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In the beginning, when tourism was still an abstraction, we would ride out to Tuit’s village on the back of a motorbike, each one of us having our favorite driver. In this way, we had direct contact with the land, riding through clouds of red dust while waving to the people who were not yet accustomed to foreigners, chasing cows off the road, and avoiding potholes. When the Asian invasion began, stimulated by budget airlines, the over sized tour groups were stuffed into giant buses, which along with overloaded trucks, gave an increased element of danger to traveling the narrow roads. We retreated to the relative safety of the tut-tut and then to Eddie’s car, which decreased the otherwise hour trip to thirty minutes. Today, Eddie is working seven days a week, and Donald and I are back in the tut-tut, to the pleasure of Burin, our favorite Siem Reap tut-tut driver, whom we have know from the beginning.

We were taking Tuit to visit his family and not wanting to arrive empty handed, we purchased a 50 kilo bag of rice from Cinnamon. Recently, she has started a small business selling and delivering rice. Of course, she did not hesitate to bring it to my attention that if she had a better moto, as her original bike has been stolen, she would be able to do a larger business. Yes, Cinnamon I heard what you said as Burin heaved the bag into the tut-tut. Tuit was waiting for us by the school gate and climbed into the tut-tut wearing his new jeans, his new shirt, and carrying a small suitcase. He was going home looking all spiffed up but he too was not returning empty handed.

The drive to his village is through classic Cambodian countryside. The iconic sugar palms are scattered through recently harvested rice fields. Now lying fallow, spiky rice stalks cover the paddies in swaths of dusty beige, as skinny cows and water buffalo graze. Private moments are lived out alongside the road. We observe women, modestly wrapped in sarongs, gather around the family well to wash, soaping up and pouring small pots of water over themselves. The people are very superstitious and large stuffed figures are propped up against trees, charged with warding off evil spirits.

This is the season for making palm sugar. In front of every house, bubbling cauldrons set over wood fires are reducing the palm liquid until it resembles our brown sugar. It is then artfully wrapped in palm leaves, for their own consumption or sold to the tourists . Bags of charcoal, made in clay ovens, line the road waiting to be picked up. Even though there is still no electricity and only the fortunate have wells, usually provided by foreign donations, the people seem to be doing better. More wash hangs on the fences, more cows in the fields, and more roosters, chickens and ducks scurrying about. We see more plots of vegetable, important when they run out of rice, and more bicycles. More motorbikes are parked under their stilted houses. More people are involved in selling handicraft items and their success in the tourist trade depends on their willingness to pay the bus driver or the tut-tut drive a commission.

WE HAVE ARRIVED
A small crowd is waiting when we arrive at Tuit’s house. Maybe Tuit called ahead. They watch as we pull off the road, momentarily lost in a cloud of red dust, and negotiate the wooden planks placed across the drainage ditch. Tuit has not been home for several months and we are curious as to how he will be received. The children gather around him and he seems to slip back into an easy relationship with them. One of his friends rides up on a bicycle and he introduces us to him. But unlike the mothers I know, Tuit’s mother does not rush out to hug him. We are from the West with its custom of dramatic expression. Maybe this is not their way or maybe there are exchanges of feelings and emotions that are invisible to us. We only observe, not seeking an explanation. We see Tuit open his small bag and hand two little girls adorable jean jackets and he slips his younger brother a 1,000 riel note (.25) As for us, Donald and I both hug the mother and she thanks us for the rice which Burin places inside their concrete hut. She hands us a fresh coconut with a straw and handfuls of sticky rice wrapped in banana leaves and packets of sugar palm. We look over the crowd and the usual collection of dusty, dirty, raggedy children. We know most of the older women, part of Donald’s primary group. Each comes forward with big smiles, presenting us with more palm sugar, packets of rice steamed in banana leaves, and sticky rice and red beans stuffed inside bamboo cylinders. Life must be better for them as never before have we received this much rice. We are always touched by their kindness and willingness to give back and very thankful they never expect us to taste their cooking. Donald gets out his medical kit and as timeless as the rice fields and the palm trees, we are back in it again. The mothers with their children in tow step up and wait their turn while others squat in the dust talking amongst themselves. Young mothers carry one baby on their hip while nursing another. Children fall down, their mothers do not rush to pick them up. They do not cry because they already know crying produces no results. I sit amongst the women. We smile and laugh, no need for translation. For a moment in time, we are once again part of their world.

