025 CYCLE TOURING CAMBODIA (1) 2009

 

CAMBODIA (1) 2009

Photo by Ernest Markwood

1,156 Kilometres – 30 Days
26 May – 25 June 2009

MAP

Photos

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VOICEOVER

FLIP-BOOK

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.

024 CYCLE TOURING THAILAND (1) 2009

 

            THAILAND (1) 2009

Photo by Ernest Markwood

2311 Kilometres – 39 Days

19 April–26 May 2009

MAP

PHOTOS

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FLIP-BOOK

 

17–19 April- Kathmandu, Nepal – Bangkok, Thailand - By Air

Following a rather rushed visit to Nepal, we departed at 05h00 and biked through the quiet, dark streets of Kathmandu to the Airport. However, there was no need to arrive early, as the flight scheduled to depart at 9h00 only took off at 11h15.

Royal Nepal Airlines touched down in Bangkok after two and a half hours. A costly taxi ride took us to the immensely touristy area of Banglamphu, where we immediately experienced Thailand's sweltering heat. We huffed, puffed, and sweated, finally having the bikes reassembled and the panniers repacked.

With its bars, restaurants, and street food vendors, the famous Khao San Road gave us our first taste of Bangkok. Bangkok is a culinary feast for the brave of heart. Ernest, never one to back away from a "smiley" (roasted sheep's head in South Africa), enjoyed all that was on offer, including steaming bowls of Thai noodle soup with offal.

 

20–22 April - Bangkok

Modern Bangkok came as a pleasant surprise; without the constant hooting and drivers obeying traffic rules, they even stopped allowing one to cross the street. This came as a welcome change following six months in India.

A few days were spent discovering Bangkok, where alleys never failed to amaze amid ancient temples. These pedestrian lanes sold anything from amulets to second-hand false teeth and bridges. I kid you not. The next stop was Chinatown, whose warren of stalls offered the whole shebang, from food to fluffy teddy bears and jewellery. I guessed it could take years to explore the entire area. Then, on the Chao Phraya River ferry, the river was a hive of activity, carting people and goods to and from their destinations. Getting around by ferry wasn't merely easy but also a pleasure, as there was always a cool breeze coming off the water.

 

23 April - Bangkok – Samut Songkhram – 78 km

Itching to get underway, I was appalled to learn that Ernest planned to head straight to Cambodia. I had no plans to leave Thailand without investigating the rest of the country and its world-famous beaches. Nevertheless, I was adamant about heading south, with or without him. Getting out of Bangkok was far less stressful than even the smallest Indian town. No sooner were we on the bikes than we found ourselves along a highway heading Southeast. The heat and humidity could be a significant factor. Although the weather was already boiling early in the morning, the roomy shoulder and motorists obeying traffic rules made cycling effortless.

Samut Songkhram and its famous railway market provided convenient overnighting, with a hotel offering air-con, a bar fridge, and clean linen.

 

24 April - Samut Songkhram – Puk Tian Beach – 78 km

Sadly, we had to leave our luxury abode and brave the relentless heat for the ride south. Shortly after departing, a scenic coastal road turned off the highway. Ernest, the "highwayman", didn't appreciate this deviation, but all long-lipped tagged along. So past marshy areas, salt farms (making one thirsty just looking at it) and tiny settlements, we rode until reaching the beachy regions along the Gulf of Thailand.

Finding food proved to be a bigger problem than envisaged. Being vegetarian wasn't a concept Thais understood, or, more likely, I didn't know how to explain myself. Vegetables seemed to be considered salad, and seldom did I encounter the usual green salad, which I'm familiar with. My food of choice became lightly fried crispy veg and noodles, which I loved. Ernest enjoyed the wide variety of dishes, consisting mainly of meat and seafood, accompanied by the ever-present staple of rice.

At Puk Tian Beach, a bungalow a block away from the beach was home that night. The beach is dominated by a gigantic statue of one of the deities from the epic poem Phra Aphai Mani, a 48,700-line poem from 1822 that took 22 years to write. Once unpacked, we set out to hunt for food, and, as anticipated, Ernest had more success than I did. I clearly had a few things to learn.

