Llew Wanders the World

After my evening in the town of Kratie, I was well rested and ready to hit the road again. Or rather, the water, as I my route headed still further up the Mekong river to the town of Stung Treng in the far north of Cambodia.

I’d been a bit nervous with my first boat trip up this river, and had decided to sit inside the boat, but this time I made straight for the roof, where I was joined by all of the other foreigners making the trip.

The boat ride was wonderfully smooth. As the Mekong slid by, I read, stared at the banks, laid in the sun and wind and spent a lot of time grinning at the wonderfulness of just BEING THERE.

As the boat sped on up the river, (40 or 50km/h perhaps) the settlements on either side changed from continuous houses to occaisional villages to single shacks dotted along the banks. In the river itself, concrete markers appeared, rising out of the water to mark the edges of the safe shipping channel. There were times that the markers led us upstream, then downstream for a kilometre or so then back north up the river, making a sort of N shape. This made for a longer (though more fun) ride in the afternoon sun.

Finally a town of some size appeared, heralded by a water tower and a telecommunications tower (and some people say they’re eyesores…)

The boat pulled up alongside the pier, and I hopped off with my pack. I was in Stung Treng, last stop north for public transit in Cambodia.

I arrived in Stung Treng at aroundd 16:00, and had planned on spending the night there. At this point I was still debating whether I ought to head further north into Laos the next day, or take a taxi out to the town of Ban Lung in the Ratanikiri province before carrying on up the river.

The debate seemed to be resolved when I met a group of three NGO workers headed to Ban Lung that afternoon: I was on my way. Until the driver tried to squeeze four people into the front seat with me. After a bit of arguing (which the NGO folks undertook on my behalf since they spoke pasable Khmer) I climbed out of the taxi and found a guesthouse for the night.

This event had me ina grumpy mood and had (entirely unfairly) soured me on Cambodia. I resolved to leave for Laos the following morning.

Thankfully I hadn’t booked a boat ticket yet, because as I sat in the market having my usual pair of pineapple tukaloks (fruit shakes) I started chatting with a Cambodian teenager. By the time he had to go home I’d given him a brief explanation of plate tectonics (he’d been interested in why the recent southeast Asian tsunamis occurred) and he’d given me a renewed appreciation of his country.

The next morning I showed up at the taxi stand ready for the ride to Ban Lung. And was informed that there weren’t any taxis to Ban Lung that day. Good enough. That was my decision made. I started making preparations to head to Laos when… what’s that? A taxi appeared, needing only two more passenegrs to fill it up for departure. I squeezed in (standard payload for a Cambodian shared taxi is three in the front, four in the back) and we were off.

Up to this point I’d heard and read a fair number of horror stories about Cambodia’s roads, but save for the road up into the Bokor hills (which headed up to an abandoned hill station) they hadn’t been all that bad. This trip was something different. The 100km trip between Stung Treng and Ban Lung (two provincial capitals, mind you) took just short of five hours. The road was incredibly bumpy and uneven. There were places where the pits and ruts in the road were over a metre deep. Even with a lot of steering, the car still “bottomed out” nine times on the trip. And dust was everywhere! At times it became difficult to breathe, despite the fact that all of the windows were closed and the air conditioning on for the entire trip.

I was understandably happy when we finally arrived at the guesthouse in Ban Lung, though my pack (which had been tied to the outside of the taxi, since the trunk was full of pickled garlic) was somewhat worse for the wear.

After settling into the guesthouse, I took a quick walk around Ban Lung (given the size of the place there really isn’t any other sort.) The area around Ban Lung is blessed with a wide array of natural resources, but the town itself has only one: dust. And plenty of it.

The centres of the town’s main streets were wide, wide avenues. They were all covered with a thin layer of the reddish stuff, while on the sides of the roads the surface was fine and powdery. I could pick it up loosely with my toe. Before long my feet and lower legs were as dirty as they’ve ever been. As I walked, someone rode by me with two live pigs tied onto the back of his motorcycle, perpindicular to its axis. Phnom Penh hadn’t been the world’s flashiest city, but Ban Lung was a long, long way behind it.

After my little tour, I headed back to the guesthouse where I spent the afternoon lazing about and reading. I figured that after the morning I’d endured in the taxi, I deserved it. In the evening I walked back out to the market to a Pho (Vietnamese style rice noodle soup) stall for dinner. The kids, in fact, just about everyone, loved the fact that I was there eating with them. There were smiles all around and more than a few giggles when I’d turn around and find a small pair of eyes fixed on me.

