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Mekong Delta, Vietnam. The labyrinthine arms of the mighty Mekong snake and course across a palm fringed landscape, creating the extensive network of small islands, fishing villages, cobbled bridges and ferries that constitute life on the river. My mental image of the Mekong Delta has been always been a bit fanciful, mostly comprised of scenes from random movies that are occasionally pierced by a Martin Sheen voice-over. So I was a bit discouraged when at first blush the Mekong Delta was so disappointing.
I am not sure if it was the massive shipping containers, the heavy industry dotting the shoreline or the profusion of irritable motorboats that first got my goat, but I am quite certain that watching people spill barrels of refuse directly into the river contributed to the foul taste in my mouth--well, that and the ashtray I mistook for my coffee mug during breakfast. I really have to stop getting up so early.
Something had to change. With my brother's trusty compass in hand, I oriented myself in the direction I desired to go, and went straight off the map. The good news is that the father I moved off the beaten trail, the more my mental image of the Mekong converged with reality. It turns out the Mekong was right there all along, and it has been wisely hidden from the greedy eyes of tourists and tour buses.
Trekky and I took to the back roads, the dirt and dust of uneven hard-pack filling our nostrils. With an eye out for Charlie (though everyone is named Nguyen) we pedaled through rural villages, past frustratingly green rice paddies, over wooden bridges, and straight into the heart of darkness--which, as it turns out, is quite sublime.
What experiences I had! No less than three people pulled up beside me and invited me to stop for a cup of coffee, a local black brew laced with sugar then dumped over ice. I chartered a wonderful trip on a skiff, wandering through narrow canals and backwater burgs to floating markets on the main arteries. In the town of Can Tho I watched a hundred kites take to the sky just before sunset--men, women, and children alike jockeying for position along a long riverfront roost.
But I am not one to just watch the action sail by. Which is why in Tra Vinh, when I spotted several youths hurtling themselves off a bridge into the river, I was easily enticed to join in. The assembled crowd cheered heartily as I stripped to my skivvies, stood precariously on the rail, and plunged without a moments hesitation. What fun. For an encore I raced a few teens across the river in a swim match, likely swallowed a few drops of river water that will burst from my stomach as a writhing alien three months hence, and jumped three more times into the fetid waters below. Not surprisingly, in all the excitement and hullabaloo none of my newfound friends remember to tell me that our actions--that of plunging off a narrow bridge thirty feet down into a busy shipping lane--were decidedly illegal. But I figured it out real quick when a quick shout of P'leet! Ph'leash! sent everyone scattering like cockroaches.
The two motorcycle cops thankfully ignored me as they chased away my pals, and I couldn't help but laugh as I buttoned up my shirt, still soaking wet, and pedaled off into the sunset towards my guesthouse. There was no doubt about it, I had fallen in love with the Mekong Delta.
March 20, 2010
March 15, 2010
They So Horny
Mekong Delta, Vietnam. There is no doubt about it, the Vietnamese are an incredibly horny bunch. I never thought I would say this, but enough is enough. I can certainly understand being horny from time to time. I'm human. We all get worked up every now and again. But when a man is simply standing on the side of the road, minding his own business, and suddenly--Blaaaaaaaaaatttttttt!!!!
Generally speaking I keep to the shoulder when riding if it's a major road. It's the safest place to be, but--honnnnnnkkkkkkkkk!!!! Seriously? There has to be twenty feet between us and no one is coming the other way. So, like I was saying, there comes a time when--blahalbhalhattt!!!! Dear Christ, Buddha, Vishnu and Zeus! Some of the vehicles out here have special horns, like getting a custom ring for your cell phone.
In Vietnam the horn is not a warning device so much as an announcement that you are the owner of vehicle. As such, it is of the utmost importance that you let everyone in the world know when you are driving one. It does not matter if everyone can clearly see and hear your vehicle coming. It does not matter if there are three lanes and two of them are empty. You must get horny on everyone's ass. Honk when you see children, honk at curves in the road, honk going over bridges, honk at people having coffee at cafes near the side of the side of the road, and definitely, if you at all value your license--what do you mean they don't have licenses in Vietnam?--honk at every last strand of rice you see growing in the fields. It helps them grow, like playing Vivaldi to your rose bushes.
Admittedly, traffic in these small towns is almost perverse in its intensity, so warning people of certain approach trajectories has some validity. It's still safer than walking around here. It is oddly preferable to be cycling down the street in this morass than crossing it on foot. In fact the only way to cross the streets out here is to summon enough courage to literally step into oncoming traffic, then quickly judge the momentary gaps in the onslaught of mopeds. The slightest crack between them can mean another step forward. I often find myself standing right in the middle of the lane, mopeds zipping past me on both sides, waiting until another gap opens up. It's kind of fun, actually. A bit like a real-life game of Frogger, only as far as I understand it, you only have one life. Here's to all you children of the 80s:
Froggy takes one step at a time, the way that he moves has no reason or rhyme. There's snakes and insects, otters and things, sometimes I wish froggy had wings. Go.........Go Froggy Go.
Pluck that Magic Twanger, Froggy
Generally speaking I keep to the shoulder when riding if it's a major road. It's the safest place to be, but--honnnnnnkkkkkkkkk!!!! Seriously? There has to be twenty feet between us and no one is coming the other way. So, like I was saying, there comes a time when--blahalbhalhattt!!!! Dear Christ, Buddha, Vishnu and Zeus! Some of the vehicles out here have special horns, like getting a custom ring for your cell phone.
