Moderately early on the morning of 19th November we got in into two separate minibuses to catch our boat to Siem Reap.
It was a cool morning; lots of cloud. In between Battambang and Siem Reap, in the wet season, there is a lake called Tonle Sap. In the dry season the surface area is something like 10 times smaller than the wet season, but when it rains the mangroves fill up and the edges of the lake are carpeted in thatched green weeds. The low-slung barge style boat, with two rows of wooden seats inside, took us along the river first and then out to the floating fringe of the lake, which is almost 250km long at it’s biggest. We laid back and watched the river edges, where people bathed and washed clothes and parked their boats among the bamboo, and dumped quite a bit of garbage in some places.
Through the reeds, when we made it there, many many narrow channels offered multiple paths. The weeds grazed the sides of the barge boat as we slunk over to let other boats past. Or sometimes they stopped to allow us through. Cambodian fishermen in long wooden canoes simply held onto the closest reed or tree, and looked at us like the obstruction we were. We floated along just like that for a few hours; eventually the sun came back and people moved on to the front of the boat or stood on the side, holding the rails on the top, to have a smoke.
The cabin of the boat had a flat roof; no better place to sit and watch the waves from the boat ruffling and wrinkling the green-clad surface. And while the weeds slid up and down the watery dunes, the sun must have gotten a bit stronger, because I got sunburnt. But it was very peaceful sitting up there, no one to bother you, enjoying the boat ride. We puttered on into wider parts of the mangroves, where reeds came up through the water, and huts on high poles seemed like stone birds, waiting. Then back into the narrows again, where the driver’s friend squatted upon the prow of the boat, and scouted. I don’t know what he was looking for; tree roots, or something like that, but occasionally he would make signals to the driver behind his back, as if he didn’t want the mangroves to know what he was doing.
At the end of a long passage we saw the beginning of more buildings. It was the Cambodian Venice; a city in the middle of a lagoon, floating, and battery powered. With a huge red and white mobile phone tower, 50m higher than any of the colourful one-story huts scattered around the edge of a small clear patch of water. We pulled up at one of the shacks for a cheap snack, fried whats-it with rice. It was only 11.30am but people seemed easily hungry enough for lunch. Nak happily translated for the nice lady making the food and I had fried eggs with rice, which was delicious.
At midday we set off again, across the brown water, and headed for a channel through the green. This time it was more like a river, 30 metres wide, and we cruised along without a care. The boat slowed, and another the same size, but with three times as many foreign tourists in it, on it, and with cameras, came the other way. Both boats slowed and the scouts swapped boats as quick as you like, stretching across what would have looked like a small gap between boats until you tried to cross it.
I started to realise that my arms were feeling hotter than usual, and reluctantly retired to the lower deck, where most people were busy doing nothing other than having forty winks. That seemed a sensible course of action; Nak pointed out that curtains could be pulled across the open windows, and in the shade we drifted off. When we woke up we were cruising through a wider part of the mangroves, with trees half-submerged on both sides, which broke out into the north edge of the Tonle Sap lake. To the south – our right – we could see nothing other than water. Out of the distance came another boat just like ours, which kept pace, as the birds angled away into the wind, in V-shapes.
At the other edge of the lake we picked another of the channels through the mangroves, which widened after a little while, and our little flat boat turned on a funny angle when too many people decided they wanted to get away from the spray that the stiff wind was blowing in. And they all moved back over to the other bench seat again, and fiddled with the curtains. A little after 2.30pm, we drifted up to the mooring point, where many boats just like ours were tethered to poles, 45-degree angle parked, along the edge of the orange soil. Huts crowded the edges of the road, not so much as bus drivers and motorbike riders and tuk-tuk proprietors crowded the people getting off the boats. But of course we had a bus waiting to meet us, and on the bus Nak told us all about Siem Reap, where his mother lives; it’s renowned as the poorest town in Cambodia, which is odd because there ought to be more tourists here than anywhere else. Not that you would be able to tell from the middle of the city, where hotels and restaurants and other purveyors of bright lighting congregate.
In Phnom Pen we received drastic warning about the danger of having our stuff stolen and then having to pay the police a ‘fee’ according to the value of the object, for the pleasure of reporting it stolen. With out a report you can’t get your insurance, so it’s kind of like an on-the-spot premium. Rolling into Siem Reap, where the huts all along the road certainly looked modest – but no more than around the edges of Phnom Penh or Battambang – Nak cheered everyone up by telling us that Siem Reap is actually quite safe. You can walk around at night. You can do whatever you want; you don’t need to worry.
But two Intrepid travellers in his groups had gotten malaria and others had gotten dengue fever, this year alone. So we were urged strongly to wear mosquito repellent and reapply regularly, not hang around water at sunrise or sunset, not wear black, and so on. Having seen dengue fever in Viet Nam, it was getting much much harder to dismiss it as unlikely. But we still hadn’t taken any of our anti-malarial pills, which can be taken after as well as before. And it was too late to do so now; we would have had to start taking Malarone for two days before entering ‘malaria zone’. Not getting bitten seemed like a reasonable strategy to pursue.
Intrepid, the tourist God of Pre-Arranged Accommodation, had for His Own Reasons, His Wonders to Work, re-arranged our accommodation, and the driver didn’t know exactly where it was. He knew roughly which road to turn down, so we turned roughly down that clay road, and drove for a while, then for another few minutes, then we stopped while the driver asked some kids where to go, and Nak called out that it was a French name with Tiger in it. It wasn’t actually that much further along the road, and we agreed we would be quite happy if Intrepid would continue re-arranging our accommodation from here on out. ‘Le Tigre de Papier’ has a courtyard under a thatch-roof sort of open-sided hut, where the meals are served next to the swimming pool.
It only has two stories, which removes the need for very much stair climbing. And the rooms are nice, with huge beds and wireless internet.
The meeting for dinner wasn’t until 6pm, and it was now 3pm, and no better time to pick and process and post some pictures and journals to the NetWeb. A couple of people went directly to the swimming pool, but reported later, when we met for dinner, that there was a sulphur sort of smell lingering. We strolled along the road that brought us here into town, and around the block, into the horrific glitzy Vegas part of town, which was probably bright enough to start knocking the local women’s menstrual cycles out of line. Inside the restaurant we went to was nice, though, and at the long thin table we occupied we played everyone’s new favourite game:
‘Whose Meal Will Arrive First?’
‘Mine’s fried rice with vegetables, they should have heaps of that just lying around, mine will come first.’
‘Mine’s fish lok lak; they’ll cook that fresh and it’ll take ages’.
And so forth. Tactics varied from ordering garlic bread (as likely as not to arrive with the main), ordering extra beverages (who cares when your food arrives? I’ve got beer, or in our case, I’ve got red wine which for some reason they’ve bought not chilled but actually really cold). Tactics varied from drinking it anyway to holding it in both hands and imagining you are holding a very hot rock. But as per usual the meals were worth the wait, the company was amusing, and we left happy. On the way back to the hotel we bought beer and bottled water, but Nak advised us not to go to the shiny 7-11. Instead, we should walk further down the road and go to one of the local stores, which he said would be cheaper as well. Not only was it cheaper, it was closed. Actually, the main part of the shop was closed, but there were still people sitting around to sell us 12 500ml bottles of water for $1. Slightly less convenient than 2 1.5L bottles, but, yes, cheaper.
Another great thing about our hotel was the upstairs balcony, which was perfect for card games, especially if, like Jamie, you have actually been to Vegas and have your very own set of Caesar’s Palace cards. About 11.30pm it got too late, and we yawned our way downstairs and went to bed.
Greg