The next day I planned to start my visit to Ratanikiri Province in earnest. I packed up my bag, hoisted it onto my shoulders and went off to the market to find breakfast and some food to stuff in my pack. With this complete, I headed out of town on the road to Yeak Laom Lake, a crater lake 800m across formed by a volcanic caldera (colapsing magma chamber beneath a volcano.) Since I planned on camping beside the lake that evening, my pack was a heavy one.

On foot the road was fine, if miserably dusty. Motorized vehicles had to swerve from one side to another to avoid the ruts and pits along its length. It wasn’t quite as bad as the road from Stung Treng, but it was still a long way from one’s normal picture of a “national highway.”

On the way I also came across many of the blue political signs that line roadsides all over the country. I’m still not certain if they’re party offices, leftover from elections, or just general shows of support, but there certainly are a lot of them. This one is for the Sam Rainsy party, perhaps the only real alternative on Cambodia to the tightly linked CPP/FUNCINPEC coalition.

Shortly after turning off the main road and heading down a smaller one that led to the lake, I met Sok, a 16 year old Cambodian. Sok was a Tompuen, a member of an ethnic minority group that resides in northeastern Cambodia. It was his people that were in charge of the maintenance of the lake and surrounding conservation area. Indeed, when we met he was on his way to meet some friends and prepare for a traditional concert at the Yeak Laom cultural centre that afternoon.

We walked on to the lake together, past the Tompuen villages on the way. We were still very early for the concert upon arriving, so Sok offered to take me on a walk around the lake to his farm on the far side. We followed the well trod trail around the circumfrence and then took a sharp right turn and headed up a barely visible path that led into the forest. We carried on up the slope of the crater through forest thick with shurbs and bamboo that was bent so low to the ground I had to crawl underneath it, sometimes with Sok lifting it up a little so I could squeeze my pack through as well. Sok explained that the path wasn’t well used anymore, but as recently as three or four years ago he’d walked it all the time.

Finally I saw some light ahead and we emerged, rather unexpectedly, onto a smooth dirt road with neat rows of trees and bushes spreading out away from us. We carried on past the trees with Sok pointing out the various crops being grown. More than anything else, the farms produced cashew nuts!

After an hour or so of walking along small (but always well maintained) dirt roads, we arrived at his family farm. At the time only his sister and brother in law lived there. They were quite happy to see Sok, but I felt as though they didn’t really know what to make of my presence and thus simply ignored me.

The house was interesting. It wasn’t built on stilts like most Khmer homes, but instead was tight to the ground. Inside a charcoal fire was burning on the ground, and all around were the traditional Tompuen tools for living: wooden crossbows for hunting birds, bamboo cages for chickens and a wide array of different types of fish trap. We hadn’t rested for too long when it was time to head back to the cultural centre for the concert. Indeed, so long had our walk taken that we had to borrow Sok’s brother-in-law’s motor scooter to ensure we arrived back in time.

We hopped on the scooter and were off down the hard packed dirt. Sok wasn’t used to driving with the weight of me and my pack on board (we were about triple his usual payload) but things seemed to be going well enough, even over the bumps. Then, as we rounded a corner while headed down a hill we came across (or should I say ran into?) another moto stopped dead in the middle of the path. Sok did his best to stop, but with the extra weight and downard slope he couldn’t manage, despite our low speed. It’s fortunate that we were travelling so slowly. No one was hurt (indeed, we were all still standing after the impact) and the damage to the bikes was mostly cosmetic.

After a tiny bit of arguing and a lot of apologizing, we climbed back on the bike and headed back to the cultural centre even more slowly.

Our arrival was just in time for the pre-concert lunch. I was invited in and sat on the floor with the musicians (all young men) and had a lunch of fish and vegetable soup with rice. I contributed a watermelon and package of Cambodian sugar cookies for desert, which added to everyone’s already good humour.

After lunch the Tompuen boys had a bit of a warm up. There are many types of traditional Tompuen music, but these lads specialized in the gongs. Played at a few special ceremonies, including the one for dedication of a new home, the half dozen or so different sized gongs produce magnificently mesmerizing music. I recorded some, but sadly had the record level on too high so none of my attempts really turned out.

After the warmup we sat outside talking and laughing for a bit before the concert. The begining of which was heralded by the arrival of a huge tour group from Phnom Penh. The boys went to their instruments once again. With the large crowd present, it wasn’t quite the same as it had been earlier during my own “private performance.”