 

25-27 April - Puk Tian Beach – Hua Hin – 49 km

The coastal route passed the resort town of Cha-Am, where holidaymakers enjoyed a Saturday morning at the seaside. Later, our way spat us out at the famous holiday town of Hua Hin. The beach looked far too good a place to pass by, and we quickly discovered a rickety guesthouse upon stilts in the old part of town overlooking the ocean. High tide made the water lap under the wooden deck, a pleasant spot for a beer at sunset.

Hua Hin Beach sported deck chairs where one could kick back in the shade and sip a beer with the ocean lapping at your feet. The city was further famous for its nightly food markets. Here, one could choose from a considerable variety of dishes, but sadly, no vegetarian food.

 

28 April - Hau Hin – Prachuap Khiri Khan – 98 km

Ernest faffed around forever, so we were late when we finally got underway. Thank goodness, the way south was pancake flat, not a thing I ever complained about. Halfway through the day, lunch was a bowl of noodle soup, which one could find almost anywhere. Prachuap Khiri Khan's lovely village was reached relatively early and a hut north of town was our abode of choice. The scenery resembled the quintessential Thai landscape of green jungle-coated limestone pinnacles, postcard-pretty white-sand beaches, and a blue-green ocean.

By evening, a walk into town revealed a lively night market featuring plenty to choose from. Ernest lapped up oysters but didn't have the stomach for the crispy fried grasshoppers, larvae, cockroaches, chicken feet and other bugs, all served with a dash of soy sauce and a pinch of pepper.

 

29 April-1 May - Prachuap Khiri Khan – Bang Saphan (Thalu Beach) – 115 km

We went a hundred and fifteen kilometres and shortly past Bang Saphan located Lola Bungalows, right upon the beach amongst palm trees, exactly what I've been dreaming of. With barely any tourists and a long white beach, the spot wasn't simply straight out of a tourist brochure but less pricey. Supper was at a restaurant a short walk beside the ocean, and I thought the day couldn't get a great deal better. Needless to say, we stayed a few days, as it was very much a swing-another-day-in-a-hammock kind of place.

 

2 May - Bang Saphan – Roadside Guesthouse – 89 km

Our path followed the coast, a magnificent ride past miles of lonely beaches and scenic bays. The cloudy weather made riding effortless, and we never got caught in the rain we could see around us. A roadside bungalow provided a bed and where we surprisingly, met a fellow South African, living in Thailand. The establishment had a restaurant making it unnecessary to cook. Thai food was quite delicious even if locating vegetarian food was tricky. The only problem was, I didn't think the food was substantial enough to see one through a long cycling day.

 

3 May – Roadside Guesthouse - Chumphon – 43 km

A leisurely ride from our overnight stop proceeded to Chumphon via Hat Tha Wua Laen Beach. Once in Chumphon, we headed to the well-known "Farang Bar" a backpacker's favourite at the time. Luckily, we slinked in minutes ahead of a heavy storm. What a pleasant surprise, the rooms were inexpensive, and the establishment had a popular bar and restaurant. I was pleased with the roof over my head with roaring thunder and an impressive lightning display. At least these storms never lasted long. Once the weather cleared, we ambled along to the nearby supermarket. We discovered bread, cheese and mayonnaise (different from the usual green curry). En route to our abode Ernest uncovered many tasty bits from the vast covered market but I noticed he gave the smoked rats a wide berth. From Chumphon, one could organise boats to the nearby islands, but my cycling partner wasn't keen on such ventures.

 

4 May - Champorn – Chaiya – 142 km

Ernest received an e-mail from his friend Rossouw, saying they were holidaying in Phuket but departing in four days. So we decided to race there to see if we could catch them before their returned home. Ernest was delighted with the urgent pace and it was pedal, pedal, pedal. At least the road was in good condition. By evening Ernest cooked pasta in anticipation of our long-distance the next day.

 

5 May - Chaiya – Au Leuk – 170 km

Again, we'd our heads down and pedalled on, crawling into Ao Leuk just as darkness fell.

 

6 May - Au Leuk – Phuket – 140 km

At least the route was scenic as we rode the last long stretch to Phuket, crossing the Sarasin Bridge, built in 1951 and said the first bridge to connect the mainland to the island. The bridge is a mere 660 meters long and has a tragic history. In 1973 two lovers jumped into the water after being denied a relationship by the young lady's father. Their sad story has subsequently been made into a film.

