CAMBODIA (1) 2009
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| Photo by Ernest Markwood |
1156 Kilometres – 30 Days26 May – 25 June 2009
Hello from Behind the Banana Trees
Chapter
1: The Way to Angkor Wat
Crossing the Border
Cambodia—when I thought of this country, images of
famine and mass killings danced ominously in my mind. Yet curiosity tugged me
forward, eager to uncover the layers of life and culture beyond those shadows.
After a leisurely start, Ernest and I bike toward
the Thailand–Cambodia border, pausing at the sprawling market that straddles
the frontier. It was a sensory explosion: a labyrinth of covered stalls
overflowing with goods, each one telling stories of Cambodian life. Hand-drawn
carts groaned under their loads, streaming across the border like ants on a
mission.
First came the visa ritual. Amid the bustle, we
filled out forms, shuffled through queues, and endured the “swine flu”
checkpoint—ears probed, temperatures checked—a strange rite of passage into
this new land.
Crossing into Cambodia felt like stepping into
another world. The organised chaos of Thailand gave way to a vibrant disorder.
Cars and motorbikes zigzagged recklessly, creating a confusing dance on the
roads. Yet as we pedalled along, cheerful calls of “hello” rang out from behind
banana trees, a warm welcome from the locals.
Our first stop was Sisophon, where we found a
rickety guesthouse on stilts. The old wooden structure swayed gently, its
floorboards gapped enough to glimpse the earth below. Despite its quirks, it
felt like a steal. Everything here was cheaper than in Thailand, and the
currency was a delightful jumble—Riel priced at 4,160 to the US dollar, with
prices quoted in Riel, Baht, and dollars. Each purchase became a puzzle, a
playful challenge in conversions.
Into Siem Reap
There’s a thrill in cycling into a new country;
every sense seemed heightened—new money, new food, a different language humming
in the air.
The landscape was familiar yet different. Vast rice
paddies stretched before us. We glided past wooden stilt houses, water buffalo
grazing lazily, and ancient temples peeking through lush greenery. The roads
buzzed with life: motorcycles zoomed by with giggling children, pigs tied onto
the back, trailers piled high with improbable loads. It was chaotic, yet
charming—a testament to Cambodia’s daily rhythm.
By late afternoon, the skies darkened. Just as the
first drops began to fall, we rolled into Siem Reap and found refuge at Mommy’s
Guest House. The timing felt perfect, as though the rain had waited for us to
arrive. Siem Reap was touristy, yes, but it pulsed with promise and I was ready
to explore everything this fascinating country had to offer.
Angkor
Awakening
The
road to Angkor Wat was more than a path through rice paddies and villages—it
was a passage into another world. By the time I pedalled past the final stretch
of stilted houses and water buffalo grazing in the fields, the air itself
seemed to hum with anticipation. I had seen photographs of Angkor countless
times, yet nothing prepared me for the moment when the temple’s spires rose
above the treeline, sharp silhouettes against the Cambodian sky.
Cycling
through the sprawling grounds felt surreal, as though I had slipped into a
dream. The temples stood like guardians of time, their sandstone walls etched
with intricate carvings that whispered stories of gods, kings, and forgotten
battles. Nature pressed in from all sides—roots coiled around crumbling stone,
vines draped over doorways, and birds darted through the shadows as if
reclaiming the ruins for themselves. It was a reminder that even the grandest
human creations eventually bow to the earth's persistence.
I
parked my bike and wandered slowly, letting the silence settle around me. The
air was thick with humidity, but also with reverence. Every corridor revealed
another marvel: bas-reliefs of celestial dancers, towers that seemed to scrape
the heavens, and staircases worn smooth by centuries of footsteps. I longed for
a better camera, something that could capture the majesty before me, but
perhaps it was fitting that the memory would remain imperfect, etched more
deeply in my mind than in pixels.
