Ox and cart...still a popular form of transport in rural Cambodia
December 16, 2004
The ‘Road’ to Nowhere
The following morning I secured myself a spot in another pick-up that had seen better days. The tunes of choice were a nasty brand of cheap Asian techno, which had me grimacing for about as long as it took to get out of town. The dusty, rocky trail that led to Choam Ksant was the worst approximation of a road I have ever seen. I can’t imagine the possibilities of traversing its length in the wet season – probably akin to cycling across Morecambe Bay just after the tide’s gone out – but it was arduous enough in the dry. We spent most of the journey leaning hard one way or the other as our driver skilfully negotiated the thin top edges of ruts left by the huge Russian army transports used to take the logs down to the lake. There were too many bone-jarring crunches and brain-reverberating bounces to recount…and we did, of course, get the inevitable flat tyre. This was changed with well-practised alacrity by the mechanic (a vital addition, it seems, to any pick-up journey) and we eventually covered the 62km in a little over 3½ hours.
Choam Ksant, being only 20km from the Thai border, is an important trading post containing – and I quote – ‘a thriving market’. On arrival, it resembled nothing so much as the Skywalker’s moisture farm in Star Wars…an almost lifeless dustbowl. Avoiding the dubious hospitality of the Sok San Guesthouse (apparently, nothing more than a brothel for the nearby army base), I was left with the Heng Heng Guest House – my room being a cowshed with mosquito net and private bathroom. Mr. Wiep, the owner, was a rakish, likely-lad with gold chains and a silk shirt. He seemed to know that I wanted to go to the mountain temple (after all, what the hell else is there to do out there!) and offered to take me for, what seemed a reasonable 15$. The LP had warned of an horrendous, sandy, rocky ox track, taking 3 hours to get to the temple, followed by a dangerous, difficult-to-find path up the mountain, requiring your driver’s local knowledge to guide you away from any minefields. They suggested 10$ plus petrol was a good price and I felt 15$ including petrol was fine.
As the final part of my pilgrimage was to take a full day, there was nothing to do but read and sleep until the morning. In the evening Mr. Wiep took me to a place where I could get a bite to eat – no restaurants as such in this town! – and, fortunately (so it seemed), there was a lovely chap called Rin, who spoke excellent English. Through this intermediary, Mr. Wiep was trying to persuade me to spend more money by riding the bike all the way up to the temple and then, instead of returning to Choam Ksant, he was offering to take me west to a town called Anlong Veng, from whence it would only be a few hours to Siem Reap. Two things saved me from this intended scam. Firstly, I was mad-keen to make the hike up the mountain after my recent idleness and, secondly, after my experiences in the pick-up and the arse-deadening long-distance riding in Vietnam, there was no way I was riding a bike any further than necessary. Seeing that he wasn’t getting anywhere, he left me to enjoy my noodles and a few cans of Crown beer with Rin and a couple of other lads: Losa and Mao.
Choam Ksant, being only 20km from the Thai border, is an important trading post containing – and I quote – ‘a thriving market’. On arrival, it resembled nothing so much as the Skywalker’s moisture farm in Star Wars…an almost lifeless dustbowl. Avoiding the dubious hospitality of the Sok San Guesthouse (apparently, nothing more than a brothel for the nearby army base), I was left with the Heng Heng Guest House – my room being a cowshed with mosquito net and private bathroom. Mr. Wiep, the owner, was a rakish, likely-lad with gold chains and a silk shirt. He seemed to know that I wanted to go to the mountain temple (after all, what the hell else is there to do out there!) and offered to take me for, what seemed a reasonable 15$. The LP had warned of an horrendous, sandy, rocky ox track, taking 3 hours to get to the temple, followed by a dangerous, difficult-to-find path up the mountain, requiring your driver’s local knowledge to guide you away from any minefields. They suggested 10$ plus petrol was a good price and I felt 15$ including petrol was fine.
As the final part of my pilgrimage was to take a full day, there was nothing to do but read and sleep until the morning. In the evening Mr. Wiep took me to a place where I could get a bite to eat – no restaurants as such in this town! – and, fortunately (so it seemed), there was a lovely chap called Rin, who spoke excellent English. Through this intermediary, Mr. Wiep was trying to persuade me to spend more money by riding the bike all the way up to the temple and then, instead of returning to Choam Ksant, he was offering to take me west to a town called Anlong Veng, from whence it would only be a few hours to Siem Reap. Two things saved me from this intended scam. Firstly, I was mad-keen to make the hike up the mountain after my recent idleness and, secondly, after my experiences in the pick-up and the arse-deadening long-distance riding in Vietnam, there was no way I was riding a bike any further than necessary. Seeing that he wasn’t getting anywhere, he left me to enjoy my noodles and a few cans of Crown beer with Rin and a couple of other lads: Losa and Mao.
December 15, 2004
Back into action
Come Tuesday afternoon, Phil, Jane and I were sat nervously waiting on the deck for the rest of the gang to turn up from the South. The nerves were due to the fact that we hadn’t told them we were all still in Phnom Penh…there was a real danger that they might have taken a connecting bus straight to Siem Reap – leaving Jane and Phil to play catch-up and me to rue yet more time spent on my backside for no good reason. As the arrival time for the morning bus came and went, we began to fear the worst…until I pointed out that the likelihood of Wonton scraping himself out of bed in time for the early bus was practically non-existent. With any luck, they’d turn up in time for another spectacular Boeng Kak sunset. To keep ourselves occupied, we left the compound (harder than it sounds, believe me!) and headed down to an English-owned bar called the Lazy Gecko for a little taste of home. Their Banoffee Pie and the Apple Crumble were almost like being in mum’s kitchen…but not quite. We then hired out a copy of Michael Moore’s ‘Bowling for Columbine’ to kill the last hour or so before the moment of truth.
To our delight, Wonton, Sandra, Adam, Tom and Tash all turned up as the sun was steadily sinking below the horizon. The look of total bewilderment, swiftly followed by pleasure, as they laid eyes on us was well worth the wait. A happily re-convened party-crew had no excuse for anything other than getting smashed…the Angkor flowed, the banter flew, attractive women were crooned and swaggering, yet appallingly played, racks of pool were shot. My memories of the night seem to play back a little like the celebratory sequence in Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels (the night after they pulled off the heist)…while nobody slept on the piano, Adam and Tom did end up sleeping in hammocks out on the deck, as there weren’t enough rooms to go round after their late arrival.
Packing, whilst in the throes of hideous hangover seems to be a recurrent theme on this trip…and the following morning was no exception. After the idleness of the previous 12 days, I had decided to punish myself severely by undertaking an arduous pilgrimage into the northern reaches of the country. Prasat Preah Vihear is a pre-Angkorian temple (constructed in the 9th century) situated atop the mountains that divide Cambodia from Thailand. My reasons for going were mainly that, once again, I wanted to get off the beaten track…but also, I wanted to get an idea of scale of the early Khmer architecture before descending on Angkor itself. The views promised to be breath-taking and, judging by the LP’s description, I was going to have a real adventure getting there.
The first part of the journey was innocuous enough. I caught one of the tourist buses heading for Siem Reap and curled up with David J’s ‘Nascent’ and Bill Bryson’s ‘A Short History of Nearly Everything’ for company. We stopped at a little bomb-crater by the side of the road called Skuon, which is famous for one particular culinary delicacy: deep fried spider. Never one to pass up an opportunity to find new ways to satisfy my hunger, I tucked in with a sense of great anticipation. Unfortunately, disappointment was the only result – the spider may have once had its own unique flavour, but this had long since been banished by the chilli-oil in which it had been incinerated. The result was like a black, greasy, oddly-shaped chip.
However, my culinary explorations for the morning were not yet over. Far from satisfied by the lack-lustre arachnid, I ducked inside to get a bowl of noodle soup (which is now a firm favourite!). When it came, I tucked straight into the large piece of ‘tofu’ floating near the surface…just as I was registering surprise at the somewhat meaty texture, I also detected a distinct offal flavour to the morsel. Mid-mastication, my jaw froze, motionless, as I made a quick inspection of the rest of the bowl’s contents. Sure enough, there were a couple of miniature kidneys and some slices of liver. I couldn’t begin to guess what the white, rubbery item in my mouth was – all I knew was that I no longer wanted it there. In poor countries like Cambodia, it is frowned upon to leave food uneaten…so there was no chance, in this crowded pit-stop, of me spitting out the offending article and making a run for it. Gamely, I held my breath and, not for the first time in my life, felt grateful for the sheer size of my gullet as I squeezed it down, almost whole. I only gagged twice…and this was soon remedied by a bite or two of the insipid spider. I then set about finishing the rest of my bowl of noodles…using the age-old ‘clumsy foreigner’ trick to excuse my suddenly appalling command of chopsticks. Strangely, every pinch of noodles and vegetables seemed to find its way, uncannily, into my mouth. Inexplicably, every rubbery morsel of animal innards seemed to escape dexterity at the crucial moment…and ended up on the floor. ;-) Feeling a little queasy and sorry for myself, I decided to reward myself for being a big, brave boy by having a nice can of lychee juice – a little like being taken for a Burgess ice cream after a visit to the dentist as a child.
