Meli-Aventuras: Kampot in 24 hours

The van jerks to a stop. I wake up. Ooops. My head has rolled to the right, crash-landing on the laced-white sleeve of a nice Cambodian lady. I smile apologetically and try o sit back straight. At least I didn’t drool on her. A layer of dust has gathered on my black pants and backpack, and the smell of freshly baked bread fills the van, reminding me that lunch is still a few hours away, in the town of Kampot.

At 7am that morning Gemma and I had excitedly left our flat and made our way to the wrong market to catch a shared mini-van to Kampot. We had grand plans to get out of the city and go hiking up Bokor Hill and find the old French-colonial burnt-out buildings dotting the top of the hill. Problem was, we were in the wrong market back in Phnom Penh. We caught a motodop and hurried of to the right market, where we then waited an hour for a van to fill up with Cambodians making their way down South as well. Only USD$3, 4.5 hours, and a zillion stops later did we reach the riverside town. I’m all for local integration, but remind me never to take a shared mini-van again. You would think I had learned after Rattanakiri not to take these local transport vehicles. It’s an entire uncomfortable, dehydrating affair. The driver stops multiple times to use the natural toilet, bargain for fuel, buy bread, and pick up more passengers to stuff into every conceivable corner of space available. When you’re poor, you make the most of every space. Space, like television air-time, is incredibly valuable and once lost, is money gone forever.

When Gemma and I finally rolled into Kampot we headed straightaway to Epic Arts Café, the café/restaurant that employs and supports hearing impaired Cambodians and encourages the handicapped in art performance. One delicious quiche and pear-cinnamon shake later, I was ready to explore the riverside town and prepare for our next day 5-hour tour to Bokor National Park, but not before exploring some local caves and taking a walk along the river front. As consistent moto-dop passengers, we made it a point to use our legs for the weekend.

At 8am we gathered our day packs and loaded into a van with other foreigners (mostly Aussies) to hike up Bokor. Our guide Mr. Tree, was quite possibly one of the most hard-working, interesting Cambodians I have met so far. A camouflage hat shaded the cluster of deep wrinkles lining the corners of his eyes. “If you forget my name, just look up all around you. They are my friends!” I liked him immediately.

Born in another province, Tree moved to Kampot during the Khmer Rouge and became a former Cambodian-resistance soldier, fighting alongside the Vietnamese. Tree lived in the forests of Kampot for over two years, living off the land and mining fields. After the Vietnamese intervention, he helped the United Nations de-mine this area, moving on to be a park ranger while raising a family of six. Today he leads tour groups up to Bokor. I wonder if anyone else has had such an action-packed life, only to hear kids complain about the heat, steep slopes, and bug-bites.

As we ascended, the humidity soaked us through to the bone, but the dense forest provided adequate protection from the sun. Hiking up for two hours, we finally reached the spot where a pick-up truck then took us on an hour-long bumpy ride to the top of the hill. At Bokor Hill Station, Mr. Tree began:

“And now I will share with you, if you want, what I want to tell you now, the history of this place, of Kampot. You don’t have to listen if you don’t want but I will tell you anyways. We have two French [tourists] here, and I am sorry. I do not want you to be mad at me, because this story is history and now French tourists are very nice…” (The two French women look up and smile at the rest of us).

And so Tree shared with us the story of Bokor. How the people of Cambodia in this area were always under the rule of someone else; how a rich French colonial came across Bokor Hill in the early 1900s and decided this would be an ideal spot for French vacationers. The ideal (cool) weather and high altitude would provide a refuge from the Indochinese heat to rich French tourists. He built a Catholic Church, a post office, and a palace/hotel among other buildings. Cambodian laborers were used to build the beautiful buildings as well as the gravel road that would lead travelers up to this refuge. Many lost their lives building this colonial recluse.

Over the years, the Indochinese war, KR genocide (this was a KR stronghold), and US bombings would drive people out of the area. A Cambodian commander would live in the Catholic Church during the KR and the palace turned Casino that once held party goers and gamblers would turn into a place of torture—a prison. Overtime, lack of food, money, and the Vietnamese intervention would drive Cambodians back down the hill, transforming this once quaint little mountaintop retreat into a ghost town.

Today Bokor Hill no longer belongs to the French, but it does not belong to the Cambodian people either. According to Mr. Tree, the park is in the hands of Sokimex Goup, that own various companies across Cambodia, among them a prominent gas station chain. Sokimex owns a part of Angkor Wat. When you pay your $20 entrance fee to see Angkor Wat the money travels straight through to “company pockets”. A national treasure is in the hands of a few hands. Little money from tourism ever trickles down to the country’s inhabitants. It stays in the hands of a few or in the hands of expat-business owners. Today they are building another unsustainable tourist trap: A casino, hotel and golf resort atop this beautiful hill. Mr. Tree says he’s known this area all his life and is afraid of the environmental damage being caused by illegal logging. The winds will no longer remain trapped in the trees, but will reach down to other provinces, affecting local agriculture and weather patterns. There are fewer animals as well. He says he doesn’t know what this place will look like in 20 years.

Walking along the top of the hill, I explore the buildings along with the others. I come across moldy kitchens, cracked tile floors, the graffiti-covered inside of the Church. I imagine I’m wearing a long French gown as I make my way up the casino staircase and peer out over a cliff. In the distance you can hear the constant sawing of Japanese and American machinery, controlled by the Chinese with Cambodian-laborers illegally logging and clearing land.

I stand on the back of the pick-up truck on the way down the hill, my hands gripping the edge as we tumble down into the white mist. Do you know what it feels like to go through a cloud? It’s like going through the bright white flash of a camera, as goose bumps rise up on your arms from the cold and droplets cling to your eyelashes. I lean forward so Mr. Tree, who is seated on the roof of the front part of the truck can hear me. I ask Mr. Tree what he thinks this place will look like in 20 years. He shakes his head. I think he is afraid to say.