What
struck me most was not just the scale of Angkor, but the resilience it
represented. Built nearly a thousand years ago, it had endured wars, neglect,
and the relentless jungle. Yet here it stood, a testament to human imagination
and devotion. I thought of Cambodia itself—scarred by history, yet vibrant and
alive. The temples were more than stone; it was a mirror of the country’s
spirit, a reminder that beauty can survive even the darkest of times.
As
the sun dipped lower, casting golden light across the towers, I felt a quiet
gratitude. This was not just sightseeing. It was communion—with history, with
culture, and with the enduring strength of a people who had built something so
extraordinary that it still spoke across centuries. Pedalling away, I carried not
just photographs but a sense of awe that would linger long after the journey
moved on.
Chapter 2 – The Tonle Sap Lake and the Bamboo Train
Across
the Floating World
The
morning air was heavy with mist as I wheeled my bicycle out of the room and
pedalled toward Chong Kneas, the floating village south of Siem Reap. Today, my
journey would leave the land and Ernest behind as I followed the water’s path
across Tonle Sap Lake—a ride not on wheels, but on a boat.
At
the dock, the village stirred awake. Wooden houses perched on rafts bobbed
gently, tethered to one another like a community adrift. Children paddled to
school in canoes, their laughter echoing across the water. Women steered boats
piled high with vegetables, their movements as fluid as the river itself. Even
the police station floated, a curious reminder that life here was entirely
waterborne. It was a world that rose and fell with the seasons, adapting to the
lake’s moods with remarkable resilience.
I
boarded the boat, my bicycle lashed to the side, and settled in for the
eight-hour voyage. The engine roared, sending ripples across the water, and
soon we were gliding past entire towns suspended above the lake. Each village
was a kaleidoscope of colour—brightly painted barges laden with coconuts,
children waving from doorways, fishermen casting nets in graceful arcs. The
scene was alive, a moving tapestry stitched together by water, wood, and human
ingenuity.
Time
slowed on the lake. Hours passed in a rhythm of sights and sounds: the slap of
oars against water, the hum of the engine, the smell of fish drying in the sun.
I found myself mesmerised, not by any single detail, but by the collective
harmony of life afloat. Here, survival was not a struggle but an art form, a
dance with the elements that had been perfected over generations.
By
late afternoon, Battambang appeared on the horizon, its buildings rising from
solid ground like a promise of stability after the lake's fluidity. My legs
tingled with the urge to pedal again, yet I carried with me the stillness of
the water, the memory of floating schools and drifting markets. The Royal Hotel
awaited, a modest refuge, but my mind lingered
Roads
Through Rain and Reverence
Leaving
Battambang, the road stretched 110 kilometres across Cambodia’s flat plains.
For a cyclist, it was paradise—no mountains to conquer, only the steady rhythm
of wheels turning beneath a wide sky. Yet the day was not without its
challenges. Rain showers teased me from every direction, looming to the left,
gathering to the right, sometimes spilling directly ahead. I pedalled between
them like a dancer weaving through curtains of water, grateful each time the
storm passed me by.
The
road itself was a living stage. Barefoot monks in saffron robes walked
serenely, their presence radiating calm. Ox-drawn carts creaked along, laden
with harvests, while motorcycles whizzed past carrying entire families balanced
with improbable grace. Local cyclists joined the flow, each of us part of a
colourful procession that spoke of Cambodia’s daily rhythm. Every encounter
felt like a reminder that travel is not just about destinations—it is about
sharing the road with lives unfolding in their own cadence.
What
struck me most was the contrast. In towns, modern conveniences gleamed—posh
hotels, lively markets, and a tourist infrastructure that seemed to grow by the
day. Yet only a few kilometres away, the countryside revealed a slower,
timeless beauty. Farmers bent over rice paddies, water buffalo grazed lazily,
and children waved from stilted houses. Tradition and modernity coexisted, not
in conflict but in harmony, each enriching the other.
By
the time I reached Pursat, the rain had finally caught me, but it felt less
like an inconvenience and more like a baptism into Cambodia’s heart. The town
welcomed me with its bustle, yet I carried with me the serenity of the monks,
the laughter of children, and the quiet resilience of the farmers.