Another hour’s journey brought me to my first destination of the day, Kompong Thom. It’s roughly half way between Siem Reap and Phnom Penh and also gateway to some of the outlying Angkorian sites. More a functional than an aesthetic conurbation, I wasn’t too disappointed to be only passing through. I wondered down to the taxi park to find myself a nice 4-WD pick-up which would take me up 137km of logging track to Tbeng Meancheay. There weren’t any ‘nice’ Ford 150s or anything else ‘nice’ for that matter...just plenty of decrepit Isuzu and Toyota rust heaps, which seemed to be held together more by the rope tying down their cargo than by conventional welding. As I began bartering for a seat in the air-conditioned cab of one of these dubious machines, I learnt my first lesson about Cambodian hire-transport: the front seat is actually designed to hold two people. Well, I say designed…what I should say is expected. That means that someone requiring the entire seat (essential when you’re 6ft 4 and 120kg) has to pay double.
After some good-natured haggling, and a lot of sitting around waiting for more people to spread themselves over the sacks, parcels and firewood in the back, we eventually got underway in the baking heat of the midday sun. Stretching out in my (relatively) comfortable seat, with air-con playing full-blast into my face, I was feeling pretty pleased with myself…I mean, how bad could the roads be in a leviathan like this? The tyres looked like they’d been borrowed off a JCB and, as Jezza had so ably demonstrated on Top Gear, these Japanese babies were almost bomb-proof. The only slight annoyance was the high-volume, low-quality Cambodian pop music blaring out from the speakers.
Of course, full of so much optimism, something was bound to happen…and sure enough, not an hour out of Kompong Thom, we were bouncing across a particularly rocky stretch of ‘road’, when there was a thumping on the roof of the cab. We stopped to see what the problem was and as the driver opened his door, there was an ominous hissing sound and the horizon began to lean slowly to the right: we had a flat. For half an hour, we stood in the blazing sunshine as the mechanic and the driver rectified the situation. I did make at least a token effort by helping to loosen some very tight nuts, but they seemed to have the situation well under control…almost like it was a regular occurrence or something.
It was another 5 dusty, bone-shaking hours before we pulled into Tbeng Meancheay – capital of the Preah Vihear province and a one-horse town if ever I’ve seen one…and the horse appeared to be away on holiday. My rucksack, which had spent the journey tied to the tail-gate, had acquired a new camouflage layer of thick ochre. The amount of dust that flew off in clouds when I gave it a beating got me wondering about the state of the lungs of those people who’d been riding on the back…the same people smiling as they waved me off and disappeared in another whirlwind of red dust.
I found lodgings for the night in a clean, if basic, guesthouse and when I wandered round the corner to the only eatery mentioned in the LP, I was surprised to see another foreigner chowing down on a plate of noodles. Stewart was a Kiwi working for one of the NGOs, responsible for co-ordinating the mammoth task of clearing the country of the landmines left over from civil war and the Khmer Rouge. He rarely saw English-speakers and appreciated having a chance to hold an unstilted conversation. In return, I was happy to get a better picture of a situation which still affects the daily lives of most rural Khmers – and still maims and kills many victims every year. Of all the pernicious aspects of war, the ongoing legacy of land ordnance is the one that continues to have the worst consequences for civilian populations…long after the fighting has ceased. In every village I’d passed through, there had been 20ft signs educating the locals of the dangers. Many miles of even the main road were lined by red posts with skull and crossbones and local people were forced by necessity to live and work in close proximity to these danger zones. Stewart had signed up for two years – living in the back of beyond – to help these people…and I have only the greatest respect and admiration for him.
To our delight, Wonton, Sandra, Adam, Tom and Tash all turned up as the sun was steadily sinking below the horizon. The look of total bewilderment, swiftly followed by pleasure, as they laid eyes on us was well worth the wait. A happily re-convened party-crew had no excuse for anything other than getting smashed…the Angkor flowed, the banter flew, attractive women were crooned and swaggering, yet appallingly played, racks of pool were shot. My memories of the night seem to play back a little like the celebratory sequence in Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels (the night after they pulled off the heist)…while nobody slept on the piano, Adam and Tom did end up sleeping in hammocks out on the deck, as there weren’t enough rooms to go round after their late arrival.
Packing, whilst in the throes of hideous hangover seems to be a recurrent theme on this trip…and the following morning was no exception. After the idleness of the previous 12 days, I had decided to punish myself severely by undertaking an arduous pilgrimage into the northern reaches of the country. Prasat Preah Vihear is a pre-Angkorian temple (constructed in the 9th century) situated atop the mountains that divide Cambodia from Thailand. My reasons for going were mainly that, once again, I wanted to get off the beaten track…but also, I wanted to get an idea of scale of the early Khmer architecture before descending on Angkor itself. The views promised to be breath-taking and, judging by the LP’s description, I was going to have a real adventure getting there.
The first part of the journey was innocuous enough. I caught one of the tourist buses heading for Siem Reap and curled up with David J’s ‘Nascent’ and Bill Bryson’s ‘A Short History of Nearly Everything’ for company. We stopped at a little bomb-crater by the side of the road called Skuon, which is famous for one particular culinary delicacy: deep fried spider. Never one to pass up an opportunity to find new ways to satisfy my hunger, I tucked in with a sense of great anticipation. Unfortunately, disappointment was the only result – the spider may have once had its own unique flavour, but this had long since been banished by the chilli-oil in which it had been incinerated. The result was like a black, greasy, oddly-shaped chip.
However, my culinary explorations for the morning were not yet over. Far from satisfied by the lack-lustre arachnid, I ducked inside to get a bowl of noodle soup (which is now a firm favourite!). When it came, I tucked straight into the large piece of ‘tofu’ floating near the surface…just as I was registering surprise at the somewhat meaty texture, I also detected a distinct offal flavour to the morsel. Mid-mastication, my jaw froze, motionless, as I made a quick inspection of the rest of the bowl’s contents. Sure enough, there were a couple of miniature kidneys and some slices of liver. I couldn’t begin to guess what the white, rubbery item in my mouth was – all I knew was that I no longer wanted it there. In poor countries like Cambodia, it is frowned upon to leave food uneaten…so there was no chance, in this crowded pit-stop, of me spitting out the offending article and making a run for it. Gamely, I held my breath and, not for the first time in my life, felt grateful for the sheer size of my gullet as I squeezed it down, almost whole. I only gagged twice…and this was soon remedied by a bite or two of the insipid spider. I then set about finishing the rest of my bowl of noodles…using the age-old ‘clumsy foreigner’ trick to excuse my suddenly appalling command of chopsticks. Strangely, every pinch of noodles and vegetables seemed to find its way, uncannily, into my mouth. Inexplicably, every rubbery morsel of animal innards seemed to escape dexterity at the crucial moment…and ended up on the floor. ;-) Feeling a little queasy and sorry for myself, I decided to reward myself for being a big, brave boy by having a nice can of lychee juice – a little like being taken for a Burgess ice cream after a visit to the dentist as a child.
Another hour’s journey brought me to my first destination of the day, Kompong Thom. It’s roughly half way between Siem Reap and Phnom Penh and also gateway to some of the outlying Angkorian sites. More a functional than an aesthetic conurbation, I wasn’t too disappointed to be only passing through. I wondered down to the taxi park to find myself a nice 4-WD pick-up which would take me up 137km of logging track to Tbeng Meancheay. There weren’t any ‘nice’ Ford 150s or anything else ‘nice’ for that matter...just plenty of decrepit Isuzu and Toyota rust heaps, which seemed to be held together more by the rope tying down their cargo than by conventional welding. As I began bartering for a seat in the air-conditioned cab of one of these dubious machines, I learnt my first lesson about Cambodian hire-transport: the front seat is actually designed to hold two people. Well, I say designed…what I should say is expected. That means that someone requiring the entire seat (essential when you’re 6ft 4 and 120kg) has to pay double.
