Journeys Through a Scarred Nation

Leaving paradise is never an easy thing to do.

In our case, we were leaving paradise, and entering probably the poorest country on our itinerary to date. A country with such a contrasting history, it was hard to know what to expect.

On one hand, it was home to one of the most advanced civilisations of its time, Angkor. On the other hand, more recently, the country had been scarred by a catastrophe tinged in “rouge”. It was intriguing to say the least, as we crossed the border at Ha Tien.

You wouldn’t usually expect much in the way of change when crossing from a country to country in this part of the world. South East Asia = same, same... right? No.

Within a few hundred metres, the sight had transformed quite noticeably. It was no longer the boom-economy of Vietnam. It was wild and rural. It was 30 years ago. It was Cambodia.

Before setting off for Kampot on a big double decker tourist bus, I got the chance to prove my Australian manhood by squashing a largish wasp-like thing hanging around inside. Lise was off the bus quicker than I could get the thong off my right foot, and two other French guys did their nation proud by hiding behind their seats shouting “Hit it more! More! It’s not dead yet!”.

The ride to Kampot was magnificent. Not the “ooh... ahh” type scenery you would compare to Nepal. It consisted more of Buffalos bathing in water, enthralling volleyball matches and a countryside full of life and colour. The photo opportunities were endless, and this was probably why I loved it so much. In fact, exploring the countryside surrounding Kampot a few days later, just after sunrise, was one of the most glorious 2 hours of the trip. Stumbling upon endless salt fields, whilst the farmers get some work in before breakfest, provided me with one of my more "beautiful" photos;

Lise read me a little bit of the history of Cambodia on the bus. It was for many years, like Vietnam and Laos, under French rule. It was officially a French “protectorate”, a term which makes me laugh. When I hear it, I picture the French as international gangster types (like the mob), “protecting” the neighbourhood in exchange for pay-offs (or in this case, resources and a presence in the region). That’s about all there was to laugh about as far recent history goes though.

It would be tempting at this point to dwell on the countries tragic past, and the horrors perpetrated by the Khmer Rouge regime. But this is not what modern day Cambodia is about, and it would be most uncharitable to think so.  What I experienced were a people who welcomed us with an infectious smile and a warm friendliness. There was less of the “walling wallet” syndrome we sometimes experienced in Vietnam (and India), and more of a genuine curiosity for us foreigners.

To ignore the past altogether though would have defeated the point of coming to Cambodia altogether, as one of the most significant historical empires in the world was situated at Angkor. Nor did we want to neglect the horrors of the recent past.

The S-21 prison in Phnom Penh was as powerful reminder of these horrors as they come. Once a school, it was converted in to a torture prison for many Cambodians who were suspected of not towing the party line. I would challenge even the most emotionally detached person to walk through the halls of this place, read word for word the firsthand accounts of what went on there, and come out of it without something like a lump in your throat. It was a harrowing reminder of the dark side of human beings.

The other significant historical site was, of course, Ankgor, situated just outside the tourist-town of Siem Reap. Interestingly, Siem Reap means literally “Defeat of Siam” (today’s Thialand), and would be a bit like the French calling a border town with Germany “Nous avons vaincu les Nazis” (We beat the Nazis).

Not only is Angkor pretty much why people come to Cambodia in the first place, but it’s also one of the most significant sites in the world for civilisations of the past. One doesn’t hesitate to mention Angkor in the same breath as “Rome”, “Ancient Greece” or “Persian Empire”.

I spent three whole days exploring the temples. On the last day I hired a bicycle (as opposed to a tuk-tuk), and rid from temple to temple. By late afternoon, the tour buses had disappeared, and the roads were almost deserted. For long periods it was just me and my shoddy old bicycle, and despite the relentless heat and the long distances between temples, I loved every single minute of it. It’s one of those magical places that you could visit over and over again, and I don’t doubt that someday I’ll return.

One of the toughest experiences of our entire trip happened on a boat ride from Siem Reap to Battambang, a supposedly super-scenic 6 hour ride up the river.

Well, the 6 hours turned in to more than 10 hours. And although at many points it was quite scenic, because it was dry season, the water level was quite low, and thus the surrounding countryside was hidden by the dry wall of the riverbed. In addition to the above, the boat was not only full, but overflowing, with people sitting on the roof, or in our case, just behind the smoky, hot engine. It was a hellish experience at times, but the presence of endless numbers of children waving like mad from the river-bank did help take our minds off things a bit. The last hour of the trip, the children had migrated in to the actual river for late afternoon swims. It’s a funny thing in a country as poor as Cambodia, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen smiles so wide and faces so happy than I did on those children as our boat passed through their lives.

Battambang I will remember solely for two motorbike related incidents I was involved in.

The first occurred on my way back along a dusty old road (left) from a hill-top temple I had visited. Statistics of 35 people dead per day on motorcycles in Vietnam was still very definitely with me, as was the site I witnessed on the bus from Tra Vinh to Can Tho (see Mekong Delta entry). Thus, I was resisting any urge to ride faster relatively easy. The state of the road didn’t inspire confidence in any case.