In Vietnam the horn is not a warning device so much as an announcement that you are the owner of vehicle. As such, it is of the utmost importance that you let everyone in the world know when you are driving one. It does not matter if everyone can clearly see and hear your vehicle coming. It does not matter if there are three lanes and two of them are empty. You must get horny on everyone's ass. Honk when you see children, honk at curves in the road, honk going over bridges, honk at people having coffee at cafes near the side of the side of the road, and definitely, if you at all value your license--what do you mean they don't have licenses in Vietnam?--honk at every last strand of rice you see growing in the fields. It helps them grow, like playing Vivaldi to your rose bushes.
Admittedly, traffic in these small towns is almost perverse in its intensity, so warning people of certain approach trajectories has some validity. It's still safer than walking around here. It is oddly preferable to be cycling down the street in this morass than crossing it on foot. In fact the only way to cross the streets out here is to summon enough courage to literally step into oncoming traffic, then quickly judge the momentary gaps in the onslaught of mopeds. The slightest crack between them can mean another step forward. I often find myself standing right in the middle of the lane, mopeds zipping past me on both sides, waiting until another gap opens up. It's kind of fun, actually. A bit like a real-life game of Frogger, only as far as I understand it, you only have one life. Here's to all you children of the 80s:
Froggy takes one step at a time, the way that he moves has no reason or rhyme. There's snakes and insects, otters and things, sometimes I wish froggy had wings. Go.........Go Froggy Go.
Pluck that Magic Twanger, Froggy
March 13, 2010
The Island of Expat Moreau
Rabbit Island, Cambodia. I may have mentioned in a previous post that some expats have a peculiar way of detaching themselves from their country of origin. Some adopt local custom and dress, others crack wise at the expense of their own countrymen, many spend their lives at the bar, wistfully plowing their way through luke-warm local draft, drunkenly reminiscing about the time they met Jack Dempsey, or at least they think it was Jack Dempsey (they were drunk). Stretching the bounds of reality lies a lessor known breed of expat, as rare and evasive as an objective Fox News report--the Island Castaway Expat.
A few miles off the Cambodian coast lies a tropical stretch of sand and swaying palms known as Koh Tonsay. Rabbit Island, as us white folks call it, is not named not for its indigenous wildlife, but rather for its shape, which, when viewed overhead, looks exactly like someone stuffed a rabbit into a tortoise shell and then smashed it with a mallet. Cambodian's have an imagination rivaled only by the Greeks. Sagittarius "The Archer", my ass. Good luck connecting those dots.
When people yearn for a real-life tropical escape, this is it. Completely uninhabited, save a small population of local fisherman, Rabbit Island consists of a 2km sandy white beach, warm turquoise waters, and perhaps four dozen rustic bamboo bungalows. That's it. No dock, no cruise ships, no tourist buses, no travelers, no showers. Nothing but hammocks, coconuts, and the shopping bags full of alcohol we brought. "We" being the group of blokes I met back at Bodhi Villa in our last installment.
This was paradise, if one keeps in perspective that the biblical description of Eden makes no mention of flushable toilets. Upon our arrival we hopped off the boat into the knee-deep waters and trundled up the shore to our new home. The bungalows were completely homogenous, save one, a peculiar outpost that at first glance looked like a small shop. In place of the beige bamboo, there was colorful splash of red and blue. Instead of the customary knitted hammock, there was a mattress swinging between two trees. In lieue of a front wall, there was an array of buffed and painted seashells suspended between a few cross beams. And instead of a young traveler, there was Peter, a sixty-something, chrome domed, bespectacled Brit with a small chest and a large gut, playing a flute recorder next to his friend Yvan, a thin, wiry Slovakian with a shock of wild grey hair, who was busy rolling a joint the size of a Cuban cigar.
A half dozen coconut husks, painted silver and gold, dangled from a horizontal pole in front of the mysterious bungalow. After settling in I went and had a chat with our new neighbor. Peter explained that after toiling away in England's public works for the better part of a century he wanted to spend his retirement "away from the riff-raff". He hired a local women to cook in his little hut, then went about decorating the place. He had been there for six months, and lamented that he needed to fly back to England "for my grandkid's birthday or something. You know, family and things like that". Yvan, his friend, was "ex-KGB, aren't you Yvan? Ha! HA!". Every now and again Peter would abrubtly stand up, race down his coconut line, and spin each husk wildly, the small planets hurling off their insectezoid denizens in every direction. At night, when combined with the flashing lights he had installed both in his open-front bungalow and in the trees behind it, he had the islands sole tropical disco. With his big gut and perfectly bald head, he was Marlon Brando, larger than life.
As for me, I splashed in the bathtub temperature waters, circumnavigated the island on foot, drank too much liquor, played a few card games and lounged in a hammock for the better part of two days. A guy could get used to a life like this. But there was still so much more to see. Vietnam beckoned on the horizon. The Mekong Delta was calling. I'm just about ready to answer.
A few miles off the Cambodian coast lies a tropical stretch of sand and swaying palms known as Koh Tonsay. Rabbit Island, as us white folks call it, is not named not for its indigenous wildlife, but rather for its shape, which, when viewed overhead, looks exactly like someone stuffed a rabbit into a tortoise shell and then smashed it with a mallet. Cambodian's have an imagination rivaled only by the Greeks. Sagittarius "The Archer", my ass. Good luck connecting those dots.