After some good-natured haggling, and a lot of sitting around waiting for more people to spread themselves over the sacks, parcels and firewood in the back, we eventually got underway in the baking heat of the midday sun. Stretching out in my (relatively) comfortable seat, with air-con playing full-blast into my face, I was feeling pretty pleased with myself…I mean, how bad could the roads be in a leviathan like this? The tyres looked like they’d been borrowed off a JCB and, as Jezza had so ably demonstrated on Top Gear, these Japanese babies were almost bomb-proof. The only slight annoyance was the high-volume, low-quality Cambodian pop music blaring out from the speakers.
Of course, full of so much optimism, something was bound to happen…and sure enough, not an hour out of Kompong Thom, we were bouncing across a particularly rocky stretch of ‘road’, when there was a thumping on the roof of the cab. We stopped to see what the problem was and as the driver opened his door, there was an ominous hissing sound and the horizon began to lean slowly to the right: we had a flat. For half an hour, we stood in the blazing sunshine as the mechanic and the driver rectified the situation. I did make at least a token effort by helping to loosen some very tight nuts, but they seemed to have the situation well under control…almost like it was a regular occurrence or something.
It was another 5 dusty, bone-shaking hours before we pulled into Tbeng Meancheay – capital of the Preah Vihear province and a one-horse town if ever I’ve seen one…and the horse appeared to be away on holiday. My rucksack, which had spent the journey tied to the tail-gate, had acquired a new camouflage layer of thick ochre. The amount of dust that flew off in clouds when I gave it a beating got me wondering about the state of the lungs of those people who’d been riding on the back…the same people smiling as they waved me off and disappeared in another whirlwind of red dust.
I found lodgings for the night in a clean, if basic, guesthouse and when I wandered round the corner to the only eatery mentioned in the LP, I was surprised to see another foreigner chowing down on a plate of noodles. Stewart was a Kiwi working for one of the NGOs, responsible for co-ordinating the mammoth task of clearing the country of the landmines left over from civil war and the Khmer Rouge. He rarely saw English-speakers and appreciated having a chance to hold an unstilted conversation. In return, I was happy to get a better picture of a situation which still affects the daily lives of most rural Khmers – and still maims and kills many victims every year. Of all the pernicious aspects of war, the ongoing legacy of land ordnance is the one that continues to have the worst consequences for civilian populations…long after the fighting has ceased. In every village I’d passed through, there had been 20ft signs educating the locals of the dangers. Many miles of even the main road were lined by red posts with skull and crossbones and local people were forced by necessity to live and work in close proximity to these danger zones. Stewart had signed up for two years – living in the back of beyond – to help these people…and I have only the greatest respect and admiration for him.
December 13, 2004
December 11, 2004
Despair…and Hope
Like nothing else I’ve seen on my travels – not even the devastating effects of war in Vietnam – the legacy of the Khmer Rouge shook the very foundations of my belief in humanity. At the same time though, the capacity of the Cambodian people to live in harmony and move on from their troubled past has given me more hope for the future of our race than anything else I’ve ever seen.
It’s difficult to describe in cold, hard words just what you witness when you visit the notorious Killing Fields or the brooding silence of Tol Sleung. For several days it left me saddened and little disconnected from daily reality. No offence to anyone with the stomach to take photographs of these places of death, but I deliberately left my camera at home in the belief that there is something macabre in photographing mass graves and torture chambers. I’ll certainly never need any visual reminder of what I saw…the images are deeply graven in my mind.
Tol Sleung, known as S-21 during its period of use 1975-79, was a former school which was converted into a mass prison and torture facility for Phnom Penh’s intellectuals. On arrival you see four large, white-washed blocks positioned around a peaceful looking central courtyard. From the outside, the only give-aways that it is no longer a school are a ticket booth and a predominance of barbed wire. On closer inspection, you notice graves (of the 14 victims tortured to death as the Vietnamese Army closed in to end the Khmer Rouge’s reign of terror), a gallows and a large wooden sign displaying the institution’s regulations: the latter threatening electrocution or beatings for transgressions such as talking or urinating without permission. The only crime of the thousands of in-mates, who spent 6 horrifying months here before being transported to the Killing Fields, was to be in possession of an intellect. The ‘essential’ information they were tortured into providing was the whereabouts of their families and associates. The sick, twisted Khmer Rouge dream of an idealistic agrarian society had no room for money, infrastructure or brains and, as well as exterminating well-nigh all of the country’s intelligentsia, ruthless Pol Pot and his comrades were determined to stamp out any source of vengeful rebellion. Sickeningly, and by far the worst of the Khmer Rouge’s crimes, young children were indoctrinated into the ‘revolution’ and put to work as torturers and gaolers. Deprived of love and parental guidance, immersed in a world of pain and anguish, I can only imagine that their minds retreated from nightmare reality. They became the harshest and most brutal oppressors and were even, in some cases, known to have meted out punishments to their own relatives. Of all the atrocities committed by the Khmer Rouge, this rape of childhood’s innocence is the one I find most abhorrent.
The prison itself has been divided into two sections now. The first block going clockwise is one of the two that has been left exactly as it was found in 1979 by the advancing Vietnamese. The 21 ground floor torture chambers contain basic iron cots (with no mattresses) and the tools of torture – including leg irons, blunt instruments and electrodes. Over the beds on the wall of each room is a stark, black and white photo of the scene that greeted the Vietnamese: the grotesquely scarred bodies of the final 14 victims (buried in the courtyard) and the 7 barely-breathing and equally badly maimed survivors. It was a horrifying insight into the depths of human depravity.
Block 2 was one of the two that has been renovated and now houses museum displays. It was, however, no less harrowing…the first two rooms were filled with the grim, poignant mug-shots of the regime’s victims. The Khmer Rouge seemed to have a fascination with documenting their atrocities. Every single inmate of S-21 had been photographed with a caption board displaying an ID number. Some of the faces were smiling; some with defiant expressions, others cowed; on some you could see the marks of punishment and on others nothing but the weary look of resignation. One thing is certain: for six months they lived in fear and misery, before being carted down the road to be slaughtered. The sheer number of faces on those walls and display boards was deeply disturbing. As I looked into each and every set of eyes, I felt sad and angry that each of their lives had ended prematurely for no good reason. In the last room, were gruesome, artistic depictions of the torture methods used and some of the instruments thus employed…this is detail I don’t wish to go into.
Block 3, again, had been left in its original state. The ground floor had been divided into brick cells 3ft by 6ft where the male prisoners were kept in solitary confinement. The first floor was similarly divided into wooden cells for the solitary imprisonment of women. On the top floor were the larger mass cells for the rest of the prisoners. In these they were kept lying flat on the hard floor, locked to long iron bars by their ankles along with six others. All movement and noise were strictly prohibited under threat of torture. Please, for a moment, imagine lying there in silence and deep discomfort, watching your cell-mates being beaten and hearing the screams coming from the torture chambers across the way. Really think about it. Do you think you would have stayed sane? Do you think you would have had the will to resist giving up your friends and family when it came to be your turn?
The fourth building housed displays of artwork by survivors, testimonies of former Khmer Rouge cadres and photography of some of the excavations at the Killing Fields. After this final assault on my compassion, I sat in the courtyard under the shade of the tree – trying to get my head around what I’d just seen. Far from the peaceful oasis I’d seen at the start of my visit, the courtyard had assumed a brooding, menacing air…the keeper of dark secrets and a witness to untold miseries. After a couple of minutes, I no longer wanted to be there and I almost ran across the road to the café that the three of us had agreed to have lunch at. Twenty minutes later, Mark and Mel joined me and our mood was certainly very sombre.
After lunch, we hooked up with our drivers again for the 15km ride to Choeung Ek. The last 8km were on a dusty, red, pot-holed track. By the time we arrived, I looked like the victim of a bad experiment with St. Tropez and my mouth had acquired a slightly mealy texture. The first thing that struck me about the Killing Fields was how innocent they looked - ridiculous of me really to expect land and trees to harbour the guilt of the past deeds of men. From a distance – much like Tol Sleung – there was a tranquil, unspoilt feel to the surroundings. However, once you realise that almost 9000 bodies (mostly blind-folded and tied) were found in several mass graves here, the illusion is soon shattered: once you realise that innocent children and even babies were slaughtered by other children; once you realise those white sticks lying on the ground are bones; once you realise that the central memorial monument contains thousands of human skulls…
I really wanted to get my head round this – to really understand what had happened here and try, at least, to learn the horrific lessons that the scene was trying to teach me…but I couldn’t. In the end, the sheer scale of those past horrors was just too much for me and I was left dumb-founded, staring silently at the mausoleum. Standing around one of the graves, a group of Cambodians seemed to be holding some sort of memorial service. As the strains of Amazing Grace brought memories of my great grandfather’s funeral flooding back to me, I saw several of the participants crying and leaning on each other for support. It was the only open expression of grief I have seen expressed by any Cambodian over that terrible time…the 3 years, 8 months and 21 days that are forever engraved in the hearts of the people who survived.
