Other Otres

Otres, pronounced "O-treh", is not what it used to be.

Two years ago, at a backpacker's near Waitangi, New Zealand, I happened to be in the company of travellers who had recently been there and exclaimed how lovely it was. So after crossing into Cambodia I got back in-touch with Tash, who was adamant I should visit the small understated town for a thoroughly chilled moment by the beach as she had experienced only 2 years back. So I thought I'd give it a go.

It was a pretty hairy drive to Otres, lots of trucks and close calls, and that didn't seem right. Why would such a small place have so much traffic coming through it ?

I'd arrived in what seemed like a giant construction site, so I consulted my map to see where I was, but to my shock and horror, I'd arrived !

I negotiated broken dirt and concrete roads, with rebar poking out at my tires, weaving through giant construction zones all the way to the beach side. There was even a construction behind my beach hut. Worse still, walking along the beach, I'd become used to seeing rubbish washing up, but the construction was moving onto the sand too! Guys were literally erecting steel frames as I walked by.

The constant drone of construction was only broken by the occasional blast from a portable speaker blaring out Cambodian brega music, or perhaps an overly eager beach bistro DJ touching a few classics in the hope of coaxing in a passing tripster.

Commerce had wiped out any sense of tranquillity this place might have had. 10 storey high blocks from the beach all the way back to the main road, courtesy of a Chinese development plan that started only 18 months ago, has completely transformed this once peaceful getaway to just another nondescript hole.

Also in NZ, from a Brit I'd met, who had lived and worked in China for 5 years, I learned of how the Chinese throw up entire towns and cities, complete before anyone has moved in and subsequently upheaving people from one place and thrusting them into the new town at the snap of their government's mighty fingers.

I communicated my observations of Otres to Tash, who was justly saddened to hear a beautiful memory destroyed.

But at least I met Alizé, a French/Cambodian tattoo artist who was sitting with her tablet industriously generating new tattoo designs.

I took a moment to make a drawing of Alizé, which helped to bring some calm to the situation.

So perhaps there was a silver lining in this cloud they call Otres.