Top Travel Leads

The children raced to the car, reached the wheel before Eddie and after Donald pealed them away one at a time, Eddie reached under the car, slipped on the washer and declared it a per fit. Now for the most important part, the nut. Eddie twists and turns and fiddles, but the nut is too small. A short conference produces Plan B. Eddie and the new guy, named Chum, who we later find out is an employee of the first guy, will go in the other direction. They will ride south to the larger town of Dam Dek, about forty minutes away, where there might be a better opportunity to find the necessary part.

Dusk was getting ready to unfold and the cicadas had begun their nightly ritual when it became apparent that Eddie would not leave his car there over night and Donald, following the code of honor among pilots, “stick by your wing man”, would not abandon Eddie. As for me, I was useless, had nothing to contribute. At the time I did not understand what Eddie needed and how confident Donald was that Eddie would find the right part and they would be on their way soon. For me if Plan B failed than Plan C would require an overnight in Eddie’s car. Since it would not accommodate the three of us, I decided I would hitch a ride into town. Maybe I was thinking I would go for help?

Chum revved up the engine, Eddie climbed onto the back of the motor bike, and they set off for Dam Dek. Donald and I stepped on to the road ready to flag down the next car. If I could get as far as Dam Dek from there I could find another ride into Siem Reap. Standing on the road we waited. We passed up the pony cart pulling a load of logs and thought there would not be sufficient room for me and on the moto transporting a large pig to market. Finally, a white van was spotted and Donald and I waved it down. A driver and guide with two tourists. The guide conferred with his customers and it was agreed they would take me to Siem Reap as they were going there also. I said goodbye to Donald, gave him a book in case he got bored waiting, and I was off.

MY STORY
Five minutes down the road, I felt awful. At first, I had figured, instead of waiting on the side of the road, I could go to Siem Reap and there be in a position to find a Toyota distributor and obtain the proper part. But then I realized I was a deserter, the going got rough and I bailed out, leaving them alongside the road. I called Donald only to find out he was relieved I was gone, one less thing to worry about.

I turn my attention to the tourists who are having an animated conversation with their guide. Listening carefully, I know they are not speaking Khmer. Finally, the younger one turns around to speak. My name is Sasha, he is Sergei, and we live in small town near Moscow. My name, Alexandra and yes I nodded, it is a Russian name, same same as Sasha. Sasha’s English turns out to be minimal so I do not try to explain that I am not Russian, only named after my grandfather who was Hungarian. With the language barrier, I know I will not find out why the Khmer guide speaks Russian. Sasha manages to communicate that Sergei is a doctor and he is an engineer and his son and daughter work in the United States, one in San Francisco the other in Los Angeles. Sergei does not stop clicking photos. He sees trees that interest him. The van pulls over, he clicks a few rounds at a kapok tree, then photographs the seed bed of small rice shoots, brilliant green and fragile, which will soon be planted in the flooded rice paddy. Later we stop; he photographs a grove of bamboo, even later a fichus tree in the clutches of a strangler fig. We stop by the side of a drainage ditch filled with cows. I point out the old Angkorian bridge that is nearby, but Sergei is only interested in photographing the cows. A pair of oxen pulling a wagonload of red clay pots comes down the road. These pots, famous all over Cambodia, are made in a small village near the town of Kompong Chhnang. This is a colorful scene, a thick slice of indigenous life. Sasha shows some interest and Sergei remains with his cows.

Back in the van, Sasha wants to know where I am from. Knoxville, Tennessee reminds him of his favorite author, Tennessee Williams. Same, same I reply. There is plenty of time for him to mention his other favorite authors. He has read Mark Twain, Hemingway, and Fitzgerald. I counter with Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky. He has enjoyed Steinbeck, Faulkner, and Updike. I mention Chekhov and Gogol. He mentions Graham Greene but I do not try to tell him he is British not American. Our literary name dropping ends with his lament, today children no read only work computer. I agree, same same in America.

I keep a look out for Eddie. We pass through the market at Dam Dek and there is no sight of him. Thirty minutes later we are in Siem Reap. They bring me to the hotel. I ask how much do I owe. They all agreed nothing for them, just pay the driver. One ten dollar bill leaves the driver smiling, we wave, they drive away. Five minutes later, I am back in the room; ten minutes later I step out of the shower leaving puddles of reddish water finding its way down the drain. On the patio, a slice of Gouda cheese in one hand, a glass of chilled white wine in the other, I feel guilty.

DONALD’S STORY
The children lose interest and disappear back into the countryside. Donald now sits on the side of the road with the young man who had originally taken Eddie to Svay Leu. He turns out to be from Saigon and similar to the children before, Donald dusts off his Vietnamese vocabulary. He finds out his name, Thanh, his age, twenty-seven. Donald uses his longest phrase, “may I give you my business card”. Thanh understands and they exchange cards. After a few more phrases, Donald depletes his inventory. In Vietnamese, Thanh tells Donald he speaks English. Donald understands and the conversation continues. He seems very willing to speak English, words tumble out of his mouth as if he needs to talk to a native English speaker. He tells Donald he has been living in Svay Leu for six months. He is the supervisor for a Vietnamese phone company and because he does not speak Khmer, he hires only those Cambodians who can speak English. He is tired of living in such a small place and finds the Cambodians not too smart and rather lazy.

Donald tells him he was a soldier in the American Vietnam War and asks him about his father. He learns the father was a Viet Cong, a South Vietnamese who fought on the side of the North. He carried a RPG (rocket propelled grenade) fought the Americans in the Iron Triangle and often hid out in the tunnels at Chu Chi. He tells Donald that his grandfather fought the French and was killed in the battle of Dien Bien Phu. Donald makes a statement, the Vietnamese won both wars. Thanh thinks, tilts his head to one side and says yes, it was good to be rid of the French but we would have been better off if the American had won. They would have developed our country, there would have been no Communism, and business would be better. He is not the first one willing to alter history.

