Posts
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.
Showing posts with label Cambodia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Cambodia. Show all posts
March 13, 2010
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.
February 28, 2010
Angkor Hot
Temples of Angkor, Cambodia. I got up before dawn and cycled the 7km to the gate entrance, hoping to beat the crowds when I arrived, a smidgen past six. Despite the early hour, it was already hot and muggy. Sweat dripped down my face in streams, pooling together at my collarbone to form a river down my chest. Ugh. Damn, it's hot out here.
Still, I was excited to catch a silent sunrise at Angkor Wat. It would not be an exaggeration to state that I was stunned from the moment I walked through the main gate. Not by the temple, no, it was still rather dusky out---it was the hundreds of people already spread out across the expansive courtyard waiting for the sun to crest the temple's grand triple stupas. I was speechless, which may have been moot given the fact that I am traveling solo, but still. Angkor Wat had become a zoo, the lion pen at the center of the park, replete with food and drink vendors lining the entire northern wall. And, to add insult to injury, part of the main structure was obscured by scaffolding, part of a restoration project meant to keep the temples from collapsing on all of the tourists. Pish-posh, I say.
The only saving grace to this unexpected first impression was that people seemed somewhat unfamiliar with how the sun works. Let me explain. Like many, I have observed that the sun typically rises in the east and sets in the west. Pretty simple, right? Now, on this fine morning, east happened to be behind the stupas, leaving hundreds of people waiting to take a back-lit photograph of three lumpy, dark shadows. Hmmm.
Using all the powers of deductive reasoning I've honed selling deep fryers and potato ricers online, I went around the main entryway to see if anyone had mowed the backyard. Nope, just me and three other people. Amazing. The sun rose in its typical brilliant fashion, painting deep orange hues across the backside of the temple. I sat quietly on the lip of a boundary wall for 30 minutes and got some great shots.
The interior of the temple, though a bit crowded, was still worth it. Detailed bas reliefs lined dozens of walls, intricate carvings grace the inside of nearly every doorway and column, stone buddas, goddesses, and naga encircle dozens of massive stupas.
The most famous of the bas reliefs, covering three-quarters of the outer wall around the central courtyard, is known as the Ocean of Milk, but tastes a lot more like eight centuries worth of dust, lichen and bat guano when you lick it. Even licking it and then biting into a chocolate chip cookie didn't help. Blecch.
One could spend days lost in this wonderland. I got tired after a few hours and went home to take a nap. Angkor Wat takes a lot out of you. Next, it's on to the capitol, Phnom Penh.
Still, I was excited to catch a silent sunrise at Angkor Wat. It would not be an exaggeration to state that I was stunned from the moment I walked through the main gate. Not by the temple, no, it was still rather dusky out---it was the hundreds of people already spread out across the expansive courtyard waiting for the sun to crest the temple's grand triple stupas. I was speechless, which may have been moot given the fact that I am traveling solo, but still. Angkor Wat had become a zoo, the lion pen at the center of the park, replete with food and drink vendors lining the entire northern wall. And, to add insult to injury, part of the main structure was obscured by scaffolding, part of a restoration project meant to keep the temples from collapsing on all of the tourists. Pish-posh, I say.
The only saving grace to this unexpected first impression was that people seemed somewhat unfamiliar with how the sun works. Let me explain. Like many, I have observed that the sun typically rises in the east and sets in the west. Pretty simple, right? Now, on this fine morning, east happened to be behind the stupas, leaving hundreds of people waiting to take a back-lit photograph of three lumpy, dark shadows. Hmmm.
The interior of the temple, though a bit crowded, was still worth it. Detailed bas reliefs lined dozens of walls, intricate carvings grace the inside of nearly every doorway and column, stone buddas, goddesses, and naga encircle dozens of massive stupas.
