Neither Guillaume nor I have Ebola. We know this because we were tested for it at the Cambodia land border. Understandable if Cambodia bordered Sierra Leone, or if we were native Liberians recently arrived from the homeland... but neither apply. Approximately 8,000 miles east of the outbreak, in a remote part of the planet not known for its influx of tourists from Africa, border officials are doing their bit to keep South East Asia's poorest country free from the deadly disease.
A much less dramatic and thankfully curable ailment was plaguing me however. A fungal infection of the scalp. No doubt contracted at that lovely hair salon in Dalat. Initially I blamed a combination of the local water and humidity for my sticky head. It looked like I had dived into a bucket of glue, or been blasted with the worlds largest hairspray can for several hours. Strangers eyed my barnet with befuddlement.
Having conducted my research and testing many methods to rid myself of this disgusting fungus, I can tell you (and it's worth knowing) that a pungent concoction of Dettol kitchen cleaner and a powerful citrus washing up liquid which professes to remove the toughest of grease, lathered on ones infected noggin and left for 30 minutes twice a day for three consecutive days, will fight that icky bacteria to the death. Sadly, the same simple process will not cure Ebola.
Crossing from Vietnam into Cambodia at Bavet land border, is a chaotic whirlwind of nonsensical, sweaty confusion. It's a small, square building, with a dirty off-white interior. Devoid of air conditioning, or so much as a ceiling fan, and with un-openable windows along one side - through which beams the blinding rays of the powerful 34 degree sun. Queuing is a nonentity in most Asian cultures. It's every man for himself, and every woman - hold on a sec, there's a woman here? The only border crossing she ought to be doing is from the kitchen to the bathroom/hole in the ground.
Our bus conductor accompanying us on our trip to Phnom Pehn, and who only spoke Khmer, ushered us inside, having gathered the passports of all his passengers. (We were two of four westerners on board. The others were from Germany and Lithuania). He presented them collectively, to one of three border officials sitting in flimsy glass boxes, whose faces were just visible between the mountains of passports piled up around them. There were probably six coach loads of people, in addition to the hundreds of Vietnamese and Cambodians who appeared to have arrived on foot, or bicycle - presumably travelling for business? I did wonder if this office was like this all day, every day and then questioned why so many folk were eagerly traversing from a relatively wealthier country (60th poorest) into the worlds 40th poorest nation. (32 of Earths 40 poorest countries are in Africa.)
We waited for about one hour before our little Cambodian bus man (who was fortunately dressed entirely in green and difficult to lose sight of) began holding up passports one by one and loudly mispronouncing the names therein. My husband, "Gwillooarmay" was called about five minutes before I was called by my middle name. The border officer himself did not once lay eyes upon our faces to confirm their resemblance to our identification. He could barely see anything from behind the constantly piling stacks of passports and documents around him. But he had filled out a short form and folded it inside our ID.
We didn't keep hold of our passports for long. The next step was to hand them to another semi-important looking man in uniform, who demanded them only through body language, hand movements and authoritative frowns. He was not in a flimsy glass cage. He was standing casually in an empty car park. From somewhere a hand pointed in the direction of our coach, and forth we went, via stage two.
Stage two of the border crossing was the health declaration and slightly terrifying temperature check by laser gun. We were asked to complete paperwork which requested our passport number. Perhaps we ought to have memorised these by now, but like most normal people, we haven't. And our passports were undergoing some official attention in the parking lot. We weren't the only ones to have this issue, which had potential to escalate owed to the impenetrable language barrier. Fortunately it didn't, and after a series of theatrical mimes, we were allowed to move on without writing our passport numbers on the form.
Eventually we got back on the bus. The bus conductor was nowhere to be seen and neither were any of our passports. Ten minutes later we stopped at a large open fronted restaurant by the side of the dusty orange "highway." Without much clue of what was going on, we relieved our patient bladders and ate some squid. Half an hour later, the green man reappeared, hurrying toward the food counter to load up on noodles at high speed before rounding up the passengers and ushering us all back on the bus. After a few minutes in motion, we were handed back our passports complete with Cambodia visitor visas legally entitling us to a two week stay in the country. Relief.
There's no denying Cambodia is visibly very different to its neighbours. Poverty is instantly more evident, as is their historic way of life. Their architecture is unique, although to me it looked somehow familiar. Spaced fairly evenly and surrounded by jungle, detached rectangular wooden homes stood precariously on stilts as high as 15 feet, set back from the roadside behind barren and water logged front yards. (And it occurred to me then, that as their rainy season was drawing to an end, the design of their houses must be, in part, to shield them from flooding.) Hammocks hung below, and smoke billowed from makeshift stoves. At every property, resided an albino cow or two. Tied with loose and lengthy string to a fence post or tree trunk, the animals were skinny and blinking off flies. Residents walked bare foot from their home to the home next door, and it's clear that community means something much more important here.