A VISIT WITH THE NEIGHBORS
Like returning to the old neighborhood, Donald and I walk down the road. We find the spirit house still standing behind the police station, filled with burned joss sticks (incense) stuck into cut down plastic water bottles filled with sand. The police station’s previous collection of ducks and chickens has grown into a sizeable operation. Donald wants to visit with his police friends but the only policeman on duty is asleep and Donald does not know him.

We continue down the road to visit with the police chief, his wife, and their beautiful daughter. This is definitely the dominant family in the area and we have known them from the start. The police chief, Nam, and his wife, Lam, are sitting on a wooden platform under the shade of a massive tamarind tree, the same place where we said goodbye to them last year. They too seem genuinely happy to see us return and after the proper wais, putting our palms together with a slight bow, we hug them. Burin is with us to do the translating and we learn Tia, the daughter, is living in Phnom Penh with her husband, also a police man, and their two children. Lam tells us they are now in business to raise catfish. Recently, she was reunited with her uncle who had fled to America in 1979 after the Vietnamese invasion. He had offered to take them with him but Nam refused to go and Lam would not leave without him. In America, the uncle opened a restaurant, became successful and through various agencies, he was able to locate her. Several months ago, he visited and gave them $10,000 to start this venture. They have constructed three pools and hired someone to run the business. We have no idea if they know what they are doing but the money has been invested and they expect to sell their first crop of fish for Khmer New Year in April.

Through the course of the day, we did see Tuit and his mother talk and she had her arm around him but when it was time to leave, he had no trouble hopping back into the tut-tut. Burin told them we would return the next Sunday and hand out clothing, but it was to be for family and friends only.

PREPARING FOR OUR SECOND VISIT
Being a Westerner, I prefer shopping where the prices are fixed, not open for negotiations. Having experience buying many items for the villagers, I have an idea for what things should cost. Like most expats, I hate to be ripped off by the locals. I avoid the Psar Chaa, old market, in the center of town, as the tourist wise merchants have become just too greedy. No, I will not pay .50 for a bar of Lux soap when the price should be .25 or less and no I will not pay $13.00 for Tuit’s sandals when $5.00 is the Khmer price. Often when buying for the village, my requests for a discount are met with stony silence, as if the merchants have forgotten they are not that far removed from village life or care less. In Buddhist societies, there is that tendency not to be thy brother’s keeper because one’s desperate plight in this life is only the result of a dissolute former life. The old concept of karma, cause and effect, working its way out.

Several years ago at the market on Sivatha Street, I meet a young woman and as we engaged in conversation, her English was very good, she told me she is a Christian. After I inform her I want to buy 96 tee-shirts in assorted sizes to give away to village children, she makes a small blessing over my head and offers the t-shirts a $1.00 per piece. I assume at this price she must still be making a profit. As in the past, this year I returned to her. She remembered me and I left with a head full of blessings and a sack of tee-shirts under my arm.

Another week passed as quickly as the one before. By the following Sunday, Tuit had already been involved in his art lessons and we told him we would go to his village early in the morning and return in time for art school. Eddie was still being busy and we returned to the village by tut-tut.

TO BE CONTINUED

The Australian made Airborne trike which Donald brought to Cambodia in 2002 had served him well and over the years he had many adventures, all of which I tried to describe. Then in January 2010, when Apsara no longer allowed him to fly out of the rice paddy at the village of Pom Prei, his career as “moto hawk” came to an abrupt end. Each year when we returned to Cambodia, he marveled that he was still allowed to do what he had done the year before, all the time knowing it was not going to last. Looking back over the eight years he was able to fly, Donald takes pride in the fact that every flight he took ended in success, with no harm to the passengers, the plane, or to himself.