The
Bamboo Train to Kampong Chhnang
Just
outside Pursat, I stumbled upon one of Cambodia’s most eccentric treasures: the
Bamboo Train. It was less a train than a makeshift trolley—a flat bamboo
platform balanced on two axles, powered by a small motor, and shared by anyone
who needed to travel. Farmers, families, baskets of produce, even bicycles—all
piled on together, bouncing along the crooked tracks in a kind of communal
adventure.
Clambering
aboard, I joined a cheerful crowd of locals. The trolley rattled forward,
swaying across rickety bridges and uneven rails, the wind whipping through our
hair. It was slow, noisy, and utterly delightful. Each time we met another
trolley coming from the opposite direction, the ritual began: everyone
disembarked, the platform was lifted off the tracks, and the northbound train
passed with a grin. Then we clambered back on, laughter echoing as the journey
resumed. It was travel stripped to its essence—improvised, shared, and full of
joy.
By
late morning, I bid farewell to the bamboo contraption and returned to the main
road. The romance of the train gave way to a rugged reality: thirty kilometres
of potholed dirt track, each crater large enough to swallow a wheel. Dust rose
in clouds, coating my skin, while vendors along the roadside offered fried
snakes as snacks. I declined, choosing instead a sweet bread roll stuffed with
ice cream and condensed milk—a curious but delicious reward that kept me
pedalling.
Rolling
into Kampong Chhnang earlier than expected, I found a guesthouse that promised
comfort after the day’s jolts. It was here that I met John and Rosie from New
Zealand, travellers whose son, Dallas, worked nearby. Over cold beers, Dallas
introduced us to a local restaurant, where I discovered the subtleties of
Cambodian table manners. Forks were not for eating but for nudging food onto
the spoon. Knives were absent altogether. Napkins and bones were dropped
casually onto the floor, a custom that felt strange. The table was alive with
condiments—chilli, garlic, fish sauce, soy—and the air rang with slurps and
lip-smacks, sounds of pure enjoyment.
That
evening, I realised the Bamboo Train had been more than a novelty. It was a
metaphor for Cambodia itself: resourceful, communal, and resilient, finding joy
in the simplest of solutions. The day had carried me from rattling tracks to
shared meals, from laughter to cultural lessons. And as I drifted to sleep, I
felt deeply immersed in the rhythm of this country—its quirks, its kindness,
and its endless capacity to surprise.
Chapter 3: The Pearl of Asia
Into
the Heart of Phnom Penh
The
road from Kampong Chhnang to Phnom Penh was a 95-kilometr ride which unfolded
like a living tapestry. Verdant rice fields stretched endlessly, their green
mirrored by the sky’s shifting blues. Sugar palms rose tall and elegant,
punctuating the horizon with silhouettes that seemed timeless. Along the way,
ox carts creaked under the weight of Andong Rossey pottery, their wheels
leaving dusty trails as they made their way to larger markets. Merchants
pedalled bicycles laden with goods, each bundle a story of survival and
ingenuity.
Petrol
stations here were not the sleek stations with 7-Elevens like in Thailand but
humble roadside stalls. Repurposed Coke and Pepsi bottles filled with amber fuel, lined wooden shelves,
while hand pumps drew petrol from rusted drums. It was a reminder that modern
convenience could be reimagined with resourcefulness, and that Cambodia’s charm
lay in its authenticity.
As
the kilometres slipped by, the countryside gave way to the city. Phnom Penh
rose from the banks of the Tonle Sap like a restless giant. The capital was a
cacophony of sound and colour—motorbikes weaving through traffic, markets
spilling onto sidewalks, and the hum of countless conversations carried on the
humid air. I found myself drawn to “Backpackerville,” a lakeside enclave where
wooden guesthouses perched precariously on stilts above the water. The sunset
painted the lake in hues of gold and crimson, and for a moment, the chaos
softened into beauty.