After a day like that – without the ability to grasp what I’d seen – there was only option. With no way of making sense, I decided to de-sensitize altogether and got absolutely annihilated.
The following day saw the departure of Mark and Mel. Still in a strange mood after the previous day, I feel my farewell may not have been as effusive as it should have been. I had really enjoyed their company and they had certainly been a big, positive part of my Vietnam experience. Our final outing was another trip to the Khmer boxing and this at least brought us out of our shells a little. They went straight to the airport from the boxing and, as they left, I felt somewhat bereft. I’d shared some great experiences with them and was certain that we’d meet again in the future.
The other pressing news of the day was that Philipo had decided to sack-off going home for Christmas. He and Jane had been debating the pros and cons since our arrival and the lure of a beach Christmas had proved too much, it seemed. For the next two days, we hung out on the deck of New Lodge. Food was eaten, books were read, beer was drunk and eventually I realised that I too was waiting for the rest of the crew to return from Sihanoukville. Phil and Jane hadn’t told any of them that he was staying and the thought of surprising them with our presence, coupled with the desire for company kept me in Phnom Penh longer than I’d intended. The other mitigating factor was that the boat I’d wanted to take to Kratie (home of the freshwater, irrawaddy dolphins) doesn’t run outside the wet season…and I had no intention of taking the bus!
It’s difficult to describe in cold, hard words just what you witness when you visit the notorious Killing Fields or the brooding silence of Tol Sleung. For several days it left me saddened and little disconnected from daily reality. No offence to anyone with the stomach to take photographs of these places of death, but I deliberately left my camera at home in the belief that there is something macabre in photographing mass graves and torture chambers. I’ll certainly never need any visual reminder of what I saw…the images are deeply graven in my mind.
Tol Sleung, known as S-21 during its period of use 1975-79, was a former school which was converted into a mass prison and torture facility for Phnom Penh’s intellectuals. On arrival you see four large, white-washed blocks positioned around a peaceful looking central courtyard. From the outside, the only give-aways that it is no longer a school are a ticket booth and a predominance of barbed wire. On closer inspection, you notice graves (of the 14 victims tortured to death as the Vietnamese Army closed in to end the Khmer Rouge’s reign of terror), a gallows and a large wooden sign displaying the institution’s regulations: the latter threatening electrocution or beatings for transgressions such as talking or urinating without permission. The only crime of the thousands of in-mates, who spent 6 horrifying months here before being transported to the Killing Fields, was to be in possession of an intellect. The ‘essential’ information they were tortured into providing was the whereabouts of their families and associates. The sick, twisted Khmer Rouge dream of an idealistic agrarian society had no room for money, infrastructure or brains and, as well as exterminating well-nigh all of the country’s intelligentsia, ruthless Pol Pot and his comrades were determined to stamp out any source of vengeful rebellion. Sickeningly, and by far the worst of the Khmer Rouge’s crimes, young children were indoctrinated into the ‘revolution’ and put to work as torturers and gaolers. Deprived of love and parental guidance, immersed in a world of pain and anguish, I can only imagine that their minds retreated from nightmare reality. They became the harshest and most brutal oppressors and were even, in some cases, known to have meted out punishments to their own relatives. Of all the atrocities committed by the Khmer Rouge, this rape of childhood’s innocence is the one I find most abhorrent.
The prison itself has been divided into two sections now. The first block going clockwise is one of the two that has been left exactly as it was found in 1979 by the advancing Vietnamese. The 21 ground floor torture chambers contain basic iron cots (with no mattresses) and the tools of torture – including leg irons, blunt instruments and electrodes. Over the beds on the wall of each room is a stark, black and white photo of the scene that greeted the Vietnamese: the grotesquely scarred bodies of the final 14 victims (buried in the courtyard) and the 7 barely-breathing and equally badly maimed survivors. It was a horrifying insight into the depths of human depravity.
Block 2 was one of the two that has been renovated and now houses museum displays. It was, however, no less harrowing…the first two rooms were filled with the grim, poignant mug-shots of the regime’s victims. The Khmer Rouge seemed to have a fascination with documenting their atrocities. Every single inmate of S-21 had been photographed with a caption board displaying an ID number. Some of the faces were smiling; some with defiant expressions, others cowed; on some you could see the marks of punishment and on others nothing but the weary look of resignation. One thing is certain: for six months they lived in fear and misery, before being carted down the road to be slaughtered. The sheer number of faces on those walls and display boards was deeply disturbing. As I looked into each and every set of eyes, I felt sad and angry that each of their lives had ended prematurely for no good reason. In the last room, were gruesome, artistic depictions of the torture methods used and some of the instruments thus employed…this is detail I don’t wish to go into.
Block 3, again, had been left in its original state. The ground floor had been divided into brick cells 3ft by 6ft where the male prisoners were kept in solitary confinement. The first floor was similarly divided into wooden cells for the solitary imprisonment of women. On the top floor were the larger mass cells for the rest of the prisoners. In these they were kept lying flat on the hard floor, locked to long iron bars by their ankles along with six others. All movement and noise were strictly prohibited under threat of torture. Please, for a moment, imagine lying there in silence and deep discomfort, watching your cell-mates being beaten and hearing the screams coming from the torture chambers across the way. Really think about it. Do you think you would have stayed sane? Do you think you would have had the will to resist giving up your friends and family when it came to be your turn?
The fourth building housed displays of artwork by survivors, testimonies of former Khmer Rouge cadres and photography of some of the excavations at the Killing Fields. After this final assault on my compassion, I sat in the courtyard under the shade of the tree – trying to get my head around what I’d just seen. Far from the peaceful oasis I’d seen at the start of my visit, the courtyard had assumed a brooding, menacing air…the keeper of dark secrets and a witness to untold miseries. After a couple of minutes, I no longer wanted to be there and I almost ran across the road to the café that the three of us had agreed to have lunch at. Twenty minutes later, Mark and Mel joined me and our mood was certainly very sombre.
After lunch, we hooked up with our drivers again for the 15km ride to Choeung Ek. The last 8km were on a dusty, red, pot-holed track. By the time we arrived, I looked like the victim of a bad experiment with St. Tropez and my mouth had acquired a slightly mealy texture. The first thing that struck me about the Killing Fields was how innocent they looked - ridiculous of me really to expect land and trees to harbour the guilt of the past deeds of men. From a distance – much like Tol Sleung – there was a tranquil, unspoilt feel to the surroundings. However, once you realise that almost 9000 bodies (mostly blind-folded and tied) were found in several mass graves here, the illusion is soon shattered: once you realise that innocent children and even babies were slaughtered by other children; once you realise those white sticks lying on the ground are bones; once you realise that the central memorial monument contains thousands of human skulls…
I really wanted to get my head round this – to really understand what had happened here and try, at least, to learn the horrific lessons that the scene was trying to teach me…but I couldn’t. In the end, the sheer scale of those past horrors was just too much for me and I was left dumb-founded, staring silently at the mausoleum. Standing around one of the graves, a group of Cambodians seemed to be holding some sort of memorial service. As the strains of Amazing Grace brought memories of my great grandfather’s funeral flooding back to me, I saw several of the participants crying and leaning on each other for support. It was the only open expression of grief I have seen expressed by any Cambodian over that terrible time…the 3 years, 8 months and 21 days that are forever engraved in the hearts of the people who survived.
After a day like that – without the ability to grasp what I’d seen – there was only option. With no way of making sense, I decided to de-sensitize altogether and got absolutely annihilated.
The following day saw the departure of Mark and Mel. Still in a strange mood after the previous day, I feel my farewell may not have been as effusive as it should have been. I had really enjoyed their company and they had certainly been a big, positive part of my Vietnam experience. Our final outing was another trip to the Khmer boxing and this at least brought us out of our shells a little. They went straight to the airport from the boxing and, as they left, I felt somewhat bereft. I’d shared some great experiences with them and was certain that we’d meet again in the future.
The other pressing news of the day was that Philipo had decided to sack-off going home for Christmas. He and Jane had been debating the pros and cons since our arrival and the lure of a beach Christmas had proved too much, it seemed. For the next two days, we hung out on the deck of New Lodge. Food was eaten, books were read, beer was drunk and eventually I realised that I too was waiting for the rest of the crew to return from Sihanoukville. Phil and Jane hadn’t told any of them that he was staying and the thought of surprising them with our presence, coupled with the desire for company kept me in Phnom Penh longer than I’d intended. The other mitigating factor was that the boat I’d wanted to take to Kratie (home of the freshwater, irrawaddy dolphins) doesn’t run outside the wet season…and I had no intention of taking the bus!