We went a further forty kilometres from this bridge before slinking into town. Once in Phuket town, a second look at the map revealed Rossouw and Dawn were at Patong Beach on the island's opposite side. I was tired and believed it best to stay put and do the last twenty kilometres in the morning.

 

7-8 May - Phuket – Patong Beach - 21 km

Although a short distance to the Beach, the route led via a steep hill, and it took walking the bike to the top. Hot and humid, I cycled right out of my sandals and had to stop to don socks, preventing me from sliding out of my shoes.

We met Rossouw and Dawn at their lovely hotel, high up upon a hill overlooking the beach. After a chat and beer, we left to find a spot to stay in bustling Patong. Not an exceedingly difficult task as the area was swarming with tourists sporting various accommodations.

The evening was spent enjoying a few Singhas to celebrate Dawn's 50th birthday. Patong Beach is a lively tourist area packed with bars, restaurants, dive shops and souvenir shops - not to mention scantily clad Thai girls enticing Farang men - to the great delight of Ernest and Rossouw.

Two days were spent at Patong, meeting with Rossouw and Dawn every so often for a beer and a chat. Phuket was expensive, as could be expected from such a well-visited destination. The unusual part was seeing elderly foreign men proudly parading their young Thai girlfriends on their arms. I found the concept of sex tourism somewhat immoral. The girls had the knack for making these ageing men feel like a million dollars.

I've a love-hate relationship with cities and touristy places as they are usually far too overcrowded and costly. Still, they offer the luxury of a convenient tourist infrastructure, whether internet, laundry services or pizzas.

I loaded my photos on CD and bought a few small gifts for my nieces and nephews, which Rossouw and Dawn kindly took to South Africa.

I replaced the iPod's earphones, caught in the spokes, fiddling while cycling. Then, finally, I bought toothpaste and a hair conditioner and, following all the shopping, had to return to the ATM.

It rained much of the 2nd day, leaving Rossouw and Dawn to return to their resort during a rain torrent. The rest of the day was spent updating blogs and handing in laundry. Unfortunately, doing laundry was no good as the clothes never dried.

I further located a sim card, to great delight of my family. Still, I could only send but not receive SMSs.

 

9 May - Patong Beach – Thai Muang – 100 km

Our late departure was due to waiting for the return of our laundry. Once all was packed, we followed the west coast in a northerly direction. The plan was to head to Ranong where one could do visa runs to Myanmar (Burma). So we ambled along, past small beachy villages all still struggling to recover from the 2004 tsunami.

Arriving at Tha Muang and keeping an eye out for accommodation a small, obscure sign pointed to a lodge. A gravel path ran behind trees to remote bungalows. We soon discovered the need for privacy as the establishment rented rooms by the hour. Chalets thus came with an ample supply of condoms and toothbrushes, as well as walls adorned by appropriate pictures (no heart-shaped bed though).

 

10 May - Thai Muang – Riverside Bungalows (Khao Lak) – 52 km

The ride to Khao Lak was littered with scenic beaches, but the lack of budget lodging made returning to the main road. Due to the 2004 Tsunami, the well-known basic beach bungalows were all gone and new, fancy hotels were constructed along the seashore. Slightly further a sign pointed to Riverside Bungalows and camping. This was a great place with lush green gardens, gazebos and a great pool. We pitched our tents and lazed around the pool the rest of the day. At sunset, we were eaten alive by mosquitoes and hurriedly retreated to the tents. By then, I wasn't just covered in mosquito bites and a heat rash but suffered from a chronic upset stomach.

 

11 May - Khao Lak – Khuraburi – 83 km

Thailand is a cycle touring paradise. The main roads are good, have spacious shoulders for cycling, and the coast is peppered with gorgeous beaches. As we continued north, we biked through densely wooded areas. Although sweltering and humid, the area remained an absolute pleasure. Average temperatures were a minimum of 24C at night rising to between 36–40 during the day with a humidity factor of 75%.

Khuraburi had riverside huts upon stilts. The setting (right over the riverbank) was good and the price reasonable, and we parked our bikes, never haggling about the price.

I even managed to find a wi-fi connection in one corner of the deck and after folding myself into a pretzel, managed to send a few e-mails. The easiest and cheapest meal was instant noodles with added vegetables, something we ate nearly every day.

