Cambodia, yesterday and today.
Staying longer in Laos that we expected, combined with our desire to be in the biggest cities possible to increase our odds of being able to watch the Steelers in the AFC Championship Game and Super Bowl on television, meant that we ended up giving Cambodia short shrift. We ended up spending only 11 days there, less time than we originally allotted. At first, I didn’t think it would matter much. But, like many people who visit parts of Cambodia other than Siem Reap, Sean and I both developed a fondness for Cambodia and were sad to go.
More so than most of its neighbors, Cambodia is a very rural country and a very poor country. It is impossible not to think of Cambodia’s history while you were there. Some people might think this makes Cambodia a sad place. But we found it to be anything but. Personally, I think Cambodia’s history is much of what makes it so special. A lot of countries have happy, friendly people. A lot of countries have good cuisine. A lot of countries have historical sites. But to have all of these things after what Cambodia’s been through just thirty or so years ago? Putting today’s Cambodia in context with yesterday’s Cambodia can really blow your mind.
The year I was born, 1979, the Vietnamese toppled the Khmer Rouge and ended 4 years of hell for the Cambodian people. That means every.single.person older than me and alive today in Cambodia lived through all or some of the Khmer Rouge’s regime. What was eerie was that we were more likely to encounter people younger than us rather than older. Those that were older have seen things you and I can’t even imagine. On April 17, 1975, after many years of civil war, the Khmer Rouge rolled into Phnom Penh, Cambodia’s biggest city by far and its capital with army tanks. The people of Phnom Penh were heartened by their presence; they were hopeful, believing this new government would alleviate the many problems the countries suffered during its civil war. But although there was no way of knowing at the time, this couldn’t have been farther from the truth.
Instead, the Khmer Rouge turned the clocks back and declared it the Year Zero. The Khmer Rouge was determined to remake Cambodian society into a docile, rural, agrarian one. They rounded up the 2.5 million people living in Phnom Penh, killed certain intellectuals and former government officials right away, and made everyone else march into the countryside. The people still didn’t know what their fate would be. For some, they were taken to places like the Killing Fields, where they were separated from their families, photographed, and killed. For others, they were forced to toil away in the fields, given very little food, and indoctrinated against their old ways of life. Many died of starvation and diseases.
I believe there is no excuse for continued ignorance once you travel, in person, to another country. While we were in Cambodia, we tried to learn as much about its history as we could. Cambodia’s recent history doesn’t begin and end with the Khmer Rouge. There’s many facets: colonization by the French, a civil war, intense bombing by the Americans during the Vietnam War, post-Khmer Rouge control by the Vietnamese, starvation and poverty during the eighties, continued terror from afar by members of the Khmer Rouge hiding out for years, implicit acceptance of the Khmer Rouge’s atrocities by support for a Khmer Rouge backed government in the UN by the United States and other Western countries, more implicit acceptance of the Khmer Rouge’s atrocities by continued delayed trials of the Khmer Rouge and participation in today’s government by former members… It is enough to make your head spin, especially knowing that the United States’ own agenda made it get involved in ways most Americans don’t know or think about.
While we were in Phnom Penh, we visited the sites of the former Killing Fields and Tuol Soung Musuem, otherwise known as S-21, which is a former school turned into a prison by the Khmer Rouge. We watched a video about the rise of the Khmer Rouge in Siem Reap’s night market. (Incidentally, we were the only ones). We tried read up on as much history as we could on-line or in books. Learning in museums and books are important, but often, it doesn’t really sink in until you see a living, breathing reminder. There’s a lot of trees at the Killing Fields, at least where the Khmer Rouge didn’t clear them to make room for mass graves. One of the trees had a sign that said, matter-of-factly, This is the tree against which the Khmer Rouge used to beat children. The starkness and abruptness of that sign stopped me dead in my tracks, but it wasn’t until days later, when I saw a woman holding a baby next to a giant oak tree, and thought about what if that baby had been born thirty-some years ago, that I could feel emotion really well up inside.