Unfortunately, Eddie wrote the trikes’s last story. Sitting in the back seat, Eddie was giving a lesson in Donald’s trike when his student coming in for a landing made a mistake. Eddie was unable to regain control and the trike crashed. Fortunately, no one was hurt. However, the trike broke into pieces, which were eventually piled into a corner of Eddie’s new hanger. The trike was then seen only as a source of parts to be bastardized in the service of other trikes. Parts of Donald’s plane were used to fix up Eddie’s old plane and now instead of two trikes, there is only one. As I learned from a dear friend, it is what it is.

If you build a hanger, they will come and Jean Paul had his trike hauled out of Phnom Penh and brought to Siem Reap. Knowing Donald no longer had his plane, Jean Paul told Donald to fly his plane anytime he wanted. Jean Paul and his French friend, who is also a pilot, had just finished overhauling the plane. Their $6,000 investment included a new sail, trike talk for the hang glider type wing that enables the plane to fly.

Jean Paul owns French made Air Creations trike and on our first morning in Siem Reap, Donald took it up and flew it for a short time. Sensing the new wing needed a few minor adjustments, Donald “trimmed” the wing, pushed, pulled, tightened, and loosened and when he flew it again, the wing performed better and Donald was satisfied.

It has been unusually windy in Siem Reap but the next morning as Donald headed to the field, he found the winds quiet and the sky above a Tibetan blue. Donald waited until Eddie had taken off with a customer and he pushed the Air Creations trike onto the field, strapped himself in and took off. The hard surface runway, long, flat, and straight, must have seem tame when compared to the paddy dike to which he had become accustomed.

It is 8:30 when Donald heads east toward the Roulos Group, a series of three temple sites located seven miles outside Siem Reap in an ancient town originally called Hariharalaya (a Khmer contraction honoring the two main Hindu gods, Shiva and Vishnu). This town, established in the late 9th, served as the first Angkorian capital before the capital was moved closer to Angkor in the early 10th. The flight there should take Donald fifteen to twenty minutes. Down below, he would have seen the early morning tourists spilling out of their buses, attempting to assault the temples but temporarily stymied by phalanxes of aggressive young women determined to sell them t-shirts, bootlegged Lonely Planet tour books, and bottles of tepid water and cans of warm cokes.

Donald is enjoying the rush of the early morning air and knowing it is unseasonably cool, he wears a warm jacket and traded in his sandals for socks and shoes. Enjoying the “freedom of the sky”, to quote from Eddie’s web site, Donald has a bird’s eye view of Siem Reap and the surrounding countryside. Seen from the air, it is easy to appreciate the extent by which Siem Reap has grown, stretching out and building up in every direction. New roads, imposing an orderly grid pattern on the urban sprawl, criss cross the countryside. New buildings and new neighborhoods occupy previously vacant land, encouraging new businesses and new markets. The Tonle Sap Lake is in the distance, the boat people, small dots on the water and the newly planted rice fields, swaths of brilliant green.

Soon Donald hears an unwelcomed sound. It is the engine. The smooth, humming sound is no longer there. Instead, the engine is sputtering and coughing. Not a good sign. The engine has dropped to an idle; it is no longer producing any thrust or power. Donald has a major problem. He is 600 feet above the ground with a failing motor. Donald has always been comfortable in the air, the higher the better. He is an experienced hang glider pilot well versed in gliding back to earth. He has been in the skies when the motor has gone out. He has experience in purposely cutting off his engine, gliding to the ground, making what is called a “dead stick landing”. But this has been in competitions, where he chose the time and the place.

No longer soaring through the sky, he is in the throes of a slow descent. For the experienced pilot, panic is not an option. Making decisions without hesitation, Donald turns the plane around and heads back to the airstrip. He begins to pump the throttle, hoping he can clear the fouled engine. He is focused; his concentration distilled to its most intense capacity. But the engine does not cooperate. He is not sure he can make it back, and begins searching the ground for a place to make an emergency landing. Down below, empty sun bleached rice paddies stretch to the horizon, their hardened soil too rutted and unpredictable to provide for a safe landing. Besides, they are bounded by narrow paddy dykes. Other paddies are flooded, reflecting back up to him the blue sky he knows is above. In the past, landing on roads had always been an option, but Hwy 6 is crowded with morning traffic. The airway of the sky is taking a downhill turn, the red tile roofs seem to be coming up to meet him.

