Boeng Kak at sundown
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.
December 01, 2004
The Mighty Mekong
The previous night’s nightmare turned out to be far worse in reality. How I managed to haul myself out of bed is beyond me…let alone squeeze everything into my bulging bag and stagger down the road to the travel agency in good time. There were a few people milling around waiting to be picked up by bus for transportation to the river dock…I couldn’t have told you a thing about them if they hadn’t been on the boat with me for the next three days…what with the sunlight and traffic noise, my ailing brain was too overloaded to assimilate any new data. I pulled on my shades and hat and retreated into a cocoon of trance and Catch 22 for the best part of the morning.
As it turned out, my chosen unsociability went un-noticed by my companions – our boat was extremely noisy and the sun was mercilessly hot. The former meant that conversation was frustrating, the latter that most people were too torpid and lethargic to make the effort in the first place. After the worst of my hangover had passed, I eventually struck up conversation with a New Yorker and a Dutchman. Jonah Leff (the American) had spent three years teaching English in Japan and was now heading slowly back home, Erich was on a 4 week holiday through Vietnam.
Everywhere along the river’s steep banks shanty towns encroached – some shacks constructed sturdily with corrugated iron, others flimsily leaning out over the river with their bamboo frames and palm frond walls. Even from these humble abodes, sprang the ubiquitous television aerial. Young children seemed to have nothing better to do than wait for tourists to drift by, before performing acrobatic dives or dropping their pants to salute…the more retiring ones merely shouted and waved. Older children cycled by, school uniforms flowing elegantly behind them as they crossed creeks and canals on the way from school. All around, as we cruised south away from the city towards Mytho, you could see the importance of the river in their daily lives. To these people the Mekong serves as bathtub, washing machine, larder, sink and (rather grimly) toilet. Its tumultuous floods bring destruction and chaos during the wet season, but also the rich alluvium that fertilises the rice bowl of Vietnam. If the country were reduced to living on rice and fish alone, the Delta’s fecund lands could support the entire populace.
For all the life that teems on its many banks, there is just as much activity on the river itself. For longer trips or freight, it isn’t possible to use the mainly narrow riverside tracks. Everywhere there are small boats, passenger ferries, fishing boats, cargo boats and the leviathan dredge barges with their tugs. Every boat has a pair of eyes painted lividly on the prow, signalling the Mekong as home waters and scaring off potential predators – both mythical and real. The dredge barges are the most unsettling sight on the river: seemingly impossibly laden with the riverbed’s fine alluvium, they nose up the middle of the current under the power of an attendant tug. All other traffic cedes right of way to these lumbering hulks – not least, because a collision with such an unstoppable force would only produce one outcome. As they chug by, waves break over their seriously low bows and you wonder how many have been sunk due to that crucial extra half-ton dumped on top by a reckless dredger operator. Immediately after their passing, of course, its all hands on deck in the smaller boats to prevent them being swamped by the wash.
After a poor lunch of instant noodles and vegetables we disembarked at Mytho for a tour round some of the local islands. We visited tropical fruit farms (one of the main suppliers to the celebrated floating markets – more of which, later), honey farms and witnessed the production of coconut candy…which was a useful supplement to lunch. Highlight of a hot, sticky, hungover afternoon was the appearance of a python who I immediately made friends with and found much to my surprise (despite numerous people telling me that this was the case) that his skin was extremely smooth and almost supernaturally dry.
We took small boats down myriad side canals, hemmed in by dense foliage and swarming with mosquitoes and the calls of tropical animals. This murky-watered maze of waterways was reminiscent of scenes from Apocalypse now…a little mist and the distant chatter of machine gun fire would have completed the illusion.
Later, by a combination of boat and (blessed) air-con coach, we arrived at our evening’s destination in Can Tho.
As a group, we went for dinner and I got talking to Aussie-English Pete and Kulli and Joti from, of all places, Ealing. A brief discussion ensued about the various merits of Thai and Vietnamese restaurants in their neighbourhood, before promises to try them out together next time I was there. After my earlier befriending of an innocent snake, I turned Judas by having one of his cousins for dinner in an onion and garlic sauce. Very tasty, if a little chewy.
As it turned out, my chosen unsociability went un-noticed by my companions – our boat was extremely noisy and the sun was mercilessly hot. The former meant that conversation was frustrating, the latter that most people were too torpid and lethargic to make the effort in the first place. After the worst of my hangover had passed, I eventually struck up conversation with a New Yorker and a Dutchman. Jonah Leff (the American) had spent three years teaching English in Japan and was now heading slowly back home, Erich was on a 4 week holiday through Vietnam.