Phnom
Penh was a feast for the senses. Eateries lined the streets, offering Thai
curries, Vietnamese pho, Italian pasta, and Indian spice. I indulged in the
latter, despite the price, savouring each bite as if it were a reward for the
miles behind me. Yet beneath the city’s vibrancy lay shadows of history. At
Tuol Sleng, the former school turned prison, I walked through stark classrooms
where thousands had been tortured and killed during the Khmer Rouge regime. The
silence was heavy, the air thick with memory. Photographs of victims stared
back at me, their eyes haunting, their stories unfinished. It was impossible
not to feel the weight of Cambodia’s past pressing against the present.
To
lift my spirits, I wandered the markets again, losing myself in the riot of
fabrics, spices, and souvenirs. I bought a new camera—my old one had
drowned—and with it, I felt a renewed sense of purpose. Phnom Penh was not just
a city of sorrow; it was a city of resilience, where life pulsed forward
despite the scars.
The
next day, Ernest also arrived, and by evening, I sat by the lake with the
breeze rippling across the water, and I realised Phnom Penh was more than a
destination. It was a mirror of Cambodia itself: vibrant yet wounded, chaotic
yet beautiful, haunted yet alive. And in its contradictions, I found a strange
kind of peace.
Chapter
4: Onto the Coast
Battling
Headwinds to Veal Rinh
Leaving
Phnom Penh behind, I felt a renewed energy with my new camera slung across my
shoulder, eager to capture the road ahead. The first stretch was
forgiving—smooth pavement, a generous shoulder, and the rhythm of wheels
turning in harmony with the countryside. But Cambodia rarely lets a cyclist
grow complacent. Soon the shoulder vanished, and Ernest and I found ourselves
pushed onto gravel, battling against a relentless headwind that seemed
determined to test our resolve.
The
ride was not without its joys. Along the way, we encountered familiar
faces—John, Rosie, and their son Dallas from New Zealand. What were the odds of
crossing paths again in this vast landscape? Meeting them again was a welcome
reprieve, a reminder that the world, no matter how wide, can feel astonishingly
small.
After 90 kilometres we Traeng Tratueng, here the choice loomed: tackle a thirty-kilometre climb into the national park or surrender to the lure of roadside accommodations. The wind had already stolen much of my strength, and the thought of fighting uphill against its force was enough to sway the decision. We chose rest over struggle, settling into modest lodgings where the day’s challenges faded into the background.
The
following morning, the wind returned with a vengeance. The 100km ride to Veal
Rinh was a battle, compounded by chaotic traffic that swirled around us in a
dangerous dance. Trucks roared past, motorbikes darted unpredictably, and the
scent of rain hung heavy in the air, promising relief that never came. By the
time we rolled into Veal Rinh, fatigue clung to us like dust.
At
the junction, taxi drivers swarmed, insisting we abandon our bicycles. “Too far
to cycle!” they cried. “No accommodation here!” Their voices carried urgency,
but also a hint of theatre. We pressed on, unwilling to surrender our
independence. And just beyond their chorus of warnings, we found a guesthouse
tucked along the main street—a quiet refuge hiding in plain sight. It felt like
a small victory, proof that persistence often reveals what doubt tries to
obscure.
That
night, as I lay listening to the hum of traffic outside, I thought of the day’s
ride. It had been messy, exhausting, and far from idyllic. Yet it was real—an
honest slice of the journey, where resilience mattered more than scenery.
Sometimes the road offers beauty, sometimes hardship, but always a story worth
telling.
Shores
of Sihanoukville
The
morning ride from Veal Rinh to Sihanoukville was short but sweet, fifty
kilometres that carried us from the dust of junction towns to the promise of
the coast. Along the way, we crossed paths once more with the New Zealanders,
as they headed in the opposite direction. These chance encounters felt like
threads weaving through the fabric of my journey, reminders that even on
solitary roads, companionship was never far away.