A little good news, he is gaining on the airstrip. But in order to land there, he knows he has to clear the fifteen foot high wall separating the air strip from a stretch of undeveloped land. From 600 feet, he has glided down to 100 feet off the ground. At this level, Donald stops pumping the throttle and the engine quits completely. At this point, not a bad thing to happen because now the propeller stops spinning. In the event of a catastrophic failure upon landing and if the plane deconstructs upon hitting the ground, Donald does not want the propeller, two feet from his head, spinning out of control.

The plane continues to sink. Realizing he cannot clear the wall, Donald assesses the terrain of the adjacent empty field. Looking for the smoothest spot, he approaches, scares the cows away and just glides down, as if he was completing a dead stick landing. He comes to rest close to a barbwire fence. As pilots always quip, “all takes off are optional but all landings are mandatory.” This time, no harm done to Donald or to the plane.

Eddie and his assistant come running over. They take down the barbwire fence and roll the plane through the weeds onto the runway. Several days later, Eddie would see a large cobra slither across the runway into the same area, but not this morning. The fence is then repaired, the plane returned to the hanger. Donald looked at his watch, it was 8:35.

TO BE CONTINUED

Kompong Cham, located on the Mekong River in the eastern part of the country, had been an important market center during the time of the French. It must have been a charming place attested to by the collection of stately colonial buildings composing the central market area and the considerable number of large villas scattered throughout the town. When the Khmer Rouge ordered all the people out of the city, forcing them to live in the countryside, Kompong Cham, like other Cambodian cities, became a ghost town. Today, the city has achieved a position on the tourist map. The first bridge in Cambodia to span the Mekong River is located in Kompong Cham. Called the Spean Kazuna, it was built and paid for by the Japanese. The linkage between the two sides of the river has not only improved the flow of goods but has also allowed the city to become the stopping off point for tourists interested in traveling to north eastern Cambodia. The revitalized economic activity, driven in part by the agricultural activity and booming rubber market, as well as the nascent tourist business, has enabled the town to begin sprucing up. We saw recently repainted buildings, shades of ocher covering over the black streaks created by a kind of fungus that thrives on humidity and monsoon rains. The graceful French villas, instead of being torn down, as witnessed in Phnom Penh, are being restored and taken over by government agencies. Complexes of two and three story Chinese style shop houses are under construction and, of course, I prefer those that blend in with the French colonial architectures rather than those clad in opaque blue glass, the Khmer version of ultra chic. Shops seemed to be over flowing with merchandise whether necessities or motor bikes, bicycles, and clothing, along with shops selling luxuries, such as home décor and fancy wedding dresses. Soon I am sure they will be repairing their streets along with their sidewalks.

We headed out of town driving south until we came to the Koh Paen, a small island connected to the mainland by a bamboo bridge, which, after the rainy season, has the distinction of being rebuilt each year. Instead of attempting to drive over the bridge, we observed the scene below from a lookout point and then continued our drive to the temple of Wat Nokor. This complex, more bizarre than traditional, consists of a new pagoda placed inside that of a 11th shrine as well as images of figures from the Buddhist iconography seen through our eyes as more kitsch than religious.

Back in town, we crossed the bridge to get a closer look at the old lighthouse on the east bank of the river. It was originally built by the French in the 1940′s in a moorish style blended with someone’s idea of medieval. It has recently been restored, acquiring a new paint job, an odd shade of rosy pink, and a new staircase, described as lacking safety features. Its contemporary history is connected to Hun Sen. While this tower was being shot at from all sides, this is reputed to be the site of the firefight where he lost his eye. Like other Khmer cities, Kompong Cham is charming, the kind of place where you would want to hang out for a while but, similar to these other places, after beer drinking and people watching, there is not that much to do. But then again, we were only spending one night and then passing through. I always like to save something to go back for and we will return to visit the cottage industries making the karma, the ubiquitous Khmer scarf, and to taste once again that wonderful hamburger.