We hired a guide to take us around the countryside surrounding Battambang. His name is Philay. In addition to showing us around in his tuk-tuk, he also was kind enough to retell his experience with the Khmer Rouge. He was living in Phnom Penh on April 17, 1975. He told us, matter of factly, that the Khmer Rouge invaded his house and killed his father and brother, because they served in Cambodia’s military. Philay and what was left of his family were forced to march to the countryside like millions of others in Phnom Penh. He worked in the fields for many years, and due to lack of food and hard work under the hot sun, he got very, very sick more than once. His mother and one of his sisters died of starvation in the fields. After the Vietnamese liberated the Cambodian people, like many of the people lucky to still be alive, Philay walked across the entire country to return to Phnom Penh. Philay lived as a refugee on the Thai border for a time, and eventually returned to Cambodia, fought in Cambodian’s army , settled in Battambang, married his wife, and had children. Today, he drives a tuk-tuk around Battambang, a very competitive field, and on some days, he takes visitors like us out to the countryside.
A lot of visitors come to Cambodia just to see Angkor Wat, some of the most majestic ancient ruins in the world. Angkor Wat certainly is amazing, but I enjoyed our time seeing the living, breathing Cambodia of today in Battambang and Kampot much, much more. What was most amazing about Angkor Wat to me is that Angkor Wat is still standing today, despite Cambodia’s tumultuous history.
Cambodia may not be for everyone. It is true that Cambodia can be a little rough around the edges, that it isn’t as clean as Thailand or even Laos, that there are many pairings of creepy older Western men with very young Cambodian women, that there are a lot of poor people begging you for money. It is true that Cambodia has a really, really sad history, and it can be really, really sobering to learn about it. But outside of Siem Reap, a city where desperate people all clamor for the same dollars of the visitors who have so many more than they do, people are friendly just for the sake of being friendly. Tourism is a major industry in a country without many major industries, and is still relatively new, so while people try to make money through tourism all over the country, they also smile and laugh while doing so. Kids yell “Hello” in English and run around blissfully oblivious of yesterday’s horrors. People play quirky games like badmitton, hacky sack, and volleyball in public squares. Men crowd around televisions on the streets to cheer on their favorite boxer. Women, the older ones often dressed in printed pajamas, the younger ones often dressed in jeans, sell goods in lively markets. Good-natured NGOs cook up tasty fish amoks in trendy cafes, even in the smaller towns.
Yes, 11 days was entirely too short.
Paper cranes left at the Killing Fields by Japanese visitors
Flowering trees outside the former Toul Sleng Prison
The site of the former Toul Sleng prison now houses rooms after rooms of photographs of victims of the Khmer Rouge.
What would you look like, if you knew it was your last photograph? Would you look scared?
Would you smile because you were nervous? Or because you always smile for photographs? Or because you are thinking of happier times, far away from where you were?
Then, there's the pictures of the children.
Sean with Philay, our guide to the Battambang countryside
Traffic in Phnom Penh
When we came across this minivan transporting hundreds of chickens, inside and out, in Kampot, we had to stop and gawk.
A sneak preview of the Angkor Wat temples...
Some of the cutest, and certainly the most outgoing, children we came across in Cambodia.
No, we didn’t drown, just no chance to post…
Just a quick note to say hello. I had hoped to introduce you all to Cambodia today, but ran out of time. We’re in the midst of our scuba certification and between our practice dives and homework (yes, homework!) it doesn’t leave a lot of time for internet, especially since free wi-fi is rather scarce on our part of Koh Tao. We have 2 more days here, then a massive travel day ahead of us, so I’ll be back later this week with tales from Cambodia. Thanks for being patient and sticking with us!
Last Stop in Laos: 4,000 Islands
The 4,000 Islands are a group of islands dotting the Mekong River in the very south of Laos near the Cambodian border. I’d heard there was pretty much nothing to do there but sit in a hammock. After four days of motorbiking the Bolaven Plateau, hammock-sitting sounded like a darn good idea.