What do two men sitting on the side of the road have in common? They agreed that Angkor Beer is good but they both prefer 333, the Vietnamese beer. Thanh says he has a girl friend in Saigon and they will be married soon. She is far away so he likes to boom boom with Cambodian girls. They are very nice and very cheap. Donald replies, he cannot compare, he only knows Vietnamese women and that was a long time ago. It is around 5:00, the slanting rays of the sun find them, their projecting shadows lengthen. What has happened to Eddie?

EDDIE’S STORY
Eddie and Chum, Thanh’s Khmer assistant, motor down the road and reach Dam Dek in about forty minutes. Eddie is looking for the Khmer version of the Pep Boys and finds a shop alongside the road selling a variety of auto and motor cycle parts. They pull off the road, the wheels of the moto coming to a stop, whipping the loose dirt into clouds of red dust. They park the bike under a shade tree. To reach the entrance, they step over motors, skeletons of their former selves, hard to tell if they are in various stages of decay or in the process of being rebuilt. The shop is rather primitive, the only light coming from the open door and the cracks between the wooden strips masquerading as walls. Out of the murky interior, a young woman appears. Eddie and Chum take turns explaining what they need. They enter the shop, walk on a dirt floor adjusting their eyes to the dim light. She walks ahead of them, the clutter of the front does not prepare them for the orderly nature of the shop. Woven baskets hold parts that have been sorted and graded by size and use. Eddie stops in front of a basket of nuts, examines each one with the discerning eye of a trained auto mechanic, after all, he is one. He selects what he considers the proper size. The young woman disagrees with his selection and hands him another one. The total cost is 2.00. Chum disagrees with her and the price drops to 1.50. Eddie gives her 6000 riel and the deal is complete.

Eddie knows there is no room for error. He must find a garage that repairs Toyota Camrys so he can double check if he has the right size nut. If that fails, he is prepared to find a Khmer driving a similar car and offer to pay him for this piece. An old Camry is not hard to find and after all, part of Cambodian’s “charm” is that most anything is available for a price. They make the right hand turn at the market and a short ways down National Highway 6, Eddie finds what he is looking for. Stepping into the garage, he finds a Toyota Camry up on blocks. In the back room, he finds three Khmer mechanics asleep on cots. No need to disturb them, he crawls under the car, assesses he has the correct size, and he and Chum leave without being noticed. Cambodian style, even the security guard was taking a nap. Eddie wants to fill the motor cycle with gas but Chum will not allow this. He insists, Chum also insists. Chum wins.

The entire process in Dam Dek takes around fifteen minutes and then they are on their way back. Eddie arrives, with just minutes of daylight left. Back under the car, he tries the nut he selected, then tries the one the woman handed him. Something about the quality of the thread. The latter fits better and he stores the other one in the glove compartment. Nothing wrong with having a spare and who says the Khmers are dumb. Donald and Eddie both try to give Chum and Thanh money, they are grateful for their help, it would not have been possible without them. They will not accept any payment; even refuse when Donald tries to slip it into their shirt pocket. “Akun”, thank you in Khmer and “cam on” in Vietnamese. They promise to come by the field and Eddie will give them a free flight. They part as friends.

Back on the road, Donald and Eddie head toward Siem Reap. Eddie goes slowly at first, just to test it out and then they are driving as before… just as if nothing had ever happened.

Donald calls from the road. Meet us at Queen’s BBQ, we will be there at 7:00. I am ridden with guilt; I wimped out, but after all this story is not about me. It could be a story of friendship, developed over the years between two trike pilots or it could be a testimonial to Eddie’s skill as a mechanic. Regardless, the story exists because…. only in Cambodia……..

It is not exactly a secret that most women of a “certain age” have gray hair. While some women accept this as a natural look, others, including myself, choose to cover the grey with hair color, a process usually conducted once a month. In 2004, I wrote an e-mail describing my experience at the beauty parlor in the Juliana Hotel in Phnom Penh, where I had been sent at the recommendation of our hotel, the Le Royal. There had been confusion as to the color and my hair turned out a funny shade of light orange. Apparently, they were placing off brand color into legitimate boxes and made a mistake. Black should not have been a difficult color as Asian women as well as Asian men all dye their hair black. Also, I was not sure exactly what other services were being performed at that beauty shop as men kept walking past me, disappearing behind a small door. I paid forty dollars, an exceptionally high price considering workers were making one to two dollars per day. When they handed me the bill, there was a line item “customer supplied dye”. Now knowing I could not trust their products, I started to bring my own from home.

It was that time again, but as I have learned the hard way, when in Cambodia, trying to accomplish even the smallest undertaking is not always so easy. I was on a mission and not wanting a repeat of the previous experience, I knew I needed help. I needed someone to suggest a place and to do the translating. Sorting through my short list of local contacts, I knew I could count on Cinnamon.

CINNAMON
Cinnamon is not her Khmer name but when we first met her working in our hotel in 2002, we took the liberty of calling her Cinnamon, because this was as close as we could get to her hard to pronounce Khmer name. We watched as she rose through the ranks to become head of the restaurant staff while at the same time, becoming more indispensable to our well being at the hotel. Even though she would probably claim she adopted us, over the years she became part of our Khmer family, which by extension included several tuk-tuk drivers. On her day off, she often showed up at the field for a flight and was always available to help me buy clothing for the village. In the late afternoon, I often helped her with her English studies. We would meet on a bench close to the hotel or at times, we would sit under a tree along the grassy banks of the Siem Reap River. I would ask her to give me the English name for everything she saw and then put the words into a sentence. Occasionally, the English lesson drew the attention of people just walking down the street and soon I would be surrounded by young Khmers pointing and calling out English words.