When people yearn for a real-life tropical escape, this is it. Completely uninhabited, save a small population of local fisherman, Rabbit Island consists of a 2km sandy white beach, warm turquoise waters, and perhaps four dozen rustic bamboo bungalows. That's it. No dock, no cruise ships, no tourist buses, no travelers, no showers. Nothing but hammocks, coconuts, and the shopping bags full of alcohol we brought. "We" being the group of blokes I met back at Bodhi Villa in our last installment.
This was paradise, if one keeps in perspective that the biblical description of Eden makes no mention of flushable toilets. Upon our arrival we hopped off the boat into the knee-deep waters and trundled up the shore to our new home. The bungalows were completely homogenous, save one, a peculiar outpost that at first glance looked like a small shop. In place of the beige bamboo, there was colorful splash of red and blue. Instead of the customary knitted hammock, there was a mattress swinging between two trees. In lieue of a front wall, there was an array of buffed and painted seashells suspended between a few cross beams. And instead of a young traveler, there was Peter, a sixty-something, chrome domed, bespectacled Brit with a small chest and a large gut, playing a flute recorder next to his friend Yvan, a thin, wiry Slovakian with a shock of wild grey hair, who was busy rolling a joint the size of a Cuban cigar.
A half dozen coconut husks, painted silver and gold, dangled from a horizontal pole in front of the mysterious bungalow. After settling in I went and had a chat with our new neighbor. Peter explained that after toiling away in England's public works for the better part of a century he wanted to spend his retirement "away from the riff-raff". He hired a local women to cook in his little hut, then went about decorating the place. He had been there for six months, and lamented that he needed to fly back to England "for my grandkid's birthday or something. You know, family and things like that". Yvan, his friend, was "ex-KGB, aren't you Yvan? Ha! HA!". Every now and again Peter would abrubtly stand up, race down his coconut line, and spin each husk wildly, the small planets hurling off their insectezoid denizens in every direction. At night, when combined with the flashing lights he had installed both in his open-front bungalow and in the trees behind it, he had the islands sole tropical disco. With his big gut and perfectly bald head, he was Marlon Brando, larger than life.
As for me, I splashed in the bathtub temperature waters, circumnavigated the island on foot, drank too much liquor, played a few card games and lounged in a hammock for the better part of two days. A guy could get used to a life like this. But there was still so much more to see. Vietnam beckoned on the horizon. The Mekong Delta was calling. I'm just about ready to answer.
March 11, 2010
Children of the Random Contraption
Kampot, Cambodia. There was still nothing to do in Kampot, so I switched to a new guesthouse to spice things up. I'm glad I did. The prior evening I had met an interesting (i.e. few sandwiches short of a picnic), expat who claimed he would be harmonizing at Bodhi Villa the next night, along with a few other local musicians. As an expat, he immediately lay claim to intellectual superiority through such supposedly biting comments as "Hah, you are such an American" and "Here in Cambodia..." refrains. How droll.
He continued to get to know me by condescendingly injecting purportedly "important" book titles into the conversation, starting with Guns, Germs, and Steel. Imagine his surprise when I asked if he had read Jared Diamond's follow up, Collapse. All of a sudden I was interesting. We spent the next hour talking about Howard Zinn, Naomi Klein and Noam Chomsky, all of which made him no less of a douchebag. Though I have to admit, he was certainly a well-read douchebag. Still, this did not dissuade me from moving to Bodhi Villa come morning.
I wished I had found Bodhi Villa earlier. Located 2km out of town, it was in another universe. Set in a lush garden abutting the river, several open front bungalows sat just behind the main reception area (i.e. fully-stocked bar) which opened up to a beautiful veradana and dock. For an extra touch of excitement they had constructed a 15 ft high diving platform which consisted of two x-beams supporting a long, wobbly wooden board that extended twenty feet over the river. If you managed not to lose your balance while trundling to the edge, you could throw yourself headlong into the river with wild abandon, like a salmon.
I met a ton of people at the party that night. My expat "friend" turned out to be a violin player, of all things. He was joined by two acoustic guitarists and another expat with an accordian. I immediately began to suspect that they were intentionally deported. As it turned out, the music was quite good and I met a few English blokes, a trio of Irishman, and a few Americans, all of whom, amazingly, despite their various cultures, professions and unintelligible accents, enjoy drinking heavily. I know, I was shocked too.
I enjoyed the company of my new mates, so I asked if they might consider a minor adventure the following afternoon. Despite the hooks of a late day hangover I managed to convine a handful of them to join me in a 6km ride to some caves located on the edge of town. Having misunderestimated the amount of time it would take to wrangle such a group, we didn't leave the parking lot until around 4:30pm. The sun sets fairly promptly around six so I didn't think it was going to be a problem.
The timing of the ride was perfect. School was just letting out. We were soon surround my dozens of giggling children, all shouting a cacophonous Hello! in a non-stop chorus. They chatted with us, they slowed and took pictures, and at one point I raced a kid who had another kid sitting on his bike rack. I would like to say that I let him win, so I will just say, "I let him win".
A small brigade of children led us right to the entrance of the cave, located in the center of a small village along a dusty, pot-holed dirt road. The brigade soon became an army led by a general, as an older gentlemen took the reigns and led us inside. We entered an absolutely stunning antichamber, where sheer rock faces climbed 100 ft overhead and opened partially to the sky, save a massive boulder that had collapsed across the opening. It was brilliant, so we headed father in.