The Tompuen have found a unique way of dealing with the desire of tourists to see people dressed up in traditional costumes that no one really wears anymore (a problem common among southeast Asian ethnic minorities): they let the tourists themselves become the spectacle. Before long a half dozen of the visitors from Phnom Penh had been suited up in traditional Tompuen dress, complete with woven baskets and crossbows, and were dancing along to the gong music inside the centre.

By the time the concert was done and the tour group on their way, I’d had a bit more time to chat with the musicians. They were amazed that I wanted to sleep in the forest by myself, saying that they’d all be scared to do so. I found this odd, but was more motivation for than disuasion from my plan.

After saying goodbye to Sok and his friends (and paying him a few dollars for being my “guide”) I walked along the trail around the lake I’d followed earlier in the day and found an ideal campsite by the lake. I sat down and read for a while before going out for a swim in the lake. The water was just right: refreshing but not cold, with just a few ripples on the surface. A very short distance from the shore the bottom dropped away and the lake became far too deep to stand in. I swam and floated for perhaps half an hour before soming back in and finally setting up my tent.

After a bit more reading I was ready for bed (or rather, the growing darkness in the sky mandated it.) I ate two mangoes a baguette and some cookies quickly in the last light and slipped into the tent. I had no trouble getting to sleep, but it wouldn’t last.

Sometime late at night (not a clue when) I woke. And felt yucky. Nausea was my constant companion for the next hour of wakefulness, and abated only slightly when I laid on my side instead of my back. Finally I couldn’t take any more and within ten seconds was half out of the tent, on my hands and knees, wretched, wretching on all fours.

After vomiting I felt almost entirely better and, greatly relieved, slipped off to sleep in almost no time.

The next morning I was feeling better, but still not 100%. I was in good enough shape to admire the amazing clarity of the water one more time before packing up and heading back to Ban Lung along the bad (but not TOO bad) road. I’d been prepared, indeed, almost hoping for a long walk the previous day, but all in all it was fortunate that my guesthouse had exaggerated the distance (it was about 5km, not 7.5 as they claimed. Doubtless done to improve their chances of selling tours.) I wandered back, doubly tired due to the continuing sickness and the previous night’s lack of sleep.

I arrived back in Ban Lung about 11:00, and flopped into a chair in the guesthouse restaurant/sitting area and for the next five hours my only move was up to bed to take a nap.

In the late afternoon I made one more attempt to find the Ratanikiri provincial health office. I’d met a doctor who worked there on an earlier boat trip, and now had more than simply polite motives for wanting to visit him. I couldn’t tell if I had a fever, but definitely had a headache, and was beginning to worry if my illness was something serious. As on previous days, I couldn’t find a single English speaking resident of Ban Lung who had a clue where the place was.

that evening proved a turning point in my illness. I had a meal at the guesthouse and managed to finish it all. The next morning when a share taxi stopped by the guesthouse I was almost completely revived and ready to go. All things considered, it could have been far worse (at one point I was worried I had Dengue fever, since that was the only ailment in my guidebook that matched my symptoms [assuming I’d had a fever, which I probably didn’t.]) My sickness ran its full course in less than 48 hours (and hasn’t reappeared in the following 10 days.)

The ride back along the road from Ban Lung to Stung Treng was both better and worse than on the way. Better because the driver went faster (3.5 hours instead of 4.75) but still managed a smoother ride. Worse because instead of myself and three Khmers in the back seat we had me, an old Khmer woman and a big Italian couple. I rode half of the way squashed between the Khmer and Italian women (the Khmer lady was amazing in that she seemed to be able to monopolize the space in the back even though she was asleep.) The second half I rode hunched in the space between the back and front seats. Needless to say, I was happy to arrive.

I hopped out of the taxi near the riverside and was immediately approached by touts offering rides to a variety of places. To my pleasure, one of these was to the Lao border, 50km to the north. I’d counted on spending another night in Stung Treng which, while not truly unpleasant, didn’t have a lot to recommend it. I sat down at a riverside restaurant and waited for my fellow passengers to arrive. While waiting I had a quick lunch and did a swap of books at the restaurant book exchange (I was pleased with the job I did. It was supposed to be a 2:1 exchange, but I convinced them to take Tempest Tost, The Handmaid’s Tale and Life Before Man in return for The Idiot and Angela’s Ashes, thus increasing my page count by over 40%.)