Everywhere along the river’s steep banks shanty towns encroached – some shacks constructed sturdily with corrugated iron, others flimsily leaning out over the river with their bamboo frames and palm frond walls. Even from these humble abodes, sprang the ubiquitous television aerial. Young children seemed to have nothing better to do than wait for tourists to drift by, before performing acrobatic dives or dropping their pants to salute…the more retiring ones merely shouted and waved. Older children cycled by, school uniforms flowing elegantly behind them as they crossed creeks and canals on the way from school. All around, as we cruised south away from the city towards Mytho, you could see the importance of the river in their daily lives. To these people the Mekong serves as bathtub, washing machine, larder, sink and (rather grimly) toilet. Its tumultuous floods bring destruction and chaos during the wet season, but also the rich alluvium that fertilises the rice bowl of Vietnam. If the country were reduced to living on rice and fish alone, the Delta’s fecund lands could support the entire populace.
For all the life that teems on its many banks, there is just as much activity on the river itself. For longer trips or freight, it isn’t possible to use the mainly narrow riverside tracks. Everywhere there are small boats, passenger ferries, fishing boats, cargo boats and the leviathan dredge barges with their tugs. Every boat has a pair of eyes painted lividly on the prow, signalling the Mekong as home waters and scaring off potential predators – both mythical and real. The dredge barges are the most unsettling sight on the river: seemingly impossibly laden with the riverbed’s fine alluvium, they nose up the middle of the current under the power of an attendant tug. All other traffic cedes right of way to these lumbering hulks – not least, because a collision with such an unstoppable force would only produce one outcome. As they chug by, waves break over their seriously low bows and you wonder how many have been sunk due to that crucial extra half-ton dumped on top by a reckless dredger operator. Immediately after their passing, of course, its all hands on deck in the smaller boats to prevent them being swamped by the wash.
After a poor lunch of instant noodles and vegetables we disembarked at Mytho for a tour round some of the local islands. We visited tropical fruit farms (one of the main suppliers to the celebrated floating markets – more of which, later), honey farms and witnessed the production of coconut candy…which was a useful supplement to lunch. Highlight of a hot, sticky, hungover afternoon was the appearance of a python who I immediately made friends with and found much to my surprise (despite numerous people telling me that this was the case) that his skin was extremely smooth and almost supernaturally dry.
We took small boats down myriad side canals, hemmed in by dense foliage and swarming with mosquitoes and the calls of tropical animals. This murky-watered maze of waterways was reminiscent of scenes from Apocalypse now…a little mist and the distant chatter of machine gun fire would have completed the illusion.
Later, by a combination of boat and (blessed) air-con coach, we arrived at our evening’s destination in Can Tho.
As a group, we went for dinner and I got talking to Aussie-English Pete and Kulli and Joti from, of all places, Ealing. A brief discussion ensued about the various merits of Thai and Vietnamese restaurants in their neighbourhood, before promises to try them out together next time I was there. After my earlier befriending of an innocent snake, I turned Judas by having one of his cousins for dinner in an onion and garlic sauce. Very tasty, if a little chewy.
November 30, 2004
War…what is it good for? Absolutely nothing!
After a restless night with the humidity, I made an early start. First stop was the architecturally imposing post office – a former administrative edifice of the French colonial government, it’s high, vaulted ceilings and miles of gilt detailing are a testament to the rich cultural legacy left by the French. Far more disconcerting is the 30ft high portrait of Ho Chi Minh surveying all the comings and goings from a position high on the wall opposite the entrance. Almost an hour later, after signing innumerable forms and paying untold amounts of Dong for god-knows-what, I escaped having despatched a parcel of presents and coffee back to Blighty. Fortunately, my cyclo driver was still waiting to wheel me sedately to the museum. On arrival at the museum, I found myself falling foul of another cultural legacy of the French: the immutable, Vietnamese lunch-break. For a country that has evolved the most comprehensive system of relieving travellers of every available cent, it is a surprising truth that the only place you can spend money between 11.30 and 1pm is in a bar or restaurant. Anyone hiring a Vietnamese tour-guide for the day who doesn’t allow them time for lunch is viewed with the same suspicion as a backstreet, sweatshop owner in Bradford…only the worst kind of slave driver lacks the civility to take lunch it would seem. I settled for returning to the museum after lunch and a spot of internet action. I certainly didn’t want to rush through what I expected to be grim reminder of the brutality of war.