When it is time to leave, we give her everything we are not taking home which includes our plastic shelving unit. I assume she finds use for our shampoo, toothpaste, and the odd bottle of wine. She always gave back with what was available, which usually meant an increase in our stock of palm sugar artfully wrapped in bamboo leaves. Even though I would tell her to keep the shelving unit, she returned it each year, which actually proved convenient as it became increasingly hard to find one in the local market.

Cinnamon was born in 1978, just ahead of the baby boom generation born after the collapse of the Pol Pot regime in 1979. Her father and mother divorced and from what we can understand, her mother was not very responsible and left her to be raised by her aunt. Today, she is taking care of her mother and together with a friend, who we would meet later, they live in a small house on the other side of the river. Similar to most Cambodian children, she was forced into being independent at an early age. Today, she is working for an NGO and receiving $200.00 per month, which by Khmer standards is very good as the minimum wage stands at 62.00 per month.

LET’S GET GOING
One Saturday afternoon, after she finished work, I found myself on the back of her motor bike traveling out of town to meet her friend who owned a beauty salon. Clinging to Cinnamon with one hand and griping my box of L’Oreal hair color with the other, I was looking forward to an afternoon of small adventures, sometimes the best kind. Leaving the hotel, we crossed over the Siem Reap River and rode past the Psar Chaa, Siem Reap’s old market with its sounds of tourists haggling over souvenir kitsch and its ever increasing stock of new antiques, made especially for the burgeoning tourist trade. When we came to Sivatha Street, one of the main thorough fares, we turned left. The road we traveled headed south and followed the contours of the Siem Reap River, which eventually empties into the Tonle Sap Lake. Passing the area where water is readily available, rice paddies, like endless emerald carpets, unfurled into the distance. We cruised past fields planted with lotus, tall, stately pink, purple, and white blossoms rising out of fetid water, a pastel blur as we cruised past.

We stopped in front of a new concrete building with a hand painted sign in front advertising in English “House of Beauty”. The sign featured an attractive Western looking woman with black hair, definitely reassuring. Throughout Asia, it is not uncommon to see images of Western women advertising local services, apparently transmitting a certain élan to those paying attention. Her friend came out to greet us and even though she would not make eye contact with me, I placed my palms together, resembling the image of the Serenity Prayer, and in traditional Khmer style, returned her bow with one of my own. Having successfully concluded the welcoming ceremony, I stepped into what actually resembled a beauty shop. Taking a quick visual inventory, I saw two standard looking beauty shop chairs, each facing a wall lined with a large mirror. A small TV set with “rabbit ears” was occupying a small table. She had hung a piece of material to cordon off her bed and the cooking area so that after business hours, the room would become her home. There were openings on each side of the house that functioned as windows but instead of glass, there were metal bars and hinged wooden shutters that could be closed to keep out the sun or rain. The front of the house opened on to the busy street, the world of commerce, but stepping out the back door, revealed another world, a tropical paradise of leafy banana trees glittering green in the afternoon sun. A small dirt path, under attack by an old woman wielding a homemade broom of bound twigs, led to the Siem Reap River, where several wooden stilted houses, almost completely camouflaged by a grove of bamboo, clung tenaciously to the riverbank.

GETTING DOWN TO BUSINESS
One chair was empty, presumably available for me, while a group of women engaged in animated conversation, surrounded the other. I peered through this feminine cordon and caught a glimpse of a young girl seemingly baffled by all this attention. Time out for some explanation as Cinnamon explained she was having her hair straightened and the posse of women was her mother and her friends. This made no sense to me since Khmer women, as well as most all Asian women, have perfectly straight hair. The fact that she was going to be engaged that night at a party still did not clarify the issue. However, as always in Cambodia, what is, is.

The friend went back to her customer and I was assigned to the assistant, Pia. After completing the Khmer greeting, we were ready to get going. Cinnamon explained to Pia that I would mix the hair color and her job would be to apply it. I did not see any sinks or faucets but she assured me there would be water for rinsing, though I failed to inquire from where. Looking around for something to cover my clothes, I was handed a ball of material that turned out to be a silky black cape with a red stand up collar. This must have had a former life, maybe as Dracula’ s cape, but upon closer scrutiny, the manufacturer, probably somewhere in China, had made a mistake and covered the material with Spiderman designs. Pia was wearing an apron made out of connected bunnies and together we looked like we should have been going to a Halloween Party.

In a great state of anticipation, I mixed the color and sat down in the chair. The motor bike ride had added to the collection of tangles in my hair which Pia seemed determined to eliminate with her own comb. However, knowing what lurks in Khmer heads of hair, I dug into my purse and handed her one of my own. Ready to attack my tangle free hair, she loaded her brush up with hair color and was ready to begin. She tied off sections of my hair with clips and even though this procedure felt very unfamiliar, she seemed confident in her method.

In the back of the room, someone turned on the TV set. The children who had been kicking a soccer ball outside now gathered on the floor and to my surprise, they were watching Bugs Bunny and he was speaking Khmer. Because electrical power is not available or too expensive, a car battery powdered the TV as well as the fluorescent lighting tubes attached to the walls. The women, apparently satisfied with the hair straightening operation, began to glace over at me, eyes without curtains, filled with curiosity. Perched on the edge of my chair, I smiled at them and from the other side of the room, smiles were returned. These ladies seemed a friendly, jovial group and while they chattered noisily to Cinnamon, she explained where I came from, why I was there and of course, one of the most frequently asked questions, my age. Seemingly satisfied with her answers, they congregated around me. According to Cinnamon, they were offering up their advice and from looking at their hair, I believed they were the voice of experience. I just continued to smile.