December 10, 2004
Phnom Penh
Back in the city, I headed for a little place called New Lodge, on the Boeng Kak lakeside. It had been recommended by my new friends and I wasn’t surprised to find Phil and Jane there when I arrived. Phil was due to head back home (I’d already given him a load of Christmas cards for posting) and he and Jane had had to leave the beach before the others if he was to have any chance of seeing Angkor before his flight out of Bangkok. One of the benefits of being there with these favoured previous customers was the preferential service I got from the staff. As soon as I’d checked in, the resident wideboy, Jay, was asking if I’d like to go and see the Khmer Traditional Boxing. Phil had previously told me that this was like a crazy, hardcore version of Mutay (think extreme Thai kick-boxing!) so I immediately signed up.
I wondered down the road to check my e-mail and found that Mark and Mel were staying just round the corner for this, the last two days of their trip. We met up and, as I suspected, Mark was well up for a little blood-sport. We had also heard that there was to be cockroach racing at a bar in town and decided to make Friday night ‘Sportsnight’. With the boxing between 5 and 7 and the roach races due to start at 9, there would even be time for dinner. Fleur had also decided to join us (Kirsty and Jo didn’t appear to be as bloodthirsty as the rest of us) so there was a veritable motorcade as we headed off to the Olympic Stadium for the boxing.
The boxing certainly didn’t disappoint. It’s not just about two guys knocking the crap out of each other – much as in Mutay, there is a strong spiritual and ritualistic element. There is also – strangely at first – an accompanying band consisting of several percussion instruments and the kind of flute/pipe you’d expect to find in the hands of a snake-charmer. Prior to the bout, this pipe starts up a slow skirl and a slow steady rhythm is pounded out on one of the hand drums. The boxers sway and glide around the ring, performing intricate pre-fight rituals. There are slow-motion kicks and punches, ritualistic offerings to the gods and plenty of good old-fashioned prostrated praying. All of this conducted in time to the hypnotic accompaniment and with the utmost respect for their fellow competitor. It certainly beats the shadow-boxing, prancing and hard-staring common at the start of your average Queensberry Rules fight. When the fight starts the music continues and after a short while you begin to understand its importance. The two protagonists close and begin to shuffle and sway in time to the music. Their blows and kicks come not from a sudden swift alteration of stance, but rather seem to flow as part of an intricate and deadly dance. As the tempo of the fight increases, so does the music – at times it’s hard to tell whether the fighters are conducting the musicians or vice-versa – but the result is a heady, intoxicating mixture of visual brutality and mesmerizing sounds. Elbows, knees, gloved fists and taped feet rain in blows from all angles and of such intensity that you feel both fighters must surely collapse any second. It thrashes the pants off all the combat sports I’ve ever seen on television – with the possible exception of Ultimate Fighting, which being somewhat of a freak-show, lacks the dignity of Khmer Boxing. The dignity and respect shown by these boys was something to behold…each well-landed blow acknowledged with a nod of the head; often breaking up a clinch by mutual assent before the referee’s intervention is required; grace in both defeat and victory. I can’t imagine any of these boys biting someone’s ear off when they thought they were going to lose (á la Mike Tyson). Suffice to say we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves and worked up a healthy appetite with all the excitement and shouting. Mark, Mel, Fleur and I went to look for somewhere to eat near the Ginger Monkey (venue for the roach racing), while Jane and Phil agreed to meet us there after a bite to eat back on the lakeside. As the four of us got stuck into some good tucker, I reflected on how pleasant it was to be hanging out with the same friends I’d met nearly three weeks and 3000km before.
After the excitement of the boxing, the roach racing was a total anticlimax. The only pulse-quickening moment being when the ‘trainer’ dropped one of his competitors, who tried to make a speedy exit up a lady’s skirt: ten seconds of squealing and frantic tottering around was as good as it got. I stuck around to watch the first race, which was a runaway victory for the only competitor that even left its trap. It got me thinking that they should maybe fix up a ‘hare’ made from rotting fruit to give the idle, over-fed insects some reason for moving their fat, carapaced arses. Rather than waste my time trying to sell this idea to the owners, I chose to ride a bike home and go to bed. Mark, Mel and I had made plans to visit Tol Sleung and the Killing Fields the following day and I knew I would need a good night’s rest in preparation.
I wondered down the road to check my e-mail and found that Mark and Mel were staying just round the corner for this, the last two days of their trip. We met up and, as I suspected, Mark was well up for a little blood-sport. We had also heard that there was to be cockroach racing at a bar in town and decided to make Friday night ‘Sportsnight’. With the boxing between 5 and 7 and the roach races due to start at 9, there would even be time for dinner. Fleur had also decided to join us (Kirsty and Jo didn’t appear to be as bloodthirsty as the rest of us) so there was a veritable motorcade as we headed off to the Olympic Stadium for the boxing.
The boxing certainly didn’t disappoint. It’s not just about two guys knocking the crap out of each other – much as in Mutay, there is a strong spiritual and ritualistic element. There is also – strangely at first – an accompanying band consisting of several percussion instruments and the kind of flute/pipe you’d expect to find in the hands of a snake-charmer. Prior to the bout, this pipe starts up a slow skirl and a slow steady rhythm is pounded out on one of the hand drums. The boxers sway and glide around the ring, performing intricate pre-fight rituals. There are slow-motion kicks and punches, ritualistic offerings to the gods and plenty of good old-fashioned prostrated praying. All of this conducted in time to the hypnotic accompaniment and with the utmost respect for their fellow competitor. It certainly beats the shadow-boxing, prancing and hard-staring common at the start of your average Queensberry Rules fight. When the fight starts the music continues and after a short while you begin to understand its importance. The two protagonists close and begin to shuffle and sway in time to the music. Their blows and kicks come not from a sudden swift alteration of stance, but rather seem to flow as part of an intricate and deadly dance. As the tempo of the fight increases, so does the music – at times it’s hard to tell whether the fighters are conducting the musicians or vice-versa – but the result is a heady, intoxicating mixture of visual brutality and mesmerizing sounds. Elbows, knees, gloved fists and taped feet rain in blows from all angles and of such intensity that you feel both fighters must surely collapse any second. It thrashes the pants off all the combat sports I’ve ever seen on television – with the possible exception of Ultimate Fighting, which being somewhat of a freak-show, lacks the dignity of Khmer Boxing. The dignity and respect shown by these boys was something to behold…each well-landed blow acknowledged with a nod of the head; often breaking up a clinch by mutual assent before the referee’s intervention is required; grace in both defeat and victory. I can’t imagine any of these boys biting someone’s ear off when they thought they were going to lose (á la Mike Tyson). Suffice to say we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves and worked up a healthy appetite with all the excitement and shouting. Mark, Mel, Fleur and I went to look for somewhere to eat near the Ginger Monkey (venue for the roach racing), while Jane and Phil agreed to meet us there after a bite to eat back on the lakeside. As the four of us got stuck into some good tucker, I reflected on how pleasant it was to be hanging out with the same friends I’d met nearly three weeks and 3000km before.
After the excitement of the boxing, the roach racing was a total anticlimax. The only pulse-quickening moment being when the ‘trainer’ dropped one of his competitors, who tried to make a speedy exit up a lady’s skirt: ten seconds of squealing and frantic tottering around was as good as it got. I stuck around to watch the first race, which was a runaway victory for the only competitor that even left its trap. It got me thinking that they should maybe fix up a ‘hare’ made from rotting fruit to give the idle, over-fed insects some reason for moving their fat, carapaced arses. Rather than waste my time trying to sell this idea to the owners, I chose to ride a bike home and go to bed. Mark, Mel and I had made plans to visit Tol Sleung and the Killing Fields the following day and I knew I would need a good night’s rest in preparation.
December 06, 2004
Beach Life
After slogging hard through Vietnam, I had already decided that I was going to head south to the beaches of Sihanoukville for some much-needed R&R. In the morning I got myself hooked up with the wireless broadband I’d been craving all the way since Romblon, before catching a hot, uncomfortable coach to the sea. The road, at least, was flat and smooth (the result of a National Highway improvement programme that means the six busiest roads in Cambodia are actually passable by bus!), but I cocooned myself in trance and tried to ignore the unpleasant sensation of hot vinyl under my bum and a total dearth of legroom. At the start of the journey I’d seen a large horde of English getting on together. There were eight of them all told and I swiftly made up my mind not to get involved with such a large group…my thought being that hanging out with a big group of my fellow counrymen was something I could do quite easily at home and that I’d see and do more if I kept myself to myself. I was, in some respects, right…but I’m glad I didn’t stick to the original plan.