I spent an hour or so waiting, during which I told fellow patrons all about Ban Lung and southern Cambodia (once again I was delighted to be nearing the end of a road and able to tell stories to others about what lay ahead of them.) Finally the other three passengers arrived and we headed down to the river and climbed aboard our speedboat. Speedboats are small light wooden craft with monstrous engines, and are the only way to get to the Lao border from Stung Treng. The engine started up and we zipped away from the shore heading still further north.

My last trip up the Cambodian Mekong was just as wonderful as the previous ones. The water was smooth as glass for most of the trip and there was almost no sign of habitation on the banks. It was fortunate that I’d put my earplugs in before setting out because sitting right in front of the engine as I was, it was loud even with them in. The river flowed faster up here, so there were small rapids occaisionally, but our driver skillfully steered around them. As we sped northward, we passed by more of the French shipping channel markers, as well as full sized trees growing, improbably, straight up out of the water. Even odder was the fact that some of them had full sized logs in their foliage, remnants from the past wet season when the river was flowing much higher.

After about 45 minutes on the water we finally arrived at our destination. We pulled up to the Cambodian border station dock and scrambled up the bank. The post wasn’t much more than a couple foo rough wooden buildings with a porch, but somehow managed to keep a staff of five occupied. I, along with the three Belgians (one who was born in Cambodia) handed in my passport for the exit stamp. They called us one by one into the office and suggested that we might like to make a “donation” to the border police in return for the exit stamp. I’d been worried about this, but had prepared for it. After a few polite “nos” and “they said in Phnom Penh I did not have to pay mores” and “I’ll pay if you will give me a receipts” they handed back my passport. Their requests had seemed more like begging than demanding. I would almost have been disappointed if they hadn’t asked for a bribe, but more disappointed still if they’d been rude or insistent. As it was, they did exactly what I’d expected and left me with happy memories of their country.

It was a different story on the other side of the river at the Lao border post. Several shops and stands lined the pathway that led to the immigration checkpoint, so we had a short walk before arriving. We stepped up to the small hut next to the barrier across the road, filled out our forms and presented our passports. This time there was no subtlety about the demand for cash. A man wearing a shirt with the word “POLICE” stenciled on the breast spoke to all three of us at once, and there was no bargaining to be done. $1.50 each. The tactics I’d tried in Cambodia were to no avail. No wouldn’t suffice and if I requested a receipt his command of English and French suddenly failed. When we’d made it very clear we would not pay he ripped out the forms he’d stapled into our passports, slammed and locked the desk drawer and disappeared. It seemed we would have to pay or sit around until some other official arrived. We wandered around the area and found the same man and told him we were finally willing to cough up the cash.

And we did so. Or at least he first Belgian did. The second pair received their stamps then quickly snatched up their cash off the counter. This led to a big frown from the border guard. He was clearly VERY displeased by this. He thrust my passport back at me, slammed and locked his drawer again and stomped off. HE had no interest at all in hearing about the fact that I would pay, or that I had a different passport and wasn’t with those people. He just stomped about, sure that if one foreigner had made him unhappy he’d make all the others he could suffer for it.

I’d chatted with the Belgians, Noel, Dirk and Vanara a bit already, and to their credit they didn’t simply walk away. They sat around and when it became clear that I wouldn’t get past the border if they didn’t, they paid their bribe to the border guard. I set my passport and money down on the counter. Both were quickly snatched up by the official. A minute later I had the stamp in my passport. I walked around the arm across the roadway and rejoined the Belgians. We were in Laos.

Before concluding, I just wanted to throw in a couple of thoughts I had about the Khmer language while I was in Cambodia. The Khmer language is the simplest one I’ve ever heard of. Some of the words may be tircky to pronounce but the structure is a thing of beauty. Words certainly have no genders as in French, German or many other toungues. There is no conjugation of the verbs. In English we say “I go, she goes, you go.” In French it’s “Je vais, elle va, vous allez.” In Khmer it’s “I go, she go, you go, we go, he go, they go.” Words have no tones as in Thai or Cantonese to complicate their pronunciation. Best of all, there are no tenses, or rather the tenses are created by the use of “indicator words” rather than by modifying the verbs. In English we have: “I went, I go, I am going.” In Khmer it is simply “I go earlier, I go, I go later.” I wish every language was as delightfully simple to learn as Khmer.

A quick thank you this time to… Well, to all the people of Cambodia. For all the horrible times they’ve gone through they’re still almost uniformly happy and are probably the friendliest nation of folks it’s ever been my good fortune to meet.

Tags: Cambodia

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