MAKING NEW FRIENDS
Cinnamon told me these women were old friends who lived close by and gathered in this beauty parlor on Saturday. l am sure, like women everywhere, they came to meet their friends, share the local gossip, and just to enjoy each other’s company. Even though there was the usual language barrier, they seemed to be welcoming me into their group. In the background, someone was switching TV channels between Khmer MTV and a local soap opera and as I smiled, they smiled back. One woman took my hand and began to massage it. Refusing to let go, her manipulations sent shocks through my body, rather pleasant once I got past the pain. When another woman reached for my foot to administer the famous Khmer foot massage, I was able to prevent this by laughing and shaking my head. A woman brought out a small book filled with photos and soon I was looking through all of their photo books, seeing all of their children and photographs of various weddings. They seemed disappointed when Cinnamon told them I did not have photos to share. I gave each one my business card and if translated properly, I think they all promised to send me e-mails. The women and I were bonding and if the art of making friends in the West is complicated, here it is simple and soon a friend of a friend was becoming a friend.

The color had been applied and I was waiting the appropriate time before it would be rinsed out when a woman walked in followed by small boys carrying pots of cooked food. Cinnamon told me she always brought lunch on Saturday. Let the festivities begin as a table was quickly cleared and a white plastic tablecloth with frills resembling lace was put down, covered with bowls, chopsticks, and spoons. These were the same sinister pots of food found at cooked food stands, which I had so far managed to avoid. But now, I had become one of their group, a Saturday lunch lady, and could not refuse their hospitality. I was soon eating a bowl of rice covered with what I hoped was stewed chicken. If there proved to be life after this, then I could say, it was tasty. Having accepted their hospitality and graciously thanking them, I felt I was not being offensive when I turned down the plate of grilled tiny birds, a Khmer delicacy, more bones than meat and besides, it is always difficult to extract pieces of toenails and beaks out of your teeth. Together, we enjoyed the sliced watermelon for desert and soon I was eating their roasted sunflower seeds, throwing the husks out the window just like the rest of them.

The timer announced it was time to rinse off the color and I found myself following Pia into the back yard, thinking this was an odd place to set up a sink with faucets. We stopped next to a standpipe surrounded by a wooden bench on which someone had laid out a piece of plastic blue tarp, a plastic bucket, and a small bowl. Water is water and soon I was stretched out on the bench, covered with the tarp having bowl after bowl of water, dipped out of the bucket, poured over my head. The procedure was not one that I expected but a rinse is a rinse. We were finished.

THE WOMEN
My new friends were survivors from the Pol Pot years and the immeasurable lines of daily wear engraved on all their faces told stories without words. They are the ones left to transmit to the next generation the linear quality of acquired knowledge. It is impossible for me to write about these women without wondering about their past experiences but on that warm January afternoon, I was content just to observe the regenerative ability of the human spirit and I was thrilled to have become part of their Saturday afternoon tradition. Back in the house, Pia offered me a hair drier which was also attached to the car battery. Soon I was blown dry and ready to leave. “Som ket loi” (the polite phrase for how much) I asked, using one of my few Khmer phrases. Pia told me three dollars and I thought how I had paid $40.00 in Phnom Penh in 2004. This was the local price and when I handed her five dollars, she seemed to be very happy. As we were leaving, the young woman with the straight hair came over to show me her meticulously manicured hands. An entire garden had been painted on each fingernail complete with shining sun. I asked, ” som kit loi” to which she replied seventy-five cents.

As I climbed onto the back of Cinnamon’s motor bike, they all waved goodbye. I promised to return the next Saturday that is if Cinnamon was not too busy and there was more chicken in the pot. Soon the wind was rushing through my hair, bring the moisture, grit, and dust which gives it volume. Back in my hotel room, I viewed the afternoon’s work in the mirror and deemed it good enough. With a glass of wine and a book, I sat down on the patio just in time for the unexpected rain, which the local people call, the “mango rains.”

TO BE CONTINUED

No time expended considering the possibility of walking up, we were happy to find the driver of a Toyota four wheel drive truck and I was placed in the front seat with the driver while Eddie and Donald climbed into the back. Today, the road up is under construction, being built with proper machines and Caterpillar road equipment was very noticeable along with water trucks to dampen down the dust. Remnants of the old road still remain, the hard way up, once climbed by motos with fearless travelers clinging to the back seat. Gone are the rickety bridges and the skeletons of vehicles, causalities of war, blown up and left to rot along the side of the road. In ten minutes, with every little effort and no discomfort, we reached the top. Apparently, we lacked up to date information as we were surprised by the ease of the trip.

The temple is situated on the sloping side of the mountain, reached by a long processional walk way followed by a set of steep stairs. The path to religious purity was purposely made difficult. Before, we had to walk a gauntlet of aggressive vendors willing to sell in dollars, Cambodian riel and Thai bhat. Today, they are no longer there. Not necessarily missed, we just wondered what had happened. The Lonely Planet promised there would be vendors selling Vittorio Roveda’s book on Preah Vihear but they too were absent. Several years ago, Donald had flown Roveda over his areas of interest and in a previous book, he acknowledged and thanked Donald Cooney, the pilot.

