Kampong Cham and Kratie

Hold on to your seats folks…this trip was a bit of a wild ride (sorry for the length of the entry…)

With the entire week of work off for the upcoming Water Festival (Bon Om Tuk), I decided to head toward the northeast of Cambodia, an as yet unexplored area for me, to Kampong Cham and Kratie (pronounced Krat-Chay). On Saturday afternoon, I met up with my friend Kurt, who is based in Kampong Cham and works for the UN World Food Programme. We caught a bus up to Kampong Cham, making a quick stop at Kurt’s house before going to one of the two western-run restaurants in town. After a good meal with two VSO volunteers (one Australian, one Dutch), we called it a night.

We woke up early on Sunday to go for a bike ride along the Mekong with John, a Peace Corps volunteer based in Kampong Cham. Kurt and John both had mountain bikes, so we set off to find one for me. Though all the bike shops had some, they were new and not available for rent for a day. So instead of a mountain bike, I ended up with a red, one-speed bike with a basket in front; the kind that ten year-old Cambodian girls ride to school. To make matters worse (or more entertaining for John and Kurt), the only helmet available was a spare that Kurt had: a blue, too-small children’s helmet with yellow stars on it. Our ride was off to a good start before we even left.

Our destination for the day was a village called Srol Kong Mea, 30km south of Kampong Cham. The entire ride was through what John called the “hello gauntlet;” every kid we passed would scream “hellloooo” at the top of their lungs at least three or four times. The effect was not only a response from one of the three of us, but a warning to those kids ahead who wanted to catch sight of a barang (foreigner).

It was a really nice ride – though it did get progressively bumpy without shocks – and by a little after 11:00 we arrived at Srol Kong Mea, a cute village with a beautiful location on the Mekong. After a tasty traditional Khmer lunch at a stall on the riverfront, we tracked down another Peace Corps volunteer and hung out with her for a bit.

For the ride back, we decided to take the ferry across the river and try out the path on the other side. The ferry ride itself was an experience. After it unloaded, Kurt, John, and I hopped on to the small, rickety, wooden boat along with a few motorbikes and people. Eventually an incredibly overloaded pickup pulled up to the ferry and, without even stopping to unload the passengers or goods positioned on its roof, drove cautiously onboard.

Once across the river, the environment changed completely. Locals, Cambodian and otherwise, were far more surprised to see foreigners (too shocked even to say ‘hello’) and the scenery too changed quite a bit. Instead of flat rice fields, we now biked over rolling hills, through forests, past lakes, and by various plantations. At one point we stopped to buy some grilled bananas. Within an instant we were surrounded by some thirty-five children, who magically appeared out of nowhere. The whole thing felt quite surreal.

As we continued onward and the afternoon started getting later, we stopped to ask several people if we were indeed heading the right direction to Kampong Cham. For the most part, our informants answered in the affirmative. A little bit after 4:00, we arrived in a small town, where a group of kids led us in the direction of the bridge over the river to Kampong Cham, which was apparently another 7km away. At this point, my legs and butt, which haven’t been on a bike in well over a year, start to give a little bit. I push to get those 7km back to town. Also at this point, it starts to pour. Absolutely pour. Within an instant we’re soaked and biking through dirt that’s quickly turning to mud.

Half an hour later, and still not within sight of our destination, the rain stops. With the sun sinking lower, we pedal onward. As the clock passes 5:00, we start to get a bit worried. We stop at an intersection and ask for directions, but cannot get a clear response. We continue onward. Pedaling out into a clearing, John and Kurt stop. They know where we are. And it’s not close to Kampong Cham. The estimated that it was another 10km or so – a 10km I am practically incapable of biking – to the main highway, which leads back to Kampong Cham. It is here, and on the edge of an enormous rubber plantation, that we encounter a military man who, although quite friendly and helpful, made us a little uneasy with his automatic rifle slung around his back.

While Kurt and John speak with the military guy, I try to flag down the few and far between cars and trucks for a lift back to town. As three wet, muddy westerners with equally wet and muddy bikes, it did not seem likely we would be successful. At about 6:00, and with the sun all but gone, I flag down a pickup truck that agrees to take us into town. We throw our bikes and our bodies in the bed of the truck and hold on as we speed off.

Forty minutes later, we arrive back in town. We were a forty minute drive from town. We thanked the driver profusely and offered to give him whatever he asked for in terms of money (gas recently went up to about $4.50 a gallon here), but he refused all offers. As he did so, he confirmed what the three of us were thinking when he picked us up: if we hadn’t caught the ride (or another one), we would’ve been screwed. We either would have had to camp out with the military guy or bike through the dark, uninhabited, and dangerous (so we were told) rubber plantations to the main road.