 

12 May - Khuraburi – Hat Bang Ben (Laem Son National Park) – 83 km

The stretch north of Khuraburi made a great day on the bike. Most of the coast in that country was covered in mangrove swamps. We rode up and down hills and through densely wooded areas until the turnoff to Laem Son National Park, situated 10 km off the highway.

Hat Bang Ben was located along a sandy beach sporting views of several nearby islands. We found lodging near the beach and swam before cooking our usual noodles.

 

13 May - Hat Bang Ben – Ranong – 60 km

A pleasant amble took us into Ranong, and the Kiwi Orchard Guest House. The guesthouse was a real backpacker's joint featuring a restaurant, bar, boat and bus booking facilities. The reason for staying there was their visa-run service to Burma, which we organised for the coming morning.

 

14 May - Ranong (Visa run to Myanmar)

The visa run involved taking a boat to Myanmar to renew our Thailand visas. Boats frequently scooted across the gulf to the border town of Kaw Thoung. Departing Thailand to Burma, our long-tailed boat didn't sound all too healthy but eventually got away in a cloud of smoke. Once there, $10 bought you a Burmese visa as well as a stamp in and out of Burma. I was livid to find they granted a two-week stay (not a day pass as assumed). If we knew, I sure would've arranged a more extended visit.

Upon returning, we weren't as fortunate as earlier. Our boat's engine exploded with a thunderous bang, leaving us drenched in black oil and adrift in the ocean. Mercifully, the crossing was a busy one and soon, help arrived. A similar boat hooked us up and towed us towards our destination, but halfway gave up and handed us over to another boat which took us the final stretch. Unfortunately, the new boat didn't sound all healthy either. It burped and splattered but eventually got us to the pier from where we'd departed a couple of hours earlier.

Upon closer inspection, and to our horror, we discovered the new visa merely allowed a two-week stay and not a month as foreseen. This meant we'd to peddle like the clappers to get out of Thailand in time.

 

15 May - Ranong – Kra Buri – 60 km

We passed waterfalls, rivers, and beautiful forested areas to Kra Buri. Comfortable looking A-frame huts lured us in and as the weather looked threatening, we stayed put.

Under the trees in cages, were small, pied songbirds with red cheeks which seemed a popular part of Thai culture, particularly in that region. I always had a great urge to set caged birds free; still, their song brought about a wonderfully peaceful and relaxed atmosphere. Moreover, their melodious singing made it easy to understand why practically all households had these birds. Add the many dogs and cats who seem to co-exist surprisingly peacefully, gave the impression of living on a vast farm.

 

16 May - Kra Buri – Chumphon – 68 km

Our route ran east over the hills towards Chumphon, to the Gulf of Thailand. Again, a pleasant day's cycling as the weather was cloudy but without any rain. We bunked down at the Farang Bar in Chumphon, our previous accommodation.

The constant heat caused Ernest and me to develop a heat rash - prickly heat. It's pretty standard in the tropics, and easily treated with a powder or calamine lotion. So not simply were we covered in mosquito bites but also in an unsightly rash by then.

 

17 May - Chumphon – Bang Saphan (Lola Bungalows) – 114 km

We emerged to a drizzle, a drizzle that continued throughout the day. Fortunately, the temperature remained in the high twenties and cycling in the rain can be quite a pleasant experience.

Still, reaching Bang Saphan and Lola Bungalows where we could wash the day's drizzled fuelled grime off, was a relief. Lola had such a great setting, right along the shore; staying the night came easily. We once more cooked instant noodles and it needs mentioning, I was slowly (or maybe not so slowly) becoming tired of instant noodles.

 

18 May - Bang Saphan – Prachuap Khiri Khan – 100 km

From Bang Saphan, we didn't take the coastal road (which I preferred) but the highway, which made soul-destroying riding to Prachuap. Once in Prachuap, we chose our previous ramshackle digs as Ernest was a man of habit. Unfortunately, it wasn't the best place to shelter in rainy weather, as I could see the sky through the roof. The floor wasn't all level either, and even on the toilet one had to secure both feet firmly upon the ground not to slide off.

