What a one month Business Visa in Cambodia has bought me so far...

I’ve officially been in Cambodia for one week and three days and I have the scars to prove it- or sun burnt skin, I should say.  For those of you who

 would like to

 “follow” my excellent adventures in South East Asia, you can do so on Twitter (Melimx) or Facebook or Gmail (mfisher.nd@gmail.com) or Skype (Melimx25, as opposed to just Melimx who apparently is some guy in Switzerland)… OR you can read this excellent blog- excellent being a decorative adjective that will hopefully be applicable to my life on a somewhat daily basis since I quit my job in Chicago moved to the other side of the world.

 

So what have I been doing since landing after 21 hours of flying (2 in-flight movies and an

 overdose on sleeping pills) from Chicago to LA to Taipei to finally, Phnom Penh?  Cycling.

 

*Disclaimer* This is actually a long post, so feel free to not read all of it.  I promise posts in the future will be of shorter length. Maybe.

 

Even now as I write that word--Cycling-- my raw pink burnt skin still tingles and begins to peel in the shape of Africa above my left wrist and some indistinguishable island grouping above my right.  Yes, cycling.  Upon arrival at Phnom Penh airport one of my best friends and conspirer in the “Melissa Moves to Cambodia” scheme, Tim Rann picked me up with Dan (tuk tuk driver) and informed me that our planned cycling trip to Ratanakiri would be taking place the next day—7am sharp, to be precise.  Thanks to that unhealthy second dose of sleeping pills, jet lag was nowhere to be felt that day and I proceeded to mentally prepare for the trip as I took in Phnom Penh in all its glory. 

 

Phnom Penh, it seemed to me upon first examination that afternoon as I rode on the back of Tim’s green energy-saving electric motto (“My Lover”), could be any city in any developing country.  There are buildings and houses outfitted with small shops selling anything and everything lining the numbered streets, small shoeless children (often fully naked) playing, dogs staring wide-eyed at passers-by (they do not chase you for fear of being hit by a passing bike or motto), and traffic.  Traffic in this particular place is an ebbing flow of chaotic order. For example, in order to turn into the correct lane of traffic, one must first ride alongside the wrong lane—heading straight towards incoming traffic—before slowing migrating to the opposite lane in a diagonal pattern.  Think of snake as it moves across a dirt road, and that is Phnom Penh traffic.  Only slower, and the dirt road is paved with potholes. Traffic in general consists of the following vehicles: motorcycles (i.e. the size of a Honda Dream), mottos/motopods, bicycles, tuk-tuks, cyclos and three types of cars:  Lexus (SUV), Toyota, or Camry’s.  Why I have only seen these three types of cars is beyond me, but there you have it.  Oh, and if the cars (usually the Lexuses) don’t have plates, it means the wealthy driver in question is either 1. a government official or 2. has ties to the man at the CPP (Hun Sen, Prime Minister of the Cambodian People’s Party). 

 

DAY 1

7am Saturday, April 11- Biking time.  

http://maps.google.com/maps/ms?ie=UTF8&msa=0&ll=12.793053,106.825562&spn=1.285607,2.471924&z=9&msid=116105344139281876307.000466a343c918e18e81c

 

Tim and I and our bikes meet up with Betsy, Tim’s co-worker at Hagar International, mistress of all things having to do with Sex-Trafficking, third member of our impromptu cycling team and overall just a wonderful, fun person, in front of the Independence Monument.  Lucky, a local Khmer and Tim’s cycling buddy met up with us as well in order to lead us out of the city towards the ferry that would take us across the Mekong.  We cycled out and I may have had a little heart attack or two as I adjusted my butt to the seat, my hands to the handle bars, breaks, and gears, and my mind aware of the trucks, jeeps, cars, and mottos zooming past.  As we headed out of the city we cycled past houses—simple wooden structures raised off the ground, hidden among tall grasses and trees. Along the way, everyone we passed shouted after us “Hello!  Hello!”  “Barang [Foreigner]!”  Never were we met with harsh words—just kids smiling and waving.  It was 110km to Kompong Cham that day on a dirt rode that would change shape, width, and composition and eventually lead us to Mondulkiri.    My first day on the bike would not have been complete without one good fall.  I flew off my bike and felt my helmet bounce of the ground and my sunglasses scratch against the red-brown dirt.  I stood up shaking in shock and looked around me to find my bike- a wounded soldier lying besides where I stood.  Of course, I got over the shock rather quickly, turned around, smiled apologetically to the woman on the side of the road that held her palms together bowing her head over and over again, her face mirroring mine and a small child crying furiously besides her.  The little tyke had been the culprit—running outside of his mother’s grasp and into my path before she could stop him.  Having gathered my wits I returned to mount my bike and rejoin the others.