THE REST OF THE KOMPONG CHAM STORY

The afternoon had been easy, driving around soaking up charm in the comfort of an air-conditioned vehicle but reality raised its sweaty head when we returned to the hotel to discover the air conditioning in our room was not working as promised. If something is wrong in your room, you ask the hotel to fix it or give you another room and I was out the door heading for the reception area when I encountered Eddie. Not having much else to do, he volunteered to investigate the situation. It is not often that one checks into a hotel only to fix its problems but soon Eddie was standing on a chair pulling the front panel off the unit. He found the problem, a dirty filter and after he rinsed it off and replaced it, the temperature rapidly decreased from about 100 degrees to a pleasant 75. All of this in about ten minutes. As Donald and I have often said, it is always better when Eddie is around.

The late afternoon surrendered to twilight, that contemplative pause between day and night when swallows fill the air, flying the thermals and people spring back to life, emerging from sanctuaries sought out during the unbearable heat of the day. Looking out the window, the last rays of a brilliant sunset had finished streaking across the sky and the moon, just a thin sliver, hung in its rightful place. On the streetbelow, I could see the local people beginning to enjoy the evening, walking along the riverbank while shirtless young men gathered in circles for their nightly game of kicking the shuttlecock. The yapping street dogs had returned full throated and children whizzed up and down the street on that Chinese bicycle where one size fits all. The grassy area along the riverbank was soon occupied by food vendors who rolled in their portable restaurants, firing up their woks as they set up their small folding tables and the present Asian plastic chairs. It was a festive air as the local people came to eat or drink beer under the soft glow of kerosene lamps and the sparkling fairy lights powered by car batteries. Down below, at the edge of the river, small shallow bottom boats had tied up for the night.

When it comes to restaurants, Jean Paul is not that adventurous, so we agreed to meet him at the same restaurant for dinner. With the help of the restaurant owner who volunteered to translate, we found out more about Jean Paul’s colorful life. Apparently, he served in the Frencharmy, assigned to France’s former colonies in the Caribbean where he learned the construction business. There he worked for a general and when the general was reassigned to Cambodia in 1992, Jean Paul went with him and by 1993, he had decided to remain in Cambodia permanently. In an expansive mood, fortified by a glass of cognac and the lighting of one of his Cuba cigars, he started to tell us about his ten wives. Unfortunately, our translator became busy with other customers and once again, we were left with only the big picture, devoid of those far more interesting details.

While Jean Paul stayed in the restaurant , Eddie, Donald and I walked back to the hotel , embracing a night still gauzy with heat and the air crackling with the sounds of the cicadas. Walking up the stairs to our rooms, we encountered a local woman. She stopped both Donald and Eddie, wanting to know if they were the ones who had requested her “services”. No, it was not them and since the four of us were the only ones in the hotel, it was not hard to figure out who had placed the call. About an hour later, we saw her walking down the street and being diplomatic, no one questioned Jean Paul the next morning. Cambodia has been very good to him.

RETURN TO PHNOM PENH

At the first gesture of morning, we were up, planning to begin our drive to Phnom Penh before the sun had a chance to warm up. Donald rode with Jean Paul and I rode with Eddie. We were definitely a curious sight with the trike on the trailer and an eighteen foot long canvas bag, containing the wing, attached to the roof of his car. We crossed the mighty Mekong River running red with silt and soon took a right turn and headed south on National Highway 11. We were back in the idyllic countryside where everyday life is lived alongside the road and fields of rice or plantations of rubber trees spread into the distance. We noticed trucks loaded down with plastic jerry cans filled with gasoline that had been smuggled over the border from Vietnam. We passed the charred ruins where a few nights before a truck smuggling gasoline was chased off the road by the police, crashed into a house, ignited, leaving all the inhabitants dead.

