Willa has a fever for the second time in two weeks and I’m missing the convenience of having a trusted, English-speaking doctor we can call.
We were lucky the first time as we were in Phnom Penh and had met Isaac just that morning. Isaac is a medical student and runs a mobile clinic out of his tuk-tuk. He was born in Cambodia and raised in California by an adopted family after his parents were killed by the Khmer Rouge. He moved back here a few years ago and has now adopted two kids of his own, abandoned babies from the hospital. He’s fluent in English, Khmer and the medical resources in Phnom Penh.
So, when Willa had a fever, Isaac took us to a good, private clinic and thirty minutes and $4 later, Willa’s blood had been tested and found negative for dengue and malaria. This would have required paperwork, insurance filings, a $20 co-pay and a two-week wait in the U.S. Her fever was gone by morning and we figure she was teething as her fever went away and a new bottom tooth showed up.
But now we’re in Sihanoukville, on the southern coast of Cambodia, and I could barely make myself understood ordering lunch today.
Cambodia feels more foreign than any other country we’ve been to on this trip. We felt it as our plane descended into Siem Reap and saw the flat countryside through the window. Dirt roads and red dust between squares of crops and water waiting for rice shoots. Palm trees in thick, jungle-y clusters or sometimes standing solitary in the middle of a field. Tall, white brahmans walk along the edge of the roads and dark grey, mossy water buffalo wallow in dark pools.
The history of Cambodia is palpable in Siem Reap. On every block there are amputees, begging children, and begging mothers with mentally and physically handicapped children on their laps. Cambodians give money to the amputees and elderly, not the children, and we follow suit. Several organizations are working to defuse landmines (supposedly, there are still many thousands buried, waiting). Our guidebook cautions not to stray from well-marked paths. We’ve never been in a place where so many people have been so directly, physically affected by war and its aftermath.
Our guest house in Siem Reap rents out bicycles and we ride to the ruins of Angkor in the mornings. It’s a half-hour ride along the Siem Reap River and we pass vegetable markets, baguette carts, school children in their uniforms riding two and three to a bike or motorcycle, and stands selling petrol in glass liter-bottles.
The temples themselves are, as expected, magnificent and awe-inspiring. But to experience them in their jungle-setting - hearing the gongs and bells from the nearby, smaller Buddhist temples; catching sight of the rich gold robes and umbrellas of the monks as they walk through the stone halls; being invited to kneel, light an incense and make a prayer - this is what makes the temples unforgettable. Dark, giant, gentle elephants lumber down the wooded paths and water buffalo and brahmans wander, loose, with low-ringing bells announcing their movements.
In the food department we struck gold at our guest house as the couple who own it make us their taste testers for the adjoining restaurant they are about to open. We eat several meals with them and are introduced to an outstanding array of traditional Khmer food.
Sauteed giant prawns in garlic, ginger, chilis and butter. Fried whole fish with a chili, fish and ginger sauce. Spicy cucumber, chicken, glass noodle and carrot salad. Cold vermicelli-like rice noodles, fresh basil and crunchy bean sprouts wrapped in lettuce and dipped in sauce. Pumpkin and tofu curry soup. Fish and long, green beans in coconut curry. And mounds of steamed, white rice. Short-grained and a bit sticky, it has a totally different fragrance, flavor and texture from Thai rice, which resembles basmati. Khmer food has taken the very best influences of Thai and Vietnamese cooking and is delicious.
We spend almost two weeks in Siem Reap. It’s one of our favorite cities on this journey, but we only have two more weeks on our visa and want to see more of Cambodia.
The 5-hour speedboat across the Tonle Sap Lake to Battambang takes 10 hours. We chug past whole towns floating on the brown lake water. Floating schools and a floating gymnasium, a floating police station, floating houses and floating flower gardens tied alongside the houses, old fish traps piled on a boat, bundled stacks of firewood held high above the water in forks made of huge branches, a bicycle leaning against a house rail just above the water. Cats peek out from behind doorways, empty hammocks hang in rows, and metal cooking pots cover outside walls. A boy paddles out to us in a small, metal bucket, spinning at times as he heads towards our boat. We give him some money and with a nod he’s off. The towns are fascinating and romantic in a fairy-tale-ish way and I wish we could spend time drifting around.
We head down a tributary river and children wave from the banks, bathe in the water, and ride bikes along the shore, keeping up with our boat before falling away. A few times, our boat slows to a stop, picking up more passengers delivered to us in wooden longboats or rowboats.
In Battambang, Johnny gets a 50-cent barbershop haircut and shave, we take a tuk-tuk ride around the small city, eat our fill of crusty baguettes, ice cream and fruit shakes at the White Rose, and dodge the kooky men who act as volunteer car parkers and restaurant greeters on our block. Battambang feels like a ‘passing through’ town and we are ready to move on less than 48 hours later.
Arriving in Phnom Penh by bus, we are a bit shell-shocked by the size and congestion of the city after the comparative quaintness of Siem Reap. That moment of stepping off of the bus or boat tends to overwhelm, with the crowds of tuk-tuk and moto drivers yelling for your business, hands grabbing for your bags (and sometimes baby), each trying to secure you as their passenger.