At a rest-stop I got chatting to one of the girls, who immediately insisted that I come and meet the rest of the gang. Jane, her boyfriend Phil and her brother Sid were with Tom and Adam from Manchester, Andy from Essex and Anton and Sandra from Brighton. They had all bumped into each other in various parts of Laos, China and Vietnam and had decided to hang out together for one obvious reason…they are all unbelievably sound people!
For the next week, I’m happy to say I did absolutely nothing but lie on the beach, play Frisbee, eat, drink and chat with this happy band of travellers. Down on Serendipity beach, calm and tranquil but for the exceedingly cute and very persistent beach urchins (more of whom later), every like-minded English traveller who came our way swelled the ranks until we had a veritable army. Mark (Aussie) and his girlfriend Angie (Canadian), whom I’d met through Mark and Mel in Hoi An, even turned up…and it turned out that Jane and the gang had met them before too. On one evening, when Fleur, Jo and Kirsty turned up from Saigon, there must have been at least twenty of us sprawled around the beach in front of Uncle Bob’s Bar.
The week was an endless blur of Fish Amok (the local coconut curry made with Barracuda), crayfish, fresh fruit, sunshine and saltwater. The beach kids (mostly homeless) continuously pestered you to buy there wares…cajoling, nagging, pleading or making puppy eyes to elicit promises of later business. Adam, whose good natured amiability made him an easy target, was literally festooned with the free embroidered bracelets they gave to their best customers.
Anton – a kindred spirit of the gentle giant variety – and I got seriously into our crayfish. Every day the lady would come up the beach with a basket on her head of freshly-cooked, foot-long crustaceans. To order, she shelled them, rubbed salt, pepper and lemon juice into their meaty flesh and watched with evident pleasure as ‘Wonton’ and I ploughed our way through an endless supply. We were buying in such bulk, she even gave us a wholesale discount.
Suffice to say we got battered pretty much every night (there’s always a happy hour on some drink or other!) and it was always a competition to see who could roll out of bed and onto the sand last. I must recommend the curative powers of clean seawater (and tropical sunshine of course!) to anyone suffering from a hangover…nothing perks you up better…and it certainly leaves you ready for the next night’s episode.
There isn’t much more to tell – white sand, turquoise sea, food, drink and the pleasure of good company…what more could a man need? After six days of doing nothing, I felt my batteries recharged enough to take on the rest of Cambodia.
Apologies for the lack of photos in this section – buying new batteries for my camera was such a big hassle, I didn’t manage it until the day I left. Bear in mind that this is the same person who didn’t walk more than 40 yards down the beach in either direction for the first three days…
At a rest-stop I got chatting to one of the girls, who immediately insisted that I come and meet the rest of the gang. Jane, her boyfriend Phil and her brother Sid were with Tom and Adam from Manchester, Andy from Essex and Anton and Sandra from Brighton. They had all bumped into each other in various parts of Laos, China and Vietnam and had decided to hang out together for one obvious reason…they are all unbelievably sound people!
For the next week, I’m happy to say I did absolutely nothing but lie on the beach, play Frisbee, eat, drink and chat with this happy band of travellers. Down on Serendipity beach, calm and tranquil but for the exceedingly cute and very persistent beach urchins (more of whom later), every like-minded English traveller who came our way swelled the ranks until we had a veritable army. Mark (Aussie) and his girlfriend Angie (Canadian), whom I’d met through Mark and Mel in Hoi An, even turned up…and it turned out that Jane and the gang had met them before too. On one evening, when Fleur, Jo and Kirsty turned up from Saigon, there must have been at least twenty of us sprawled around the beach in front of Uncle Bob’s Bar.
The week was an endless blur of Fish Amok (the local coconut curry made with Barracuda), crayfish, fresh fruit, sunshine and saltwater. The beach kids (mostly homeless) continuously pestered you to buy there wares…cajoling, nagging, pleading or making puppy eyes to elicit promises of later business. Adam, whose good natured amiability made him an easy target, was literally festooned with the free embroidered bracelets they gave to their best customers.
Anton – a kindred spirit of the gentle giant variety – and I got seriously into our crayfish. Every day the lady would come up the beach with a basket on her head of freshly-cooked, foot-long crustaceans. To order, she shelled them, rubbed salt, pepper and lemon juice into their meaty flesh and watched with evident pleasure as ‘Wonton’ and I ploughed our way through an endless supply. We were buying in such bulk, she even gave us a wholesale discount.
Suffice to say we got battered pretty much every night (there’s always a happy hour on some drink or other!) and it was always a competition to see who could roll out of bed and onto the sand last. I must recommend the curative powers of clean seawater (and tropical sunshine of course!) to anyone suffering from a hangover…nothing perks you up better…and it certainly leaves you ready for the next night’s episode.
There isn’t much more to tell – white sand, turquoise sea, food, drink and the pleasure of good company…what more could a man need? After six days of doing nothing, I felt my batteries recharged enough to take on the rest of Cambodia.
Apologies for the lack of photos in this section – buying new batteries for my camera was such a big hassle, I didn’t manage it until the day I left. Bear in mind that this is the same person who didn’t walk more than 40 yards down the beach in either direction for the first three days…
December 03, 2004
Welcome to Cambodia
The details of the early part of the day we crossed into Cambodia seem irrelevant now. After 25 long days, I was in a hurry to leave Vietnam and explore the less-travelled byways of a country long-ravaged by civil strife and political upheaval. The only thing that made any impression on my mind before our arrival in Phnom Penh (at 7pm) was an arrogant and idiotic French man who was travelling with us. Somehow, despite the fact that everyone else had one (including his girlfriend / wife!), he had managed to present himself without a visa. An hour-and-a-half wasted in the baking sun on the side of the river did nothing to improve my opinion of the French. The other, slightly more pleasing outcome to the situation was a big row with his spouse…resulting in her flirting outrageously with every other man on board for the rest of the journey ;-).
From the river, we took a coach through the countryside towards Phnom Penh. It was a chance to glimpse the obvious differences between these two neighbouring countries. For a start the Cambodians are much darker and finer-featured than the Vietnamese. The women are darkly pretty with thick, often wavy tresses – in sharp contrast to the flatter features, paler skin and fine straight hair I’d grown used to. Probably as a result of the contrast with their darker complexions, wide toothy grins seemed brighter and more welcoming too.
Architecturally, the biggest difference is in the temples: high, flame-shaped adornments opposing the heavy, dragon-centric detailing I’d seen on so many religious buildings in Vietnam. Cambodia also feels like a truly Buddhist culture – wats (temples) are everywhere and you don’t have to travel far to catch the flash of an orange monk’s robe and tonsured scalp.
Finally – and as I have since confirmed on several tortuous journeys – the roads felt and looked in much poorer condition. There is the same chaotic melee of traffic (although driving the wrong way down the wrong side of the street is the rule, rather than the exception here!) but with the added frisson of swerving to avoid Grand Canyon-sized potholes…or taking them at speed and suddenly being teleported to the other side of the road in time to earn some heavy horn action from an onrushing truck. Call me insane, but every kilometre widened the grin on my weary face.
Once, belatedly, in the nation’s capital, Jonah and I were too weary to strike out for a cheaper or better-located hotel and ended up checking into the guesthouse whose minibus had so conveniently picked us up from the river. After a wash and brush up, we ventured into the local neighbourhood (miles from the town centre) and found a decent-looking eatery (the beer girls were certainly decent-looking!) where we ordered one of the local specialities: Beef Volcano. Essentially like a Korean barbeque at the table with local ingredients. This was gratefully washed down with a bottle or two of the world-famous, national brew: Angkor Beer.
After dinner, I joined Jonah on a mission to say hello to a girl his cousin had ‘gotten to know’ when he was in Phnom Penh. We ended up playing pool with two startlingly attractive girls at an American-owned bar…certainly a pleasant way to end my first day in Cambodia.
From the river, we took a coach through the countryside towards Phnom Penh. It was a chance to glimpse the obvious differences between these two neighbouring countries. For a start the Cambodians are much darker and finer-featured than the Vietnamese. The women are darkly pretty with thick, often wavy tresses – in sharp contrast to the flatter features, paler skin and fine straight hair I’d grown used to. Probably as a result of the contrast with their darker complexions, wide toothy grins seemed brighter and more welcoming too.