Eddie set the pace and Jean Paul and Donald stayed behind, ready to pick up the pieces if necessary. Eddie’s foot was heavy on the gas pedal, sending segments of landscape and fragments of other people’s lives flashing past. He used his horn as an offensive weapon scattering ducks, chickens, cows, dogs and anything else that dared to cross in front of him. My presence in the front seat provided Eddie all the audience he needed and soon he began his rant, phrases repeated so often they had become part of his wardrobe. But he is the one living in Cambodia and driving their roads so I guess he is entitled to tirades against their driving habits, the condition of the roads, and the corruption of the government. He spoke with animated hand motions as if drawing pictures in the air and creating shapes would improve my understanding. When he starts this, it is hard to stop him and I just nodded in the appropriate places.

Zipping past dust blown villages and taking our turn on one lane bridges, we crossed into Pre Veng Province and rolled to a stop at a gas station in the town of the same name. The French colonial buildings that are scattered about the town attest to its importance during the time of the French but today its main attraction is Ba Phnom, the earliest pre-Angkorian civilization. As always, we immediately attracted a crowd, curious as to what we were hauling and anxious to touch any part of it. A young man stepped out of the throng of people and in perfect English told me he had seen a plane similar to this one in Phnom Penh as well Siem Reap. I am always amazed at the number of people spread all over Cambodia that are familiar with the ultralight. We continued our conversation and he told me he worked for MAC, a land mine removal organization, and as a baby, he had been adopted from an orphanage by a British couple. While he taught them to speak Khmer, they taught him English. This couple apparently gave up living in the UK and they live together as a family in Phnom Penh.

Back on the road, we had one more stop to make before we reached Phnom Penh. We had to continue south and cross the Mekong River by ferry at Neak Luong. Donald and I had crossed there in 1993 when we hired a driver to take us from Saigon to Phnom Penh and I was looking forward to seeing this place once again.

NEAK LUONG BACKGROUND

Neak Luong, approximately twenty miles south of Pre Veng and thirty-eight miles southeast of Phnom Penh, is situated on the banks of the Mekong River astride National Highway 1, the main road connecting Phnom Penh with Saigon. During the Vietnam War and the subsequent rise of the Khmer Rouge, anti communist forces in control of Neak Luong guarded the river supply line between Saigon and Phnom Penh as well as the land route, making it a strategic river crossing point. As a way to root out the North Vietnamese sanctuaries on Cambodian soil as well as prop up the American sponsored Cambodian government of Lon Nol in their fight against the Khmer Rouge, Nixon instituted a secret B-52 bombing campaign. Unfortunately, on August 7, 1973, a pilot made a mistake and dropped his bomb load over Neak Luong, creating the worst bombing error in the war. The U.S. government’s attempt at a cover up was uncovered by New York Times correspondent Sidney Schanberg and his Cambodian assistant, Dith Pram. The opening sequence in the movie, The Killing Fields, based on Schanberg’s book, deals with this tragedy.

TO BE CONTINUED

Sunday night was our final night in Siem Reap and the last evening we spent with Tuit. Since Tuesday, Donald and I had spent every afternoon and early evening with him. We took him with us to all parts of the city, introduced him to all the local people we knew, allowing him to do things and have experiences he never had before. Each time we had the opportunity for someone to translate, we encouraged him to do well in school and told him how important it was for his family’s future. I believe he understood all of this. He had sampled all the ice cream flavors at our hotel and for a final treat, we took him to the Red Piano, one of the first Western owned restaurants, for an ice cream sundae. He had never seen whipped cream before and found it very tasty. When we brought him back to school, Eddie drove right up to his door. It was very poignant to tell him goodbye as we had certainly grown accustomed to having him around. Donald and Eddie took turns hugging him goodbye and then it was my turn. We both smiled at each other and then when I hugged him, he hugged back. Donald and I will continue to support him and even though there are many social and cultural issues against him, we think he will do well.