Cambodia has a horrific recent history. Approximately one quarter of the country's population were murdered during Pol Pots regime between 1963 and 1979. (At least two million people.) His mission was the preservation of rural, basic living and the continued avoidance of growth and development associated with city life. As such, anyone residing in a metropolitan area, anyone who had received, was receiving or hoped to gain an education, anyone promoting commercial business, anyone seeking economic gain for themselves or for the city in which they were working - was killed in horrific ways. Doctors, lawyers, teachers, anyone deemed professional or potentially so, their children, their parents, their neighbours and friends - all forced to the Killing Fields where the cost of a bullet was considered of greater worth than their lives. Knives, blunt instruments, axes and hammers were re-used time and again only for the purpose of murder. A haunting chinese opera-like chant of high pitched women's voices would play loudly over speakers, and noisy generators would assist in drowning out the screams as babies were grabbed by the feet and swung skull first into tree trunks while their helpless parents looked on.
I went to Auschwitz when I was 16, and the impact haunted me for a long time. It's a necessary education. One which poses more questions than answers. I try to understand why people would and could do the things they do - (and I'm not talking about the politics, the history and influence that lead to tragic decisions) I simply want to know how so many human beings can behave so brutally to others. A lack of learning, psychological issues, a morality disorder, the disease of evil. Reasoning won't work because they're simply programmed differently. They need reprogramming.
A museum and memorial sits on the grounds of some of Phnom Penhs Killing Fields. There are mass graves, skeletons in display cases, abandoned excavation sites, and an informative audio guide translated into a number of languages from survivors direct accounts. The area is enclosed by a double layer of tall wire fences, and beyond - nature stretches as far as the eye can see. Faded grassy plains, dotted trees, flooded land, and dead crops. Local people, from toddlers to the elderly, sit the other side of the fence and beg as you near them. It's a gut wrenching experience all around.
S21, Tuol Sleng Genoicide Museum is inside the city. It served as a prison camp during the reign of Pol Pot. Red brick prison cells measuring about one square metre, still stand as they did just 35 years ago. Metal rings which held the shackles are cemented into the concrete floor. Endless rows of black and white photographs fill the rooms which once served as torture chambers. They are portraits of the prisoners who were held here, taken on arrival. 17,000 were there between 1975 and 1979, most of them for about two months before they were killed. The hundreds of photos we saw showed normal, evidently scared, people. Men and women of all ages. Some of them were wearing clothes depicting brand names and designs that are popular today. That makes you realise how recent this was.
I think a fear still lingers, and understandably so, in Cambodia today. I mean, this happened just 35 years ago and supporters of the regime are still alive and great in number. Dorn, our characterful tuk-tuk driver who wore bright orange-rimmed sun glasses, a straw hat and a blue neck scarf, told us he does not like living in the city. His wife and two young children live in the countryside and he sees them when he can. We heard this from many locals. No one dare say they "liked" city life.
It's common to use American dollars in Cambodia. The riel, although the official currency, is not available anywhere outside of Cambodia. You can't grab some at a currency exchange before you go. Prices for tourists are always quoted in dollars and they expect tourists to have dollars. As such, although Cambodia's economy is much worse off than Vietnams for example, for a backpacker it's actually more expensive. Where in Vietnam, items were very often rounded up to 10,000 dong (50cents), in Cambodia they are rounded up to the dollar.
We paid Dorn $20 for a full day of tuk-tuk driving, and a further $10 twice, for taking us from and to the coach. Then we tipped him a total of $15. He may have had other customers on the days he drove us, too. We learned that to rent a basic one bedroom apartment in suburban Phnom Penh costs the equivalent of $30 per month. We'd given him almost double that in three days.
Although it might seem like Dorn should be rolling in it, the problem with Cambodia is that not all expenses make that sort of sense. For example, to fix a simple problem with your scooter at a garage could cost the equivalent of $150. It's a bewildering mess of pricing which is probably fuelled by corruption - which exists at all levels in much of South East Asia. Another problem for the likes of Dorn, is that there are more tuk-tuk drivers than tourists in Phnom Penh (and it's the same, if not worse, in Siem Reap too) and it was luck that we chose him. Most of the time, tuk-tuk drivers will snooze the days away, hoping for a catch when they're awake.
A young transsexual working at our hotel told us he makes $90 per month. He's also still at school. He moved out as his father couldn't accept his sexuality. It's not uncommon in Cambodia to opt for the other gender, we witnessed. Boys wanna be girls, and girls wanna be boys. Toms, the latter are called. They cut their hair short and hide their already minimal boobs.