Although there are supposedly 4,000 of them, foreigners only seem to visit three of them. We chose Don Khon, because we’d heard it was laid-back, and didn’t have a big party scene like Don Dhet. (And this was true, right up until a super chatty Aussie girl and pot smoking Canadian boy moved in next door, but I digress).
The hammock sitting on Don Khon turned out to be a bit of a bust. We only could find riverside accommodations for our second night, and the hammock to floor ratio was not quite right once you actually sat in the hammock. Plus the addition of millions of river gnats feasting on my skin made it less than pleasant to sit outside. But despite the hammock fail, three things in particular made our short time on Don Dhon worthwhile:
Amazing Sunsets. Watching the sunset over the Mekong never gets old.
The Little Waitress. We randomly picked one of the many restaurants lining the riverfront for dinner and were met by a pint-sized waitress. She had to have been no more than ten years old and her English was impeccable. She accessorized her t-shirt and traditional Lao skirt with a glittery purse and a beaded necklace, and she carried herself with poise and grace. In between taking our order, she peppered us with questions about where we were from, telling us her mother and sister were in America. She returned to her desk, where she sat dutifully doing her homework until our order was up. I wondered what her dreams were like. Would she stay on this tiny island in the middle of Laos, serving in her family’s restaurant? Would she join her mother and sister in the United States when she got older? Would she go somewhere else? We’ve seen plenty of children working in their family business or alongside their parents elsewhere – child labor laws do not exist over here – but the maturity of this little girl stood out to me.
The Chicken Boy. Right before sunset on our first night, Sean and I walked the path away from the strip of restaurants, towards the place where the islanders lived. The river, the palm trees, the fields – they were all bathed in the magical light of the Golden Hour. Out of nowhere, a little boy appeared further on down the path, barrelling towards us. We had seen him earlier, clutching a chick in his hand by the neck. We weren’t sure if the chick was real or stuffed, dead or alive, but the way the chick was flopping its head around listlessly told us its fate. I saw that the boy was till clutching the chick as if it was a stuffed animal as he passed me, making a beeline straight for Sean. The boy slammed into Sean’s legs, hugging him tight around the knees. When the hug was over, he looked up at Sean, grinning. We had no idea why he decided to give this tall foreigner a sudden hug, but it was one of the cutest things I have ever seen.
Here comes the Chicken Boy!
Straight for Sean. Not shown from this angle: the chick and its floppy head.
Some of the 4,000 islands on our boat ride to Don Khon.
Lao children crossing the Silly French Bridge from Don Khon to Don Dhet. (No idea why, but Travelfish called it the Silly French Bridge and so did we).
Bike riding didn't go so well on the bumpy pathways crisscrossing the island, but we gave it the old college try before I threw in the towel.
Laos has some gorgeous waterfalls, that's for sure.
View of Don Dhet across the Mekong
Hog Tales – Motorbiking the Bolaven Plateau, Days Three and Four: Born to Run (Provided We Have Cushier Seats)
Someday girl I don’t know when we’re gonna get to that place
Where we really want to go and we’ll walk in the sun
But till then tramps like us baby we were born to run– Born to Run, Bruce Springsteen
We awoke early on Day 3 and set off from Paksong towards Tad Lo, determined to put our previous day’s mishaps behind us. I’m not going to lie – we both were still a little gun shy – but cruising along on the paved roads seemed like a cinch after navigating the soft dirt of the day before.
Once again, the sun was shining and the fluffy clouds were out in full force. Mountains dotted the backdrop of the landscape. As we headed away from Paksong, the chill in the air disappeared. Before long, smiles reappeared on our faces and the only sign of our spills was the dirt caked into our clothes. (Oh, didn’t I mention were were wearing the same clothes for the third day in the row? It is not like we had a lot of options for chilly weather anyhow, and we’d left most of our stuff behind in locked storage at the Pakse Hotel to lighten the load for the bike. Months later, there’s still traces of the orangeish brown dirt on our daybag, our trail runners, and Sean’s pants where he hit the hardest).