ON THE ROAD AGAIN

Monday morning, before the town had time to unwrinkle itself, Eddie picked us up in front of our hotel and once again, Donald and I found ourselves back in Eddie’s 1989 Camry this time pulling his infamous trailer now piled high with our luggage. He has been renting this car for the past two years and counting the times the odometer has flipped, he figures the car began with 260,000 miles to which he has added as additional 60,000. For me, just a short ride around the block is my testament to Eddie’s ability as a mechanic. Now we were beginning a road trip and even though he had fixed the air conditioning, the odds of traveling without a break down were not in our favor. Not thoroughly believing his assurances that nothing would go wrong, I requested a stop at Star Mart, the local convenient store, where we loaded up on water and snacks, just in case.

Our destination was Kompong Cham, a riverine town located on the banks of the Mekong River and capital of the province bearing the same name. Jean Paul had stored his trike there in the Doctors Without Borders compound and they now wanted it removed. According to plan, Jean Paul would drive from Phnom Penh and meet us in Kompong Cham. We would spend the night there and the next morning load the trike onto Eddie’s trailer. All of us would then drive to Phnom Penh, where Jean Paul would relocate his trike and Donald and I would spend our last few days in Cambodia.

Leaving Siem Reap, we drove south east on the often traveled National Highway 6 and reaching the small town of Skoun, we make a left turn onto National Highway 7 and began traveling due east, toward the Vietnamese border. Skoun, a dusty market town, similar to all the others, has one claim to fame. It considers itself the culinary center for fried spiders. Possibly, the Khmers developed a taste for this eight legged creature when there was very little to eat during the hard times under the Khmer Rouge. Today, tourists who stop there have to fend off market ladies descending on them with platters piled high with this furry delicacy. Donald and I have been through this before and were not disappointed when Eddie did not stop.

KOMPONG CHAM BACK STORY

When analyzing the name of the town, kompong, translates into port or “the side of a river” and Cham denotes an ethnic group descendants from the Kingdom of Champa. Known to history since the 2 AD, these people lived in Central and South Vietnam, achieving their zenith in the 8th when they controlled territory in both Vietnam and Cambodia.

The relationship between Champa and Angkor was less than cordial and in 1177,the Cham attacked and sacked Angkor only to be destroyed four years later by an avenging Angkorian king, Jayavarman VII. The exploits of Jayavarman VII have been carved in stone on the bas reliefs found in the Bayon temple and that of Banteay Chmar. In 1720, an expanding Vietnam annexed the Kingdom of Champa. The loss of their land plus the resultant persecution induced the last Cham king to abandon Vietnam, seeking other places. He moved a group of his people west into Cambodia to settle on the banks of the Mekong, today called Kompong Cham. Islam arrived in Southeast Asia in the 7th, brought there by Arab traders and in the early 17th a Champa king converted his people to Islam. Today, ninety percent of the Chams are Muslims. The Khmer Rouge especially targeted the Cham and it is estimated that up to 500,000 of them died during this time. Today, these people are making a comeback but have been warned by Hun Sen that he will not tolerate any fundamentalist behavior. When a disturbance did break out, Hun Sen put it down forcibly, just so they would understand where he stood. Many Cham are fishermen and live in floating villages and the women are noticeable by their head scarves and the men by their knitted skull caps.

THE DRIVE TO KOMPONG CHAM

We drove through Kompong Cham province, reputed to be the richest province in Cambodia and with approximately 1.6 million people, it is the most heavily populated. Hun Sen was born here and has left his brother in place to serve as governor and his remaining family members are engaged in business. Traveling on National Highway 7 provided an opportunity to explore the countryside and soon we were driving through an area with rubber plantations on both sides of the road. Because the land is flat, we could see orderly rows of rubber trees stretching on to the horizon. A small coconut shell, which serves as a container, is attached to each tree to catch the sap that oozes out from the slash marks that spiral around each tree. Tappers then collect the sap and it is eventually processed into natural rubber. Cambodia’s soil is particularly suited to growing rubber trees and trees here produce rubber longer than any other place. This excellent soil coupled with high prices being paid for natural rubber has encouraged foreign money to invest and convert Cambodia farm land into rubber plantations. The fact that farmers are being thrown off their land is another story.

