Battambang to Phnom Penh to Kampot to Rach Gia to Ho Chi Minh to Here (Dalat)

Since arriving in Battambang and writing the last post on this blog, it’s been at least a week, probably more, and in that time we have traveled through as many as 5 other cities so you must forgive us for the length of this one. I do not wish to waylay you any longer with an extended apology so I’ll just remind you that this is kept in perpetuity and thus can be read at your leisure, which is to say, there’s no need to muscle through the whole thing.

First a little about Battambang, as we’re certain we did not say much about it in the last post (we haven’t read it since we wrote it). It is a reasonably sized town and we did very little. On our only full day there Hilary came down with a brief stomach virus and so I went on a tour of the local sights alone, well, not entirely alone as I hired a motorbike driver to take me. The tour was supposed to take three separate stops, one at the base of a hill at whose top were a few “Killing Caves” where the Khmer Rouge murdered several people and a Buddhist shrine with several Buddhas, a second at a temple or wat or whatever, and a third stop at an old railway on which you could ride through picturesque scenery. It was hot that day my friends and I stupidly refused to buy any water from the many vendors that I passed on my steep ascent. By the time I reached the time I was sweating profusely and glad to visit the shade of a couple of shrine-caves in which sat contemplative Buddha – no murders were committed in these for the simple reason that they were too shallow. After properly cooling myself, I headed for the peak and along the way befriended a volunteer school teacher who promptly took over as my guide. I was of course a little leery, but generally prefer a small payment to a local over a nasty scene, so I accepted that what may seem like a friendly tour may actually be an unexpected expense. I am a bit of a sucker, it’s true. My new tour guide, whose name I have since forgotten because I didn’t do the trick where you repeat it to your self 5 times, took me to the top where he pointed out 2 new temples in the midst of construction, a very deep cave which he claimed had a whole that lead to a stash of gold at the bottom of the mountain, which was why the government had come and sealed it shut, and finally a few mammoth guns left from the siege with the Khmer Rouge. These were giant guns that I imagined could fire shot all the way to Phnom Penh. He asked that perhaps if were to strap himself to a shell and fire, launching himself to the US, could I maybe help him get set up once he arrived. I agreed, though I believe the prospects are dubious at best.

From the top, he led me down to the “Killing Caves”. I was not entirely prepared for the stories he told me. It was very sobering, you see the “Killing Caves” have two separate openings, one which is easily walked down and another that plunges straight down to the bottom. Clearly we took the walkable one. At the bottom, looking up through the whole, he began to tell me the story of what had happened. The Khmer Rouge had come and attacked the nearby village because the villagers did not want to join them. The KR then took the people to the top of the hill and forced them to kneel at the rim of the cave where they were hit in the head or neck with a hammer, a hatchet or any number of instruments at hand. The victims would then fall down the abyss and if they hadn’t died from the head trauma, the fall generally killed them. The few that survived and attempted to climb out the other side were met by another executioner who finished the job. Even now as I write this it is horrifying. I find myself at a loss for words or explanation.

My guide then explained that the glass plaited stands around the base of the cave had to be placed there and filled with the bones that remained because previously tourists had left with souvenirs.

We left the caves and walked back to the road where I would go down and he would head back up. The only thing he asked for was that the next time I come through Battambang, I stop in and have a meal with him. I promised I would and walked back to find my motorbike driver.

(I’d like do make a brief note here explaining that the visit to the “Killing Caves” was very moving and I struggled with whether or not to include the account of the events as I didn’t want to trivialize them by putting them in such close proximity to potentially humorous accounts of our travel. In the end, I thought it was more important to include it.)

I found the village eatery where I had left my driver, but couldn’t at first see him. I wasn’t all to worried as his departure would’ve saved me $8, which may not sound like much but goes quite a ways in Southeast Asia. He did however turn up as soon as I approached. It was than that I decided that if I wasn’t going to go on to the remaining two sites because I was utterly beat, and that if I wasn’t going to go on, but still pay the $8, which I surely would be expected to do, I should at least get a motorbike driving tutorial. So I asked if I could drive. My driver, another person whose name I have forgotten because I did not do the trick, seemed a little nervous, especially after I said I’d never driven a motorbike before, but he acquiesced. I did not have to push him, if some of you are thinking that. He agreed, just a little apprehensively. I figured I would drive down from the village to the main road, you know, just get a little feel for driving. The driver had other things in mind. Once he hopped on back and gave me the basics, I was to drive all the way back with only his slight guidance. He didn’t say this of course, it simply was the way it went. He told me when to change gears and where to turn, and some times if I was taking us along a path he must’ve felt was particularly dangerous, he would push on my back so as to force my arms to turn us in the direction he desired. I usually accepted. As it turned out, driving was easy enough. When I got home, Hilary’s stomach problems had passed and I was immensely dehydrated, which proved to be the start of my stomach problems.