When the time came, I wasn’t really prepared for what was a harrowing experience. I care not a jot for the whys and wherefores of the Vietnam War (referred to by the Vietnamese as the American War). I’m not interested in who was to blame, who had the moral high ground or who committed the worst atrocities. The museum simply and succinctly gives out one clear message…war can only cause pain and horror – both for its participants and for the innocent bystanders so often involved against their will. I am not the President of a great nation or a general planning an assault on a fortified position. I will never have to make decisions that will affect the lives of hundreds or thousands of people. I don’t know how I could decide that carpet-bombing villages, defoliating forests or destroying crops could be the best option available to me. For that I am very grateful. In war, as the museum so clearly demonstrates, people die – often in gruesome circumstances. Some survive, only to produce deformed offspring due to chemical agents used by their enemies. Others survive, only to return to a country that despises their uniform and the cause they fought in it for. The number of American veterans from this war who later committed suicide is almost double that of those who died in action. Ultimately, the war achieved nothing except to brutalise an already war-weary nation and two generations of young Americans. Out of respect, I chose not to take any photographs…I think anyone who wants to gain a better understanding of the situation should see the exhibits in the museum with their own eyes…and the thought of capturing these images of death and torture was a little too macabre.
Perhaps the small ray of hope left over from this war, is the apparent lack of animosity towards Americans displayed by the local people. There has been harsh retribution towards and continuing repression of former members of the South Vietnamese armed forces (many of the city’s cyclo drivers are former soldiers who are punished by lack of residency permits – forcing former teachers or businessmen to scratch a living from and live on the streets), but the general attitude towards Americans is astonishingly friendly. If it is possible for the Vietnamese people to forgive (if not forget), then there is hope for the rest of the world.
Back at the street café where I had so fortuitously bumped into Robyn the previous day, I was pleasantly surprised to run into the two Swiss ladies who were also with us in Halong Bay. While Robyn had been on her way to Cambodia and the breath-taking sights of Angkor Wat, sadly these two were preparing to take their flight back to Zurich the next day. As they wandered off to pack their bags, I sat there musing that it would be poetic if I were to bump into Mark and Mel in the same spot. Not fifteen minutes later, they strolled by laden with rucksacks and bags and looking like they’d been on the end of a long bus ride. We agreed to meet up for some food and drink after they’d found a hotel.
At this point I realised that I’d left a floppy disk in a computer on the other side of town and, after picking up the offending article, I took the opportunity to stroll in a leisurely fashion back to our rendez-vous point. The vibrant street-life and bright lights nearly made me change my plans for leaving the following morning. I spent an amusing half-hour watching Braveheart (on an enormous widescreen TV in the window of a department store) with a team of uniformed street-cleaners. The two-cheek salute given by the Scots in the ‘Battle of Sterling’ drew great guffaws from my companions and we all cheered when the armoured horse were brought down by ‘spears as long as a man’.
We found a local eatery where the food and booze were both cheap and tasty and set-to catching up on Mark and Mel’s experiences with Tin and Tong. They had enjoyed the open-road as much as Russ and I did and had also had the luxury of seeing only one other tourist during their wanderings through the National Park at Cat Tien. Disappointingly, they hadn’t seen anything of the rare Rhinoceros that lives there in the jungle, but had an amusing evening night-spotting with one of the park rangers and lots of cunningly hidden tree-stumps and other natural booby-traps.
We ended up in the bar that had witnessed my mercurial pool talents the previous evening. Once again, I played one sublime game to depose the local shark (the girls are bloody good in Vietnam!) and then ignominiously descended into ridiculous farce against my next opponent. I would like to claim the effects of alcohol were ruining my natural ability – of course anyone who’s seen me play pool sober, will testify that the booze was probably helping me in that first game and that my usual monumental ineptitude was merely making a comeback.
We were all too pissed to be surprised when Fleur turned up at some point during proceedings. She had acquired a couple of new travelling buddies on her bus journey from Dalat and introduced us to Kirsty and Jo from Yorkshire and Portsmouth. The rest of the evening was a bit of a blur…drinking games made an appearance (bloody Aussies!), Oasis was sung, beer was drunk…I eventually made my excuses and crawled off to bed at about 2.30am. As I set the alarm for 6am, I noted with some anguish that the contents of my bags were strewn chaotically on the bed and floor…bumping into Mark and Mel had thrown my packing plans somewhat and I drifted off with the unpleasant thought of trying to pack with a hangover the following morning.
