Many roads, many possibilities. Sitting at a cafĂ©, I sip coffee with my left hand and trace trails with my right. In my notepad, I review scribbled notes: â€śRt. 211 â€“ remote, mountainous, beautiful, impossible to navigate if rain. Rt. 212 S to Tbaeng Meanchey, safer alternative, add one day to itinerary.â€ť A strong typhoon battered Northern Cambodia only a few weeks before and, just to up the ante, another one (albeit significantly smaller) was scheduled to hit later that evening.
I had already delayed departure by a day to see if the forecast would change, as well as nurse a nasty hangover from a night out with other ecotourism supporters in Kuala Lampur. Given my precious limited vacation time for extended trips, there was really only option. I fold up my map, pick up the tab, pack Johnny away in my pannier, and take the long road north.
Day 1 â€“ Into the Typhoon
Siem Reap to Anlong Veng (130km)
The first few kilometers on a long adventure are exhilarating. The first beams of sunlight trickle over the horizon, the bike drifts along the road with nary a sound, and a world far removed from fluorescent lights and spreadsheets slowly comes alive.
I am departing Siem Reap at a time when thousands are arriving â€“ itâ€™s the annual Water Festival and anyone whoâ€™s anyone in the province is headed to Siem Reap to watch the boat races and celebrate the end of the rainy season. I follow the river out of town, watching teams of oarsmen fend off their hangovers with half-hearted stretches and plastic bags full of piping hot black coffee. The markets are already bustling â€“ a myriad of fruits are on display, their exotic aromas tickling my western nose. Two little boys on a big bicycle pedal hard to race me â€“ I let them win and they laugh that they can beat the big foreigner with a mountain bike (never mind the 40lbs of gear I have strapped to the back and 129.4km I have ahead of me).Anlong Veng is nestled along the mountainous Thai border and served as Pol Potâ€™s residence and the Khmer Rougeâ€™s final stronghold until the government finally regained control in 1998. Although residents have retired their flowing black uniforms and Kalashnikovs, support supposedly still exists. With its power consolidated, the Cambodian government has been eager to reestablish ties with Anlong Veng after nearly two decades of isolation. My loaded bicycle rolls along the most explicit evidence of the governmentâ€™s rush to reign in the hobbled outpost: Route 67.Heading north, I pass through the sprawling Angkor National Park and watch as the sun rises over Banteay Srei and Phnom Kulen â€“ two of the Angkorian eraâ€™s more interesting sites. The latter, Phnom Kulen, contains a rushing river with thousands of lingas carved into the stone riverbed to appease the fertility gods. Youâ€™d be hard-pressed to find yourself surrounded by more male genitalia anywhere else in Cambodia, a fact that female Phnom Penh expats constantly lament. Though inviting, I opt to forgo a dip in the inviting clear stream; I have no desire for divine assistance in the fertility department at this point in my life.
The first day is tough. You can kill time, but you can only get down the road by pedaling. This simplicity and defined sense of objective is refreshing. How long it takes, what road I take, how hard I pedalâ€¦ itâ€™s all entirely up to me. And in the end, the only person I have to answer to is myself. After the first 70 km, the road becomes more remote and the winds pick up. While I encounter nary a drop of rain, the headwind becomes so strong that I might as well be pedaling uphill.
Escaping the intense midday sun, I stop for potato soup and pork at a small restaurant and chat with a lovely woman who is a guard at Ta Prohm temple. She suggests a hotel in Anlong Veng â€“ â€śVery nice, family hotelâ€ť (read: not a brothel). I continue on the road, stopping for fried bananas and coca cola whenever my stomach rumbles. The road cuts through the dense forests of Kulen Prum Tep Wildlife Sanctuary and I am rewarded for my choice of a quiet mode of transportation with views of playful monkeys and oxen. I meet one particularly ecstatic eight year old who grasps a limp baby squirrel in his right hand and a slingshot in the other â€“ no wonder I rarely see squirrels here.