Considering our current state of dishevelment, we hesitated when, out of the blue, we came across a fancy resort and coffee plantation advertising tours of their gardens and cups of coffee. The resort seemed out of place in the middle of very rural Laos, but the colorful flowers we could see from the road looked so inviting and we welcomed any excuse to hop off our bike. We soaked up the sunshine as we drank coffee from the plantation and watched women weave Lao silk into scarves. Afterwards, we strolled through the grounds and checked out the coffee trees, ponds, and gardens. Groups of butterflies danced around the garden. If it sounds like a little oasis, a little Eden, it was.
But we still had a ways to Tad Lo, so we continued down the road, passing through villages with roaming pigs and cows with real cowbells, schoolgirls walking to school in their traditional skirts, and roadside stands selling steaming bowls of noodle soup and Beer Lao.
We arrived in Tad Lo in mid-afternoon. Tad Lo, which is not too far from Pakse and home to several gushing waterfalls, is one of the more popular spots on the Bolaven Plateau. Whereas in Paksong, supply far outweighed demand (as a result of people being just a little too hopeful about the somewhat increased tourism), in Tad Lo, we had trouble finding a place to stay. Most everything in town was booked, leaving our choices as a primitive $4.50 hut with a neighbor in the other half and a shared bathroom with cold water, or a $19.75 cabin up on the hill next to a big waterfall. The $19.75 place left a lot to be desired, and the $4.50 price was tempting, but in the end, we value privacy and hot water.
After traversing the town’s rickety bridge more times that I would have liked and checking out the waterfalls, we ended the day with Beer Laos next to the waterfall gushing to the right and monks frolicking in the river to our left. Day three? Not too shabby.
Day four, on the other hand, was rather uneventful. In the morning, we stopped by a road stall for some noodle soup on our way out of town. Like most roadside stalls, the restaurant doubles as the family’s home, meaning you are eating at plastic tables steps from the family’s television (everyone’s got a television, even in the Lao boonies!) and beds. As we waited for the preteen girl to serve us our breakfast, I did a double take. Were those? Are those? Staring me right in the face were not one, but two large posters of a completely topless girl. The posters looked like something that might have been hung illicitly in a warehouse of one of my former clients’ places and later made an exhibit in a sexual harassment case. I looked around. The only people I saw were the preteen girl preparing our soup, and her mother nearby. It was very bizarre, very bizarre indeed, especially considering we were in one of the more traditional, conservative countries in Southeast Asia where locals sometimes can be offended by the shorts and tank tops worn by Western tourists.
Other than some surprise breakfast boobs, there’s not too much noteworthy about our return to Pakse. The day was mostly characterized by extreme discomfort in the rear end. Sure, maybe a motorbike could hold two people and a small bag for four days, but should it? I must have made Sean pull over at least every ten minutes during the last hour. But we finally made it, pulling into Pakse rather dirtier than we had been four days ago, with all feeling in our butts lost forever, but glad we saw a side of Laos we wouldn’t have seen otherwise.
Hog Tales: The End (until we get to Vietnam, that is).
Hog Tales – Motorbiking the Bolaven Plateau, Day Two: Welcome to the Jungle.
You know where you are
You’re in the jungle, baby
You’re going to die– Welcome to the Jungle, Guns’n’Roses
Day two of motorbiking the Bolaven Plateau started off innocently enough. For breakfast, we did as the Laotians do and had a bowl of steaming Lao noodle soup. After stopping by for a quick cup of coffee at Koffie’s place, we set off under blue skies and white fluffy clouds. We intended to head to Sekong, a town on the outer edge of the plateau, and had to head down a dirt road to get there. Koffie and an American expat living in Lao cautioned us before we left that the dirt road to Sekong and Attapeu, another town, wasn’t great. We figured we would be okay if we took it slow; we had heard of troubles during the rainy season, but there were no rain clouds in sight this time of year.
