For our first trek, Karen took me across the river to Ta Khmau (pronounced TOK-mao). We left Liger's campus and headed down the wide, dusty, and relatively empty road that runs in front of the school. The street is lined with dwellings and a host of stands and small shops selling a variety of things: fruit, vegetables, gasoline, toiletries, clothing, etc. There's even a small coffee shop, Marin Coffee, just a minute from school that makes fancy Starbucks-esque coffee and fruit beverages. (Kim is slowly working her way through the menu and has already availed herself of three of their specialty beverages.)
After only a few minutes we took a hard right, passing through a stone entryway. Another wide paved pathway greeted us, even emptier than the main road. Immediately, on either side of us, intricately carved stone mausoleums appeared between the trees. Khmer inscriptions scrolled across their facades and each entryway was marked with a closed door or locked metal gate. We also passed tombstones covered in colorful Chinese characters. Karen explained this odd mix of mausoleums and tombstones. Chinese people prefer to be buried in the ground, while Cambodians are cremated and/or rest above ground. In the picture below, you can see the tombstones with Chinese inscriptions, and in the background stand the mausoleums of deceased Cambodians.
Monks swathed in their bright orange robes made their way here and there to the various buildings dotting the complex. Couples out for a stroll meandered along the tree-lined paths, while young children scampered behind each other as their parents sat chatting nearby. We passed two young girls, probably four or five, right in the middle of a game of hide and seek. One of them stood with her hands over her eyes counting loudly in English, while her little friend crouched behind a bush just mere feet from her. It was clear they were still working on the finer points of the game.
Most of the people in the complex, however, were doing what we were: riding their motos or bicycles (or the odd car) through the complex simply to get to the main road on the other side. When we first passed through the gateway, I assumed that this was a sacred place because of the very obvious religious buildings and statues dotted throughout, and because it also served as a cemetery. I even asked Karen right after we had made the turn if we were allowed to ride our bikes in here. She assured me it was fine and I was surprised to see just how much of a thoroughfare it was as we biked further in. There was no difference between the roads in this complex and those outside of it.
We wound our way through the complex and finally found ourselves turning onto a very busy main thoroughfare. Here cars, trucks, motos, and bikes all fought for a bit of road space. It had been awhile since I had biked and even longer since I had biked in heavy traffic (the last time was in China), and the experience was a little unnerving. I'm claustrophobic and being enmeshed in such a chaotic mix of people and vehicles does overwhelm me at times. But Karen was clearly a veteran of these streets and I followed her expert lead without issue.
A few moments later we found ourselves on a dirt alleyway and Karen hopped off her bike. I followed suit and saw that the alleyway slanted downwards towards a small stand. Beyond that, I could glimpse the Bassac River. We stopped at the stand (which turned out to be the "ferry office") and paid the woman there thirteen cents each to cover our river crossing. Past the stand, we could see that the river level had risen so much (thanks to the rainy season) that the concrete ramp that normally led to the pier was completely submerged and wooden planks had been lashed onto a bamboo frame to precariously escort us from land to boat.
The boat itself was two wooden canoes that had also been lashed together side by side and wooden planks had been nailed across them to form a wide platform that made the entire thing look like a barge of some kind. We rolled our bikes onto the boat, waited for several more passengers, and then set off. I was now floating across a tributary of the very river I had seen from the plane, the Mekong. It was a beautiful view. From the middle of the river, I could see the shores of both Ta Khmau and Phum Champuh K'aek, alternating between swaths of green and the rust and reflections of corrugated tin dwellings. Farther up the river, where it turned around a bend, I could see the tall buildings of downtown Phnom Penh holding back the horizon. After the frantic activity of the road, it was incredibly quiet on the water and I basked in the silence and the feeling of being spread out against the wide open sky.
The bustle on the streets of Ta Khmau was even more frenzied than that of Phum Champuh K'aek. Phum Champuh K'aek felt much more suburban, or rural even, compared to Ta Khmau, which was decidedly urban. Real stores, not shops or stands, lined the roadways, along with restaurants, cafes, and hotels.
We stopped first at Lucky Supermarket to pick up a few essentials (I was thrilled to see that Cambodians also share my love for Mi Goreng instant noodles--there were so many varieties!). Then Karen took me to a funky little restaurant favored by expats called Spring, where I got to try a popular Cambodian dish, beef lok lak. I didn't have my camera with me, but below is a picture that is a pretty accurate representation of what my dinner looked like. Needless to say, it was as delicious as it looked.
By this time, it had started to grow dark. Being so close to the equator means the days are pretty much the same length all year round, and that means no long summer days filled with extra hours of sunshine. We hadn't brought headlamps, so Karen wanted to be sure that we made it back before it got much darker. Navigating the dark country road by the school, that had nothing in the way of street lamps, wouldn't be an ideal situation for two darkly-dressed cyclists.
I think I actually enjoyed our return ferry crossing more than the one that took us to Ta Khmau. Part of it had to do with the sky. The sun had set by the time we left the dock, and as we pulled out onto the river a thick swirl of grey clouds spun languidly above us. They were gently illuminated from behind and the whole effect made me feel as though I was looking up at the top of the world. Or situated in the eye of a storm.
Also on the way back, our little ferry was filled end to end with young monks who were returning from classes in Ta Khmau. The entire boat teemed with an ocean of orange cloth and neatly shaved heads. As Karen and I sat on the edge of the ferry speaking quietly to one another, one of the monks broke away from the group and approached us. He looked to be around 14 or 15 and smiled shyly at us as he approached.
"Where are you from?" he asked.
Surprised to hear English after being surrounded by Khmer for most of the afternoon, and even more so to hear it from this orange clad youth, I dumbly answered, "Ohio."
Karen, much more with it than I, clarified for him. "We're from the United States."
He lit up immediately and proceeded to tell us how he was taking English lessons in Ta Khmau and jumped at every opportunity he could to practice. He was thrilled to use his language skills, and with two native speakers no less! As we carried on our conversation, the other monks quieted down and watched the exchange with interest. We were the only two foreigners on the boat and I'm sure we made quite the pair: an older white lady with a head full of brilliant white hair and a lanky brown-skinned girl whose hair was as curly as Karen's was straight. There was no disguising the fact that we were the odd ones out.
When our conversation ended, Karen turned back to me to continue her running commentary about life on the river. She pointed out to me a few long wooden boats with roofs that arced over the middle. It looked like pieces of flexible metal had been bent into an upside down U and nailed down to the boats. She explained to me that these were the homes of Vietnamese river people who lived their entire lives on those small vessels. As we pulled alongside the dock on the other side of the river, we saw that one of these boats had docked nearby for the evening. Karen instructed me to take a quick look inside as we passed.
Under the small roofed section of the boat sat a young mother with her small child. There was one electric bulb that had been strung up which illuminated their tiny living area. From my quick glimpse, I could see piles and stacks of a variety of things, neatly tucked away to maximize living space. I even spotted a small circular clothes rack standing in the far back corner. I couldn't fathom living my entire life (with my family) in a space no larger than my walk-in closet.
The monks, Karen, and I streamed off the boat and began the short bike trip back to Liger. As we zipped past the long orange stream of monks walking home, a few of them waved and smiled. One of the most enjoyable things about being out and about here in Cambodia is the fact that nearly everyone will greet you with a smile and a cheery "hello", or "suostei". Cheesy as it may be, I find that there are few things in life that match the simple joy of going out in to the world smiling and having the whole world smile back.
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