Phnom Penh takes its time showing us its charms. The city is hazy with pollution, hot, varying shades of grey and brown from the dust, and the street food looks sketchy and unappealing. We take walks in the early morning and late afternoon and can’t quite get our bearings even though the city streets are laid out in a grid. We miss riding bikes in Siem Reap.
I’m reading The Killing Fields and it is both surreal and resonating to see the places mentioned in the book: Siem Reap, Battambang, Monivong Boulevard, the French Embassy, and so on. All around Phnom Penh are residuals and influences of the forces that have sought to control it over the course of its history. French street names, colonial architecture, crepes and baguettes (there are two types of baguette street carts: one that sells baguette with pate, chilis, sliced cucumber and spring onion and the other that sells baguette with scoops of ice cream and condensed milk and crushed peanuts on top. Both are delicious). Thai and Vietnamese restaurants and lots of Vietnamese and Chinese people living here.
It surprises me to see so many Khmer wearing the red and white checked krama, the cotton cloths that serve as sarongs and head wraps to protect from the sun and dust, as this was part of the uniform of the Khmer Rouge. These red and white krama on their heads and black pyjamas on their bodies. I think the Khmer Rouge wore it as a symbol of the peasant farming class. There are many other colors to choose from, but the red and white is the most popular.
Early one morning, we walk to Tuol Sleng, S-21, a former high school the Khmer Rouge turned into a detention center in 1975, after the fall of Phnom Phen. This is where the Khmer Rouge tortured people before sending them to the Killing Fields. Many didn’t last long enough to make it to the Killing Fields, so S-21 is a cemetery, as well.
Standing in the courtyard, looking up at the former school and torture chamber; walking down the halls of rooms, bare except for a metal bed frame, chains and shackles; seeing the rows of photos of prisoners and Khmer Rouge (some just children) - it’s harrowing and unfathomable to read and see what people have done to each other.
One of the prisoners in the photos is wearing a polo shirt. One of the women has a short bob haircut and is wearing a t-shirt with little footprints printed on it. Their modern looks are especially distressing. It feels obscene that the morning we visit, the sky is clear and blue, the sun is shining, and the scent of frangipani fills the air.
Another morning we go out to the Killing Fields and, again, the sky is cloudless, birdsong is in the air and trees and grass are lush and green. There is a white stupa at the entrance, towering high with shelves of skulls of men, women, children and babies that have been dug up from the surrounding earth. About 9,000 skulls are collected here, most with holes and cracks from bludgeoning. The Khmer Rouge killed these Cambodians by hand in order to save valuable bullets.
Beyond the monument are dug-out holes that served as mass graves. Some holes are marked as having contained decapitated bodies. There’s a giant tree that the Khmer Rouge chained children to and beat them to death. Another giant tree, called the “Magic Tree”, held a speaker that blared music to cover the cries of people being tortured. At one point we realize that the white specks in the dirt beneath our feet are shards of bone.
We walk the path around the periphery, Willa toddling ahead of us, navigating her way around exposed tree roots and stones. The trees provide cooling shade and in the distance some fishermen wade with their boat across a small lake. Beyond the lake are fields of green rice paddies stretching out for miles. A young boy and a girl run up to us and we talk and walk along the bordering fence. It’s a bizarrely peaceful morning. I don’t know that anyone learns from history, learns not to make the same mistakes, learns not to be cruel, but at least these memorials pay respect to those who were killed.
It seems to be getting hot earlier in Phnom Penh, reducing the hours we can comfortably be outside. Fortunately, our guesthouse serves good, inexpensive food, has a comfortable dining area where we can watch movies. Unfortunately, Meet the Fockers seems to always be playing.
The bus to Sihanoukville, a small city on the south coast, leaves early in the morning. (Heading out of town, our jaws drop when we pass a motorcycle holding three passengers, one connected to an IV that’s hanging from the pole in his hands.) It’s a pleasant 4-hour ride, watching the flat countryside rise to hills then mountains, the first we’ve seen in Cambodia. The air clears, dirt is replaced by white sand and we can smell the ocean.
We’re staying in a rustic, wooden bungalow on stilts overlooking what seems like our own private beach. It’s beautiful; secluded, clean and lined with pine trees. Cows sometimes amble down to the beach and dogs bark and chase them back to the grass.
This is heavenly. To be here with Johnny, swimming every day, watching Willa run around on the wide expanses of sand when the tide is far out and the ocean is flat, being lulled to sleep under our mosquito nets by the sound of the waves.
This is Willa’s favorite part of our travels. Every morning, she points out the window to the ocean and grunts her inquisitive grunt. Willa’s grown so much in just a few months. She studies and bites seashells before throwing them into the sea, squats and follows hermit crabs, and delights in the black and white toucans that fly from tree to tree.
We’re pretty isolated on our beach and food options are mediocre and overpriced (this proves to be the case for us all over Sihanoukville), so we’ve rented a motorbike and pick up sandwich supplies at the market and drive the road along the coastline. There is a large airplane on the beach and we can’t tell whether it’s being assembled or disassembled for parts.
Our bike gets a flat and we are so, so grateful to be uphill from a gas stand that repairs tires. A fierce storm breaks just as we take our seats under the awning and by the time the rain has ended, our tire is fixed. On the way back to our beach home, we see several resort hotels in nascent stages and it won’t be long before this quiet beach is a major tourist destination.