Architecturally, the biggest difference is in the temples: high, flame-shaped adornments opposing the heavy, dragon-centric detailing I’d seen on so many religious buildings in Vietnam. Cambodia also feels like a truly Buddhist culture – wats (temples) are everywhere and you don’t have to travel far to catch the flash of an orange monk’s robe and tonsured scalp.
Finally – and as I have since confirmed on several tortuous journeys – the roads felt and looked in much poorer condition. There is the same chaotic melee of traffic (although driving the wrong way down the wrong side of the street is the rule, rather than the exception here!) but with the added frisson of swerving to avoid Grand Canyon-sized potholes…or taking them at speed and suddenly being teleported to the other side of the road in time to earn some heavy horn action from an onrushing truck. Call me insane, but every kilometre widened the grin on my weary face.
Once, belatedly, in the nation’s capital, Jonah and I were too weary to strike out for a cheaper or better-located hotel and ended up checking into the guesthouse whose minibus had so conveniently picked us up from the river. After a wash and brush up, we ventured into the local neighbourhood (miles from the town centre) and found a decent-looking eatery (the beer girls were certainly decent-looking!) where we ordered one of the local specialities: Beef Volcano. Essentially like a Korean barbeque at the table with local ingredients. This was gratefully washed down with a bottle or two of the world-famous, national brew: Angkor Beer.
After dinner, I joined Jonah on a mission to say hello to a girl his cousin had ‘gotten to know’ when he was in Phnom Penh. We ended up playing pool with two startlingly attractive girls at an American-owned bar…certainly a pleasant way to end my first day in Cambodia.
December 02, 2004
Good Evening, Vietnam
We were up again at the crack of dawn with another full itinerary beckoning for the day ahead. I snuck out a little earlier than most to find breakfast at a street stall – my previous experience of package tour food earlier in Vietnam had led me to be wary, especially when I was going to be paying for it. For a little less than 15p I found some noodle soup with an unidentifiable piece of meat on the bone. Whatever it was, the noodles and soup tasted delicious and I’m sure the pet dog would have enjoyed the remains.
Back at the hotel, we were herded down to the river in an untidy crocodile formation to pick up new boats which were to ferry us through the floating market.
As we cruised downstream, river life was already in full-swing around us. I fear, if we’d been hunting a bargain on melons or cauliflowers, we’d already have missed the boat (excuse the pun!). It was past 7am and the market would have been going since first light (around 5.30ish). By now, fully-laden boats were heading back home – the days purchases already accounted for. Fortunately, we were there for the view…and maybe a sampling of the outrageous array of fruits on offer. When good food is on offer at bargain-basement prices, it’s unlike me to turn my nose up at it. Each of the market boats had an example of its wares on the top of a long pole protruding from the prow. We moored up to a pineapple boat where we were relieved of 20p for a deftly trimmed whole pineapple – its stalk acting like a lollipop stick for the short time it took me to wolf down its sweet, succulent flesh. Two of my companions – a German couple named Tanya and Alex – were so impressed at my obvious enjoyment that they too decided to tuck in…and they weren’t disappointed either. The street markets in Asia are a bright, colourful and somewhat smelly experience…multiply the bright and colourful, add the strident shouts of vendors advertising their wares and subtract the smell (whipped away by a refreshing breeze) and you get some sense of the floating markets. You don’t so much find your purchases as they find you. Everywhere floating bottle shops and noodle stalls ply their trade between the boats. Bowls and glasses are taken, filled, returned and consumed – the dishes are then taken and washed before being stacked and returned: an at-home catering service on the water. The air is filled with the sounds of bartering and raucous laughter; jolly skippers jostle for position and curse good-naturedly at their competitors; everywhere the mechanical putt-putting of hard-worked boat engines and the lapping of water against wooden hulls.
After the floating market we headed upstream to a noodle factory. Copious quantities of rice are ground and mixed with water to produce a thick, gloopy, batter-like substance. This is then steamed on a griddle to produce 2ft-wide pancakes, which are left to dry to a tacky consistency in the sun on large bamboo racks. After eight hours, they are ready to be shredded into vermicelli or cut into noodles. Not the most exciting tourist attraction and not the kind of job you’d write to Jim’ll Fix It for a chance to try – but nevertheless an important industry when you consider the dietary preferences of Asia.
Next stop was the handbag farm. Now I know there are girls reading this who think that handbags grow on trees. However, your average Gucci or Prada patent leather handbag (believe it or not!) actually spent much of its former life holding together the insides of a large grazing animal that moos. For that little extra prestige in Asia, it has to be crocodile or nothing, sweetie. The first thing you notice at a croc farm is the unprecedented olfactory assault you are subjected to by the close proximity of several hundred aggressive reptilians. The second thing you notice is that you must have interrupted them during a game of musical statues…perhaps when the sound system’s blown a fuse. These critters could make a living modelling in shop windows for Lacoste. They seem to do nothing all day long, but stand stock still catching rays. If it hadn’t been for the fearless (and frankly, either drunk or insane) croc-keeper I could have believed I’d been walking through the new reptile section at Madame Tussaud’s. As we wondered round the enclosures, he happily went into the cages (containing maybe 50 4ft crocs…with lots of very sharp teeth) and playfully(!) pulled their tales, splashed water on them and clicked his fingers under their toothy snouts.
Back once again in the comparative sanity of Can Tho, I dragged Jonah, Tanya and Alex off to my breakfast venue for a spot of something different for lunch. After an unsatisfactory breakfast experience it seemed most of our party had decided to take an unofficial option for lunch…when we returned to the ‘official’ restaurant to pick up our bags, we were confronted by disgruntled staff and an empty dining room. I didn’t feel any particular sense of guilt – I’d grown fed-up of being ripped off for sub-standard fare…and our lunch had been a tenth of the price and perfectly tasty.
Back on the boat, we settled into a 5 hour cruise towards our evening’s destination of Chau Doc. For the first couple of hours I hid myself away from the baleful glare of the sun under the awning and worked on the computer. Eventually, with the battery running low, I joined Alex and Tanya with a few cans of 333 to chat about home and witness the natural kaleidoscope of the setting sun. Long after the final dying rays had sunk beneath the horizon we pulled up to the bank and disembarked. Transport to the hotel was in the Cambodian moto-remorque – a trailer hitched to the back of a motorbike which, like a bumble bee, doesn’t look like it has sufficient power to move. However, the throaty little four stroke dragged four people and baggage, albeit slowly, to our out-of-town hotel. I had made the mistake of assuming that, as on the previous day, we’d all be staying at the same place…which wasn’t the case. I didn’t get an opportunity to say goodbye to Tanya, Alex, Kulli or Joti, which was a little upsetting. I had at least given Kulli my e-mail address, written inside the cover of Catch 22 so, with any luck I’ll be able to catch up with him and Joti in Ealing.
The saving grace of the situation was sharing my room with Jonah and his inimitable New York humour. After ditching our bags, we took a wander into town in search of somewhere to eat. After my budget triumphs earlier in the day, it was Jonah’s turn to come up trumps. After twenty minutes of aimless strolling through the back-end of town (our bloody hotel was so far out of town, we couldn’t even find ourselves on the Lonely Planet map!), we were about ready to settle for any old grub. Down the street, Jonah’s sharp eyes spied a restaurant with oodles of fresh seafood swimming or clambering around tanks outside. Inside it had the look of any number of the spit-and-sawdust places that had served me so well on my road-trip with Russ. We chose our meals by pointing at squid (Jonah) and crab (me) and sat back to wait for the results. Admittedly, we were both ravenous, but the food really was superb. I have no idea what they cooked our food in – garlic and chilli were the only elements we could positively identify – but the flavours were truly mouth-watering. I had a hard time getting into my crab at first (literally!), but Jonah came up with the (totally erroneous!) suggestion that it was soft-shell crab, which he had seen in Japan and was possible to consume shell and all. Another crack in my ailing molars was testament to the fact that this was not the case…but, without the worry of separating meat from shell, I thoroughly enjoyed my meal. I was that impressed with the crab that, having tried a little of Jonah’s, I ordered a second course of squid. All told, three beers included, all this fine fresh fare set me back less than ten dollars and we rolled home fully satiated. Jonah lost his rag with the hotel staff when we returned to discover that the water in our bathroom still wasn’t running – a problem he’d highlighted before we’d set out in search of dinner. Having lived in Japan for 3 years, where problems don’t occur or are sorted out with the utmost celerity, I can understand why his frustrations boiled over somewhat. After 3 ½ weeks of Vietnam’s laissez-faire attitude, I was a little more sanguine about the situation but, to give him his due, he did eventually get the situation rectified and we were able to clean up before hitting the hay for a well-deserved kip. It was the end of my last full day in Vietnam and, as I waited for the Sandman to pay me a visit, I reflected on the sights I’d seen and the people I’d met during my time immersed in its rich culture and contrasting modernity. I know I will return – but not with the same desire as for the Philippines or Korea. The endless merry-go-round designed to extract the maximum tourist dollar gets a bit much after a while. There are some amazing sights, some of which I’ll never forget – Halong Bay, Hue’s citadel and the majestic rain-clad peaks of the Central Highlands to name a few. Some sights, though less aesthetically appealing, will also remain with me for a long time: Vinh Moc, Khe Sanh and the War Remnants museum were all testament to the futility of war and the amazing resilience of the Vietnamese people. Most of all, my fondest memories are of the people who I met and was able to spend time with. I’m not going to list them all here – anybody mentioned in the last 19,000 words or appearing in one of the many photos has made an impression on me – suffice to say, as with virtually anything in life, it was the people that made Vietnam for me...and I look forward to catching up with all of them in the future – wherever they are in the world.