Shortly after we left Paksong proper, we spotted a dirt road to the right, where our map indicated the road to Sekong and Attapeu should be. There were no signs that we could see. We paused briefly, but ultimately shrugged and forged ahead. The dirt road seemed to be in good condition, and we sailed along past coffee plantations on either side. If it wasn’t for the large trucks flying by, spraying clouds of dirt, life would have been good, right up until we hit the road work. Who knew dirt roads have road work? The first segment of the dirt road was wide but completely torn apart. I felt like we were back home in Pennsylvania, where the road work never ends. Because the Laotians didn’t actually feel the need to close the road while they were working on it, everyone drove their scooters and trucks where ever the large steamrollers working on the road weren’t, which might be the flat, dusty parts on the sides, or might be the rubble in the middle. Hmmmm…maybe this isn’t such a good idea.
To top it off, we still weren’t really sure we were on the right road. No one mentioned road work. Efforts to ascertain that we were indeed headed in the right direction produced less than certainty. Anytime we saw a person, we pulled over to ask if this was the road to Attapeu. Many times, the person smiled and looked confused, giving us our first indication that no one around spoke English, and we were probably once again butchering the only word they might have otherwise recognized in our complete inability to pronounce names of towns. A few seemed to nod yes and point where we were pointing, but you never can really be sure. Hmmmm…hope we are on the right road.
One thing was for sure, however. The tourists we kept seeing the day before on the way to Paksong were nowhere to be found today. Kids playing alongside piles of coffee beans drying in the sun stopped in their tracks to give us big, huge smiles and loud, happy sabaidees. Their mothers, donned in traditional Laotian skirts, looked up to see what all of the fuss was about. Even though we were covered almost from head to toe to ward off the chill in the air and the dirt sprays, everyone knew we were foreigners from a mile away.
The roadwork finally ended, but then the potholes began. After dodging the craters, we thought we were home free when we came upon the village that was supposed to be the halfway point between Paksong and the end of the dirt road. We stopped at a roadside stall and had – you guessed it – Lao noodle soup for lunch. If you’re counting, that makes our third soup meal in a row. Delicious. Before we ate, I wiped my face and hands with a wet wipe. The wipe came away an opaque orangish-brown. I mentioned something about being dirty to our host, while Sean kicked me and whispered, they’re covered in this dust all of the time! It was true. With their houses, restaurants and workplaces mere feet away, getting dirty was unavoidable. Our meal was accompanied by the lovely screech of Lao music. Sharing with us the pineapple being passed around the family, the one guy in town who spoke some English explained everyone else in town was at the wedding ceremony. I wish we could have solved the eternal mystery of why Asians only enjoy music blaring out of loudspeakers at top volume, but I couldn’t figure out a polite way to inquire about this. Alas, another time.
Unfortunately, the semi-English speaker disappeared after lunch, making it quite difficult to inquire whether there was a toilet we might use before setting off. After exhausting every possible word I could think of to convey bathroom and only getting blank stares, I cursed myself for not learning more Lao. Who ever thinks they’ll actually need the suggested phrases in guidebooks and translators like where is the bathroom or those drugs are not mine, officer? I was racking my brain trying to figure out how one would convey going to the bathroom in Charades without being culturally offensive, when someone finally figured out what we needed and showed us to the shed out back where the hole in the ground was located.
Waving good-bye, we set off again. A ways from town, the road turned soft, made of fine, rusty terra cotta dirt. We passed a local couple on a motorbike, and I noticed Sean noticing them right before we toppled over. We hit a divot in the road and landed with a big thud. Even though I landed intertwined with Sean and the bike, I only had a small scrape on my knee. Sean, on the other hand, was a bit more scraped up, but nothing a few band-aids couldn’t fix. I gave thanks to our foresight in wearing long pants and sleeves. Even though the soft dirt was our nemesis, it also broke our fall. As we wiped everything down in vain, two women came around the bend and toppled in the spot where we just fell. Great; now we’re going to cause a scooter pile-up. Luckily, they drove away unharmed.
