CYCLE TOURING CAMBODIA (3)
Rain & Rice
Fields
A Journey Through the
Heart of Cambodia
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July–August 2016
1,336 Kilometres – 23 Days
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VOICEOVER
FLIP-BOOK
PROLOGUE
Cambodia arrived like a
whisper on a dusty road —a border, a stamp, a dirt track dissolving into green.
Children’s voices rose from behind banana leaves, monks drifted through morning
light, and the Mekong moved with the patience of centuries. Here, life balanced
on stilts above the earth, rice dried in the sun, and kindness met us long
before we learned the words for thank you.
Leaving Laos, Entering Dust - Maung Khong, Laos to Stung Treng, Cambodia (100
km)
Crossing the last stretch of Laos felt
like leaving a gentle friend behind. “I feel quite emotional leaving Laos,”
Tania murmured as we rolled toward the border, the morning soft and forgiving. At
the border, an unofficial $2 exit fee vanished into the border officials’
pockets, but we claimed poverty, and a long wait later, our passports were
stamped. Next, we scurried off to the Cambodian border, where officials charged
a dollar for not having a yellow vaccination card and five extra dollars for
the visa bureaucracy.
Beyond the border, the world opened
into a quiet countryside of red dust and scattered wooden shops. The dirt road
was kind, the air warm, and the small stores along the way kept our bottles
full. Tania exchanged her last Lao kip at a petrol station—an unlikely but
welcome stroke of luck.
Stung Treng appeared in a haze of heat
and market noise. We found an ATM dispensing only US dollars, then a guesthouse
with no water, then another with just enough comfort to collapse into. The day
ended with the familiar exhaustion of border crossings—dust in our hair, hunger
in our bellies, and the sense of stepping into a new chapter.
The Long Road to Kratie - Stung Treng to Kratie (140 km)
We left Strung Treng far too late for
such a long day, stopping to exchange money, popping into a pharmacy, and taking
loads of photos kept us busy for most of the morning. Only thirty kilometres in
did the urgency hit: we needed to move.
The road south was a ribbon of rural
life. Women in bright pyjamas sold steamed duck eggs from roadside stands—houses
perched on stilts above the dust, hammocks swaying beneath them like slow
pendulums. Children shouted “hello!” from behind banana plants, their voices
carrying across the fields. Invitations to share meals drifted toward us like
warm breezes, but the headwind pushed back, reminding us of the distance still
ahead.
Storm clouds gathered. Roadworks
slowed us. By the time we reached the Kratie turnoff, the sky cracked open. We
sheltered, waited, and when the rain finally eased, darkness had already
fallen. We rode the last stretch by the glow of our headlamps, dodging potholes
and puddles, arriving soaked and relieved at a riverside guesthouse. The shower
washed away the day’s grit, but the memory of that long, wet ride stayed with
us.
By morning the Mekong carried us
upriver in a small boat, its surface smooth as brushed silk. We searched for
the elusive Irrawaddy dolphins, and when they surfaced—rounded heads, soft
breaths—it felt like witnessing a secret.
They are nearly blind, the guide told
us. Tiny eyes, no lenses. They sense the world through sound and shadow. Their
population is fragile, scattered across rivers and estuaries from the Ganges to
the Mekong. Watching them rise and disappear into the brown water felt like
watching time itself—ancient, endangered, and impossibly gentle.
The River Trail Kratie → Stung Trang (89 km)
Leaving Kratie, we chose the river
trail over the main road, and it rewarded us with a day of pure rural poetry—houses
teetered on stilts above the floodplain, their wooden steps worn smooth by
generations. Oxcarts creaked along the path, children skipped to school, and
women pedalled bicycles laden with vegetables.
Rice dried in the sun. Bare-necked
chickens darted across the dust. Fishermen cast nets into narrow rivers, their
silhouettes framed by morning light. Vendors sold sticky rice wrapped in banana
leaves, and sugarcane juice dripped down our chins.
By afternoon we reached the ferry—a
wooden platform drifting across the Mekong—and crossed to Stung Trang, lulled
by the slow rhythm of river life.
Fields Without End -Stung Trang to Kampong Thom (97 km)
From Strung Trang we turned inland
toward Kampong Thom, leaving the river behind. The landscape widened into vast
rice fields, green as emerald cloth. Children stared at us with shy curiosity;
even the stray dogs seemed startled by our presence.
Rubber plantations stretched in
regimented rows. Cassava fields rippled in the breeze. Signs pointed toward
ancient Khmer ruins hidden somewhere beyond the horizon. Dust-covered artisans
carved statues for temples; their hands white with stone powder.
It was a day of quiet pedalling, the
countryside unfolding like a long exhale.
A Day When Nothing Happened (Except
Everything Did), Kampong
Thom to Kampong Kdei (89 km)
A day when “nothing happened,” except
everything did. Monks in saffron robes collected alms. Women ploughed fields
with oxcarts. Traders pushed carts stacked with wooden furniture, baskets, and
improbable loads of live chickens.
