On a more somber note, Cambodia, a country that seems to float inexplicably about 1 foot above the water, is no longer afloat. I recently heard from a girl in my guesthouse that Siem Reap is completely underwater. When she left it was knee-high throughout the city, but reports now have it at thigh-level. As Siem Reap is the poorest province in Cambodia, an already poor country, please keep the people there in your thoughts. They have a tough enough time even without the flood waters.
Day 17 - Sunday, August 21st
My pick up for the boat to Battambang is at 6:00 a.m. The boat leaves at 7:00 a.m. I wake up at 6:50 a.m. and proceed to panic. The guesthouse guys call the travel agency who booked my ticket. 10 minutes later I am packed and, with my backpack on my back and my purse clutched in front of me, I hop on the back of a motorbike sent to collect me. It is my first time on the back of a motorbike, and though having 15 kgs of backpack strapped to me is really not ideal, we make it in one piece. The boat is definitely a no go, and now, having only woken up about a half hour ago, I have to decide what to do: 1) stay another night, buy another boat ticket, and go tomorrow.... 2) skip Battambang and catch the 8:00 a.m. bus to Phnom Penh like I had previously planned.... 3) take the 8:00 a.m. bus to Battambang, try not to think about the boat trip, and spend a day chilling off the tourist track. I opt for #3 and soon enough am on my way to Battambang.
The bus drops us off in the middle of a mob of tuk-tuk drivers all eager to take me to their hotel. I have no idea where in the city I am or where I want to stay or how much a reasonable price for a tuk-tuk is. I have not had breakfast, I am groggy from sleeping on the bus, and I simply cannot politely deal with this much harassment in my current state. I have to push through the mob to get to my backpack and push through even more to get away. A few follow me for a half a block, but I just keep walking and don't look back. I know deep down that many of them are nice guys with good recommendations, but their approach would drive Mother Teresa to distraction. I walk and walk and walk trying to get my bearings until I eventually run across a restaurant I recognize from Lonely Planet and can finally orient myself. I check out a couple guesthouses and end up staying in $5 room the size of my Japanese apartment with the biggest bed I have ever seen. An older Australian man running one of the guesthouses I checked said that they call that guesthouse bar "the gay bar" in a way that made me want to stay with him not at all and the super friendly and apparently gay men even more. He is one of those older white men you see in Southeast Asia who have taken one look at "grouchy" and headed straight for "bitter". Unfortunate.
After spreading my stuff around the room and starfishing on the bed for a little bit (couldn't touch all the corners... I tried hard), I go back to the Australian guy to rent a bike for a bit of a cycle along the river. I spend the afternoon cycling along the banks of a lazy river through Muslim minority villages, stopping at pagodas and picturesque benches along the way. As I am stopped to reapply sunscreen, a woman sitting nearby comes over to chat. She only speaks a few words of English, and my Cambodian is non-existent, but we work out the basics and proceed to chat about who knows what, but it is very companionable. At one point two girls from the orphanage that she works at come over and shyly practice a little English on me. I put my Japan-skills to work and pretty soon the girls are laughing at how white my skin is and showing me how to eat a strange and slimy tree fruit. The woman gives me a bag of the fruit, and my tourist-trap skepticism sets in wondering how much this will cost me. I immediately feel bad as I realize that she just wants to share a little bit of her country with me. I like it off the beaten path.
I continue my wander, check out a few pagodas, acquire an entourage of tiny children who follow me around chanting "Hellowasyournay!" They line up behind me every time I take a picture, so I take one of them and show them. It is the most hilarious thing that has ever happened to them. I ride back through a Muslim village and stop at a shop selling, among other things, awesome brooms. The woman obviously thinks I am nuts for buying a broom, and I get lots of amused smiles on my way back into town. Gigantic white girl on a hot pink bike with a broom... fair enough. I get back to town grab dinner, and go to sleep in the world's biggest bed.
Cambodian petrol station, the young lady in turquoise filled up with Johnny Walker Red Label
Day 18 - Monday, August 22nd
I wake up in the world's biggest bed, pay the adorable man at reception my $5 dollars, check out, sort out a bus to Phnom Penh, have breakfast, and go for a wander through the central market. I get my bus at 11:00 and attempt to sleep through the endless Cambodian karaoke blaring through the speakers. I am prepared for the tuk tuk mob scene when I arrive and head straight for my hostel and then out in search of some cheap food. The neighborhood my hostel is in is full of Western restaurants. I walk for a bit and sit at the first Cambodian restaurant I see. The atmosphere is strange, about 20 staff members for 5 customers, and the prices are not Cambodian. It all begins to make sense when a family pull up in a Lexus and are waited on hand and foot. When I leave I notice the 3 other Lexuses in the parking lot. My best guess is that I had a bowl of noodle soup at some sort of Cambodian mafia hang out. Weird dinner. I hang out at the hostel bar for a bit and then go to bed.