The most famous of the bas reliefs, covering three-quarters of the outer wall around the central courtyard, is known as the Ocean of Milk, but tastes a lot more like eight centuries worth of dust, lichen and bat guano when you lick it. Even licking it and then biting into a chocolate chip cookie didn't help. Blecch.
One could spend days lost in this wonderland. I got tired after a few hours and went home to take a nap. Angkor Wat takes a lot out of you. Next, it's on to the capitol, Phnom Penh.
February 26, 2010
The Shilling Fields
Siem Reap, Cambodia. After three days of slogging through the heat across Route 4, I elatedly, if not belatedly, arrived at my new base camp. Sitting at the foot of one of the world's greatest treasures--the wallets of foreign tourists--Siem Reap is also home to a slightly less well known archaelogical wonder: The Temples of Ankor. Welcome to the The Shilling Fields.
What a difference a day makes. After casually pedaling past laid-back villages, rice paddies and a wide assortment of extras from The Road Warrior, I was a bit taken aback by Siem Reap, a town with enough louts, touts and bumbling tourists to start its own traveling circus. Apparently realizing the draw that crumbly bits of rock has on foreigners, massive hotels have sprung up like proverbial weeds from every nook at cranny. You can't walk five feet without running into a new spa, gourmet bistro or the army of tuk-tuk drivers ready to carry the populace of Siem Reap to Vietnam for a bargain price. It felt a bit as if an exterminator had helped rid a house of an infestation by lovingly carrying the invader's insidious brood to several new areas of the home, then ladled a heaping dollop of jelly next to each clutch.
No matter, I was going to make the most of it. I purchased a three day pass to the temple complex so that I could explore at leisure. I was excited. Angkor Wat. The very name itself seemed laden with historical significance or at least dangerous electrical currents--either way, I was set. Like many, I had not realized that the temple complex was so massive, housing dozens of lesser known temples. I decided to spend my first day circling what is known as the Grand Tour, a road that carried me a full 21 kilometers around the outer temple ring. Starting out at Banteay Kdei, I was immediately set upon by an unexpectedly formidable foe--little girls who learned English from tourists.
They looked like normal little girls, with their bright smiling faces, joyful giggling and souls forged in the fiery flames of hell. As I said, normal little girls. They approached me like jackals. Jackals who learned English by watching Titanic and Terminator 2. Buy a scarf for your girlfriend? No, thanks. Then buy scarf for your mother, she loves you. No, really. I'm on a bicycle and can't carry anything. Oh, my gawd! Look see, the scarf, it's very light. No problem to carry (she drapes it over my arm). It's a good color. I really don't need a scarf, thanks (I drape it back over her shoulder). It looks better on you, matches your eyes. (Big pout now on face) Oh, MY gawd! Nooo, not my color. Pink is my color. See? (She points out the pink in her outfit). You buy painting instead? No, no paintings. Like I said, I'm on a bike. Ohh, my gawwd! I know you are on bicycle. You are very strong (grabs my bicep). We can roll up paintings, very small. You can carry. Did you paint them? If you painted them then maybe I buy one (I say sarcastically). OhMYgawd, of course I paint them! What, you don't believe? You paint me one right now and I'll buy it. (Smirk on face) Ok, I did not paint (laughs). OhMyGawwd! (At this point I'm laughing out loud) You will come and look again on your way back out, yes? Maybe (I laughed, entering the gateway). Hasta la vista, Bay-Bee! (she giggled and waved)......Did I mention this girl was only seven years old?
The Temple was spectacular, as were Ta Sahm, Neak Pean, and my favorite, Preah Kahn, a tumbled wreck of partially collapsed structures that created a fun maze of broken passageways, fluttering bats, and trees growing right through the cracks of the walls, slowly destroying everything in their stretch towards the sun. I decided to save the heavy hitters--Ta Prom, Ankor Thom, and the mother of all temples, Ankor Wat--for the next day. As for that little girl, she was waiting for me as soon as I came back out. You said maybe!
