This post tells the story of my brief experience of the chicken farm in Cambodia. This, of course, isn’t the agricultural kind. But a slang name for a gushing supply of young women.
Unfortunately, neither of the above are much of a reflection of the Cambodia chicken farm.
I’d been relaxing all night trawling the bars all night and made one final stop on 136 street for a game of pool. With my friend having left an hour ago, I was in the company of a hoochy in a see through dress that showed off her slender body and black knickers.
She’d been twerking next to the pool table all night to catch blokes’ attention. And now at 4am she was trying to persuade me to take her back to my hotel. ‘I suck you so good,’ she said seductively with a lip of her lips. It was tempting, and I was considering a three way with her and a ladyboy friend, which for all intents and purposes would have been a first and something of a laugh, when my earlier departed pal rang me.
‘Mate, I’ve found it, I’ve found the rotter,’ he said in a frantic cockney rasp. ‘It’s called the chicken farm.’
A tuk tuk driver had enlightened my friend to this so-called chicken farm, a supposed endless well of young freshies that only the locals frequented.
‘Best of all, they’re cheaper than the bars,’ he added enthusiastically. ‘I’m not going on my own, you can come with me.’
Well, with an off like that, how could I refuse. Naturally I was sceptical, and knew to take with a shovel full of salt any directions from local cabbies.
Never the less, I figured it would get me away from my temptation to experiment with the bar girl and her pal. So I took up his offer.
I’m not sure what I was expecting, but the metaphor of a chicken farm at least conjures up the image of a room with a dozen or so sweaty, scruffy slatterns all squashed inside.
Oh, if that had only been the case. After five minutes of riding the tuk tuk away from the river front, the driver pulled up on a secluded Phnom Penh city street.
At 4am it was deserted. A few cars parked. Rubbish lining the pavements.
‘Where’s the chicken farm the?,’ asked my mate. ‘Wait, wait, it’s coming,’ replied the tuk tuk driver.
Well, this was going to be interesting.
A minute later a motorcycle pulled up behind the tuk tuk. Riding pillion were two young girls.
The tuk tuk dragged them both over to me and mongerer. ‘Here, here is chicken,’ he beamed.
Stood before us were two averagely attractive young girls. One was tall, with a greta, womanly body. The other was petite, thin and clearly didn’t want to be there.
The driver explained that they were Vietnamese. Why do they speak Khmer? ‘Oh, they from the border.’
He said they had been in Phnom Penh for one day. ‘They’re fresh and clean. Not like girls from bars.’ Ok….
And why does the small girl keep shaking her head and saying no when she sees us? ‘She’s shy, she’ll be good in room’.
He then yelled at the small, reluctant girl, who responded by turning her head in disgust.
My friend attempted to make conversation with her. She turned away and spat on the ground.
This rebuttal meant we focused our attention on the other, more developed girl. Her skin was pale, hair dark, eyes bright – and to e fair, she looked very clean and fresh.
She spoke good English, but was keen to speak little enough so that the driver didn’t realise.
‘Do you deepthroat?’ I asked. Well, there’s no point being shy, and motioned with a hand to my mouth.
Her smile droped now, and she turned away making a mock wretching motion. Cute, I thought, she’ll need teaching.
Despite all this I wouldn’t have minded a go on Vietnamese / Khmer chicken.
But the real deal was the asking price. Forty dollars – the same rate as an experienced and willing wench from a bar. And it was clear that the tuk tuk driver, motorcycle driver who delivered them, and who knows who else were going to be getting cuts of this.
So we made our excuses, got out and left. The tuk tuk driver followed us as we walked and insisted we go to chicken farm two, to see more. I had no intention of buying any chickens, not from this guy at least, but we jumped in and he drove us to a large cream coloured apartment block that looked more like a hopsital.
He told us to wait while he went inside. A quick check on Google Maps releaved we were within about 500 metres of the river front. Great, I thought.
At that point, me and my disappointed pal, both knew what to do – we scampered out of the tuk tuk and legged it. Me in flip flops and him, beer belly, stubby legs and worse for wear through drink, running like two mad barangs down a deserted Khmer street.
We never did see that touting tuk tuk driver again. Maybe he forgot about his two guests and plucked a chicken himself. Maybe he came back out and flew int a fit of rage after seeing we’d fled without paying him a penny and spent the rest of his night looking for us.
But at least he’ll have a story to tell.
I’ve now discovered that the Cambodia Chicken Farm is in fact located in Sihanoukville. Their may be a chicken farm in Phnom Penh, but as yet I haven’t found it – perhaps the roundabout after dark is the closest there is.
Looks like Sihanoukville is the next stop for my adventure into chicken farming…