By
midday, the sea revealed itself in a shimmer of blue, and Sihanoukville rose
before me—a bustling coastal city alive with tourists, tuk-tuks, and the scent
of salt in the air. We found refuge at the Markara Guest House, perched just
across from Occheuteal Beach. The view was a postcard come to life: golden sand
stretching wide, restaurants lining the shore, and the horizon painted in hues
of orange and pink as the sun dipped low.
For
two days, the rhythm of travel slowed. I swam in warm waters, let the sun soak
into my skin, and lingered over cold beers as waves whispered against the
shore. The city pulsed with energy, yet the beach offered serenity, a balance
that felt restorative after weeks of cycling. Even chores—tackling the viruses
plaguing my laptop, washing clothes, tending to small repairs—took on a lighter
tone when framed by the sea.
Sihanoukville
was more than a pause; it was a reminder that journeys need rest as much as
motion. The road had tested us with headwinds and exhaustion, but here, the
ocean offered renewal. Watching the sunset bleed into the horizon, I felt
gratitude for the simple gift of stillness, knowing the wheels would soon turn
again.
Fireflies
in Ream
The
ride out of Sihanoukville carried us along the coast, past fishing settlements
and river mouths where boats bobbed gently against the tide. By midday, the
road led us into Ream National Park—a hidden gem tucked between mangroves and
estuaries, a place that felt worlds away from the city's bustle.
We
found a hut perched on stilts above the river, rustic and fragile, its plank
floor gapped wide enough to glimpse the water below. There was no electricity,
no running water, only the hum of nature and the promise of simplicity. Yet it
was irresistible. I unpacked my gear and claimed the hut as home, drawn to its
quiet charm.
Later,
we rented a rowboat and paddled into the mangrove swamps. The air was thick
with the scent of salt and greenery, alive with the calls of unseen birds.
Roots tangled like sculptures beneath the water, and the river wound deeper
into a labyrinth of stillness. It felt like stepping into another world, where
time slowed and the boundaries between land and water blurred.
Back
at the hut, the view from the deck was nothing short of magical. Fishermen cast
nets with practised grace, their silhouettes framed by the fading light. Boats
glided past, their wakes rippling across the mangroves. As the sun sank, the
sky blazed orange and pink, and the world seemed to pause in reverence.
Dinner
was simple—bowls of steaming noodles eaten on the deck—but the atmosphere
transformed it into a feast. Fireflies flickered in the dusk, their glow
dancing like tiny lanterns. The river shimmered beneath them, and for a moment,
the world felt enchanted. I sat there mesmerised, wrapped in the embrace of
nature, thinking that life rarely offers evenings as perfect as this.
The
hut may have been rough, but it gave me something far richer than comfort: a
glimpse of harmony, of how beauty thrives in simplicity. Ream was not just a
stop on the map—it was a reminder that sometimes the most extraordinary moments
arrive when you surrender to the ordinary.
Chapter
5: Kampot and surrounds
Kampot
Currents
The
road from Ream National Park to Kampot wound along the coast, tracing river
mouths and weaving through stilted fishing settlements. Each bend revealed
another tableau: children splashing in shallows, fishermen hauling nets, and
houses balanced precariously above the tide. It was a ride that felt both
scenic and intimate, as though the land itself was guiding us toward something
special.
By
late afternoon, we reached Bodi Villa, a rustic retreat perched on the Kampot
River. Our bedroom was little more than a floating deck enclosed by woven
bamboo walls, but the view was breathtaking. The river shimmered in the fading
light, inviting us to dive straight from our room into its cool embrace. The
novelty was irresistible, though Ernest complained of seasickness as the raft
swayed gently beneath us. His grumbles dampened the magic, and we kept our stay
short—a single night suspended between land and water.
The
next day, I wandered Kampot’s streets alone. The town was a mosaic of history
and culture, its French colonial buildings weathered yet elegant, their ornate
facades whispering of another era. Cafés spilt onto sidewalks, the aroma of
strong coffee mingling with the scent of pizza drifting from nearby eateries.
It was a place that invited lingering, a town where time seemed to slow and
charm seeped into every corner.