Flashlights were lit all around us and the children became fireflies in the dark. Mind your head! Mind your head! they repeated ad naseum. They pointed the lights at the floor behind them, so we, the tourists, could find our way. These kids, barefoot, and most no older than ten, were as sure-footed as mountain goats in the dim passageways. I love caves, so I soon found myself scrambling where my new mates dared not follow. My guideling, however, was right there by my side. I scrunched, squatted, crawled and wedged myself in a nice crevasse that opened up into the main chamber, my head dangling out of a hole 30 ft up the wall, an unmounted hunting trophy.
We spent another 40 minutes racing around the cave before indicating we needed to get going before the sun set. Instead of leading us back out, they led deeper into the cave until we hit a dead end. A large shaft of light cracked through the ceiling about 60 ft off the deck. There was only one way out--up. The kids started the train. Mind your head! Mind your head! they continued as they pointed out each and every handhold, assisted to by nicely placed vine that crawled up the wall towards the light, towards air. It was exhilirating. We finished our jaunt back down to the bikes, crossing a ridge that looked down over the entire village as the sun was setting. It was a stunning sight.
The sun was nearly snuffed so we thanked our army of guides, passed them a few dollars each, then sped off towards home. We were filthy, exhausted and happy. As we pedaled back, discussing our good fortune, we spied three children dangling from a large, intricate see-saw style metal contraption that rose twenty feet in the air. Helllloooo!!!! they all chanted in unison. I cannot yet say what prompted my oddly phrased response: "Hello, my Children of the Random Contraption!". We all had a good laugh, and as we continued to pedal, I promised I would make that the title of my next blog. I am a man of my word.
He continued to get to know me by condescendingly injecting purportedly "important" book titles into the conversation, starting with Guns, Germs, and Steel. Imagine his surprise when I asked if he had read Jared Diamond's follow up, Collapse. All of a sudden I was interesting. We spent the next hour talking about Howard Zinn, Naomi Klein and Noam Chomsky, all of which made him no less of a douchebag. Though I have to admit, he was certainly a well-read douchebag. Still, this did not dissuade me from moving to Bodhi Villa come morning.
I wished I had found Bodhi Villa earlier. Located 2km out of town, it was in another universe. Set in a lush garden abutting the river, several open front bungalows sat just behind the main reception area (i.e. fully-stocked bar) which opened up to a beautiful veradana and dock. For an extra touch of excitement they had constructed a 15 ft high diving platform which consisted of two x-beams supporting a long, wobbly wooden board that extended twenty feet over the river. If you managed not to lose your balance while trundling to the edge, you could throw yourself headlong into the river with wild abandon, like a salmon.
I met a ton of people at the party that night. My expat "friend" turned out to be a violin player, of all things. He was joined by two acoustic guitarists and another expat with an accordian. I immediately began to suspect that they were intentionally deported. As it turned out, the music was quite good and I met a few English blokes, a trio of Irishman, and a few Americans, all of whom, amazingly, despite their various cultures, professions and unintelligible accents, enjoy drinking heavily. I know, I was shocked too.
I enjoyed the company of my new mates, so I asked if they might consider a minor adventure the following afternoon. Despite the hooks of a late day hangover I managed to convine a handful of them to join me in a 6km ride to some caves located on the edge of town. Having misunderestimated the amount of time it would take to wrangle such a group, we didn't leave the parking lot until around 4:30pm. The sun sets fairly promptly around six so I didn't think it was going to be a problem.
The timing of the ride was perfect. School was just letting out. We were soon surround my dozens of giggling children, all shouting a cacophonous Hello! in a non-stop chorus. They chatted with us, they slowed and took pictures, and at one point I raced a kid who had another kid sitting on his bike rack. I would like to say that I let him win, so I will just say, "I let him win".
A small brigade of children led us right to the entrance of the cave, located in the center of a small village along a dusty, pot-holed dirt road. The brigade soon became an army led by a general, as an older gentlemen took the reigns and led us inside. We entered an absolutely stunning antichamber, where sheer rock faces climbed 100 ft overhead and opened partially to the sky, save a massive boulder that had collapsed across the opening. It was brilliant, so we headed father in.
Flashlights were lit all around us and the children became fireflies in the dark. Mind your head! Mind your head! they repeated ad naseum. They pointed the lights at the floor behind them, so we, the tourists, could find our way. These kids, barefoot, and most no older than ten, were as sure-footed as mountain goats in the dim passageways. I love caves, so I soon found myself scrambling where my new mates dared not follow. My guideling, however, was right there by my side. I scrunched, squatted, crawled and wedged myself in a nice crevasse that opened up into the main chamber, my head dangling out of a hole 30 ft up the wall, an unmounted hunting trophy.
We spent another 40 minutes racing around the cave before indicating we needed to get going before the sun set. Instead of leading us back out, they led deeper into the cave until we hit a dead end. A large shaft of light cracked through the ceiling about 60 ft off the deck. There was only one way out--up. The kids started the train. Mind your head! Mind your head! they continued as they pointed out each and every handhold, assisted to by nicely placed vine that crawled up the wall towards the light, towards air. It was exhilirating. We finished our jaunt back down to the bikes, crossing a ridge that looked down over the entire village as the sun was setting. It was a stunning sight.