The next morning we pushed to Phnom Penh but not without some confusion first. We booked our ticket through the hotel we were staying at. After booking the manager said to get some breakfast and come back at 8:50 to catch the bus. It was 8:05 then. I even double checked, making sure he did not mean 8:15. He assured us he didn’t, so we went to the Sunrise Café for smoothies and toast. When we returned, the motorbike drivers were vary concerned. They insisted that the bus had left at 8:30, so they rushed us over to the station where we were informed that there would be another bus at 9:30. Damn the language barrier. We still managed to get to Phnom Penh.

For us, Phnom Penh was only remarkable for three reason. First, Eileen’s friends and hopefully now our friends Cullen and Vanessa, second, S21, and third, the Vietnamese Embassy. Our friend Eileen whom we know from the Peace Corps was kind enough to send along word to two of her former Thai volunteers, Cullen and Vanessa, that we were coming to PP and might need a place to stay. They were kind enough to accept us. The Peace Corps network is awesome! Cullen and Vanessa really made us feel at home and had great advice about the city. We had gotten some scare tactics from a Canadian ex-pharmaceutical rep about our lack of malarial remedy or protection, so Cullen pointed us in the direction of a respectable pharmacy. Evidently you’ve got to be pretty careful with these things here as often you get knockoff stuff that is something else entirely and can leave you in a pretty sticky jam. Who wants to be three days away from the nearest airport and coming down with Malaria? Certainly not us. (The only suitable hospitals in this region are in Bangkok we’ve been told several times over.) Our first full day in PP was spent acquiring emergency Malaria meds and visiting the Vietnamese Embassy and S21.

The Malaria meds were easily acquired while the Vietnamese Visas proved a little more strange and difficult. When we first arrived at the Embassy, we found a gate and guard. Assuming that it was an Embassy like all the others we’d been to, we thought that we’d have to check in with the guard before entering, so we thought nothing of it when he asked for our passports. However, when he told us to go ahead and leave them with him and return the next day around 5, we became skeptical and demanded our passports back. He gave them back with no trouble and as we walked away, he pointed down the street to a sign that said the visa office was 50 meters down. Odd. The visa office was also a strange scene. Inside we picked filled out the appropriate forms and went to turn them in. Again we were asked to leave our passports over night. Leaving my passport with anyone makes me uncomfortable and I did my best to explain that we’d rather not. Evidently this was not welcome and we were handed our papers and the officials left the room. Not sure what to do, we stood for a moment talking it out when a woman appeared, took the paperwork back, photocopied our passports and said we were to pay $35 each and return the next day. We did and the visas were gained in a matter of minutes, which leads me to this: why the hell did they need to keep them over night if they could just as easily do the whole thing in such a short time? Who knows? Government beaurocracy I guess.

We visited S21, as I said and it was more gruesome than the “Killing Caves,” but there is plenty of information out there about it and if you wish, I’m sure you can find it easily using google.com. The things I found most shocking were these: Pol Pot died without ever facing persecution and England and the US backed the Khmer Rouge’s inclusion in the UN despite the obvious genocide going on in Cambodia. We urge you to look into the atrocities committed by the Khmer Rouge.

Anyhow, that was all that was really worth mentioning as it pertains to us. I could go on about the things that we learned from Cullen about Cambodia as he is privy to a lot of info via his position with USAID, but this post is already reaching a ridiculous length, so here are the particulars. You’ve got to be careful of both pork and oil as much of the pork comes from Vietnam and is the kind that has foot-and-mouth and can’t be sold there and much of the oil also comes from Vietnam, is already used and only cleaned up by mixing in bleach to give it a clear appearance. Also, money can get you just about anything and the head of police wields much more power than just about anyone. There was a great deal more, but as I said, this is getting long and I’ve yet to get to even Vietnam, where I am writing this from.

From PP we headed west to Kampot near which is Bokor National Park. Bokor was our primary reason for visiting, but we were also interested in a slower pace which Kampot offers in spades. We bus-ed in and found the town to be suitably quaint, though our lodgings were about as creeping as they come with high, filthy ceilings and rickety doors and walls. We changed the very next day into a much nicer place that was markedly cleaner and safer, and didn’t feel like someone had been killed there. After checking in, we did a round of the town and decided to rent a motorbike to drive over to Kep, a small fishing village on the sea about 25km away. It took Hilary a moment to get used to riding but I took it slowly and she got comfortable enough for us to head out into the countryside. Driving down the dirt road, surrounded by quilted fields of rice paddies broken up by tall palms and framed by mist-hooded mountains, we really got to see the country as we imagined. Sadly, the rain that had started that morning as a slight mist gradually grew stronger and stronger until it stung as it struck as and we were both absolutely soaked. Doing 50km on a small motorbike with no coverage probably didn’t help. Just 5km short of our destination, we were forced to turn back. I dropped Hilary off at the hostel and took a quick spin around town to flex the bike. Racing down I side street at upwards of 65km, I found myself abruptly confronted by a speed bump. I had two choices: slam on the breaks and get skinned up pretty good (I was stupidly wearing shorts) or pull up on the handlebars and ride it out, which is what I did and always do. I landed a mini-air safely and headed back to turn the bike in before I got myself in further trouble. I had been required to leave behind my passport as collateral for the bike and did not wish to see it forfeited.