Yet
beneath the beauty, tension simmered. Ernest and I had known each other for
decades, but never lived side by side. The strain of constant companionship was
beginning to show. His whims often pulled us in different directions, and the
closeness of travel magnified every difference. Cycling together was one thing;
sharing every decision, every meal, every moment was another. Kampot became not
only a place of discovery but also a mirror, reflecting the challenges of
partnership on the road.
Still,
the town’s warmth softened the edges. Its colonial streets, its riverside calm,
its easy rhythm—all reminded me that journeys are not only about landscapes but
about learning to navigate relationships, too. Kampot was both refuge and
revelation, a chapter where beauty and strain coexisted, shaping the story as
much as the miles themselves.
Statues,
Crabs, and Monsoon Skies
The
road from Kampot to Kep was a playful one, a mere twenty-five kilometres
punctuated by whimsical statues that turned navigation into a kind of treasure
hunt. “Straight at the rhino, left at the horse,” locals advised, and sure
enough, each junction was marked by a creature frozen in concrete majesty. It
was as if the landscape itself conspired to keep the journey lighthearted.
Along
the way, a bakery tempted us with fresh bread, though our search for the
perfect topping proved fruitless. By the time we reached Kep, the seaside
village revealed its charm in simplicity. The coast was quiet, the pace
unhurried, and the Crab Market stole the spotlight. Ernest delighted in grilled
seafood, the aroma of charred shells and spices drifting across the row of
restaurants. For me, Kep was less about indulgence and more about atmosphere—a
place where the sea whispered gently against the shore, content in its modesty.
The
following day, I set my sights on a nearby island, eager for adventure. But the
sky had other plans. Dark clouds rolled in, heavy with the promise of rain, and
the first drops announced the arrival of the monsoon season. Reluctantly, I
turned back to Kampot, where the comforts of town awaited.
The
market was a whirlwind of colour and sound—stalls piled high with produce,
spices, and staggering quantities of MSG destined for instant noodles. Thunder
cracked overhead, lightning split the sky, and rain poured in sheets, confining
us indoors. Outside, puddles swelled into rivers, and the streets became a
theatre of resilience as vendors carried on beneath dripping tarps.
Kampot
revealed its peculiarities in the storm. “Happy Herb Pizza” tempted adventurous
souls with its playful nod to Cambodia’s loose relationship with legality. Tap
water was strictly avoided, though Ernest, ever inventive, devised his own
filtration system: two parts Mekong Rice Whisky one part water, his grin
suggesting that humour was as essential to survival as caution.
The
rain lingered, relentless, but it brought with it a rhythm that felt oddly
comforting. In Kep and Kampot, I discovered that travel is not only about
movement but about surrender—surrender to whimsy, to weather, to the quirks of
place. Sometimes the road offers statues and seafood, sometimes storms and
confinement. Each has its own story, and together they weave the fabric of the
journey.
Into
the Caves of Shiva
The
rains had finally eased, leaving the countryside washed clean and glistening. I
climbed onto the back of a moto, its tyres slipping through mud as we wound
past rice paddies and hamlets, in search of caves. The air was heavy with the
scent of wet earth, and children waved as we passed, their laughter carrying
across the fields. The ride itself felt like part of the adventure—bumpy,
unpredictable, and alive with anticipation.
At
the cave entrance, a group of eager children greeted me, their eyes bright with
curiosity. They offered to be my guides, and I gladly accepted. Together we
climbed a winding stone staircase, their chatter and giggles echoing against
the rock. Inside, the atmosphere shifted. Shadows clung to the walls, and the
outlines of animals emerged from the stone—natural shapes formed over
centuries, as if the cave itself had been sketching its own mythology.
The
sight that stopped me in my tracks was a 7th-century temple dedicated to Shiva,
its bricks worn but steadfast. Here, history whispered. The temple was small,
humble even, but its presence was profound. It spoke of devotion, of
resilience, of a culture that had carved its faith into the very bones of the
earth. I stood in silence, humbled by the endurance of this sacred place.