The sun had found the top of the mountains and thankful for the cooling breeze, we slowly walked our way to the top. Retracing centuries of Angkorian architecture, we walked through galleries, in places positioned close to the edge of the cliff, which often dead ended, into blank wall or piles of fallen stone. We paid close attention to the ceilings, finely hewed corbel constructions. In want of a keystone, the Angkorians never managed a proper arch. While Donald and Eddie were setting up GPS coordinates, I spent time looking at the decorative carvings on the door frames with special attention to the lintels and the tympanums, located above the lintels. The few that remain are excellent examples of Khmer stone carving at its best, reflecting the high quality of craftsmanship achieved at the temple of Bantrey Srei. The figures, portraying Hindu mythology, were imbued with vitality and carved is such high relief they appeared to deny their connection to the stone. However, either due to ancient or recent destruction, a large amount of the temple lies in ruins.

Different than before, there were only a few tourists. I counted three other Westerners and a small bus load of Khmers, no Korean tourist nor Japanese nor Vietnamese. Faced with threats from the Thais, the Cambodian government is not missing an opportunity to make a political statement. The blue and white UNESCO World Heritage flag flies alongside the Cambodian flag. There are signs reminding the visitor that this is a “Khmer temple” and signs which state “I am proud to be born a Khmer”. The area no longer appeared to be an active military encampment. Soldiers in camouflage were walking around, quick to smile, they seemed friendly. The soldiers carried more cell phones than rifles. Several offered to be our guide and a captain engaged us in conversation, happy to practice his English. When questioned, he remarked that all was quiet.

The most striking aspect of this temple is its magnificent setting, two thousand feet above the Cambodian plane. Stepping up to the edge of the escarpment, we absorbed the bird’s eye view. Looking into the distance, feeling closer to the sky, we felt the world around us expand. A large portion of north western Cambodia was spreading itself out for our review. But unfortunately one of its most distinctive features was the proliferation of the slash and burn fires consuming the fields below. From this height, we watched as plumes of dark smoke billowed into the air, blotting out the horizon and turning the otherwise blue sky into a dirty grey. In the distance, the Kulen Mountains, which can be seen from here, were hidden by a murky curtain of haze.

Walking down to the parking lot to find our driver, Eddie decided he would return to spend the night and enjoy both a sunset and sun rise. Our driver found us first and on the way down he pointed out the gang of people chipping away at a rock face. From experience, they looked like a road crew making gravel out of large rocks but the driver kept saying gold, gold. With his limited English that is all I found out and he certainly could not tell us why there was no longer a charge for visiting the temple.
Back in the parking lot, Donald handed the driver 10.00, which we thought had been his price. Immediately, he looked confused as well as anxious. Eddie, whose management of the language has not improved since the departure of his girlfriend, attempted to communicate by calling out numbers in Khmer. He kept staring at the 10.00 bill shaking his head. Donald handed him another 10.00 and the situation was immediately cleared up. Seeing money being exchanged, sent the girls racing over to try again and we pulled out of the driveway to the refrain of “you remember me, I remember you”.

RETURNING TO SIEM REAP
For the return trip, Eddie chose a different route. Maybe he knew that the last time I was confronted with returning the same way I came, I called for a helicopter. (That was several years ago while trekking to Mustang, Nepal). We would drive past the temple complexes of Koh Ker and Beng Mealea, and on to Dam Dek, a market town. Here we would make a right hand turn, putting us back on National Highway 6 heading toward Siem Reap. During a portion of this trip, we would be riding on paved roads, compliments of the Chinese.

Making good time, we stopped at a guest house near the ticket booth at Koh Ker. Both Eddie and Donald knew this area well as they had flown archeologists over the temples several times. We ordered soft drinks and lunched on our bags of snacks. No need to break out the Laughing Cow cheese because there was no bread. I asked the young woman in charge for the bathroom. My request bounced off her blank face. Having exhausted my vocabulary of words for the toilet and even failing a break through with “pee pee”, I was returning to the car for my Lonely Planet guide book, when Eddie made some kind of action she understood.

It was 2:00 when we were back on the road, exchanging the paved surface for gravel and red dirt. The thin layer of gravel was no match for the dust, stirred up by each passing vehicle. The Khmer God of Fire, Agnidevaputra, must have been invoked and in places the burning fields had reached the sides of the road. Reddish dusty air infused with ugly grey smoke, a cocktail so dense it was able to conceal one passing car from the other. As before, this passed and we were back on a sealed road, rolling down the windows. Eddie, Eddie, I thought you had fixed the air conditioning. Who knew, but soon that was not to be our only problem.

Before, we had seen scruffy woodlands but now we thought we were passing through a second growth forest, considering nature does not plant trees in a row. Here the land was under cultivation and we passed fields of banana trees and orchards planted with mangoes, their fruit the size of a small fist. Going strong, we quickly passed through the market town of Svay Lev and then back into the countryside. Similar to what we had seen in the morning, the area was sparsely settled and there was very little traffic.

Then we came to an unexpected speed breaker in the road prior to crossing a small bridge. Unfortunately, Eddie did not see it. The car went over the bump, came down with an exceptional loud thud, propelled itself over the bridge making such a screeching sound that we thought we had hit something and was dragging it along. Eddie immediately pulled to the side of the road and all of us quickly got out. With one look, Eddie knew the problem. No good, no good he repeated. The front right suspension had collapsed, allowing the tire to rub up against the fender. But he did not know which part had broken until he jacked the car up and removed the tire. Another look told him the large nut holding the sway bar had come off. It had unthreaded, so much for the Khmer mechanics who had previously worked on this part of his car. In this condition, we were not going any further. Optimistically, we searched up and down the sides of the road and when we did not find it, we decided Eddie would go back to Svay Lev to try to find another nut. He flagged down the next motor cycle and with enough hand motions and a few Khmer words, the young man understood and Eddie was last seen going down the road on the back of a moto.