The sun was nearly snuffed so we thanked our army of guides, passed them a few dollars each, then sped off towards home. We were filthy, exhausted and happy. As we pedaled back, discussing our good fortune, we spied three children dangling from a large, intricate see-saw style metal contraption that rose twenty feet in the air. Helllloooo!!!! they all chanted in unison. I cannot yet say what prompted my oddly phrased response: "Hello, my Children of the Random Contraption!". We all had a good laugh, and as we continued to pedal, I promised I would make that the title of my next blog. I am a man of my word.
March 10, 2010
The House on Bokor Hill
Kampot, Cambodia. The riverside town of Kampot is nothing to write home about. Decrepit French colonial homes rust and crumble along the crowded lanes, several parts of town are under heavy construction, and the main tourist attraction is a river bridge that is unnervingly composed of several various bridge segments from around Cambodia. Imagine, if you would, a man who decides to defend his doctoral dissertation in civil engineering by arguing that the ultimate suspension design would be attained by first razing, then haphazardly gluing together whatever twisted steel and concrete could be salvaged from the remains of the Brooklyn, Golden Gate, and Tower Bridges. Yet despite all of this, in a plot twist that would never pass even the most lenient of Writer's Guild critiques, deep in the heart of southern Cambodia, along this lazy
river, lies a small, ramshackle eatery known as the Keyhole that can lay claim to the best BBQ ribs this side of Texas. No foolin'
The real reason to stop in Kampot, besides the succulent pork, is its proximity to Bokor National Park, a 1500 sq km stretch of primary forest at the edge of town. Bokor is home to a wide array of elusive wildlife, including tigers, black bears and the warbling yellow-bellied sapsucker. Unicorns, too. That's all well and good, but the real reason to visit is to explore the creepy, abandoned town known as Bokor Hill Station. Built by the French in 1921, and located 3540 feet from sea-level at the apex of a treacherous 32km rock road, some 900 lives were lost during its initial nine-month construction--proving once and for all that the French are ingeniously stupid people. Abandoned in the 1940s during the First Indochina War and then
for good in 1972 when the Khmer Rouge chose the church roof as the ideal location for their anti-aircraft missile defense (Pslams 5:27-28 And the Lord did launcheth his magic missiles across the skies, and his enemies did explodeth like party favors) , the Bokor Hill Station is now home to a dozen bullet-riddled structures in various states of collapse. Fun.
I had intended to rent a moto and take myself to the top, but the road had recently been leased by the government to the Sokimex oil company for the next 99 years, who are in midst of rebuilding it. That left one option, a tour and a hike. Normally I am not particularly fond of tours but I lucked out with a great group of travelers. We started our ascent at 8:30 in the morning, with an unconventional if interesting briefing from our tour guide, a 55 year old Khmer who informed us, rather nonchalantly, that his entire family was killed by the Khmer Rouge, that he lived in the hills alone for three years, that he was then captured and conscripted into the Vietnamese army to fight the Khmer Rouge, planted thousands of land mines, killed dozens of his own countrymen, fought the Khmer Rouge at the Hill Station, felt stupid for betraying his countrymen, escaped back to Cambodia, then spent the next five years digging up the landmines he buried. Now he's a tour guide. At one point we stopped at a relatively dry waterfall, but that didn't stop him from stripping to his skivvies and splashing around in a pool of fetid water, giggling as if he had just met Santa Claus. I found him rather delightful.
Nothing could have prepared me for the vertical climb we encountered. Over the course of the next three hours we walked straight up hill in 93 degree heat, often clambering over rocks and through sandy dry washes. We had our first official dropout about 45 minutes in, followed by our first vomiting from overexertion about 20 minutes later. Thank god I have been biking so much over the last month. Mercifully, we ascended to a stretch of road where a beat up lorry was waiting to take us the last 10km up the hill. As we rounded the final curves over the ass-bumping road we caught sight of the Hill Station.
As if on cue, the clear sky began to cloud over. Waves of mist raced up the steep canyon walls and curled over the ridge around the shattered facades. It was fast becoming a horror movie set. I split from the group to explore the expanse privately. The main attraction, The Bokor Palace, was once an old hotel and casino. Green moss and orange lichen gripped the walls amidst blocks of crumbled stone and collapsed doorways. Broken glass littered the window sills, where a few small panes of thick glass still managed to survive. Tiled
bathrooms were ripped up and rotten. Stains of various degrees and colors bled down every wall.The temperature was at least 20 degrees cooler up here and a light wind howled through the bullet holes in the
walls. At one point the clouds literally began pouring through the windows. Calling it atmospheric would be a bit like calling War and Peace a childhood bedtime story.
