Cambodia Part I

It was here in Cambodia while hiking up a hill I discovered you can't hear an elephant approaching from behind. It's as if they wear ballet slippers. Plodding along quietly and rhythmically, it bypassed us with its cargo. This odd reality blows my mind since it's counter to what I would have assumed.  So while we have an instinct for avoiding motorcycles, we're helpless in even sensing the presence of an elephant let alone stepping away from it. 

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It’s been 15 years since we last visited Cambodia. The stay had been short, just one-week entirely spent touring the immense Angor Wat ruins in Siem Reap. I left the country with some understanding of the culturally rich ancient Khmer culture, the shock of a humidity head-butt, and a nasty ear infection.

This time, we’re spending fifteen days in the country spread between urban Phnom Penh, the Gulf island of Koh Rong, and hanging out in the southern backpacker town of Kampot. I like to think of these urban and rural experiences as my Cambodian salt and pepper, an image that comes to mind because salt pans and pepper plantations are key destinations here.  

Phnom Penh

First a sprinkling of the urban.

Phnom Penh has two sides, the sprawling, belching, dirty, frantic capital city where most people live and work.  Foreigners briefly see  this area from a tuk tuk or a taxi, en route to and from the airport or the Killing Fields.In that way, it’s as untouchable for us as a documentary watched on TV. 








The other side is the historical heart where the tourists stay and the locals serve.

The historical town is very different. The air is cleaner, filtered by big trees. Modern Toyota cars, tuk tuks, and motorbikes swarm the narrow streets quietly (many are electric) managing the flow of people between stores, offices, palace, wat, restaurants, hotels, and markets. Somehow they weave through intersecting traffic without colliding in a screeching fiery mess.  Few drivers pay attention to street lights or stop signs, even when they exist. An electric motor charge lasts longer if you keep a steady speed, and at night, you don’t turn on the headlight.

But I’m making light of the pedestrian challenge. Actually, it’s hell. And worse if you’re a Type A personality driven by the urge to reach a destination in a timely manner, like before it closes. The pressure mounts when its 40 degrees C (with the humidity) and you’re monitoring every penny and it’s simply unsustainable to pay $3 US to ride a distance that can be easily walked.

But “walk” cannot be modified by “easy” here. It took me a solid three days to adjust my expectations. Walking is hot and hard.  Every obstacle is placed on a sidewalk; food kiosks, parked motorbikes and cars, supply deliveries, construction hoarding, broken chunks of cement, dog poo. A pedestrian regularly needs to step onto the street careful to check 360 degrees for silent motorbikes. They may come from any direction, on the road, around a corner, out of a driveway, from behind you on the sidewalk. Dan grabs my hand each time we cross a street. There’s strength in numbers. It’s even better when you can attach yourselves to a group of school children.

Regarding the sites, the Royal Palace is a real, functioning palace for the King. So real, it was closed one day when the much loved King was offering food to monks and poor people. Of course we had negotiated six blocks of nerve-jangling cross streets to find this out. There seems to be no way of getting this information ahead of time, online, or by phone (no phone number). The schedule has something to do with the lunar cycle, a puzzle even to our hotel concierge.

Shrugging off the disappointment, Dan and I used that day to explore the market and get some cash at the ATM. Oddly, the machine issues both Cambodian riel and US dollars. This whole country accepts US dollars for everything, something of a surprise to us in that it’s true even for the smallest cash purchase at the market. With a loss of about 35%, Canadians feel the pinch, but it doesn’t swell too much because things are pretty cheap. We can eat a typical dish in a no-frill place, with a beer, for about $5 US each.

The fourth time we tried the palace, we actually got in. Our second attempt failed since we didn’t have sufficient cash with us assuming we could use a credit card. You cannot. The third time was a costume malfunction on my part. As an experienced traveler in Hindu and Buddhist countries, I know the drill. I wore long pants and brought a shawl to cover my tank top. Not acceptable here.  Later, our guide explained that in recent years, they disallowed shawls because too many tourists took them off once they entered the grounds. The guide actually said “Chinese tourists”, but that’s another story.

Yes the palace was lovely. You expect gold and jewels and carvings and opulence in these parts. I guess I’ve seen so many across Southeast Asia, I’m a little casual about it.

We were in the stables where elephants had been groomed and bridled, when I thought that the real elephant in the room - so to speak - was how our guide and his family survived the years of Pol Pot. I had to ask.

Our guide was a young boy at the time. He has enough memory of life in the countryside – since his urban family was sent away to the fields (every Phnom Penh resident was expelled) – to draw some basic conclusions in hindsight. The only way to live was to be part of a group. If you were somehow abandoned, or found yourself alone when your friends and family disappeared, you were as good as dead because you didn’t have the skills to survive alone.

An established group was not necessarily family members since that unit was often scattered. A group formed for mutual, cooperative benefit, foraging for insects or anything to feed upon. And a stranger wandering into their midst would be sent away. He could be a spy. The group could suffer. Our guide was in such a group. He’s about fifty now.

At our hotel, the head of the restaurant told me he lost his older sister in those years. His eyes moistened. He was also very young at the time.

I don’t see many old people.

How people lived through those years is always on my mind in this country.  I didn’t need to tour the Killing Fields or the prison to raise the question. I had read the book First They Killed my Father the first time I came to Cambodia. I have the gist of the events in mind. It’s just that this time, in 2019, I’m oddly more fascinated about how a peaceful society slips into, and endures, a murderous, factious, episode. What are the signals? Isn’t it curious how it started with a transition that was perfectly legal? Isn’t it curious how journalists were among the first to be persecuted? Didn't anyone notice an elephant in the room?