Back in town, we went straight to dinner as well as to figure out where we went wrong. During a large and delicious meal, we scoured over a map of the region, telling the pub-owner – a British guy named Simon – about our ordeal. It turns out that at some point in our journey, we began following a tributary of the Mekong instead of the river itself. This pointed us in the complete wrong direction and despite biking an estimated 70-80km, we were still 30km or so from town. After polishing off our meal, we celebrated with a slice of chocolate cake and a whiskey on the rocks. Even better than the whiskey was the hot shower I had back at Kurt’s house. I promised myself a well-deserved massage once I got to Kratie the following afternoon.

After a tasty breakfast and a quick e-mail check, I caught the bus to Kratie. The scenery on the ride was entirely different from what I was accustomed to: rolling hills, rubber and fruit plantations, few palm trees, and a much less tropical feel. Two thirds of the way to Kratie, the bus stopped at the end of a line of cars about twenty-five deep. We all got out to see what was going on. In front of us were two bridges, one under construction and one temporary. The temporary bridge had a large truck in the middle, its front two wheels not on the road surface, but beneath it, in the middle of a large gap. As the too-heavy truck crossed, several of the metal beams of the bridge fell to the river below. I joined the crowds of people on the bridge under construction and realized we were stuck for a while. A crane was used to lift the truck out of the gap it created and workers began immediately to patch the bridge.

Two hours later, I noticed a western woman with all of her things coming from the opposite side of the bridge. I asked her what was happening and she told me that her bus driver instructed her to cross the bridge under construction and to get on the bus on the other side. I grabbed my stuff to do the same. The bridge, however, was still very much under construction; there was about a sixty foot gap between the finished and unfinished sections. The first twenty feet of the gap were connected by a narrow wooden beam with nothing below but the river, about fifty feet down. A line of people, from children to the elderly, were crossing with all their belongings despite the apparent danger. I crossed the first section slowly and carefully, thinking that someone was sure to get seriously injured. The second section, forty feet long was joined by a slightly wider metal beam with a shoddy looking mesh wire beneath. I made it across and went to the bus on the other side. The driver said he wasn’t sure what was happening, but that I should probably cross back and wait with my original bus driver, because he would not what I should do. Needless to say, I was not crossing back. After waiting another hour, one of the buses on my side of the bridge started leaving. I flagged it down and they let me hop on, thinking that I was originally with that company. We arrived in Kratie at 4:00, about three and a half hours later than expected. So much for a relaxing afternoon (I soon found out there wasn’t even a non-sketchy massage to be had).

On Tuesday I took a moto about a half hour North of Kratie to Kampie. In Kampie, I shared a boat with two Australian woman to catch a glimpse of the endangered Irrawaddy Dolphin, a rare freshwater dolphin that lives a few places along the Mekong (for more info, see the Mekong Dolphin Conservation Project). The boat ride was incredibly pleasant – we made it out to the middle of the river, tied to a branch sticking out of the water, and floated there for an hour and a half, spotting dolphins every few minutes. It was cool to see the dolphins – they behave more like whales in that they pop up for a second and then disappear for several minutes – but it was by no means exhilarating.

From Kampie I went to Phnom Sambok, a hilltop pagoda and meditation site. At the top of the first hundred or so stairs I climbed were several young monks awaiting my arrival. They spoke no English, but we were able to have some basic conversation without my saying ‘aht jul’ (‘I don’t understand’) too often. I think it was one of the first, if not the first time they were able to communicate with a foreigner and, as a result, they were enamored with me. They felt the hair on my arms, legs, and face (Cambodians are not usually nearly as hairy as westerners). The youngest one, only thirteen, even asked if I would be his big brother, a big complement. The monks gave me a private tour of the pagoda complex, posed for pictures, and showed me the inside of the temple as it was being repainted.

After a mediocre lunch back in Kratie, I took the ferry in Kratie across to an island in the Mekong, Koh Trong. This ferry was packed with people and supplies, but I was the only westerner making the journey. Several people had suggested biking around the island, but because of my recent experiences, I decided to walk instead. It was beautiful. The receding Mekong left some sandy beaches on the shores of Koh Trong and the pathway around the perimeter of the island was nicely shaded. All of the islands inhabitants, from the people to the cows, were not only surprised to see a westerner, but one that was walking around. I stopped to talk to a number of people, watched them harvest rice, and relax in the shade under their raised wooden and thatch houses. I stopped outside one house to take a picture of the grapefruit trees out front. I was soon greeted by the owner of the house, an old, happy, toothless man. Following a fairly simple conversation, I started to leave, but he insisted I wait for a moment. He cut down a fresh grapefruit for me (value $1) and refused any payment other than a few oranges I had in my bag; and this despite that he was incredibly poor. I continued on my way, turning back around to catch the ferry after a brief stop to help a farmer get his cattle over a barbed wire fence. On the return trip, a number of the kids I passed followed me toward the ferry pick-up, where they sat with me until the ferry came. I got back to Kratie just in time for a beautiful sunset – one of the most beautiful I’ve ever seen – over the Mekong from the shared balcony at my guesthouse. Thankfully, I made it back to Phnom Penh without incident the following day.