he was in Cambodia and unfamiliar ground.
Pon had decided, unlike Dam, to follow the roads to Phnom Penh and stay close to the jungle, in order to rest from the searing afternoon sun. He would travel during the early morning and nightime, when it was a little cooler, and rest in the afternoon and early evening. Although this was a longer way, it would stop him getting lost in an unfamiliar jungle, as Dam did several times on his way back to Salaburi.
Pon decided not to stay on the main roads, instead, take smaller tracks that ran parallel to the major roads and he had ran and walked, unlike Dam, who had hitched a ride.
During the hot afternoons, Pon stopped in shaded areas of jungle and outcrops of rubber plantations. He would eat the dried food that he had brought with him, and drank the liquefied King Cobra liver, mixed with oranges and mango for energy and to quench his thirst. He never slept much, his thoughts often returning to Salaburi, his brothers, his masters, and Dam.
On the third afternoon, he removed a gold nugget from his bag. It was a half-finished image of a large winged serpent. He removed a small bundle of craftsmen tools, removed the tool he needed and carried on skilfully carving, his mind now empty of past events as he concentrated on his work.
Pon had no money, as Salaburi residence had no need for money because they grew or killed everything they needed. There were many freshwater streams for drinking, washing and fishing and, as a community they shared everything. The monks and villagers loved to whittle and carve intricate statues from the minerals they found around the village and in the many caves and potholes in the mountains nearby. They sometimes spent years on these small carvings, they were in no rush and not unusual to see five or six monks sat in a circle talking and whittling at the same time. Pon had decided to bring some of his ‘ornaments’ with him, thinking that maybe he could use these for trading. After seeing the reaction of the soldier on his mobile phone trade thought they may be worth something. He had brought along; a finished golden nugget, two red stone, one blue stone ornaments, and his unfinished gold nugget, which he now worked on. It would give him something to do and occupy his mind.
Pon had arrived at the stadium after travelling for four days. He knew Dam had a good lead. He hoped that Dam was the monk Taksin’s friend had seen, and would still be about somewhere in the area and hoped someone would know him. It was all he had to go on.
He had watched a fight finish and followed the victor to the changing area. He was elated, when the fighter said he knew Dam.
Pon took out his ornaments from his rucksack,
“I don’t have any money,” he explained, “but I have these, and you can have them if you can tell me anything.”
The fighter took the objects in his gauze-covered blood stained hands and stared at them. He noticed the two gold nuggets, one transformed into a statue of Buddha the other and slightly larger one, unfinished. He handed them back to Pon, but kept the four inch gold unfinished nugget and said.
“His name is Dam and he lives with a man named Andrew Towhee and a Spaniard.”
He then went on to tell Pon where they stayed, and directions of Caw Kong and the house. The fighter finished the conversation with a warning for Dam.
“Be careful of Towhee, he is a bad man, very dangerous.”
Pon thanked the fighter and left the stadium, leaving the fighter examining his newfound wealth.
Pon got onto the road that the fighter had explained would take him to Caw Kong and Towhees house, he knew he would find Dam, and hoped that he still had the relic. He wanted to kill this man to avenge his brothers, to satisfy his own demons that had been burning and eating into his very being for the past week. He wanted this man to pay for the atrocity that ruined his life and he intended to kill him, and anyone else who stood in his way. He’d planned for Dam to die that night. Pon sprinted along the unlit, potholed roads for 12 kilometres.
*Thais are all given ID cards, these stay with them throughout their lives. On these cards are names, date of birth etc. They are used in everyday life for many things, opening bank accounts, renting apartments etc. and crossing borders into Cambodia or Burma They are carried at all times, and the Thai people are fined quite heavily, or imprisoned if caught without them.
There are some small villages in Thailand cut off from society, therefore don’t have any need or use for ID cards, Salaburi being one.
Many Thai people cross over into Cambodia, to the East of Thailand or to Burma in the west, mainly for gambling, as gambling in Thailand is illegal. Cambodia and Burma have capitalised on this exodus, and many Casinos have sprung up close to main border crossings these are very smartly built, run mainly by corrupt high-ranking police and organised crime syndicates with American or European investors. Beggars as young as five years old walk around outside these casino’s in the scorching heat in their droves, they hold up umbrellas, and follow incomers, shading them in order to get one or two Bahts. Some of the children even carry babies in shabby slings. These new-borns are usually brother or sister, given by the parents for extra sympathy in their attempt to look the neediest.
Poi pet on the Cambodian side and Aranyaprathet on the Thailand side are the main crossings, and the most visited border crossing, which leads into the eastern heart of Thailand.