 

That day we passed temples and even ate in front of one after being invited by a group of elderly men.  We rode until the evening came and we had to cross the Mekong once again, by ferry.  While we waited for the ferry to come we waited on a sandy stretch by the river.  There were three little boys swimming in the river, shouting the familiar greetings and I amused myself by responding “Good-bye” and “How are YOU” back at them.  When we finally crossed the river it was dark and we still had a ways to go so we made impromptu headlights with our flashlights. Riding on a rocky road next to traffic, in the dark with a flashlight in hand is the hardest I’ve ever had to concentrate in my life.  After some time a kind motto driver rode alongside Betsy and I, lighting the way for us to a Chinese restaurant and hotel where we promptly ate and passed out.

 

DAY 2

I almost died that day.  Don’t get me wrong; I love the challenge of riding hour after hour and the triumph of reaching the top of a hill.  I love even more riding super fast downhill with the windy buzzing in my ears.  You grow out of the fear of falling off and yes, maybe once or twice you picture your body being flung over the handlebars, but if you’re mentally in control then you can really enjoy the speed at which you’re riding! 

 

Back to why I almost died:

A. Dehydration (despite constant re-hydration thanks to the AMAZING camelbaks)

B. Extreme sun exposure (basically sweating off SPF 50 doesn’t help my ghost-white skin)

C. Ummm, I may or may not have gotten lost on a one-track road.

D. All of the above.

 

I’ll zero in on my third point.  The story goes something like this… I was so focused on riding up hill that I didn’t see Betsy and Tim stop on top of a hill when we reached the town of Memot.  I kept riding, and riding, and riding, and thinking that I was just missing Betsy who was ahead of me, at every curve.  Well about an hour and a half into what was quickly becoming sundown, I decided to stop along the way at one of the little stands along the side of the road (usually people are selling cold beverages such as coke--P.S. I have never drunk so much coca-cola in my life to restore that sugary balance in my system---in big orange plastic coolers made in Thailand).  I stopped and asked the Khmer person if they had seen my two foreigner friends ahead of me pass by.  By ask I mean more like, I patted my helmet and bike, held up two fingers, and butchered the word “Barang” which means foreigner.  I got a lovely stare in response, so I kept going. 

 

Finally a motto drove up to me and made me stop.  The man told me (in Khmer and through gestures) to go back to Memot to sleep because the next town was too far away. I kind of freaked out internally because I knew the next town was over 100 km to reach and at the same time, how could I have passed my friends?  Why hadn’t they stopped?  As I debated what to do, I slowly became the center of attention as a truck, and more mottos (all men) stopped to figure out what was going on with the Barang.  One of the men spoke a tiny bit of English and he volunteered to “escort” me all the way back to Memot, him on his motto (tiny baby girl seated in front of him—normal to see this) and me on my bike.  I agreed- having no money, and being on a road in the midst of a rubber plantation, I might as well return to the town where I could find someone that spoke better English to either help me find me the number of the American Embassy or maybe even find my friends. 

 

Well, clearly a bicycle is slower than a motto, so he grabbed hold on my handlebars and steered his motto at the same time on the way back.  While in theory this could have worked and I went a lot faster for a full minute, it quickly became apparent that my front wheel could swerve dangerously out of the way and therefore we stopped.  Next, we tried me sitting behind him on the motto, while holding his baby girl and him steering both bikes. Yep, nope, that didn’t work either.  The last thing I wanted the death of a Cambodian baby girl on my conscience.  We stuck to riding normal the way back and when we reached the town I heard Tim on his cell phone, riding on his bike in the opposite direction.  Turns out yes, I had passed them, and when I hadn’t met up with them, images of a dead, raped, or kidnapped Melissa had run through their minds. Tim had ridden back to a restaurant we had stopped at (a full 15 km back) and when he saw I wasn’t there had started to ride forwards, while Betsy asked around for a missing foreigner back at hotel.  In the end it turns out I had ridden a full 10km ahead.