Day 19 - Tuesday, August 23rd
I wake up in the dorm and meet a guy named Chris over breakfast downstairs. He owns a hostel in Sihanoukville, my next stop and also recommends his tuk tuk driver for a city tour. Moli, the driver, picks me up, and we go to see Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum (the famous Khmer Rouge prison) first. It is weird to think it, but the exhibits just aren't well done. The atrocities are overwhelming, but I am more moved by the fact that before it was a prison, it was a high school. And it looks exactly like every Japanese school building. I can't help but see students running up and down the stairs and desks in the classrooms which have been made into prison cells. There are photos and stories of former Khmer Rouge "soldiers". Many of them are in their 50s. The current prime minister is a former member. This is not ancient history. Our next stop is The Killing Fields. The Khmer Rouge killed off a quarter of Cambodia's population in 4 years. It is rainy season, and bones are still coming up to the surface. The paths are freckled with bits of 30 year old clothes.
In the afternoon we see the Royal Palace, the Royal Museum, and a massive temple. It's shocking to see so much wealth in what is otherwise an incredibly impoverished country. I get back to the hostel around 5 pm and set straight off to the Foreign Correspondents Club to watch the sunset and catch happy hour. It's more of a tourist attraction now than a place for journalists to meet. I sit down on a stool overlooking the river. A man sits down next to me and looks around like he is waiting for a friend. I offer to move over. His friend is late, and we get to talking a bit. It turns out that he is actually a foreign correspondent and is waiting for a journalist friend from back when he was in Phnom Penh. I try to be cool though I am pretty starstruck. I mean, who goes to FCC and meets a legit foreign correspondent? His friend arrives, and I end talking to a couple of Australian tourists (SE Asia is crawling with them). As soon as I get home I google Mr. Correspondent. It is Keith B. Richburg of the Washington Post. I wish I had asked for a picture. I get a burger at a restaurant near my hostel and meet a couple of foreign lawyers working in Cambodia whose names sound like a 90's sitcom, Bridie and Brigit. I go to bed.
Day 20 - Wednesday, August 24th
I chill at the hostel in the morning and then get an afternoon bus to Sihanoukville. I decide to stay at Chris's hostel on a beach 4 km out of the main city. I hop on the back of a moto for the second time ever, and we are off to the beach. It is perfect. The only guests are me and two Boston guys. We spend the evening chilling out with the staff, Mom and Sing, and go to bed at an extremely reasonable hour.
Day 21 - Thursday, August 25th
I wake up naturally at about 7:30 a.m., walk across the street to a cafe, order breakfast and lay on a lounge chair eating breakfast and reading my book for hours on a gorgeous white sand beach. The Boston boys have the same idea. Eventually I hop on the back of another moto and head into town. I am getting good at moto-taxi riding. I lounge on the beach in town and am exceptionally glad I am staying on Otres beach instead. Serendipity beach, though equally beautiful, is packed with people and hawkers that will not be deterred. I get Regrettable Manicure #2 and a non-regrettable pedicure. I have a beer and burger for dinner on the beach, walk back into town to use wi-fi. A CRAZY thunderstorm rolls in, and the entire town's power goes out for a couple minutes after lightening strikes the main street. I risk it and get a moto back to Otres beach in an attempt to beat the rain. It is a gorgeous ride along side the lightening laced ocean. The Boston boys are engrossed in some intense Jenga with Mom and Sing. I join, and we go a few serious rounds before heading to bed.