I flicked on my headlamp and managed to find an intact staircase. Four floors later I was on the roof. The world had disappeared beneath the clouds. Visibility had dropped to less than ten feet. I could not see another building, another person. I was alone on the roof of the world and it was disintegrating beneath my feet. The day was perfect. I was so elated that on the hike back down, another three hour jaunt, I took to jumping and running part of the way. Several of us sped down as if possessed. Perhaps we were. If anyone
knows of a good knee surgeon, I may need a bit of fine tuning when I get back home.Cheers.
river, lies a small, ramshackle eatery known as the Keyhole that can lay claim to the best BBQ ribs this side of Texas. No foolin'
The real reason to stop in Kampot, besides the succulent pork, is its proximity to Bokor National Park, a 1500 sq km stretch of primary forest at the edge of town. Bokor is home to a wide array of elusive wildlife, including tigers, black bears and the warbling yellow-bellied sapsucker. Unicorns, too. That's all well and good, but the real reason to visit is to explore the creepy, abandoned town known as Bokor Hill Station. Built by the French in 1921, and located 3540 feet from sea-level at the apex of a treacherous 32km rock road, some 900 lives were lost during its initial nine-month construction--proving once and for all that the French are ingeniously stupid people. Abandoned in the 1940s during the First Indochina War and then
for good in 1972 when the Khmer Rouge chose the church roof as the ideal location for their anti-aircraft missile defense (Pslams 5:27-28 And the Lord did launcheth his magic missiles across the skies, and his enemies did explodeth like party favors) , the Bokor Hill Station is now home to a dozen bullet-riddled structures in various states of collapse. Fun.
I had intended to rent a moto and take myself to the top, but the road had recently been leased by the government to the Sokimex oil company for the next 99 years, who are in midst of rebuilding it. That left one option, a tour and a hike. Normally I am not particularly fond of tours but I lucked out with a great group of travelers. We started our ascent at 8:30 in the morning, with an unconventional if interesting briefing from our tour guide, a 55 year old Khmer who informed us, rather nonchalantly, that his entire family was killed by the Khmer Rouge, that he lived in the hills alone for three years, that he was then captured and conscripted into the Vietnamese army to fight the Khmer Rouge, planted thousands of land mines, killed dozens of his own countrymen, fought the Khmer Rouge at the Hill Station, felt stupid for betraying his countrymen, escaped back to Cambodia, then spent the next five years digging up the landmines he buried. Now he's a tour guide. At one point we stopped at a relatively dry waterfall, but that didn't stop him from stripping to his skivvies and splashing around in a pool of fetid water, giggling as if he had just met Santa Claus. I found him rather delightful.
Nothing could have prepared me for the vertical climb we encountered. Over the course of the next three hours we walked straight up hill in 93 degree heat, often clambering over rocks and through sandy dry washes. We had our first official dropout about 45 minutes in, followed by our first vomiting from overexertion about 20 minutes later. Thank god I have been biking so much over the last month. Mercifully, we ascended to a stretch of road where a beat up lorry was waiting to take us the last 10km up the hill. As we rounded the final curves over the ass-bumping road we caught sight of the Hill Station.
As if on cue, the clear sky began to cloud over. Waves of mist raced up the steep canyon walls and curled over the ridge around the shattered facades. It was fast becoming a horror movie set. I split from the group to explore the expanse privately. The main attraction, The Bokor Palace, was once an old hotel and casino. Green moss and orange lichen gripped the walls amidst blocks of crumbled stone and collapsed doorways. Broken glass littered the window sills, where a few small panes of thick glass still managed to survive. Tiled
bathrooms were ripped up and rotten. Stains of various degrees and colors bled down every wall.The temperature was at least 20 degrees cooler up here and a light wind howled through the bullet holes in the
walls. At one point the clouds literally began pouring through the windows. Calling it atmospheric would be a bit like calling War and Peace a childhood bedtime story.
I flicked on my headlamp and managed to find an intact staircase. Four floors later I was on the roof. The world had disappeared beneath the clouds. Visibility had dropped to less than ten feet. I could not see another building, another person. I was alone on the roof of the world and it was disintegrating beneath my feet. The day was perfect. I was so elated that on the hike back down, another three hour jaunt, I took to jumping and running part of the way. Several of us sped down as if possessed. Perhaps we were. If anyone
knows of a good knee surgeon, I may need a bit of fine tuning when I get back home.Cheers.
March 8, 2010
I Pedal On...
The Road, Cambodia. My alarm goes off at 5:45 in the morning but the roosters beat it to the punch again. A sliver of sun has lazily peeked over the horizon, billowing pastel sheets across the dusky fields. The air desperately clings to the last brittle coolness of midnight, held tight in cottony layers of humidity. Within a few hours the sun will squeeze the mercury to a towering 96 degrees. I mindlessly throw on shorts, button a shirt, zip a security pocket. Within 15 minutes my bags are secured to my bike, and a thin layer of sweat is threatening to break over my brow. As I begin to pedal, the still crisp air breathes relief across my entire body. I'm on the road.
Life starts early in Cambodia. Women busy themselves setting up shop for the day, men zip by on mopeds, mobs of children bicycle to school. We all busy ourselves at first light, trying to outrun the zenith that will knock us flat on our backs, victims of the sun's fiery madness. I am leaving the beach-side town of Sihanoukville, pedaling up massive hills shaded by coconut palms, racing down the spines at 45km/hr. The wind in my face is a glorious reward. It is 6:30am. I pedal on.
Saffron-robed monks, a pair of them, walk slowly down the lane of a peaceful village, an alms bowl tucked carefully under the crook of one arm. The younger, the student, holds an umbrella over his master's head. A women hands the apprentice some food, then kneels and genuflects in the dirt for a benediction. It is 7:00am. I pedal on.