We took off again, rather shakily. I had to turn away from the road; I was certain we were going to fall again at every hole and every rut, Sean was certain I was going to make us fall again at every hole and every rut with my squirmings. I tried to concentrate on anything else but the road: the fluffy clouds, the dense greenery, the occasional house. But then we both saw the worst thing we could have seen in the entire world at that moment: a fork in the road. Hmmm…that’s funny. There are no turns on this map. I thought it was supposed to be a straight shot?
We crossed our fingers and picked left, since the dirt on the road to the right seemed different than the road we were on. I’ll spare you the suspense; we picked wrong. Or maybe it didn’t even matter at that point, because it was quite possible that any number of slight diversions from the dirt road we ignored in blissful ignorance (lalalalala, I don’t see you!) could have a road we were supposed to take. As we figured out much, much later when we ran into a group of travelers at dinner who traversed the dirt road in the opposite direction, it DID appear to be a straight shot coming from Attapeu. From Paksong, not so much. Going in the opposite direction, everything appeared to be in a straight line for hours, with an occasional road joining the way, whereas in our direction, there were ever-so-slight options.
At the time, we decided we were too far from town to turn around. We kept driving onward, deeper into the what was increasingly looking like a jungle. There were no kids calling sabaidee now, just an occasional scooter whipping by and thick tropical greenery on all sides. I entertained the possibility this was where we’d meet our demise when we came to the end of the road. We’d probably been driving for two hours since we left the village where we ate lunch. At the end of the road, we were greeted by two Lao men in military uniforms. Their knowledge of English was only good enough to point over the hills and far away towards Attapeu. Turning away, we came to the realization that we had no idea where we where, and we had no other choice other than to turn around and retrace our steps back to Paksong if we didn’t want to be enveloped by nightfall in the jungle. So for two very long hours, we headed back, dejected, to the village at the half-way point, itself over two hours from Paksong.
Naturally, as a fait accompli, we wiped out again, this time trying to avoid a ridge in the soft dirt. We had spectators this time around; a family of 12 or so came out to the road to see what was going on. What was going on wasn’t pretty. Sean’s arm and the bike’s kickstand got the brunt of the fall. The arm was bleeding; the kickstand was wedged in such a way that the gears could not be shifted. I was resigning myself to having to walk miles and miles or moving in with this Laotian family when the husband and father came over to help us. He didn’t speak a word of English, but he knew exactly what the problem was and how to fix it. He laid down in the dirt and tried kicking at the kickstand, but couldn’t get enough force with his short legs and bare feet. Sean gave it a whack and we all smiled when the bike actually started. Considering there hardly was anyone around in these parts, we are eternally thankful that this kind man happened to live near by.
The four or five hours back were some of the longest of my life. We both were frustrated, fearful and occasionally blinded for minutes at a time thanks to the dust kicked up by the larger vehicles on the road. Pulling into Paksong, caked in the rusty dirt, we both breathed sighs of relief when we saw the paved road.
And just think: we had at least two more days of driving ahead of us. Whose idea was this, anyway?
Lao noodle soup: the breakfast of champions. And lunch. And dinner.
Roadwork, even in Laos.
Faced with two by fours and views of the creek below, Sean goes it alone. We've never met a Lao bridge we've trusted with the weight of two, even though the Laotians have no qualms about driving huge construction vehicles and zipping scooters over them.
On the way to the bathroom at lunch, I had to step over these little guys.
Laotian nuptials.
When you arrive at a fork in the road, take it.
Shortly after crash two.
Next on Hog Tales: I’ve got the fever, and the only prescription is more cowbell!