We sparred for another ten minutes but in the end I prevailed. At least I think. I didn't walk away with any painting or scarves but she was so entertaining that I gave her a few bucks for effort. Oh....My.....Gawd.
What a difference a day makes. After casually pedaling past laid-back villages, rice paddies and a wide assortment of extras from The Road Warrior, I was a bit taken aback by Siem Reap, a town with enough louts, touts and bumbling tourists to start its own traveling circus. Apparently realizing the draw that crumbly bits of rock has on foreigners, massive hotels have sprung up like proverbial weeds from every nook at cranny. You can't walk five feet without running into a new spa, gourmet bistro or the army of tuk-tuk drivers ready to carry the populace of Siem Reap to Vietnam for a bargain price. It felt a bit as if an exterminator had helped rid a house of an infestation by lovingly carrying the invader's insidious brood to several new areas of the home, then ladled a heaping dollop of jelly next to each clutch.
No matter, I was going to make the most of it. I purchased a three day pass to the temple complex so that I could explore at leisure. I was excited. Angkor Wat. The very name itself seemed laden with historical significance or at least dangerous electrical currents--either way, I was set. Like many, I had not realized that the temple complex was so massive, housing dozens of lesser known temples. I decided to spend my first day circling what is known as the Grand Tour, a road that carried me a full 21 kilometers around the outer temple ring. Starting out at Banteay Kdei, I was immediately set upon by an unexpectedly formidable foe--little girls who learned English from tourists.
They looked like normal little girls, with their bright smiling faces, joyful giggling and souls forged in the fiery flames of hell. As I said, normal little girls. They approached me like jackals. Jackals who learned English by watching Titanic and Terminator 2. Buy a scarf for your girlfriend? No, thanks. Then buy scarf for your mother, she loves you. No, really. I'm on a bicycle and can't carry anything. Oh, my gawd! Look see, the scarf, it's very light. No problem to carry (she drapes it over my arm). It's a good color. I really don't need a scarf, thanks (I drape it back over her shoulder). It looks better on you, matches your eyes. (Big pout now on face) Oh, MY gawd! Nooo, not my color. Pink is my color. See? (She points out the pink in her outfit). You buy painting instead? No, no paintings. Like I said, I'm on a bike. Ohh, my gawwd! I know you are on bicycle. You are very strong (grabs my bicep). We can roll up paintings, very small. You can carry. Did you paint them? If you painted them then maybe I buy one (I say sarcastically). OhMYgawd, of course I paint them! What, you don't believe? You paint me one right now and I'll buy it. (Smirk on face) Ok, I did not paint (laughs). OhMyGawwd! (At this point I'm laughing out loud) You will come and look again on your way back out, yes? Maybe (I laughed, entering the gateway). Hasta la vista, Bay-Bee! (she giggled and waved)......Did I mention this girl was only seven years old?
The Temple was spectacular, as were Ta Sahm, Neak Pean, and my favorite, Preah Kahn, a tumbled wreck of partially collapsed structures that created a fun maze of broken passageways, fluttering bats, and trees growing right through the cracks of the walls, slowly destroying everything in their stretch towards the sun. I decided to save the heavy hitters--Ta Prom, Ankor Thom, and the mother of all temples, Ankor Wat--for the next day. As for that little girl, she was waiting for me as soon as I came back out. You said maybe!
We sparred for another ten minutes but in the end I prevailed. At least I think. I didn't walk away with any painting or scarves but she was so entertaining that I gave her a few bucks for effort. Oh....My.....Gawd.
February 23, 2010
Baby (Nearly) on Board
Sisophon, Cambodia. Border crossings are never a fun experience. You wait in long lines, act like you know what you are doing, then carefully observe the people in front of you to see what they do. When they wind up buck-naked with their body cavity's being search without lubricant, you make certain to not do whatever they did.
The Cambodian border crossing was relatively uneventful, if a bit dull. Now the border town you end up in, that that is a whole other story--just not one for this blog. But suffice to say, it is a series of Cambodian gambling saloons.
