A river in Cambodia
Sunday, January 22nd, 2006It was around 6:30am as we sat in an open courtyard fighting off mosquito attacks and waiting for our “arranged” transportation to pick us up. It’s always interesting to find out how we’ll be traveling as it’s usually necessary to depend on the locals to arrange transportation. I was getting a little nervous when a crowded minivan pulled up in front of the hostel with backpacks strapped to the roof. Westerners filled every obvious seat except a small space near the door. I hoped Scott could squeeze in, but it would be impossible for both of us. I looked at the Cambodian woman, somewhat confused as to where I was going to fit, she pointed behind the bench seat where another unfortunate small female crouched. I shrugged my shoulders, grabbed my daysack, and wedged myself in next to her. Somehow the Cambodian woman crawled in beside me and off we went down the dirt road. I was able to lean my back against some type of uncomfortable wood barrier that stretched from the driver side all the way to the passenger door and kept digging into my shoulders as we bumped, buckled, and honked our way across the countryside. From my vantage point I could see the faces off all the travelers. All the other foreigners appeared to be “backpackers” or Europeans on holiday, I hate to stereotype but by now it’s usually pretty easy to spot us, the only Cambodians in the van were the driver and his wife sitting next to me. I assumed she was his wife because every few minutes she yelled at him in Cambodian and he nodded yes without a reply, he didn’t really appear to be paying attention…must be universal.
I was thankful this part of the journey would be relatively short as each minute became increasingly more uncomfortable. Ultimately, we were on our way to a boat that would take us from Siem Reap down the Tonle’ Sap river and finally to Phenom Penh, the capital city of Cambodia. The boat ticket was $23USD significantly more expensive than the bus $7USD, but it would only take 5 hours and from what we were told the bus was extremely uncomfortable and was notorious for multiple breakdowns along the way. As we rode to the dock I was happy we chose water instead of land.
We soon became surrounded by muddy wet lands on both sides of the dirt road. I was unprepared for the community that made this river their home. We came upon rows of stilted shelters with sparsely thatched walls that appeared to use the swampy water for all their daily needs. We saw whole families gathered in one room shelters without any form of plumbing or electricity. Small camp fires lined the road with woman tending pots of boiling water. Children ran along the road without clothing or shoes. It was shocking to witness this kind of poverty. As we passed through the long line of shelters I began to feel a sense of dread rising up in the pit of my stomach. The realization that the mini van would soon come to a stop and I would come face to face with these woman and children that I watched from my window. Trying to find some reassurance I glanced at the other travelers for support, unfortunately, no one was making eye contact. Everyone seemed absorbed in random objects in the van or silently contemplating the sad scene outside. As the van came to a stop we slowly pilfered out and were immediately swallowed up by the crowd. “Water, bread madam?”, coming from every direction. I found myself surrounded by small children pulling at my sleeve and women carrying large baskets of bread. I continued to shake my head and say, “no” as I pushed my way through the crowd. I spotted the small Cambodian woman from the van pointing to the passenger boat. I finally navigated my way through the crowd and onto the boat.
Once successfully on-board I found my seat and for the next five hours began to ponder the purpose of our travels and process what I had just witnessed and my uncomfortable reaction to the women and children of the river. I was able to concluded, for myself, that maybe poverty doesn’t always seem as real if I watch it from a window, turn the page of a newspaper, or simply change the channel? Maybe the real meaning is lost until we are forced to use all our senses to see, smell, hear, taste, and feel the effects of poverty. That I believe is the true beauty of travel.
So close to Christmas it was a humbling experience and one I hope to draw from throughout my lifetime.
Weiser Wander