Mopeds and motorcycles zip around me, carefully cradling the days wares for the markets. I dodge around a clucking moto, dozens of live chickens dangling by their feet, secured by two perpendicular crossbeams that mimic a hanging glass rack. An oinking pig-moto cuts around my feet, the massive five-foot hog tied across the rack like a piece of luggage. A goose-cycle zips by, pulling wide to stop the barrel-shaped wicker tube from hooking my clothing, dozens of quacking duck heads poking through the slats. It is 7:30am. I pedal on.
After two hours I need a break. Every small town has a few places sporting plastic tables and chairs set under a sun shade, a sure sign of food. Some mornings I have to big through a few villages before I find what I am looking for. Ah, there it is. A large pot and a half dozen men. I pull up on my bike amidst disbelieving stares and curious smiles. Chatter and laughter erupt without fail. I bumble my way through ordering some breakfast--samlor, rice noodle soup. Now start the questions. Where from? What your name? Where go? More disbelief, more laughter. My food arrives. Six men quickly push a dozen different condiments towards me. I better put them in. Lime, sugar, fermented fish sauce, hot peppers, salt, and cardamom, I think. The flavors mercifully fuse. It is delicious. More laughter. More questions. We smile and nod a lot. I am stuffed. A man takes my picture with his cell phone. We all laugh at the silly white man. It's 9:00am. I pedal on.
Little children, naked and filthy, splash down together in muddy ponds and streams. They giggle and scream until they notice me. Then it starts. Hello!!! The dam has broken, and they all come pouring out of the woodwork. Hello! HELLO!!!! HeLoHELLOHelo! Good BYe! They never ask for the anything. They never chase. They are proper. They sound desperate and pleading. I have to respond. I must. I do. Hello! HELLO!!!! HeLoHELLOHelo! Good BYe! they immediately reply, waving madly. I pull away but it is no avail. It carries over the wind, it bends around trees, it makes its way to your ears. 'ellllllllllllllloooooooo!
It's 9:30am. I pedal on.
The road is a river, its asphalt stream carrying me past thatch homes, wooden vending shacks, wild dogs, brilliant palm trees, verdant rice paddies, muddy oxen, snickering women, toothless old men, rotten-sweet-sour-spicy-fetid-sweaty smells, garbage, dust, filth, decay, delighted children, and smiling, bemused adults.
I see them all. They see me too. Sometimes the river is rough, sometimes the river is smooth, and sometimes the river dries up completely. But through it all, I pedal on.
Life starts early in Cambodia. Women busy themselves setting up shop for the day, men zip by on mopeds, mobs of children bicycle to school. We all busy ourselves at first light, trying to outrun the zenith that will knock us flat on our backs, victims of the sun's fiery madness. I am leaving the beach-side town of Sihanoukville, pedaling up massive hills shaded by coconut palms, racing down the spines at 45km/hr. The wind in my face is a glorious reward. It is 6:30am. I pedal on.
Saffron-robed monks, a pair of them, walk slowly down the lane of a peaceful village, an alms bowl tucked carefully under the crook of one arm. The younger, the student, holds an umbrella over his master's head. A women hands the apprentice some food, then kneels and genuflects in the dirt for a benediction. It is 7:00am. I pedal on.
Mopeds and motorcycles zip around me, carefully cradling the days wares for the markets. I dodge around a clucking moto, dozens of live chickens dangling by their feet, secured by two perpendicular crossbeams that mimic a hanging glass rack. An oinking pig-moto cuts around my feet, the massive five-foot hog tied across the rack like a piece of luggage. A goose-cycle zips by, pulling wide to stop the barrel-shaped wicker tube from hooking my clothing, dozens of quacking duck heads poking through the slats. It is 7:30am. I pedal on.
After two hours I need a break. Every small town has a few places sporting plastic tables and chairs set under a sun shade, a sure sign of food. Some mornings I have to big through a few villages before I find what I am looking for. Ah, there it is. A large pot and a half dozen men. I pull up on my bike amidst disbelieving stares and curious smiles. Chatter and laughter erupt without fail. I bumble my way through ordering some breakfast--samlor, rice noodle soup. Now start the questions. Where from? What your name? Where go? More disbelief, more laughter. My food arrives. Six men quickly push a dozen different condiments towards me. I better put them in. Lime, sugar, fermented fish sauce, hot peppers, salt, and cardamom, I think. The flavors mercifully fuse. It is delicious. More laughter. More questions. We smile and nod a lot. I am stuffed. A man takes my picture with his cell phone. We all laugh at the silly white man. It's 9:00am. I pedal on.
Little children, naked and filthy, splash down together in muddy ponds and streams. They giggle and scream until they notice me. Then it starts. Hello!!! The dam has broken, and they all come pouring out of the woodwork. Hello! HELLO!!!! HeLoHELLOHelo! Good BYe! They never ask for the anything. They never chase. They are proper. They sound desperate and pleading. I have to respond. I must. I do. Hello! HELLO!!!! HeLoHELLOHelo! Good BYe! they immediately reply, waving madly. I pull away but it is no avail. It carries over the wind, it bends around trees, it makes its way to your ears. 'ellllllllllllllloooooooo!
It's 9:30am. I pedal on.
The road is a river, its asphalt stream carrying me past thatch homes, wooden vending shacks, wild dogs, brilliant palm trees, verdant rice paddies, muddy oxen, snickering women, toothless old men, rotten-sweet-sour-spicy-fetid-sweaty smells, garbage, dust, filth, decay, delighted children, and smiling, bemused adults.
I see them all. They see me too. Sometimes the river is rough, sometimes the river is smooth, and sometimes the river dries up completely. But through it all, I pedal on.