Whilst riding along, a rider travelling some 20 metres in front of me started to wobble after riding through a soft patch of dirt. He was out of control, and eventually went over, bike toppling on top of him, his body (and head) hitting the ground with a thump. I stopped immediately, and ran over to pull off the bike.

Luckily, he’d been wearing a proper helmet (something of a rarity in this part of the world), but the force of the impact had put him unconscious for a few seconds. Myself and a Cambodian guy who had pulled over pulled off the bike, and once the rider was awake, he groggily got up and stumbled around. It was then that I noticed that he was actually a Westerner, and that it seems was the signal for all of the Cambodian people who had stopped to ride on and leave me to deal with him. They must have thought I was with him.

The guy was completely dazed, and really had no idea where he was. He was quite obviously concussed, as every 20 seconds or so he would completely forget what I just told him, and start all over again;

“Where am I? What happened?”

“You crashed your motorcycle and you got knocked out for a few seconds.”

“Oh God no. And who are you?”

“I was riding behind you and stopped to help.”

“Oh thank you very much.”

“No problems.”

A few second pause.

“”Where am I? What happened to me?”

“Um. You crashed and you’re now concussed.”

“Oh really? God, I’m feeling bad. And sorry, who are you?”

“I was riding behind you when it happened, and stopped to help.”

“Oh thank so much”

“You’re welcome.”

And again...

“Where am I?”

This went on for some time, until it was revealed that he was riding with a friend who was ahead of him. The friend eventually returned after 5-10 minutes, and the duties of repeating what happened were turned over to him (although after a while we decided to alternate those duties, so as to give the other a rest).

The two guys were actually missionaries, and they saw me as some sort of angel or god-send for being there when I was. I didn’t mind this.

They both spoke a bit of Khmer (the local language), and eventually they worked out things with some locals and got the crashed bike and it’s concussed rider in to town safely.

The experience was yet another reminder of the perils of riding a motorcycle, and it’s likely that the presence of a properly protective helmet on his head saved his life.

When I had stopped to help the guy initially after his crash, I had left my bike on  the side of the road, where it fell in to the ditch whilst unattended. Nothing was damaged, so I thought nothing of it. That is, until I handed the bike back to the hotel I had rented it from, and I was summoned to explain the dirt marks on the bike. They knew full well the bike had been dropped from previous experience, but I denied all knowledge of such a thing, hearing stories about dodgy dealings and whopping repair bills when issues arise whilst hiring a bike in SE Asia. I claimed that if it was dropped, someone must have done it whilst I had it parked outside the temple I had visited (I suspected he wouldn’t really care for my story of saving the life of a man of God etc, so I left it out).

He had managed to find a tiny half a centimetre scratch on the front wheel guard, and was demanding I pay US$10 to get it fixed. I said this was outrageous, and pointed out the fact that the bike was old, and the speedometre and fuel gauge did not work, making it very difficult to work out when I would run out of petrol. I said he should repair this before he worries about a tiny scratch you can’t even see. His words were; “No, no, that not important (the speedo etc), this important (the scratch)!”

The Lonely Planet always recommends you sign some sort of contract when hiring a bike, to avoid these sorts of situations. In this instance though, I used the lack of a contract to my advantage. “You show me where it says that I signed that I have to pay for a scratch that I didn’t cause!”

He even said he wouldn’t give me back my passport until I paid for the damage. Funny thing was, they had photocopied my passport upon check-in, and given it back to me. It’s true it was a small victory when I saw the look on his face when he was told by his colleague that they didn’t have my passport.

The conversation went back and forth for a while, voices getting raised, until I’d had enough, and told them I wasn’t paying for it, and I’d be in my room.

We left the next day, nervous that they’d try to overcharge us for some random thing. Strangely enough though, the man I had had the argument with checked us out himself, charged us not a penny more, and we even received a couple of scarves as parting gifts from the hotel. Whether or not he had believed me in the end, or this was just standard practice remains a mystery, but I guess grudges are not something to bear in Cambodia.

2 hours to the West of Battambang lay the border with Thailand. During our time in Cambodia we had spent many hours discussing what the rest of the trip would entail, and eventually we had come to a decision.

Our original plan had been to head up to Laos after Cambodia, and then make our way South through Thailand, possibly making it to Malaysia. However, we had run over-schedule on just about every country we’d visited so far, and as a result, our plan to be in Australia by the beginning of February was beginning to look laughable. If we were to keep following the plan, it would be winter in Australia by the time we got there.

In addition to this, We had already experienced a lot of South-East Asia, and although each country has its own unique image to be sure, it’s still a matter of “same, same...”

Laos was almost top of my list at the beginning of the trip, and strangely enough it was because of this (not despite) that we decided to skip the country altogether on this trip. Our was thinking was simple, we didn’t want to spoil it by being all “South East Asia’d out”, and the idea of saving it for another trip to the region sounded like a good idea.

Lise really wanted to see Thailand (mostly for the cooking I suspect), and so we decided we’d spend a couple of weeks there, and then head to Australia.

Thus, we left Battambang, destined for Thailand, and entering the final straight.