 

19 May - Prachuap Kiri Khan – Cha-Am – 132 km

With limited time on our visas and seeing we've cycled this stretch a few weeks earlier we got onto the highway, a dreadfully monotonous ride. Convincing Ernest to get off the highway and onto more minor roads was a constant battle that tired me emotionally. Once in Cha-Am, we opted for a two-day stay to sort out my finances via the internet. Ernest had no money, or so he claimed, and I was fast heading that way myself. Therefore, I needed to devise a plan to keep us afloat.

 

21 May - Cha-Am – Samut Sakhon – 129 km

With my finances sorted we resumed our ride along the coastal route to Cambodia, still a few days cycling away. A mild tailwind pushed us onto Samut Sakon. Roadside accommodation at a budget price offered air-con, TV and a bathtub, something not seen in years.

Ernest cooked pasta, which he'd been carrying in his panniers. It's incredible what all came out of those panniers. Still, I considered walking to one of the nearby mobile food carts more convenient.

 

22 May - Samut Sakhon – Chachoengsao – 110 km

From Samut Sakhon to Chachoengsao was, and always will be, a dreadful traffic-laden ride through southern Bangkok, a slow stop–start process. The first sixty kilometres came with horrendous traffic through a densely populated area. Then, mercifully, it cleared and proceeded through a more rural area adorned by endless shrines and temples. Our rural road followed a canal lined by wooden houses upon stilts, where villagers lived from fishing. I thought it remarkable any fish remained in those rivers, as all kinds of fishing methods were employed from Chinese nets to wicker baskets. The teeny fish caught were dried in the sun on large bamboo tables. I felt hot, tired, hungry, and thirsty and we stopped at a petrol station to take a breather. Petrol stations were abundant and in general sported 7-Eleven shops and clean toilets. The weather looked threatening, and we located a bed in a brand-new hotel next door. I was convinced we were the first farang guests as we appeared a great source of interest.

 

23 May - Chachoengsae - Sa Khao – 139 km

Tailwind assisted, we peddled towards the border. Good time was made as we were trying to out-cycle threatening looking clouds. Finally, Sa Khao was reached without encountering thunderstorms, even though Ernest had a flat tire. At a reasonable price, a bungalow at the far end of town was our digs that night. Unfortunately, no sooner had we offloaded the bikes than the rain came pelting down as it can only do in the tropics.

 

24-25 May - Sa Khao – Aranyaprathet – 58 km

A short and hot ride led us into Aranyaprathet, the border town between Thailand and Cambodia. An excellent spot to do laundry before proceeding and we hence stayed an additional night. The Market Hotel was a well-geared backpackers joint, and featured a restaurant, air-con, swimming pool and bar, and outdoor ground-floor rooms, a good choice for cyclists. We woke to rain gushing down and stayed put.

Aranyaprathet had two bike shops, I replaced my much-worn gloves, and Ernest bought two new tyres, thanks to a donation from his sister Olga. He probably would've also purchased two spare rims if he had enough money.

 

26 May – Aranyaprathet, Thailand – Sisophon, Cambodia – 56 km

Cambodia conjured up images of famine and mass killings. I was eager to see what the country would hold – hopefully, none of the above. So, following a relaxed start, we cycled to the border via the border market. The market was a massive area with a warren of stalls selling everything imaginable. Most goods came from Cambodia in a steady stream through the border post, pushed or pulled on numerous heavily loaded hand-drawn carts.

Obtaining a visa involved filling in a form, providing a photo, and visiting the "swine flu" checkpoint to have our ears probed, and our temperatures recorded.

Once in Cambodia, one could tell you were out of well-organised Thailand and in a slightly more chaotic Cambodia. The chaos was made even more so by Cambodians driving on the right and trafficked weaved randomly between the lanes.

The Cambodians seemed friendly enough as greetings "suostei" could be heard from behind banana trees as we pedalled past.

Arriving at Sisophon, our first town, we settled for digs to sass out our new environment, change money, and find a new sim card. A rickety hut on stilts came at $2 – considered a bargain even though one could see through the floorboards. In general, things appeared somewhat cheaper than in Thailand. The Cambodian Riel came at 4160 riels to a US dollar and bankcards got you dollars at the ATM (which could then be changed to Riel). The markets quoted products in Thai Bhat, dollars and Riels.

Strangely enough in Cambodia, like in Thailand, all drinks came with a straw, even a can of beer.