Children cycled to school with
astonishing balance—tiny legs pumping, friends perched on handlebars or rear
racks. Watermelon stands and coconut juice stalls offered sweet relief. By
evening, we reached Kampong Kdei, where a surprisingly comfortable guesthouse
awaited us.
The Ancient Bridge - Kampong Kdei to Siem Reap (64 km)
We rolled through the morning market,
weaving between vendors and curious stares. Soon after, the ancient Kampong
Kdei Bridge appeared-an 11th-century marvel of laterite and stone, once the
longest corbelled-arch bridge in the world. Now bypassed by the highway, it
remains a quiet relic of Khmer engineering.
The road to Siem Reap was lined with
bamboo-cooked rice, fruit stalls, and herds of cattle. Fifteen kilometres out,
temple ruins began to appear like ghosts in the trees. By afternoon, we reached
the city, ready for rest, repairs, and a few days of stillness.
Stillness in Siem Reap
Two days of errands and small
pleasures. Tania explored Angkor’s ancient stones while I tended to the
mundane: laundry, bike service, camera repairs. The circus surprised
us—ingenious, intimate, full of heart. Cambodia’s creativity shone in that
small tent.
Across Tonle Sap – on a boat to
Battambang
The boat across Tonle Sap was slow,
old, and charmingly unreliable. It sputtered, broke down twice, and carried
empty beer cans beneath the driver’s seat. But the floating villages were
unforgettable—schools, shops, police stations, all drifting on the water.
Children steered boats before they could walk. Life here was buoyant,
precarious, and utterly unique.
A crocodile farm floated ominously
among the houses. We shuddered at the thought of escapees.
By the time we reached Battambang, our
backs ached from the wooden benches, but the night market revived us with food
and colour.
The Bamboo Train – Battambang to
Pursat (118 km)
We set off the next morning, soon
reaching the “bamboo train” - more trolley than train—a wobbling platform on
wheels that rattled through the forest. We laughed the whole way.
Back on the bikes, the road south
offered familiar scenes: rice paddies, friendly children, pottery sellers,
motorbikes stacked with pigs in woven baskets. Storm clouds gathered late in
the day, and we raced the rain into Pursat, arriving just in time.
Flying Snakes & Coconut Ice Cream
- Pursat → Kampong Chhnang (96 km)
“This is Cambodia, baby!” Tania exclaimed
as we pedalled into a cloud of morning fumes. The road was alive with tuk‑tuks,
buffalo, buses, and vendors selling steamed buns.
We devoured an entire watermelon at
one stand, then coconut ice cream on bread, drenched in condensed milk. We
declined the fermented ant larvae. Flying snakes—dropping from trees and
slithering into the grass—were unsettling enough.
Into Phnom Penh (93 km)
Nine years on the road, and still the
world surprises me.
We passed monasteries, rice planters,
petrol sold in Coke bottles, and unidentifiable animals hanging from roadside
branches. Trucks overflowed with chickens. Farmers led buffalo through rivers.
English was scarce; smiles were abundant.
Phnom Penh swallowed us in Friday
traffic—chaotic, dusty, relentless. We ducked and weaved through carts and
markets until we reached the city centre and found a room good enough to stay a
week.
The next day brought the sombre weight
of the Killing Fields and Tuol Sleng. History pressed close. I visited the
Canon store—bad news: the lens needed calibration in Singapore. I applied for a
Thai visa and Tania bought a tent for our onward journey.
The Monastery at Takeo (77 km)
Leaving the capital was a battle
through morning traffic. Flatbed tuk-tuks carried elderly women in wide hats;
trucks towered with hay and passengers. Tania grinned through the chaos: “This
is Cambodia, baby!”
We visited the Phnom Tamao Wildlife
Rescue Centre—6,000 acres of forest sheltering elephants, tigers, gibbons, and
sun bears. It was Tania’s world, and she lit up among the enclosures.
By evening, we reached Takeo and
camped at a monastery. The monks offered the temple floor, a bucket shower, and
electricity. Their kindness felt like a blessing.
The Road to the Coast — Takeo to Roadside Camp (104 km)
We rode past luminous rice paddies,
coconut piles, and duck stalls selling every imaginable part of the bird. The
closer we came to the coast, the hillier the land grew. Rain hammered down. I
fixed a flat tyre in the downpour, longing for my Schwalbe tyres.
Near Kampot, a sign for “Café &
Camping” appeared—a rarity in Cambodia. Two Turkish travellers welcomed us with
coffee and stories. They were making a film about their journey. We camped
under a canopy, grateful for the unexpected companionship.
Everything breaks at once - Roadside Camp to Sihanoukville (85 km)
Tania’s $20 tent collapsed overnight,
leaving her in a sad, flat heap. We laughed, but it was disappointing—we’d
hoped to camp more.
The road wound past oyster farms,
fishing villages, and neon-green rice fields. My cheap tyre tore; duct tape
held it together long enough to reach a town. My scandal broke too. Rain
poured. It was one of those days where everything fails at once, and you keep
pedalling anyway.