Back at the hotel, we were herded down to the river in an untidy crocodile formation to pick up new boats which were to ferry us through the floating market.
As we cruised downstream, river life was already in full-swing around us. I fear, if we’d been hunting a bargain on melons or cauliflowers, we’d already have missed the boat (excuse the pun!). It was past 7am and the market would have been going since first light (around 5.30ish). By now, fully-laden boats were heading back home – the days purchases already accounted for. Fortunately, we were there for the view…and maybe a sampling of the outrageous array of fruits on offer. When good food is on offer at bargain-basement prices, it’s unlike me to turn my nose up at it. Each of the market boats had an example of its wares on the top of a long pole protruding from the prow. We moored up to a pineapple boat where we were relieved of 20p for a deftly trimmed whole pineapple – its stalk acting like a lollipop stick for the short time it took me to wolf down its sweet, succulent flesh. Two of my companions – a German couple named Tanya and Alex – were so impressed at my obvious enjoyment that they too decided to tuck in…and they weren’t disappointed either. The street markets in Asia are a bright, colourful and somewhat smelly experience…multiply the bright and colourful, add the strident shouts of vendors advertising their wares and subtract the smell (whipped away by a refreshing breeze) and you get some sense of the floating markets. You don’t so much find your purchases as they find you. Everywhere floating bottle shops and noodle stalls ply their trade between the boats. Bowls and glasses are taken, filled, returned and consumed – the dishes are then taken and washed before being stacked and returned: an at-home catering service on the water. The air is filled with the sounds of bartering and raucous laughter; jolly skippers jostle for position and curse good-naturedly at their competitors; everywhere the mechanical putt-putting of hard-worked boat engines and the lapping of water against wooden hulls.
After the floating market we headed upstream to a noodle factory. Copious quantities of rice are ground and mixed with water to produce a thick, gloopy, batter-like substance. This is then steamed on a griddle to produce 2ft-wide pancakes, which are left to dry to a tacky consistency in the sun on large bamboo racks. After eight hours, they are ready to be shredded into vermicelli or cut into noodles. Not the most exciting tourist attraction and not the kind of job you’d write to Jim’ll Fix It for a chance to try – but nevertheless an important industry when you consider the dietary preferences of Asia.
Next stop was the handbag farm. Now I know there are girls reading this who think that handbags grow on trees. However, your average Gucci or Prada patent leather handbag (believe it or not!) actually spent much of its former life holding together the insides of a large grazing animal that moos. For that little extra prestige in Asia, it has to be crocodile or nothing, sweetie. The first thing you notice at a croc farm is the unprecedented olfactory assault you are subjected to by the close proximity of several hundred aggressive reptilians. The second thing you notice is that you must have interrupted them during a game of musical statues…perhaps when the sound system’s blown a fuse. These critters could make a living modelling in shop windows for Lacoste. They seem to do nothing all day long, but stand stock still catching rays. If it hadn’t been for the fearless (and frankly, either drunk or insane) croc-keeper I could have believed I’d been walking through the new reptile section at Madame Tussaud’s. As we wondered round the enclosures, he happily went into the cages (containing maybe 50 4ft crocs…with lots of very sharp teeth) and playfully(!) pulled their tales, splashed water on them and clicked his fingers under their toothy snouts.
Back once again in the comparative sanity of Can Tho, I dragged Jonah, Tanya and Alex off to my breakfast venue for a spot of something different for lunch. After an unsatisfactory breakfast experience it seemed most of our party had decided to take an unofficial option for lunch…when we returned to the ‘official’ restaurant to pick up our bags, we were confronted by disgruntled staff and an empty dining room. I didn’t feel any particular sense of guilt – I’d grown fed-up of being ripped off for sub-standard fare…and our lunch had been a tenth of the price and perfectly tasty.
Back on the boat, we settled into a 5 hour cruise towards our evening’s destination of Chau Doc. For the first couple of hours I hid myself away from the baleful glare of the sun under the awning and worked on the computer. Eventually, with the battery running low, I joined Alex and Tanya with a few cans of 333 to chat about home and witness the natural kaleidoscope of the setting sun. Long after the final dying rays had sunk beneath the horizon we pulled up to the bank and disembarked. Transport to the hotel was in the Cambodian moto-remorque – a trailer hitched to the back of a motorbike which, like a bumble bee, doesn’t look like it has sufficient power to move. However, the throaty little four stroke dragged four people and baggage, albeit slowly, to our out-of-town hotel. I had made the mistake of assuming that, as on the previous day, we’d all be staying at the same place…which wasn’t the case. I didn’t get an opportunity to say goodbye to Tanya, Alex, Kulli or Joti, which was a little upsetting. I had at least given Kulli my e-mail address, written inside the cover of Catch 22 so, with any luck I’ll be able to catch up with him and Joti in Ealing.
The saving grace of the situation was sharing my room with Jonah and his inimitable New York humour. After ditching our bags, we took a wander into town in search of somewhere to eat. After my budget triumphs earlier in the day, it was Jonah’s turn to come up trumps. After twenty minutes of aimless strolling through the back-end of town (our bloody hotel was so far out of town, we couldn’t even find ourselves on the Lonely Planet map!), we were about ready to settle for any old grub. Down the street, Jonah’s sharp eyes spied a restaurant with oodles of fresh seafood swimming or clambering around tanks outside. Inside it had the look of any number of the spit-and-sawdust places that had served me so well on my road-trip with Russ. We chose our meals by pointing at squid (Jonah) and crab (me) and sat back to wait for the results. Admittedly, we were both ravenous, but the food really was superb. I have no idea what they cooked our food in – garlic and chilli were the only elements we could positively identify – but the flavours were truly mouth-watering. I had a hard time getting into my crab at first (literally!), but Jonah came up with the (totally erroneous!) suggestion that it was soft-shell crab, which he had seen in Japan and was possible to consume shell and all. Another crack in my ailing molars was testament to the fact that this was not the case…but, without the worry of separating meat from shell, I thoroughly enjoyed my meal. I was that impressed with the crab that, having tried a little of Jonah’s, I ordered a second course of squid. All told, three beers included, all this fine fresh fare set me back less than ten dollars and we rolled home fully satiated. Jonah lost his rag with the hotel staff when we returned to discover that the water in our bathroom still wasn’t running – a problem he’d highlighted before we’d set out in search of dinner. Having lived in Japan for 3 years, where problems don’t occur or are sorted out with the utmost celerity, I can understand why his frustrations boiled over somewhat. After 3 ½ weeks of Vietnam’s laissez-faire attitude, I was a little more sanguine about the situation but, to give him his due, he did eventually get the situation rectified and we were able to clean up before hitting the hay for a well-deserved kip. It was the end of my last full day in Vietnam and, as I waited for the Sandman to pay me a visit, I reflected on the sights I’d seen and the people I’d met during my time immersed in its rich culture and contrasting modernity. I know I will return – but not with the same desire as for the Philippines or Korea. The endless merry-go-round designed to extract the maximum tourist dollar gets a bit much after a while. There are some amazing sights, some of which I’ll never forget – Halong Bay, Hue’s citadel and the majestic rain-clad peaks of the Central Highlands to name a few. Some sights, though less aesthetically appealing, will also remain with me for a long time: Vinh Moc, Khe Sanh and the War Remnants museum were all testament to the futility of war and the amazing resilience of the Vietnamese people. Most of all, my fondest memories are of the people who I met and was able to spend time with. I’m not going to list them all here – anybody mentioned in the last 19,000 words or appearing in one of the many photos has made an impression on me – suffice to say, as with virtually anything in life, it was the people that made Vietnam for me...and I look forward to catching up with all of them in the future – wherever they are in the world.
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