The hum of chainsaws in the distance is an unfortunate reminder that the wildlife sanctuaryâ€™s days are probably numbered. Villages deeper in the forests donâ€™t even attempt to hide the rampant logging activities going on in the preserve â€“ very depressing, but the people also have to survive so there are no easy solutions. While the sanctuary is pleasant, it doesnâ€™t offer the incredible diversity of wildlife (tigers, gibbons, elephants) or breathtaking views of those in Laos, so unfortunately community-based tourism would probably just be a bandage on a festering wound. Hopefully this new road will bring other economic opportunities. However, itâ€™s just as likely that the main reason the infrastructure exists is to facilitate logging, a sad truth just about everywhere in Cambodia â€“ beautiful new roads to remote pristine forests.
The sun melts over the rice paddies in the distance as I lay down on the side of the road with my map to figure out where I am at. 14 kilometers to go â€“ the final push into Anlong Veng will be in darkness. Instead of a slow buildup of houses and other indicators of civilization, the road becomes more narrow and the scenery more desolate as I near Anlong Veng. Charred, lifeless trees claw out of the flooded, bleak fields of grass. The winds still blow ferociously and the sound of the swaying the grass sends a chill down my spine (it sounds like something is constantly alongside me).
I finally arrive in Anlong Veng at a little past 6 and find the family-friendly guesthouse. It doesnâ€™t have hourly rooms, which means it passes my first test. However, the box of condoms carefully placed at the foot of the bed (instead of, say, chocolate mints or bottled water) doesnâ€™t inspire much confidence in my friendâ€™s recommendation. In the end I am too tired and not about to wander around town with my flashlight to find another probably equally poor guesthouse â€“ I thank the proprietor for the room and his efforts to promote safe sex.
Thoroughly uncomfortable in the posterior and snuggled deep in my silk sleep sheet (â€śYour first line of protection in the war against scabies in rural Cambodiaâ€ť), I dream of riding east the next day to Preah Vihear and a bit of respite from the southerly blowing winds.
Day 2 â€“ Minefields, Broken Bikes, and More Brothels
Anlong Veng to Preah Vihear (106km)
Wake, hydrate, stretch, apply chamois buttâ€™r (optional), fold, repack, hydrate, ride â€“ the morning routine of touring by bike.
From the moment my nose crosses the threshold of the door leading outside the guesthouse I can feel the nasty headwind that contributes to another long, tough day. The only solution was strong coffee and my secret â€śuse in case of emergencyâ€ť playlist, featuring selections from the Rudy soundtrack.
Just as everywhere else in Cambodia, Anlong Veng comes alive at first light. An old woman sets up a blue tarp roof over her store on the side of the road. A young girl drags a bright orange cooler in front of another stilted wooden hut â€“ these coolers are ubiquitous in even the most rural areas of Cambodia and serve as a vital supply line for bottled water, sugary drinks, and other cycling necessities. My search for a cafĂ© ends in the central square of Anlong Veng, where a perplexing peace statue erected in Dictator for Life Prime Minister Hun Senâ€™s name stands (in Hun Senâ€™s defense, he did recently announce he will only remain in power until the age of 90 and no longer). The deer look more cautious than peaceful, likely due to the massive snakes lining the monument thus preventing any chance of escape.
I order some rice porridge, munch on some peanut butter oatmeal trail mix, and wait for Coffee Lady to bring a pot of water to a boil in her flower pot barbeque. I think I enjoy the anticipation of coffee more than the actual beverage. This is probably why I never bought into the â€śStarbucks experienceâ€ť at home; whatâ€™s so special about lining up, carefully memorizing strange terms for your allocation of 10 seconds with the cashier, and being yelled at to pick up an overpriced cardboard cup? I prefer the 20 minute Vietnamese drip or comparatively quick French press.
Coffee Lady wafts the coals with a discarded Angkor Beer box and smiles at me as I ask questions about the road ahead. â€śAut dungâ€ť, I donâ€™t know â€“ the standard reply. The idea of cycling to the next village 20km away was daunting, let alone Preah Vihear which was more of a mythical temple somewhere east and where Thai soldiers were lying in wait to invade Cambodia. She mixes the boiling water with a heap of NesCafe and carefully arranges the glass on a serving plate with a jar containing a lovely mix of sugar and ants.