Sihanoukville was touristy but full of
rooms. We scrubbed off the day, repacked, and attempted to fix the tent poles.
No luck. I glued my sandal and hoped for the best.
Chasing the Bus
I rode the early bus back to Phnom
Penh to collect my Thai visa. The tent shop refunded Tania’s money. I bought a
tyre, tube, and gloves at the Giant store. The visa wasn’t ready until 17:00,
so I spent the day wandering the mall like an expat.
When I finally collected the visa, I
rushed to catch the return bus—only to find it had already left. A motorbike
taxi gave chase, and we caught the bus kilometres down the road. Only in
Cambodia.
Rain, Fatigue & Petrol Station
Camping - Sihanoukville to Sre Ambel (98 km)
Rain hammered down in the morning,
delaying our start. Tania felt unwell—lethargic, nauseous—but insisted on
riding. The drizzle persisted all day as we retraced our route to Veal Renh and
turned west toward Thailand.
By afternoon, the rain returned in
sheets. We sought shelter at a petrol station, where the staff kindly let us
camp under a canopy with lights and power. A humble but welcome refuge.
Into the Cardamoms - Sre Ambel to Andong Tuek (43 km)
There’s no sleeping late at a petrol
station. Tania still felt ill, but we continued toward the Cardamom Mountains.
The vegetation grew lush and wild.
At Andong Tuek, boats ferried
travellers upriver to Chi Phat, a community-run eco‑tourism village once home
to loggers and poachers. We found a rustic bungalow and booked a trek. Supper
was rice, boiled cabbage, and goose eggs—simple, filling, forgettable.
Hammocks Under the House - Chi Phat Trek
Cambodia continued to astonish.
Children half the size of cattle herded them confidently along the road.
Five-year-olds rode motorbikes. Life here began early.
We set off with our guide into the
Cardamom Mountains. My “fixed” sandal broke immediately, and the guide phoned a
friend to fetch my sneakers from my panniers—delivered by motorbike, there is
nowhere Cambodians can't reach by motorbike.
The forest was dense, fragrant, alive
with insects and strange plants. Lunch was cooked over a small fire—rice and
vegetables ready in minutes. By late afternoon we reached a family home where
we hung our hammocks beneath their stilted house. Chickens and dogs scurried
around the kitchen area. The family cooked pumpkin flowers, bamboo shoots,
chillies, garlic, and wild greens into a delicious soup.
They lived with almost nothing—no
electricity, no running water, no toilet—but with a grace and resourcefulness
that humbled us. We fell asleep to the forest’s chorus.
Morning came with roosters and the
smell of boiling water. The family offered us coffee—a luxury for them. After
breakfast, we hiked back to Chi Phat, then caught a boat to the main road.
Tania’s stomach cramps worsened. We hoped rest would help.
Illness in the Mountains - The Road to
Koh Kong (43 km)
Tania woke with severe bloating,
cramps, and nausea. She insisted on riding, and we climbed slowly into the
Cardamom Mountains. The scenery was breathtaking, but worry shadowed the
beauty.
At a riverside rest stop, we visited a
small clinic. The nurse gave Tania two tablets and a place to lie down, but
nothing improved. We flagged down a minivan to Koh Kong, where the driver
dropped us at the hospital door.
The doctor diagnosed her illness
quickly and prescribed medication. Relief washed over us both.
We found a room along the river and
settled in, hoping tomorrow would bring strength.
The Border & the Bay - Koh Kong, Cambodia - Trat, Thailand – 100 km
Morning arrived with relief. The $2
medication had worked its quiet magic, and Tania woke with colour in her
cheeks. We pedalled the short distance to the border, where tuk‑tuks, trucks,
and buses jostled for position in muddy puddles. Cambodia spat us out in a
flurry of noise; Thailand received us with a kind of gentle order.
The road to Trat was quiet, lined with
bays and beaches that felt untouched by tourism. The air smelled of salt and
wet leaves. Midday brought four Thai cyclists on a two‑day ride — cheerful,
curious, eager to chat. Their presence felt like a small celebration of Tania’s
recovery.
Rain found us again in the afternoon,
soft at first, then insistent. By the time we reached Trat, we were soaked
through. The monastery by the river welcomed us with a jetty — a long wooden
platform above the mangroves, with a canopy, lights, and the soft hum of
evening insects. The monks locked the gate behind us, pointed out the toilets,
and left us to the river’s rising tide.
We cooked noodles, drank coffee, and
watched the mangroves disappear beneath the water. It felt like the world was
tucking us in.
Epilogue — Cambodia
When we left Cambodia, the red dust
still clung to our panniers and the echo of “hello!” lingered in our ears. The
Cardamom Mountains faded behind us, but their hammocks, their fires, their soft
forest nights stayed close. Cambodia did not end at the border. It travelled
with us —a gentle weight, a changed way of
seeing.
