By Robin Skinner
The Royal Gazette,
Bermuda
The Royal Gazette,
Bermuda
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Wiping sleep from my eyes, I stumbled onto the 7 a.m. bus that was delivering me to Cambodia's second largest city. About six hours later I was greeted with at least 50 moto drivers begging me to go to their hotels. Overwhelmed, we – I met a travel buddy on the bus – eventually allowed ourselves to be corralled by one (Tinh) and left. I just wanted a bed. After settling into the hotel we decided to take a walk. Ghost town.
Though Battambang is the second largest city in this country it consists of little more than two roads and about five restaurants. Don't get me wrong they are good restaurants, but there is really only so much eating you can do. Yes, even I have my limits.
Unfortunately what Battambang does do is highlight the poverty of this country. After taking the half-hour walking tour of the two streets my travel buddy and I decided to get some dinner. We found a fantastic little eatery right on the street. Across from us, sadly, there were about six kids ranging from seven to 17 not eating, but sniffing glue to curb their appetite. Feeling like a gluttonous pig, I couldn't finish my food. Then I noticed the owner of the restaurant emptying all the leftovers into a plastic bag. The kids ventured across the street and picked up their dinner. Every night this scene re-enacts itself because the owner wants to ensure the children don't bother his diners and because no one else is supporting these street kids. Money sent from overseas charities are siphoned off by corrupt officials and the millions turn into black market SUVs and big houses, not full tummies. It was heartening to see this Cambodian man who was struggling to support his family and yet finding it in his heart to help the street kids as much as he could. Sobered by dinner, my travel buddy and I headed back to the hotel to crash.
The next day, to truly see the Battambang area, we decided to rent motorbikes and head to the countryside. Almost immediately we left paved roads to start hurtling down dirt, pock-marked, gravelly, barely-there roads. It was hard to believe we were riding around the second largest city in Cambodia, but by the time we made it to Phnom Sampeau we had red dust covering our faces to prove it.
This hill, 18 kilometres from Battambang, is a sad reminder of how genocide affected every corner of the country. The limestone cavities and deep caves are beautiful to see, but depressing when you realise that the Khmer Rouge used them as slaughter chambers. It was a steep climb up to these caves. Along the way we passed a 38-metre high Buddha statue, two massive guns used by the Vietnamese, and a Buddhist temple with an amazing view of the flat, starched land of Cambodia.
From the beautiful scenery we descended the dark, damp stairs to the shrine made from the bones of those who were left to die here. It was humbling and chilling. There are still remains in some of the caves. Visiting yet another site where innocent people were thrown to their deaths, it was hard to understand why there is not more animosity felt. Instead, most Cambodians appear reluctant to speak about the past and would rather move on and continue building their country. This is particularly hard to understand when the Khmer Rouge trials are trying to bring some kind of justice to those killed during the genocide of 1976-1978.
From the killing caves we decided to try and find some fun riding along the bamboo train. A little platform on wheels, it is powered by a portable motor and difficult to find through the mish-mash of dirt roads across the countryside. Not a road sign in place, we had a crude map from the rental place and we tried to head in the general direction of the train. Very soon I found myself dodging cows while struggling not to let the bike slide out through the foot-deep mud. While my travel buddy thoroughly embraced sliding off the side of the 'road' (read dirt path) and skidding through the foot-deep mud, I was envisioning calling his parents letting them know deep in Cambodian countryside their son had met his fate head-on with a cow. In an hour we found ourselves completely lost as rush hour broke out. Rice paddies were emptied of the workers who took to the dirt roads, and herders pulled their cattle along the road back home. All this led to even more chaos. I gave up on this hopeless quest for the bamboo train and started asking everyone for Battambang. I was met with quizzical looks. When my male travel buddy asked? Oh yes, everyone knew exactly where it was. Go figure.
Three hours later we were taking the mud-splattered bikes – and ourselves – back to Battambang. A bottle of wine was well-deserved. Luckily it didn't stop us from getting up the next morning to head for Cambodia's beaches. First, however, we had to return to Phnom Penh. All roads seem to lead to and from Phnom Penh. During this pit stop we ran into some of my other travel buddies (Southeast Asia is getting ridiculously small) and we just had to join them for some Khmer boxing.
Much like Thai boxing, these multiple matches are held at a Phnom Penh TV station headquarters for free. After picking up snacks outside we ventured in only to be shuffled to the VIP section 10 feet from the ring! Because the matches were being broadcast and because we were the only foreigners in the TV station, we of course were broadcast across the country – one of the tuktuk guys who gave us a lift had a friend call to say he had seen him on TV.
With my 15 minutes of Cambodian fame I was ready to hit the beach. Another six-hour bus ride the next morning took me and my British travel buddy to the southern coast and to the dark sands of Sihanoukville. We managed to get there just in time for the rain, cold and wind. My luck. Good thing there are some beautiful bungalows set in the jungle hillside to help, as the rain did not.
The next day it was still overcast so we decided to rent some motorbikes and visit the nearby nature reserve. Ha!
The rental guy warned us that if we saw police we might have to pay a small fee. Nodding and thinking little more of this warning we drove out of the rental shop towards our reserve. Not five minutes away who is waiting for us at the stop light? The police.
Pulled over, we both decided we were not giving in. I was not going to pay a fine for doing absolutely nothing wrong. Their problem with us? No licence plates! As we waited on the side of the road we watched at least 10 cars and numerous bike fly by without plates. What's the difference? We're foreign. The poor police guy picked the wrong foreigners; we were not going to cave.
They caved and called the rental guy who drove down and tried to argue that it was our problem (or at least this is what we understood from finger pointing and yelling). A cool $10 from the rental guy and suddenly our licence plates were no longer a problem. We beat the Cambodian corruption!
Of course this roadblock meant we were deluged by rain along the way to the nature reserve. Once there we were charged $3 just to drive down the road. There are no signs here or any real entrance. The charge only happens to gullible tourists who stop at the tourist information centre. What did the reserve consist of? Some bits and pieces of reef washed up on the beach, an oil refinery and some restaurants that charged $20 for some soup. This was a waste of time, but with the bikes we found a beautiful sunset and some Indian food before heading back to the bungalow. Bright and early the next morning I was up and running along the beach. Luckily the sun had returned. Unluckily, we had already booked our bus tickets back to Phnom Penh.
Enjoying an hour of sun while eating breakfast we then had to hike with our 20-kilo bags to the bus office. I would have changed my ticket to actually enjoy the beaches (though as a Bermudian these black-sand beaches hardly compare), but my month-long visa for Vietnam was quickly running out – when applying, you are required to give a date you will enter the country. Whether or not that is when you do enter the visa will start from that date.
Next stop: Vietnam – the country, not the war.
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