SITTING BY THE SIDE OF THE ROAD
Location, location, we were in a place that was in the back of the beyond, located between nowhere and nowhere as Svay Lev, might be on the map but it should not be considered somewhere. For a while, we passed the time by standing on the bridge and looking down at the dried up riverbed, deciding from the cuts in the stones, that blocks had been quarried out of there, probably used in constructing Angkorian temples. That accomplished, it was time to sit down. We could not sit in the car because it had been jacked up so we sat down on the side of the road, back to back, to support each other and we waited. We decided things could be worse: it could be raining, it could be hot, we could be besieged by mosquitoes instead of the lone one buzzing around our heads and we could be lost, which we were not. The only threat, besides my uncertainly of the outcome, was the impending night and the nasty red ants which were climbing up and down the tree next to us. All for the want of a properly sized nut.

In Cambodia, barang cannot sit long without being noticed by the locals and soon we attracted the attention of five small children. Wearing an assortment of raggedy clothes held together by strategically placed safety pins, they seemed happy enough and soon they sat down around us. Everyone smiling, we worked our way through the usual questions, “what your name, how old you are and where you from”. They ask questions but did not understand the answers and having expended their English vocabulary, Khan, apparently the leader whose pants had the most safety pins, took four marbles out of his pocket. He told us he was ten years old and with the snap of his index finger he sent one marble smashing into another. He backed up, making the distance longer, and then slowly pulled back his finger, made another snappy release propelling the marble accurately toward its destination. Again, at an even farther distance, he was still accurate. The kid was amazing and if there was a demand in the world for his skill, then Donald and I discovered a prodigy. Showtime over, they retreated and at a distance, they sat down to watch Donald and I waiting for Eddie’s return. It was now 3:30. Eddie has been gone thirty minutes.

LIFE IN THE COUNTRYSIDE VIEW FROM THE SIDE OF THE ROAD
It is very quiet on the side of the road, the children sit in a hushed silence, no gurgle from the stream, which is mostly dried up and too early for the chirping of the cicadas, which will start in late afternoon. Time is not on our side, yet it passes very slowly. A woman on a motor bike attached to a long wagon, often called a ricky moto, comes down the road. She passes, we wave, an old country woman, her head covered in an artfully wrapped krama. She stops in front of the small store that is on the other side of the bridge. Two women come out to greet her. She is selling vegetables. We watch as she sets up her scale, pulls green leafy objects out of plastic bags, discards a few plastic bags onto the street, as if it was a rubbish bin, weighs, collects money, turns her mobile vegetable stand around, we wave again and she disappears down the road from which she came. In the distance, we see a wiry old man with spindly legs tottering down the road. We assume he is staggering under the weight of his load, a pole slung across his shoulder from which hang hollowed out tubes of bamboo, maybe 18 inches long. He too stops in front of the roadside store. This time a man comes out; they speak. The old man hands the store keeper one of the tubes, he takes a sniff, hands it back, is given another tube, takes another sniff and nods in agreement. The old man is selling fermented sugar palm sap, called palm wine if bought in the store or arrack by the locals. He then takes out a smaller tube, fills it will the liquid, swishes it around and then pours it on the ground. Maybe this was an attempt to give him a clean glass, as he fills the tube up again and hands it to the store man. Two gulps is all that is needed; another tube please and this one consumed in one long swallow. As anywhere else, the store man wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He disappears into his store and soon returns with a stack of green leaves. The two men roll up the leaves, light the end and sit down on a bench to enjoy a smoke. Eventually, the old man continues on his way. We see him approaching, we wave, he nods. He passes us, leaving in his wake an invisible veil of tobacco smoke and palm wine fumes hanging in the motionless air. He is not wobbling from the weight on his shoulder, he is just drunk.

It was 4:00 when we saw two motor cycles approach. We look carefully, yes, Eddie is on the back of one but who is the other guy? Eddie has found several nuts in the market along with a few washers and approaches the car carrying a large wrench. Total cost 4.00. We all crowd around Eddie as he reaches under the car to find out if he had found the right size. Dusk is not that far off, the cicadas are warming up. Eddie, Eddie, did you find the right part?

TO BE CONTINUED

Discover Angkor Wat, Explore Phnom Penh

FORWARD: Donald, Eddie, and I made this trip to Preah Vihear in the middle of January 2011. Beginning February 4 and lasting until a cease fire on February 7 the Thai army and the Cambodian army fired upon each other, with the Thai army apparently damaging part of the temple. Cambodia brought its claim to ASEAN and then to the U.N. There is still sporadic fighting with over 2,000 Cambodian families now described as refugees. Part of the problem is Thailand’s domestic political situation where whipping up national sentiment serves their purpose. As of February 16, the boarder area is still tense.

CAMBODIAN JOURNAL 2011, PART 15 – EDDIE’S DAY OFF TRIP TO PREAH VIHEAR
A fine chill still hung in the morning air as Donald and I stood in front our hotel waiting for Eddie to pick us up. We watched as the locals on motos and bicycles passed us, moving down the street bundled up in their “winter clothes”. We have yet to figure out if the parkas and hats with furry earflaps are really necessary or just a status symbol. For us, knowing how hot Cambodia can become, we were enjoying what felt like an early spring morning. But the temperatures, unseasonably cool into the low 60′s at night, have been causing great problems, illness and death for those not able to afford blankets and jackets as they huddle around small wood fires to keep warm.