Opposite our hotel was a suspicious "karaoke" bar from which music was never heard. A long row of plastic chairs were lined up against the wall of the open fronted ground floor. At around 6pm each evening, the seats would become filled with young girls. Teenagers. They wore a lot of makeup, short skirts and heels, and I wouldn't like to guess how young some of them may have been. A much older woman appeared to deliver instructions to them.
At a filthy eatery offering enormous pitchers of Angkor beer for less than $2, a similar affair was taking place. Although we didn't initially realise it. The only westerners in sight, we sat there one afternoon and observed, as we made our way through two of those refreshing jugs of local brew. A scrawny but adorable kitten climbed onto Guillaumes lap. Women were chopping leafy green vegetables and collecting them into large bags, presumably for distribution elsewhere. (And yes, they were vegetables.) It was a cafe-come-factory apparently. But at around 5pm, they'd clear it all away and begin heavily applying makeup. They'd disappear behind the scenes and reappear with immaculate hair, bright red lips, purple eye shadow and plenty of skin on display. ...Maybe they just like to dress up for the evening customers...?
Siem Reap is much smaller and infinitely more touristic than Phnom Penh. We loved it. What we didn't love though, was getting there. Dorn had taken us to an agent who convinced us $15 each for a "VIP" bus was our best option. "It gets there faster" she explained. It's a mini van rather than a coach, and the reason it gets there faster, we discovered, is because the driver drives faster. Much faster. Too fast. Dangerously and painfully fast. There were 14 of us in the van including the driver. Three were Cambodians who actually slept for much of the seven hour journey...
There would be no sleeping on our part. We thought the roads in Vietnam were bad... Between Phnom Penh and Siem Reap there is just one "road". It looked a bit like the yellow brick road in the Wizard of Oz, if the yellow brick road had been torn up with jack hammers, flooded by a clay-like muddy monsoon and then dried out in intense heat. I'd say my arse involuntarily left the seat by a good 12 inches, at least 500 times on that trip. I did worry about my spine. Seven hours. Undoubtedly brain cells were lost.
One of the sleeping Cambodians who seemed un phased by the dramatic bouncing of the vehicle, woke up eventually and chatted enthusiastically to Guillaume. He was working for the government, and on his way to an important conference in Siem Reap. He was presenting new ideas for increased rice production in a shorter amount of time. Necessary owed to the significant shifts in weather patterns over recent years. He spoke some French and knew a lot about Canada. He has an aunty living in Montreal. He can't have been older than 19.
We stayed at a place called Blossoming Romduol Lodge in central Siem Reap. And although it was teeming with apparently loopy wildlife (including suicidal fish and eels who leapt from ponds and water features onto the concrete, and our room housed an alarmingly large and vicious looking black spider), its exterior was pleasantly zen. Buddha statues surrounded a natural kissing-fish spa, lush greenery and brightly coloured flowers climbed the walls and awnings, and comfy swing-seats were placed in the shade of a rustic, wooden canopy. Mice scurried along the foot of the walls. An abundance of mosquitoes meant plenty of dragon flys zooming around overhead. Enormous, fat, and noisy toads were leaping about everywhere, gobbling up flies. Panting dogs hid in the shade of tuk-tuk's parked at the entrance, and curious cats paced narrow, lofty structures as they surveyed their endless meal possibilities below.
There was a roof terrace too, with uninterrupted views of the town. Not a high rise in sight in Siem Reap. No air conditioned stores for pleasurable shopping. It's all street markets, and night markets made up of connecting wooden shacks. They all want you to "have a look, please" and they'll be delighted to sell you a t-shirt for $2. There's also an abundance of pubs. So many in fact, that they named a main road of the town "Pub Street" and have decorated it with neon lights. Lots of restaurants too. All priced in dollars, and again, having come from Vietnam, we found eating out in Cambodia to be rather pricey by comparison.
Triangle Bar is a roof top venue for live music, expensive food, delicious cocktails and cheap beer. (Angkor beer is cheap everywhere.) As the name suggests, it's triangle shaped, and grows outwards from the stage. They have large swing seats the size of king beds with tables in the middle. Removing shoes is compulsory, and enjoying a drink with your feet up is how it works. The local band played cover songs of early 90's pop, and were surprisingly good.
At a nearby table, two white haired old men (late 60s/early 70s I'd say) sat either side of a young lady-boy (mid 20s perhaps.) They stroked her legs and nibbled her ears and she seemed to enjoy it. It's uncomfortable to witness, and happens a lot in Cambodia. Many old men visit the country only for that reason.
The reason we had come to Cambodia had nothing to do with ear nibbling. We'd come to see Angkor Wat. Lonely Planet says it's the number two thing to see in South East Asia. (Number one is Bali...?) We almost didn't go to Cambodia. It necessitates malaria pills, and nowhere else on our travels did or does. The thought of tarantulas made me shudder. There's an abundance there. (Guillaume ate one.) It was tricky to get to over land, and it was just never at the top of our list. But as the trip went on, we changed our minds. We're like that.