THE HOTEL

Jean Paul arrived ahead of us and entering the Mekong Hotel’s compound, we saw his Toyota SUV parked in the driveway and looking up, we found him sitting on his balcony, smoking one of his signature cigars, sunning himself and waving. Reputed to be the best hotel in town, fourteen dollars per night promised hot water, air conditioning, a T.V., and a view of the Mekong River. These Khmer built and managed hotels seem to be clones from a single plan and as expected, the obligatory over sized chandelier and collection of vinyl couches filled the lobby. As per our previous experiences, all attempts at refinement ended here and knowing the futility of hunting for the elevator, we quickly found ourselves walking up several flights of stairs to our room. A quick assessment of the room proved we were in luck. The sheets appeared relatively clean and occupying the foot of the bed was the expected Chinese velour blanket. The bathroom, which also functioned as a shower room, contained all the expected amenities. Above the sink, a plastic shelf was attached to the wall and above that was a matching plastic framed mirror. Each piece had its accompanying manufacturer’s sticker, proving it was new. This mirror, like all the others, was hung by shorter Khmer workman, providing Donald an excellent view of his chin. The obligatory small plastic comb, packet of shampoo, and miniature bar of soap had been placed on the shelf and I knew we were in a “chic” place as the soap was still wrapped up. Due to the dingy color of the towels, it was hard to determine if they were clean but they still had that stiffness which clings to them after they are air dried on the hotel’s roof. All the prerequisite items were there including two pairs of rubber flip-flops placed by the bed. I bring my own pillow and avoid the comb and the slippers as if they were the plague. With a flip of the switch, I activated the hot water heater mounted on the bathroom wall and acknowledged the hand held shower nozzle was certainly an advancement over an often provided water spigot, bucket, and small stool. The door to the room was either warped or not cut exactly to size and the lock on the door was the kind easily breached with a credit card. We found it strange that the hallways were exceptionally wide, as if someone had made a mistake, but we had no reason to complain. Everything was just as I thought it would be, complete with a bare neon tube light over the bed.

TIME FOR LUNCH

Jean Paul was his ebullient self and after a round of hugging and kissing, after all, he is a passionate Frenchman, it seemed time to find a restaurant for lunch. Several years ago, I wrote about a man from Philadelphia who married a Khmer woman and opened a restaurant called the Mekong Crossing and soon became famous for serving the best hamburger in all of Cambodia. I had eaten there before with Donald and Eddie and was looking forward to the taste of beef with the grease dribbling down my chin. When I suggested this place, Jean Paul grabbed his stomach and made a throwing up gesture. It is easy to read his motions but sometime impossible to determine his motives. Either he had eaten there and been poisoned or he did not want to eat in an American restaurant when there was a perfectly good French restaurant down the street and the man, like most other Frenchmen in Cambodia, was his friend. Goodbye Mekong Crossing and juicy hamburger as we took a seat under a swirling ceiling fan in the Lazy Mekong Daze restaurant. The owner spoke enough English for us to learn that he came from Brittany and similar to other long stay expats, had married a local woman, had a child who was busy playing under the tables. He had recently taken over the restaurant, previously owned by an expat from the UK. Regardless of what is on the menu, a restaurant owned by a Frenchman, according to Jean Paul, is a French restaurant. I have never seen Jean Paul order Asian food and selecting from the French side of the menu, he ordered beef with a Burgundy sauce while Donald and Eddie ordered a Cambodian favorite, beef luk lak. Even though the sauces were different, both dishes were made from the same cut of Khmer beef, exceptionally tough, requiring a full set of teeth, but tasty. I ordered a bowl of hot and sour soup, thinking it would be Chinese style. Unfortunately for me, the soup was prepared in a Khmer manner with coconut milk replacing the soy sauce, sesame oil and five-spice powder. No matter what kind of relationship you develop with your food, you never go hungry because you can always fill in from the present bowl of rice and the watermelon served for dessert. We lingered over cold beer and full bodied red wine until Jean Paul suggested a drive around the city. It was time to tour.

TO BE CONTINUED

Cambodia overland – Phnom Penh via Kampong Cham & Sambor Prei Kuk to Siem Reap