At promptly 7:00, Eddie, driving his old Toyota, which up to now could still be considered faithful, made the right hand turn, waved to the tut-tut drivers waiting on the corner and pulled up in front of our hotel. Today, our destination was the Angkorian temple of Preah Vihear. It is located on the top of promontory of the Dangkrek Mountains adjacent to the Thai border, west of the triangle formed by the borders of Cambodia, Thailand, and Laos. We would follow National Highway 67 north to Anglong Veng, as we had done last year, then turn east. We hoped there would be road signs along the way. If not, by keeping the mountain range on our left, we would have to find it. Not sure if we would have to spend the night, Donald and I filled his backpack with a few necessary items. I packed more than he did as I have a broader concept of what is deemed essential.

Leaving our hotel, driving alongside the little Siem Rep River, Eddie turned right onto National Highway 6. We were heading southeast just as the sun had leaped over the buildings almost blinding him in the early morning brightness. Not knowing where our next meal was coming from, we stopped at a new convenience store aptly named 101 Convenient Store. In the process of becoming a small chain, it was started by a Khmer woman who had returned home after living in the United States. She was attempting to recreate a 7 – 11 and had set up a coffee take out stand and accommodating her customers’ needs, she included a selection of teas. We bought canned drinks and water and in lieu of the preferred sandwich stand, we filled up on snacks. For substance, I slipped in a box of dried noodle soup, just add boiling water, and a disc of Laughing Cow cheese. Yes, I have been in places when a triangle of this otherwise inappropriate substance was actually delicious, melted by the sun into a Khmer version of a baguette.

Eddie brought along a small cooler, something impossible to find several years ago, and our next stop was an ice stand conveniently located along the side of the road. The sound of our wheels crunching over the gravel rousted the young man out of his hammock. He wiped the sawdust off a section of a long block of ice, used to retard the melting, and wielding a sharp toothed hack saw, he cut off a chunk the exact length of the cooler. In Cambodia, ice comes in two forms, and it is important to be able to distinguish between that which keeps things cold and that which can be used for drinking. Eddie had just purchased the former. We were now all kitted up and with the Allman Brothers belting out “Ramblin’ Man”, Eddie fell into sync with the early morning traffic. Setting his own rhythm and announcing his every move with the honk of his horn, Eddie weaved between the trucks, cars, motos, bicycles, tut-tuts ,and those with questionable common sense walking in the street.

We soon reached the intersection where Eddie turned left onto National Highway 67, a properly paved road built by the Thais that went north to Anglong Veng and on to the border crossing at Choam. We passed small villages such as Ta Pouk, Prod Kuk and Trach, not large enough for a cross road nor a market. Phnom Bac was on our left, a 600 foot mound that Donald and Eddie used as a landmark when flying out of the village. We crossed the Siem Reap River, very narrow and almost hidden by trees and by 7:45, we were driving through the gap in the Kulen Mountains.

During our drive last year to Anglong Veng, I carefully described the area. We quickly passed villages, Tani, Srea Pou, Prey Khor, just dusty patches in the road. We were in the countryside where stilt houses, some built out of wood, other not evolved past thatch, huddled together, connected by rutted dirt paths that begin and end in nowhere. Nothing seems to have been reinvented and the people continue their struggle with life while traveling in traditional carts pulled by bullocks or ponies. As with most of Cambodia, the land is flat. The forests are still scruffy, the large trees long cut down. Illegal logging continues, but carried out discreetly and trees are processed in saw mills hidden from the road. Large tracts of land are still owned by the rich, maybe bought during the land boom at improbable prices, and cassava seems to be replacing the eucalyptus as this year’s hottest crop. There seemed to be more provincial offices, meaning more government oversight than before. In a manner similar to last year, it was the quality of air that grabbed our attention. Anywhere else, it could have been pollution, but here everything was cloaked in a haze of smoke and dust in places leaving the trees a blurry silhouette against a bleak gray background. The farmers are lighting small wood fires to keep themselves warm but the most insidious culprit is the slash and burn fires set as part of their timeless technique to clear land for cultivation.

By 8:30 we reached Anglong Veng, a place burdened down by the weight of memory. We drove through the center of town, past the roundabout displaying the Dove of Peace Monument, a donation from Hun Sen laden with political connotations. This area was a former Khmer Rouge stronghold, home to the stars of the show, Pol Pot, Khieu Samphan, and Ta Mok. From here, this faction of the Khmer Rouge held out against government forces until surrendering in April 1998. As before, we stopped at the Monorom Restaurant, where the tea is preferred to what they consider coffee. Back on the road, which would soon lose its hard surface, we avoided going to the border crossing at Choam and turned east, heading toward Sa Em and our destination, Preah Vihear. When we came to another roundabout, we took it, not sure exactly if this was correct but we kept the mountain on our left side. We passed a red dirt road that headed straight to the mountain and decided to wait for a more properly paved one. Ahead, seen through the miasma of smoke and dust, was the outline of a large settlement with a market full with morning shoppers. Following through on the roundabout, we took the surfaced road heading toward the mountain. There were no confirming signs but we believed we were on the correct road. We passed the Lion Club’s Health Clinic and enclave after enclave of military outposts. These were rather informal affairs, populated with women and children and a few vegetable stands. The soldiers were sitting under shade trees, some armed with AK47s, and other just snoozing.

Eddie slowed down when he saw a driver in a Toyota truck who, upon seeing us, stuck his arm out the window and pointed up with his finger. This was the sign we were looking for as the best way up the mountain is in a four wheel drive. Eddie motioned yes to him and we followed him a short distance down the road and soon found ourselves pulling into a parking lot. It was 10:00, the trip had been billed as three hours, and we had arrived.