And we don't regret it. Angkor was by far the most incredible place we've been on our travels. It's recommended that you spend three full days exploring the temples - and that's the maximum amount of time you can get on one ticket enabling you to enter the grounds. The entire archeological site of Angkor covers around 400 square miles, with the temple of Angkor Wat being it's most famous, best preserved and arguably most beautiful feature. It's the largest religious monument in the world, built during the 12th century. There's a moat around it, and the outer wall stretches 3.6km.
The land is mainly forested, and made me think of Disneys The Jungle Book, especially with the multitude of monkeys making mischief around and inside the ancient buildings and the casual, strolling elephants - a zillion(ish) times more massive than I ever imagined real life Asian elephants to be. The area is populated. Villagers who are thought likely to descend from former inhabitants of Angkor City (which dates back to as early as the 9th Century), live and work in close proximity to the temples day to day. Mostly they are farming, cultivating rice, but many have now taken to heckling tourists as a means of income.
Children are sent to follow tourists up the long pathways, carrying postcards and bracelets for sale, and not taking no for an answer. Others don't have anything to sell, they simply hold out their little hands in hopes of a donation. Colourful hammocks hang randomly between trees mere metres from temple entrances. Old shacks are visible through the dense woodland. Kids don't go to school here. Their only education is from their parents, who teach them how to sell, how to barter and how to beg.
Hiring a tuk-tuk driver for a day is definitely the best way to get around. We paid $20 per day, and were taken everywhere. Many backpackers and tourists think they'll have more freedom if they cycle... If anyone is reading this and thinking about doing that, I do emphasize the enormity of this historical complex. It's also insanely hot. That kind of heat that slowly boils your bones. And you can't wear shorts and vest tops. Knees and shoulders must be covered as a mark of respect. It's a religious site and security will stop you at the larger temples if you're not dressed appropriately. And every temple is vast. There are steps. Hundreds of them. They're steep. They're high. They're uneven. If you want to see all the best bits, you'll have to climb. To that end, you probably don't want to wear flip flops either. Imagine the heat...
Our tuk-tuk driver was lovely. He knew the best route to avoid the crowds in their tour buses. He waited for us at every stop and let us take our time while he had a nap. He had several naps throughout the day. He didn't speak much English but was able to tell us he has explored every site of Angkor many times. For that if nothing else, he is a lucky man.
Every structure is magnificent, magical, oozing soul and mystique. I felt like I had fallen back into my child's wild imagination, and this time the setting was real. Stones have shifted as the jungle has taken over around and underneath them. Tree roots wrap around door ways, branches penetrate roof tops and weave in and out of windows. Intricate, unique stone carvings can be found at every turn. Decorations which once illustrated mythology from the Hindu religion, and later depicted Buddhist gods and goddesses, artistically celebrate powerful beliefs. The time and effort that goes into constructing monuments such as these is unmatched in modern times. They were evidently created with passion and love, by deeply spiritual people.
There are lakes in Angkor, and some monuments sit in the middle of them. In fact, one can be accessed via a long narrow foot bridge over murky waters where dead trees stand. There aren't sign posts everywhere, pathways are poorly maintained, you won't find guide books or audio tours, and the only refreshments available are those on offer from the local hecklers. Commercialism on a grand scale has not yet arrived at Angkor (although people who visited 20 years ago may disagree, as apparently it's much busier these days), and I'd confidently bet that on a site of this size, draped in flourishing jungle, much of ancient Angkor remains undiscovered to today's scholars and historians.
They call it the seventh wonder of the world, and it draws visitors from across the globe. Yet, despite the great number of tourists flocking there daily, Angkor is a place where a quiet spot can always be found. Quite often as we ventured into, around and over the buildings, we found ourselves alone and in silence. Buddhist monks can be spotted, (easy - they're wearing bright orange) kneeling in prayer or walking the perimeters. It's a peaceful place... these days at least.
Many gather at sunset on Phnom Bakheng, a temple atop a mini mountain overlooking Angkor Wat. A stunning aerial view. Our favourite site was Bayon, where hundreds of gargantuan stone faces stare serenely in every direction from the temple's upper terrace. I automatically considered them to be living. An odd and unexplainable feeling, but very genuinely present within me. Eerie and intense, but other-worldly and mind blowing all at once.
Although we returned to the hotel in a state of utter exhaustion, sun burnt, sweaty, and blistered, I would keenly spend weeks at a time in Angkor. In fact, I would think about camping there for as much as months on end if I could. I believe it would encourage philosophical contemplation, and creativity. Fuel for the mind, and food for the soul.