When the time came, I wasn’t really prepared for what was a harrowing experience. I care not a jot for the whys and wherefores of the Vietnam War (referred to by the Vietnamese as the American War). I’m not interested in who was to blame, who had the moral high ground or who committed the worst atrocities. The museum simply and succinctly gives out one clear message…war can only cause pain and horror – both for its participants and for the innocent bystanders so often involved against their will. I am not the President of a great nation or a general planning an assault on a fortified position. I will never have to make decisions that will affect the lives of hundreds or thousands of people. I don’t know how I could decide that carpet-bombing villages, defoliating forests or destroying crops could be the best option available to me. For that I am very grateful. In war, as the museum so clearly demonstrates, people die – often in gruesome circumstances. Some survive, only to produce deformed offspring due to chemical agents used by their enemies. Others survive, only to return to a country that despises their uniform and the cause they fought in it for. The number of American veterans from this war who later committed suicide is almost double that of those who died in action. Ultimately, the war achieved nothing except to brutalise an already war-weary nation and two generations of young Americans. Out of respect, I chose not to take any photographs…I think anyone who wants to gain a better understanding of the situation should see the exhibits in the museum with their own eyes…and the thought of capturing these images of death and torture was a little too macabre.
Perhaps the small ray of hope left over from this war, is the apparent lack of animosity towards Americans displayed by the local people. There has been harsh retribution towards and continuing repression of former members of the South Vietnamese armed forces (many of the city’s cyclo drivers are former soldiers who are punished by lack of residency permits – forcing former teachers or businessmen to scratch a living from and live on the streets), but the general attitude towards Americans is astonishingly friendly. If it is possible for the Vietnamese people to forgive (if not forget), then there is hope for the rest of the world.
Back at the street café where I had so fortuitously bumped into Robyn the previous day, I was pleasantly surprised to run into the two Swiss ladies who were also with us in Halong Bay. While Robyn had been on her way to Cambodia and the breath-taking sights of Angkor Wat, sadly these two were preparing to take their flight back to Zurich the next day. As they wandered off to pack their bags, I sat there musing that it would be poetic if I were to bump into Mark and Mel in the same spot. Not fifteen minutes later, they strolled by laden with rucksacks and bags and looking like they’d been on the end of a long bus ride. We agreed to meet up for some food and drink after they’d found a hotel.
At this point I realised that I’d left a floppy disk in a computer on the other side of town and, after picking up the offending article, I took the opportunity to stroll in a leisurely fashion back to our rendez-vous point. The vibrant street-life and bright lights nearly made me change my plans for leaving the following morning. I spent an amusing half-hour watching Braveheart (on an enormous widescreen TV in the window of a department store) with a team of uniformed street-cleaners. The two-cheek salute given by the Scots in the ‘Battle of Sterling’ drew great guffaws from my companions and we all cheered when the armoured horse were brought down by ‘spears as long as a man’.
We found a local eatery where the food and booze were both cheap and tasty and set-to catching up on Mark and Mel’s experiences with Tin and Tong. They had enjoyed the open-road as much as Russ and I did and had also had the luxury of seeing only one other tourist during their wanderings through the National Park at Cat Tien. Disappointingly, they hadn’t seen anything of the rare Rhinoceros that lives there in the jungle, but had an amusing evening night-spotting with one of the park rangers and lots of cunningly hidden tree-stumps and other natural booby-traps.
We ended up in the bar that had witnessed my mercurial pool talents the previous evening. Once again, I played one sublime game to depose the local shark (the girls are bloody good in Vietnam!) and then ignominiously descended into ridiculous farce against my next opponent. I would like to claim the effects of alcohol were ruining my natural ability – of course anyone who’s seen me play pool sober, will testify that the booze was probably helping me in that first game and that my usual monumental ineptitude was merely making a comeback.
We were all too pissed to be surprised when Fleur turned up at some point during proceedings. She had acquired a couple of new travelling buddies on her bus journey from Dalat and introduced us to Kirsty and Jo from Yorkshire and Portsmouth. The rest of the evening was a bit of a blur…drinking games made an appearance (bloody Aussies!), Oasis was sung, beer was drunk…I eventually made my excuses and crawled off to bed at about 2.30am. As I set the alarm for 6am, I noted with some anguish that the contents of my bags were strewn chaotically on the bed and floor…bumping into Mark and Mel had thrown my packing plans somewhat and I drifted off with the unpleasant thought of trying to pack with a hangover the following morning.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)