Day 22 - Friday, August 26th
I spend another morning at the beach, though it is a bit rainy this time. I decide to check out of my guesthouse and spend my last night in Monkey Republic, a popular backpacker's hostel in town. I laze around for awhile and share a tuk-tuk with the Boston boys as they are headed into town to catch a bus out. We get dinner, and I go chill out at the hostel for a bit where I meet a German girl name Swana who was recently almost mugged on a bicycle on the way to the beach I was staying at. She managed to hold onto her bag as she had everything valuable in there. But she did get roughed up and was still really shaken and headed straight to bed. I wander down to the popular beach bar where I run into an Iowan guy named Patrick from the wandering horde of foreigners that I hung out with in Siem Reap. He and two English girls decide to go for a night swim. I meet up with a couple people I recognize from the hostel. Awhile later I see Patrick and the girls walking back up the street and go to ask them about the swim. They shake their heads... All our shit got stolen... It seems like everyone has a story of having something stolen in Sihanoukville. I knock on wood. The nightly rain storm moves in with a vengeance, and I get stuck at the bar until I eventually decide to suck it up for the 10 minute walk and arrive back at the hostel soaked. Goodnight rainy season.
Day 23 - Saturday, August 27th
I am up and on the back of a motorbike to get passport photos by 7:45. I arrive at the Vietnamese consulate at 8:04 and am out of there with a brand new visa by 8:15. Fastest visas in the world they say. I get back in time to get breakfast and watch a movie with Swana. We make plans to meet up in Saigon, and I catch my minibus to Kampot a sleepy colonial town on the river. I wander around, buy postcards, a scarf, and the ever useful tiger balm. At night I head to a place on the riverfront called Mali bar with a couple people from the guesthouse for their reopening party. There is live music and, of course, another rain storm just in time to walk home.
I sleep in, write 15 postcards to my Seinanbu students at a riverfront cafe and head back to the guesthouse. I meet a couple of interesting characters, notably a rather disgruntled British postal worker named Adam who very nearly forces a book on me. It is called Sheepshagger. I am dubious. I head back to the riverside with Kamil, a British Indian dentist and football fanatic. We meet Jo, a British woman teaching in Vietnam, and attempt to avoid being talked at by Adam. We are somewhat unsuccessful. He is on his 12th White Russian, and apparently he just doesn't GET the whole traveling thing. We wonder why he is traveling in the first place then. I head off to watch the second half of the football match which Arsenal (Kamil's team) loses 8-2... ouch. The crowd goes on to a Cambodian disco, and I get a ride home from the bar owner.
Day 25 - Monday, August 29th
I go on a personalized countryside tour with an aviator wearing moto driver named Rugby. We see salt fields (just a lot of wet ground as it is rainy season) and a pepper plantation (apparently some of the best pepper in the world) where we meet up with an American guy and Japanese woman also checking out the countryside for the day. We go together to see a textile factory and then on to Kep, a little seaside resort town where we check out some crumbling French villas and eat crab with lemon and pepper in a beach hut. It is delicious. On the way back we stop at a road side shack to try some rice wine. The procedure is as follows: buy bottle of rice wine, buy coconut, hack top off of coconut with machete, pour entire bottle of rice wine into cooler followed by entire coconut, enjoy. It is actually pretty good, and costs about $.50 each. Rugby drops me back at my guesthouse and offers to take me to karaoke with his friends later. I hesitate, remember my "don't be an idiot" motto for travel, and politely decline. I am not karaoke's biggest fan in the best of circumstances, and surrounded by drinking Cambodian men sounds like it has definite "you're an idiot" potential. I get my bus ticket to Saigon and go for a chat with the guesthouse owner, an Englishman who was on his way to a sous-chef job in Australia 8 years ago and never made it there.
Day 26 - Tuesday, August 30th
I wake up early and spend the day on buses to Phnom Penh and from there into Saigon. Before we reach the border, the conductor comes around collecting passports. Remembering Katy and Karen's cautionary tale of being dropped of at a rest stop for 2 hours sans passports and then having to pay ridiculous fees for their visas, I refuse to give mine up. This turns out to have been just paranoia as the border crossing is easy and scam free. Better safe than sorry though. The bus drops us off in the heart of the backpacker district, and I am immediately set upon by a tiny ancient woman who probably reaches my navel if she stands up very very straight. I politely decline and ignore her as she follows me down the street to one exorbitantly priced house and then another that has been recently demolished. I finally give in to her persistence and am rewarded as she leads me down an alley to a cheap, air conditioned guesthouse with clean dorm rooms and free breakfast. I take my first hot shower since Bangkok and appreciate it like I am the first person to ever have one. Sometimes it is the simple things in life. Once clean, I turn in my laundry and go for a drink with a few girls from the dorm. They head back to the hostel, and I have a wander around the block and get my first (and best?) bowl of pho in Vietnam. I then proceed to do the backpacker thing and sit on the tiny plastic sidewalk stools having a $0.50 beer and people watching. Life is good.