Emerging
from the cave, the reward was immediate. The countryside stretched out in a
vast panorama—rice fields shimmering in gold and green, palm trees swaying
gently, and the sky opening wide above it all. It was a view that seemed to
hold both past and present in its embrace, a reminder that journeys are not
only about movement but about moments of stillness, where history and landscape
converge.
That
evening, as rain returned in soft sheets, I thought of the children’s laughter,
the temple’s quiet strength, and the view from the cave. Kampot had revealed
another layer of Cambodia—its hidden sanctuaries, its living history, and its
ability to surprise at every turn.
Echoes
of Angkor Borei
The
road to Takeo was narrow and rough, a 85 kilometre rollercoaster of potholes
that jolted me with every turn. Dust rose in clouds, coating my skin, while the
sun blazed overhead. Yet there was joy in the chaos—each bump a reminder that
travel is not about smoothness but about resilience, about laughing at the
absurdity of potholes the size of small cars.
Takeo
itself was alive with market stalls, their colours spilling into the streets.
But my guidebook whispered of something older, something hidden: Angkor Borei,
once a bustling capital in the 5th century. I bargained for a moto ride,
clinging to my camera bag as we sped through rice fields, bouncing over dirt
tracks. The ride was wild, like being flung about by the land itself, but
anticipation carried me forward.
Angkor
Borei felt like a forgotten whisper. A handful of stilted houses stood where a
city had once thrived, and the small museum offered fragments of its
past—pottery, carvings, relics that hinted at glory but left me longing for
more. It was history in miniature, a place where silence spoke louder than
crowds.
From
there, I climbed the 142 steps to Phnom Da, a temple perched high above the
countryside. The ruins were overgrown, bricks softened by centuries, yet their
endurance was striking. Standing among them, I felt the weight of time pressing
gently against the present. Then, from the shadows of a cave, a bright green
snake slithered down, its scales gleaming like a warning urging me to retreat.
Sometimes history welcomes you; sometimes it reminds you of nature’s claim.
Back
in Takeo, I found Ernest waiting, his grin betraying the ease with which he had
tracked me down. “All I had to do was ask for the white woman on a bike,” he
admitted. His words carried humour, but also a reminder of how visible I was in
this landscape—an outsider, yet woven into the fabric of local curiosity.
Chapter 6 –
The Road to the Vietnamese Border
Crossing
the Mekong to Neak Luong
The
plan was simple: cycle ninety kilometres and call it a day. But journeys rarely
unfold as planned. The road south was narrow, crowded, and in terrible
condition, each kilometre a battle against soot, exhaust, and potholes. Halfway
through, my front luggage rack gave out, threatening to derail the ride
entirely. With duct tape and cable ties, I improvised a repair—proof that
resourcefulness is as essential as stamina on the road. The patched rack held,
and the wheels kept turning.
By
dusk, we found ourselves not at our intended stop but in Neak Luong, a town
perched on the far side of the Mekong River. The ferry from Kampong Phnum
carried us across, its deck crowded with vendors selling unidentifiable
dishes—deep-fried frogs, tiny birds crisped whole, and other curiosities that
spoke of Cambodia’s fearless palate. The boat glided through twilight, the
river shimmering beneath the stars, and I felt both weary and exhilarated.
Neak
Luong was no place to linger, yet it pulsed with energy. Without a bridge,
every bus had to stop for the ferry, turning the town into a hub of food stalls
and commerce. The atmosphere was strangely dynamic, a crossroads where
travellers paused, ate, and moved on. For us, it was a place to wait out the
final days before our Vietnamese visas began.
But
beneath the bustle lay a ghost. In 1973, Neak Luong had been devastated by a
tragic mistake: an American B-52 bomber dropped its payload on the town,
killing 137 people and wounding 268. The U.S. government offered families a
mere $100 in compensation, while the navigator was fined $700. The injustice
lingered like smoke in the air, a reminder that history’s scars do not fade
easily. Walking through the streets, I felt the weight of that past pressing
against the present, a silent shadow beneath the noise of vendors and ferries.