 

DAY 3

 

By now you are probably thinking, how long is this going to take?  I was thinking the same thing.  My burns burnt so bad that I was smothering on Aloe Vera and SPF 50 like crazy every time we stopped.  We stopped at Snoul to eat and then rode for another 3 hours probably.  The flat rode with villages and fields transformed into reddish-brown hills and tropical forests.  We could hear monkeys in the distant and birds chirping away.  We no longer passed people and soon we decided to make camp in the forest, off of a dirt path.  Tim and former Outward Bounder, Betsy was prepared!  We took out three hammocks with mosquitoes nets and strung them in trees.  Out came the small cooking stove, rammen noodles, and stored bottles of water.  The night fell fast and I climbed into my hammock and tried to sleep.  Things kept dropping from trees- probably fruits, but in the distance we could still hear the crazy Karaoke Khmer music that plays everywhere.  It was comforting to know there was probably a settlement close by.  I woke up in the middle of the night, freezing and damp, so I searched for some Kramas (typical checkered scarves sold everywhere) and covered myself up.  In the morning we took out our stove again and made pancake mush with chopsticks (we forgot the ladle).

 

DAY 4

 

 We eventually came across villages again and at one point we were stopped by a party of dancing Khmers celebrating the Khmer New Year.  They pulled us off of their bikes, covered our faces in white powder and made us dance with them on the road.  It was actually quite fun and a relief to take a little break from the bicycle seat.  Nevertheless,  This pretty much turned out to be the worst day for riding.  The hills became mountains in my opinion.  My burns again were aching so bad that I had to cover myself up with Betsy’s long sleeve white-collared shirt and my stomach starting hurting.  Each hill became harder to ride up and steeper. Finally after 340km of riding we stopped.  Tim could have kept going I’m sure, of it, but I was too tired and Betsy also felt fatigued.  As we waiting under a shady tree for an empty pick-up truck to drive by, two elderly Khmer men coming from a quarry nearby approached us.  Tim translated for us and it turned out they were looking for Tequila.  Haha.  They kept us company for the next hour or so, acting out how strong Tim was, staring aghast at my hot bloody, bruised, and burnt legs, and nibbling on a bit of my Nature Valley rock-like granola bars (didn’t quite do it for them).  When an empty pick-up finally came the men helped us load all of our things into the truck with impressive agility that left me wondering if Tequila was indeed the elixir of youth.

 

A word on pick-up trucks… I love them.  In particular, Toyota pick-ups are the best vehicles in developing countries and can take on any road or non-road. My first time on the back of one was in Guatemala, riding down a hill outside of Nebaj.  This could be an exaggeration, but nevertheless, there are few things as freeing as riding on the back of a pick-up, hair whipping all about you (well, at least mine does). When I own a car, it will either be black and red mini-cooper or a Toyota pick-up truck.  This time the ride was a tad bit bumpier and required us to grab hold to our bikes, praying that they wouldn’t bump out of the truck.  We also thanked god that we had chosen to stop riding when we did… the hills only got steeper and longer, with bridge construction at multiple junctions.  When we finally reached the plateau up at Mondolkiri I felt as though we had reached the Switzerland of Cambodia, minus the Swiss chocolate and fondue.  Breathtaking mountain views, layers of clouds, rain clouds in the distance, a rainbow stretching across the sky…. You get the point.  Oh, and mountain goats.  There were even mountain goats.

 

So there you have it, 340KM in 4 days and Days 5 and 6 were spent in Mondolkiri where I lay in bed watching CNN and reading Life of Pi in our hotel room with a stomach ache, while Tim and Betsy visited surrounding waterfalls.  I did make it out for a meal at Bananas! Where a crazy German lady who had been here for 20 years cooked me up some nice coq au vin, salad and homemade bread.  It also turns out that reaching Ratannkiri would have been two days by bike only since the road is two narrow, and steep for trucks so we made plans to return. 

 

We returned to Phnom Penh last Friday and I felt like I was going home.  My fear of the local traffic no longer prayed on my mind, having conquered multiple roads and hills on bike with vehicles zooming past.  Friday night Tim took me out to “Raffles”, a super nice hotel in front of the massive structure that is the American Embassy, for a seafood buffet dinner and plenty of delicious desserts to celebrate.

 

Cycling to Mondulkiri was by far one of the most challenging things I’ve ever let myself do, but I don’t regret any part of it.  I learned how to phase out physical pain and take in the country kilometer by kilometer.  I couldn’t have asked for a better introduction to Cambodia.

To view more pictures:  

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2212273&id=5602558&saved