The next day we booked a trip up to Bokor. As luck would have it, this was also the day of our 2nd anniversary. Bully for us. We had heard that the road up to the park was quite treacherous, or as our Lonely Planet guidebooks says, “it’s a scenically stunning and horrifically bumpy 25 km up to the plateau.” That was a tremendous understatement. That’s like saying a Long Island Iced Tea is slightly alcoholic or that the atomic bomb is moderately destructive. I’m all for “ the glass is half full” mindset, but if it’s empty, the damn thing is empty. Shit! The road was about as friendly to the spine as say a caning. I mean, at points I was pretty sure that there was no road at all and we were driving down the remains of a rock slide, but that probably would’ve been softer. This trip made the drive from Poipet to Sisophon seem like a ride on the tea cups and Disneyland. It was jarring and abrasive and violent and just about everything else you don’t want a road to be. Instead of jail terms, criminals should be sentenced to trips up and down this road.

Now, was the whole thing worth it? It’s hard to say. At the top there was more driving on equally detestable roads and some pretty interesting and beautiful sights. I’m not much for old, decaying buildings, so the old abandoned palace and casino, two of the main attractions, were of little interest to me beyond wondering what had transpired there and what the place must’ve looked like in its prime, full of people and alive. What was spectacular was the two-tiered waterfall gushing water that looked like a quartz strip in granite. The water was that orange-yellow of quartz and cascaded in a massive torrent over both tiers. It had been raining all morning. I managed to scurry down to near the base and marveled at the power and beauty of it. I took only a few pictures of the falls, but got a really nice one of an odd looking red mushroom we passed on the way. The ride down was of course equally despicable and destructive, but we did learn that there was a boarder crossing into Vietnam much closer to us than we’d expected. It had opened just a couple months ago and was a mere hour’s drive. We had anticipated going all the way back to PP, but as it turned out, we wouldn’t have to.

That night for our 2nd anniversary we took ourselves out to a nice dinner of crab and green Kampot pepper. Evidently “in the years before civil war took its toll, no self-respecting French restaurant in Paris would be without Kampot pepper on the table.” Thank you again Lonely Planet. The crab was spectacular, but I will save other blandishments for the food blog.

Amazingly, the border crossing at Ha Tien was indeed only an hour away and open to foreigners, so we had no problems crossing. We planned to take a overdue honeymoon on Phu Quoc island and so we road straight to Rach Gia where all the boats and ferries go from, however, when we arrived it was pretty stormy and we were informed that no boats had gone in almost 5 days and none would be going soon as a big storm was expected. We were disappointed but not too badly. That night we made friends with the owner of a Pho restaurant where we had our first genuine Vietnamese Pho. I have been a fan of this noodle soup ever since a friend of mine turned me on to it my senor year of college and the proprietor of the Pho restaurant I frequented in Eugene saw my face so much that she still remembered me when I returned from the Peace Corps. Our new Pho friends had a son that did all the talking for them as they spoke no English. Dong was his name and he took us to get the best and the cheapest smoothies we’ve yet to have. We got two and some ice cream for him all for less than a dollar. Amazing. We had breakfast with them the next morning and Dong arranged bus tickets for us to Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon). He was great and we felt somewhat sad leaving despite the fact we’d known him and his family less than a day.

The bus ride was a smooth and comfortable 6 hours and dropped us off at a bus station that was no where to be found on our Lonely Planet maps. No fear. We headed for the bus depot and asked which bus would take us to the Pham Ngu Lao area where according to the book we could find all manner of lodging, eating and shopping. The woman pointed us to bus 2 and sure enough, the bus took us there. We felt very worldly taking the local transport and finding our way around. The bus driver helped of course, stopping where we wanted to go and telling us we were there.

The Pham Ngu Lao area is a fly-by-night travelers dream. It is a cornucopia of shopping and eating all at cut-rate prices. The place was teeming with shops offering bootleg backpacks, clothes, DVDs, CDs, electronics and art. We stopped in several and marveled at the prices and wares. But what really amazed us were the painting shops. There must’ve been ten of them all offering hand-painted copies of nearly every masterpiece you can think of, and done with exquisite detail and care. To an untrained eye such as my own, the paintings could’ve been authentic. They had everything from Matisse and Van Gogh to a full five-panel Klimt. All were stunning and we wished we could take them with us. The skill with which they were executed was astonishing. We refrained from buying any, but did get a nice backpack, a couple CDs and a set of DVDs.

We ate at a restaurant that had just about every kind of food you could imagine on the menu. The menu its self was almost 75 pages, 4 of which were occupied by cocktails. The food was good, but not spectacular. But what do you expect for less than $7 total. We are party poopers, or at least our days of partying because we can are pretty much over, so, as usually, we were in early and headed out early the next day.

We took another long bus ride out of town as we have little interest in museums and landmarks. We prefer natural wonders. We are now in Dalat which is a small mountain town up in the hills. It is raining today same as yesterday, and it is cold, as in the mid to low 60s. We’ll try to keep everyone updated and write more often, but that’s no guarantee. Hope everyone reading this is enjoying their summer and doing well. We miss you all.


(Sorry for the lack of photographic accompaniment. It will come soon.)