BACK GROUND INFORMATION – THE OLD DAYS
Due to its remarkable location, Preah Vihear, translated into “sacred abode”, has played a significant role in Cambodian history from ancient times to the present. Perched on a promontory of the Dangrek Mountains, two thousand feet above the Cambodian plain, it projected Angkorian power into the northern part of their empire, especially during the 10th when a renegade King moved out of Angkor and set up shop in nearby Koh Ker. In the 12th it was associated with Suryavarman II, the ruler who built Angkor Wat. Artistically, it is famous for its intricate three dimensional carvings, done in the style of Bantrey Srei, the temple I have often mentioned that is close to our former paddy landing strip. By the middle of the 15th, the glories of Angkor extinguished, the Thais from Ayutthaya became the dominant power. The center of Angkorian power moved south to what is now Phnom Penh and the Thais took over the Preah Vihear area setting the stage for a border dispute that remains unsolved to this day.

Built out of sandstone, construction on the temple began in the 9th and continued into the mid 12th. As a result, the temple, extending 2,600 feet in length, is an excellent example of evolving architectural and decorative styles. In order to take advantage of its location, this temple was built on the unusual north-south axis, instead of the more common east-west axis, allowing its most important sanctuary to be built closest to the edge of the cliff. Divided into five parts, and separated by gopuras, gateways, it was originally dedicated to Shiva, one of the main Hindu gods and later when the Khmers became Buddhists, it was rededicated to Buddha. Even though so much of it lays in ruins, similar to other Khmer temples, it was built as a representation of Mt. Meru, the mythical home of the Hindu gods.

BACKGROUND MODERN HISTORY
In 1954, the French granted Cambodia independence and as the French forces were withdrawn from the northern part of Cambodia, the Thais moved in and claimed Preah Vihear as their own. This sent the Cambodians scurrying to the International Court of Justice at the Hague, presenting their claim to the temple and requesting a decision. By 1962, the Court declared that Cambodia had “sovereignty over the region of the Temple of Preah Vihear.” The Thais gave the temple back but maintained that the line of demarcation between the two countries had not been officially set.

When Cambodia petitioned UNESCO to declare Preah Vihear a World Heritage site, a distinction given in July 2008, the Thais responded by protesting. Even though these demonstrations were linked to internal Thai politics, the border dispute heated up and by mid July, the Thais had amassed 1,000 troops, supported by artillery, around the temple. Cambodia responded in kind and starting in the summer of 2008 the military standoff devolved into intermittent skirmishes lasting from five to fifteen minutes with nominal causalities taken on each side. Today, the Thais have withdrawn their soldiers but have closed access to the temple from their side of the border. Cambodia is claiming bragging rights on the increase in the number of tourists visiting the temple. According to their figures 17,000 visited the temple in 2009 and 86,000 visited in 2010. These numbers are hard to believe since there was fighting there between January and April 2010.

BACKGROUND FROM THE KHMER ROUGE TIMES
The Lon Nol American backed government army retreated to Preah Vihear and from the escarpment, made its last stand against the Khmer Rouge. By May 1975, a month after the fall of Phnom Penh, Khmer Rouge soldiers scaled the cliffs and this last government hold out fell in defeat. In late December 1978, Vietnam, tired of the Khmer Rouge cross border incursions, invaded Cambodia. By January 7, 1979, they had defeated the Khmer Rouge and established a Vietnamese backed government. Remnants of the Khmer Rouge army and their top leaders fled to this area. With a kind of perverse symmetry, it is from the vicinity of Preah Vihear that the Khmer Rouge staged their last fight before surrendering to government forces in December 1998.

During the fighting between the Vietnamese army and the Khmer Rouge, many Cambodians fled their country. Those seeking refuge in Thailand, were placed in refugee camps. However, by June 1979, the Thai government was tired of footing the bill. The army rounded up 42,000 Cambodian refugees, loaded them on to buses, drove them up to Preah Vihear and at gun point forced them down the 2,000 foot cliff. Those who were able to make it to the bottom were greeted by land mines set by the Khmer Rouge and many only made it to safety by walking over the bodies of the dead. In total 10,000 people died or were left unaccounted for. This act of brutality perpetrated on an already traumatized group of people succeeded in gaining world attention and the U.N. and Western countries stepped up to take part in financing the refugee centers.

Until recently, there was not a mile of paved roads in Preah Vihear Province but due to their advanced infrastructure, it has been easy to reach the temple from the Thai side. Donald and I visited here several years ago when we were traveling in eastern Thailand touring Angkorian temples built during the height of their power. However, from the Cambodian side, until the new roads, which presently are in various stages of completion, only the most intrepid travelers, riding dirt bikes in the dry season, had the chance to succeed. If they did arrive, there were no expectations of accommodations. It is only since 2005 that the land mines and unexploded ordinances have been removed from the mountain side. Prior to that a traveler had to hire a military man as a guide to walk with him through what had been a former battle zone. The once used Pilgrim’s Path had been taken over by thick jungle, requiring the guide to hack his way up the mountain side, an arduous two hour climb, straight up.

WE HAVE ARRIVED
It was not exactly a welcome center but covered parking was provided and we were immediately met by a bevy of young women attempting to sell us cigarettes. They kept saying “boom, boom, boom, boom”. At first this sounded a little strange until we realized they were not referring to the old Asian “boom boom” but to the sounds of gun fire and we were expected to buy their cigarettes to hand out to the soldiers on top. Passing up this opportunity, we were interested in how much the ride to the top would cost. “Ket loi”, how much we asked and thinking we understood the cost, we got into his truck. I sat in the cab and Donald and Eddie sat in the truck bed on a woven plastic mat which I am sure did little to absorb the bounce from the road. And as he grinded a few gears, looking for first, we were off.

TO BE CONTINUED