Cambodia is a bit more rough and rugged than Thailand, so it was a more interesting experience biking down the only fully paved highway in the country. Massive stone entryways beheld long dirt roads that run deep into the countryside. Thatch houses line the corridors, many built on stilts--a holdover from days when homes were bit directly on flood planes. Chicken run wild through the dust and across the road, occasionally taking care of that whole pesky slaughtering problem in the process.
The vehicles are bit more rugged as well. My favorite are the family motos, small scooters that often have an entire family sitting on them. The positioning of children is where the action is at. If the child is still an infant, Mommy usually just slings her under an armpit off the side; if the child is, say, old enough to sit upright, then perhaps they are lucky enough be sitting on a sack where the drivers legs normally go, and using their new sitting-upright powers to lean against the front of the moto with small, stick hands; from three and up, kids usually get wedged like slices of pepperoni between their parents. It would appear that Brittany Spears is not quite the villain we have made her out to be.
Cambodians are some of the friendliest people I have ever met, and Trekky has already afforded me some completely unique experiences. As I was biking to Siem Reap, a young man on a moto slowed down to talk to me. He implored me to come with him to his village, just a bit off the road. We chatted a bit, and he didn't seem like the murder-and-eat-you type, so I went with my gut and agreed. While still driving, he took my hand and accelerated up to 35km/hr. Fun, but not recommended for those with worrisome mothers. After a few minutes we veered through one of the gates, and I resumed pedaling on the soft dirt until we arrived at his village.
What happened next was simply remarkable. He invited me into his thatch hut, which was soon surrounded by villagers, both young and old alike. He wanted to read me passages in English from a Khmer-to-English study book he had received, and have me correct his pronunciation in front of his friends and family. The pride on his face was astonishing. Ta cat climmed up da tee. Children laughed and giggled, old women cackled and asked if I had a good women (which I do), and I pulled out my maps to show them where we were. Those who question why I go on these trips, this here is the reason. It was a once in a lifetime experience and I am lucky to have had it. Having firmly bonded, we bowed our heads in acknowledgment, then assaulted and ate a different cyclist instead. Welcome to Cambodia.
The Cambodian border crossing was relatively uneventful, if a bit dull. Now the border town you end up in, that that is a whole other story--just not one for this blog. But suffice to say, it is a series of Cambodian gambling saloons.
Cambodia is a bit more rough and rugged than Thailand, so it was a more interesting experience biking down the only fully paved highway in the country. Massive stone entryways beheld long dirt roads that run deep into the countryside. Thatch houses line the corridors, many built on stilts--a holdover from days when homes were bit directly on flood planes. Chicken run wild through the dust and across the road, occasionally taking care of that whole pesky slaughtering problem in the process.
The vehicles are bit more rugged as well. My favorite are the family motos, small scooters that often have an entire family sitting on them. The positioning of children is where the action is at. If the child is still an infant, Mommy usually just slings her under an armpit off the side; if the child is, say, old enough to sit upright, then perhaps they are lucky enough be sitting on a sack where the drivers legs normally go, and using their new sitting-upright powers to lean against the front of the moto with small, stick hands; from three and up, kids usually get wedged like slices of pepperoni between their parents. It would appear that Brittany Spears is not quite the villain we have made her out to be.
Cambodians are some of the friendliest people I have ever met, and Trekky has already afforded me some completely unique experiences. As I was biking to Siem Reap, a young man on a moto slowed down to talk to me. He implored me to come with him to his village, just a bit off the road. We chatted a bit, and he didn't seem like the murder-and-eat-you type, so I went with my gut and agreed. While still driving, he took my hand and accelerated up to 35km/hr. Fun, but not recommended for those with worrisome mothers. After a few minutes we veered through one of the gates, and I resumed pedaling on the soft dirt until we arrived at his village.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)