That
night, as the town buzzed outside, I thought of the patched rack, the ferry’s
food stalls, and the tragedy etched into Neak Luong’s memory. Travel is not
only about landscapes and encounters—it is about the stories that cling to
places, stories of resilience and sorrow, of survival and remembrance. Neak
Luong was not a destination I had chosen, but it became a chapter I could never
forget.
Waiting
in Svay Rieng
The
ride from Neak Luong to Svay Rieng was mercifully short, only sixty-five
kilometres, a gentle transition after the chaos of ferries and the haunting
memories of Neak Luong. The road carried us through flat countryside, past rice
paddies shimmering in the sun, until the town revealed itself—a modest place,
yet one that felt like a hidden gem.
Our
hotel was simple but welcoming, and with entry into Vietnam still days away,
there was no rush. For once, time stretched wide, offering space to linger. The
market became our playground, a riot of colour and sound. Stalls overflowed
with fruit—mangosteen with its deep purple skin, rambutan bristling with
red-green spines, bananas stacked in golden bunches. Each stall was a feast for
the senses, and I wandered slowly, letting the abundance soak in.
Ernest,
ever adventurous with food, picked up a rice meal wrapped in a banana leaf. He
bit into the mysterious filling with gusto, though its contents remained a
puzzle.
Quirks
of Cambodian hospitality revealed themselves even in the smallest details.
Hotels, no matter how basic, offered disposable toothbrushes and a communal
comb—worn, bent, and clearly used before. I couldn’t help but laugh at the
thought of anyone willingly running it through their hair. These oddities
became part of the charm, reminders that travel is as much about the peculiar
as the profound.
As a
vegetarian, I always took extra care to check the menu. However, in Cambodia meals
carried their own rituals. As soon as we stepped into a restaurant, glasses of
ice water appeared without request. This speedy service meant that, when
enquiring about the ingredients the meals soon appeared, usually resulting in
Ernest enjoying two meals.
Svay
Rieng was not a place of grand monuments or tourist attractions, but it was a
place of pause. Walking along the river, watching vendors ply their trade, I
felt the quiet charm of a town content in its simplicity. It was here, in the
stillness before crossing into Vietnam, that Cambodia offered me one last gift:
the reminder that journeys are not only about movement, but about moments of
waiting, of breathing, of noticing the small details that linger long after the
road has carried you onward.
Crossing
into Vietnam
On
the morning of June 25th, the road beckoned once more. The border lay ahead,
Vietnam waiting beyond. As I pedalled away, Cambodia lingered in my mind—not
just as a country of temples and markets, but as a place of resilience, humour,
and quiet surprises. From the bamboo train to the fireflies of Ream, from the
haunting silence of Tuol Sleng to the laughter of children guiding me through
caves, Cambodia had revealed itself in layers—quirky, tragic, beautiful, and
unforgettable.
Crossing
the border, I carried with me more than memories. I carried echoes: of monks
walking barefoot, of fishermen casting nets, of rain pounding Kampot’s streets,
of history pressing against the present. Cambodia was not just a chapter in the
journey—it was a teacher, reminding me that travel is not only about where you
go, but about how deeply you allow yourself to see.
The
border crossing itself was straightforward, yet symbolic: a line on a map, a
stamp in a passport, and suddenly the language, the currency, and the rhythm of
daily life all changed.
The
first kilometres felt electric—new signs, new faces, new foods simmering in
roadside stalls. The air buzzed with novelty, each detail heightened by the
thrill of arrival. Where Cambodia’s roads had often been chaotic
improvisations, Vietnam’s seemed more ordered, though no less alive. Motorbikes
zipped past in endless streams, their horns a constant chorus. Street vendors
balanced trays of steaming bowls, the scent of pho drifting into the air,
mingling with the sharp tang of coffee brewed strong and sweet.
Vietnam
promised new challenges, new discoveries, and new stories waiting to be
written.