March 1, 2010
Lipstick, Eyeliner and a Hint of Khmer Rouge
Phnom Penh, Cambodia. Once known as the "Pearl of Asia", Phnom Penh was considered one of the loveliest of French-built cities in Indochina. That was back in the 1920s though, when women were "dames" and men still spouted misogynistic anachronisms, like "dames". It may be time for a new moniker, one that is more reflective of the times. Nowadays, perhaps something along the lines of "Zirconium of Middlingville" might be more apropos.
It's not that there is anything inherently wrong with Phnom Pehn, its just that it doesn't really have that much going for it either. I trekked around most of the city and can say with absolute certainty that the addition of one more shop selling mobile phone cards, various auto parts, rows of soap and imported Chinese candy--the very same thing available at 763 shops across the city--may very well tip the tide in favor of supply over demand. Much more Friedman than Keynes if you ask me, but sans the strong-arm dictator to keep people in line. But I'm no economic theorist, so perhaps there is some grand design that eludes me. I bought some soap.
At one point I crossed an imaginary boundary and was in a different city. It was still Phnom Pehn but the zirconium had been spit-polished to a sparkly shine. A narrow corridor in the northern section of town is home to upscale hotels, posh restaurants and the grounds of the Royal Palace, containing a few really nice temples and some beautiful gardens. Walk a block out of the corridor and you're right back in the ring, paying city prices for a mirthless open-air garage sale.
Lets move onto something a bit more cheery, shall we? Genocide. It was all the rage back in Cambodia in the late 70s. Most of you have probably heard of Pol Pot, a dastardly fellow with big teeth and a fat bottom lip who executed approximately 1.6 million of his own countrymen. Pol Pot was the leader of the Cambodian Communist movement known colloquially as the Khmer Rouge, which, despite the evincing name, had nothing to do with powdering one's face. Mr. Pot and friends thought it would be a real hoot to revert to an agrarian society post-haste, so they evacuated the city centers, abolished money, religion, foreign languages and good cheer, and sent everyone to the countryside to farm rice. Lots of rice.
Phnom Pehn is home to the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum, a one-time High School that was converted into a prison and torture facility, temporarily housing thousands of unfortunate souls until they were sent to Choeung Ek, the infamous Killing Fields. I visited both Tuol Sleng and Choeung Ek to get a deeper understanding of the conflict and its aftermath. Though important memorials both, they seemed to be lacking in both real gravitas or enlightening information. One sign in Choeung Ek declared the Pol Pot regime to "be the most worst even than the atrocities of Hitler" in their depravity. Having previously visited the concentration camps in Poland, all I can state is that the death toll during the Cambodian atrocity was not nearly as high nor was as coldly "production-oriented" in its methods. Tough call, comparing genocides. I'll leave that one for the historians. Undoubtedly some people reading this will find my glib attitude towards genocide rather distasteful, which is why I propose we round all of those people up and bludgeon them to death with this.
It's not that there is anything inherently wrong with Phnom Pehn, its just that it doesn't really have that much going for it either. I trekked around most of the city and can say with absolute certainty that the addition of one more shop selling mobile phone cards, various auto parts, rows of soap and imported Chinese candy--the very same thing available at 763 shops across the city--may very well tip the tide in favor of supply over demand. Much more Friedman than Keynes if you ask me, but sans the strong-arm dictator to keep people in line. But I'm no economic theorist, so perhaps there is some grand design that eludes me. I bought some soap.
At one point I crossed an imaginary boundary and was in a different city. It was still Phnom Pehn but the zirconium had been spit-polished to a sparkly shine. A narrow corridor in the northern section of town is home to upscale hotels, posh restaurants and the grounds of the Royal Palace, containing a few really nice temples and some beautiful gardens. Walk a block out of the corridor and you're right back in the ring, paying city prices for a mirthless open-air garage sale.
Lets move onto something a bit more cheery, shall we? Genocide. It was all the rage back in Cambodia in the late 70s. Most of you have probably heard of Pol Pot, a dastardly fellow with big teeth and a fat bottom lip who executed approximately 1.6 million of his own countrymen. Pol Pot was the leader of the Cambodian Communist movement known colloquially as the Khmer Rouge, which, despite the evincing name, had nothing to do with powdering one's face. Mr. Pot and friends thought it would be a real hoot to revert to an agrarian society post-haste, so they evacuated the city centers, abolished money, religion, foreign languages and good cheer, and sent everyone to the countryside to farm rice. Lots of rice.
Phnom Pehn is home to the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum, a one-time High School that was converted into a prison and torture facility, temporarily housing thousands of unfortunate souls until they were sent to Choeung Ek, the infamous Killing Fields. I visited both Tuol Sleng and Choeung Ek to get a deeper understanding of the conflict and its aftermath. Though important memorials both, they seemed to be lacking in both real gravitas or enlightening information. One sign in Choeung Ek declared the Pol Pot regime to "be the most worst even than the atrocities of Hitler" in their depravity. Having previously visited the concentration camps in Poland, all I can state is that the death toll during the Cambodian atrocity was not nearly as high nor was as coldly "production-oriented" in its methods. Tough call, comparing genocides. I'll leave that one for the historians. Undoubtedly some people reading this will find my glib attitude towards genocide rather distasteful, which is why I propose we round all of those people up and bludgeon them to death with this.
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