Despite the winds, I have a comparatively easy day ahead â€“ only 100km or so if my map scale was accurate. Unfortunately, I donâ€™t have time to visit any of the major tourist attractions tucked away in the mountains north of Anlong Veng: Pol Potâ€™s house, the site where Pol Pot was hastily cremated, the house of Ta Mok (â€śThe Butcherâ€ť) â€“ all feel-good sites that certainly warrant another visit.
I am back on the saddle. Today my direction is east. I pass the shallow lake in the center of Anlong Veng â€“ a few blackened dead trees jut toward the sky and the grey waters look completely devoid of life. Ta Mok, one of the Khmer Rougeâ€™s top leaders, had the fields flooded to produce a man-made lake, a permanent monument to the death and misery of the KR reign.
The tarmac road deteriorates into red dirt and after a few kilometers the world changes: chirping birds, tall grass swaying, trees (!), and nary a man or motorcycle in sight. I stop to take the view in and remind myself that I am allowed to linger on my vacation â€“ no need to break speed records. While searching for a sabai dum chur (â€śhappy treeâ€ť) I do manage to spot a symbol of civilization: â€śDANGER MINES â€“ HALO FOUNDATIONâ€ť. While I am not necessarily surprised (this area is one of the most heavily mined in the world), it is a shock nonetheless to see it firsthand. I briefly ponder the question of whether a strong stream of urine can set off a mine, but decide against testing the theory and get back on my bike.
Rolling into a small town I put on a great show for a group of younger Khmers by taking a spectacular tumble. I suffer only a minor gash on my left knee, which I fix with a band aid and a dose of fried bananas. Out on the flat deserted roads again my bike feels a bit unbalanced â€“ a quick glance over my left shoulder reveals that the left support for my back rack had snapped. I survey the damage by the side of the road: the screw has snapped and one half is lodged in the bike frame. Thereâ€™s no way I can fix it out here. Despondent, I chew on a mandarin orange and contemplate my next move. Three men appear on a moto and observe at the problematic screw. Uncharacteristic of the typically resourceful Cambodian male, the lead man simply nods and passes gas.
I remove the pannier, pull out a length of rope, and tie the rack back to the bike frame. While it certainly wonâ€™t support the weight of both panniers, itâ€™ll get me to the next big town 20km or so away. I ride onward â€“ albeit significantly slower with one pannier hanging from my handlebars â€“ and find a store that I am told had the equipment to solve my bike issues. Mr. Niey, juggling a baby boy and power drill, shakes his head tsk tsk tsk, insinuating â€śHow the hell did you manage this? And what a poor knot job you did â€“ canâ€™t even get a simple knot right.â€ť He places the baby in a hammock, starts up a gas generator, and drills down into the frame determined to disintegrate the screw. After running through a few drill bits, Mr. Niey breaks through and we both celebrate with a hop.
Newly repaired ride, stomach full of instant ramen noodles, and high spirits, I sprint the next 40km to the turnoff to Preah Vihear. With the sun fading fast, I gulp down a few cokes at the town market and turn north toward the base of the mountain. The road meanders through patches of forest, pillboxes, military camps, and minefields. Complete darkness finally falls and I continue down the â€śdancing roadâ€ť (common Cambodian description for bad trails) with a tiny flashlight in hand.
An hour or so later I finally arrive at the base of Preah Vihear and begin another difficult quest to find a place to sleep that doesnâ€™t double as a brothel for local soldiers (http://cambodiatonight.blogspot.com/2009/07/brothels-spring-up-at-cambodian-thai.html â€“ very sad/ laughable quotes from military officials regarding necessity of brothels). I settle on an excellent guesthouse with 24 hours of electricity and en-suite bathroom.
Cycling 8-10 hours/day requires a constant battle for calories and rural Cambodia does not always offer the ideal foods to satisfy the intense hunger at the end of the day. No matter how many chunks of ginger chicken, fried veggies, and bowls of rice I consume, I canâ€™t seem to find that elusive fullness. Luckily I have my camping stove and a can of Chunky chicken soup to supplement minced pork and six bowls of rice at the guesthouse restaurant. Article Source