Travelblography by Jason Ricks

Brief Reflections - Cambodian Genocide

I'm currently sat in seat 35D on a Vietnam Airlines flight to Hanoi, Northern Thailand. Never having mastered the art of sleeping on any form of transport, I long ago surrendered to the fact that despite my love of sleep (and it actually being a long held favorite pastime), for whatever reason if I'm not horizontal, preferably sprawled out, its not happening. In addition, my seat appears to have been designed for people with slightly better posture than myself, kinda bending in then out again just at the base of the spine, a little like the smooth curve you'd find on a shoe horn. My attention has just been turned to the half pint of milk I've been given for my tiny cup of coffee. ..and so in any case, a welcome opportunity to read, write and reflect on the past several days in Cambodia. So much has been written about the recent bloody past of Cambodia and the tragic events that surrounded the installation of the Pol Pot regime that it's easy to quickly become engulfed by the huge quantity and variety of books on the subject. However, one I would highly recommend is Surviving The Killing Fields, The Cambodian Odyssey of Haing Ngor. It's a chilling and personal account of life before, during and after the Khmer Rouge. Interestingly, my own initial introduction to the consequences of the horrific events that unfolded and their residual bloody stains on modern day Cambodia didn't come by way of reading one of the many books that litter the city's bookstores. Rather by way of conversation with my taxi driver 'Polly', charged with taking me from Siem Reap airport in to town. Polly's story, albeit briefly recounted for me in the space of ten minutes, is, I have no doubt, indicative of the suffering, upheaval and loss suffered by thousands of other Cambodians during the time of the Khmer Rouge. At a very young age and with both parents murdered by the Khmer Rouge, Tam Pally as he was known then, fled to the Northern territory of Cambodia, on the border with Thailand. He was taken in by a Thai family and afforded the nickname 'polly' and adopted the family surname in order to better integrate within the community. There he spent several years both at school and then college, the period of time during which his native country Cambodia was being torn apart by civil war and the systematic annihilation of thousands of his fellow country men and women by the Khmer Rouge. Having returned to Cambodia after the fall of the regime, Polly started a family, which he now looks after by making ends meet with taxi work and acting as a tour guide. The way he stated so matter of factly that his parents had been killed by the Pol Pot regime, made me wonder how deep we have to bury such grief in order to go about our lives as 'normal' as possible. Cambodia's recent history doesn't make for light reading. The well documented atrocities of the Pol Pot regime and indeed the events leading up to the military coup in 1974 will forever leave a bloody footnote at the bottom of any informed social commentary regarding modern day Cambodia. Wherever you seem to go in Cambodia, you're confronted with the stark consequences of such blind sighted violence; men, women and children without arms and legs are a common sight and serve to bring home the difficulty of leaving the past behind. The war maybe over, but the suffering continues, be it physical or worse, psychological; I can't even begin to imagine the mental trauma of losing family and friends under such brutal circumstances. It's a violence that grips you hard around the jugular and shakes you to the core; it leaves you dispirited, depressed and upset. These people are in every sense worse off than before, much worse off. This in turn must exacerbate the frustration, anger and loss that Cambodians feel when trying to piece back together their fragmented lives and get on with the everyday business of just survival. A brief visit to The Killing Fields was a poignant part of my own understanding; it wasn't so much the mass graves that hit me hard, more so the items of clothing that you could still see poking through the mud and dirt. These were worn by people who likely knew their time was up; worn by real people just like you and me, men, women and most likely lots of children who had found themselves, through no fault of their own at the end of the line. Mercilessly tortured and executed by soldiers barely into adolescence, with little or no understanding as to the 'whys' and 'what fors' of their actions. This is a point to re-emphasise; many of the soldiers of the Khmer Rouge regime were no older than 12 or 13 yrs old; from the countryside, with little or no education and thus providing the perfect fodder for cold blooded indoctrination and manipulation on a mass scale. Estimates vary as to the exact number of lives lost during the 1974-79 Cambodian genocide, but it's accepted somewhere in the region of 1 to 1.5 million people. Such a tragic and pointless waste of life that I'm actually a little lost for words. As I Ieft The Killing Fields, for me a place for reflection and contemplation, my mood was sombre. I was asking myself what lessons could be learned from such a tragedy. Any? Or was this just another bloody event in the ongoing cycles of civil war and unrest we have witnessed so often in the past 100 years, more over in the past 50 years of so called 'peace time'. I don't have the answers, lots of unanswered questions, but not the answers. Does anybody? I was startled out of my morose thoughts by a question from my taxi driver that both surprised and angered me " did I want to go to an artillery range and shoot some AK-47's?" it would seem this was considered part of the tourist tour. The bitter irony of such a remark given the nature of the site and all that it represented needs no expansion or explanation; but it did leave me wondering, was this just a cheap and dirty opportunity to cash in on tourists hungry for a bit of full metal jacket, or did this represent something deeper in the Cambodian Pysche, a penchant for violence that has been deeply ingrained into their societal ethics?

The Bus Episode - Battambang to Phnom Penh

Battembang didn't grab me as a place to stay, even for one night; I didn't like the hostel I first looked at (someone was grinding their way through DIY on the patio at the entrance and the room available had no window. It reminded me of the night and best part of a morning I spent in bed at a hotel in Manchester several years ago. I'd gone to sleep with the curtains closed only to awake at a time that felt like morning and still be immersed in total darkness. My brain interpreted this as meaning it wasn't yet time to get up and so I went back to sleep. This process continued for what seemed like an eternity, until my back ache got the better of me and I got out of bed.....to draw the curtains and find myself staring at the wallpaper. There was no window and I had slept right through until midday. Since then I tend to avoid rooms with no windows, aside from that I find the lack of visual space outside tends to create an air of claustrophobia).

So instead I put myself into the hands of a moped taxi driver and together we roamed around town looking to accomplish some basic chores; taking out cash, feeding my hunger and lastly booking a bus ticket out of Battembang for that evening. It was to be a day of travelling but I didn't mind pushing on.

I took the very back seat of the bus, fully intent on protecting the territory to my left as two unoccupied seats offered a rare opportunity to get my head down and sleep. As the bus took off from Battembang, it was me and thirty or so Cambodians; no travellers, no backpackers, no English. The majority of the occupants were children, many naked as the day they were born, sporting all manner of wild and beautiful manes of hair, occasionally turning and flashing incredible smiles at the strange occupant at the back of the bus. It was roughly forty five minutes into the trip when things started to go wrong; it was also hot and humid, helping to create a rather pungent staleness that lingered the entire journey. I was typing away on the laptop, playing catch up on my blog, when the bus started to develop a motion more akin (I imagine) to riding a penny-farthing down Ben Nevis. The bus pulled to a sudden halt on the side of the road and all the men on the bus promptly stood up and got off. Not wanting to lose face and keen to be seen as 'one of the men' I downed tools and made my way off the bus to the growing gathering at the rear axle. It was getting dark but even so I could see the damage quite clearly; a huge gash down the side of the tyre and one that needed more than ten minutes of TLC.

Darkness and a sense of helplessness were both soon upon us, as were the mosquitoes; we'd managed to stop right beside a swamp, the mosquito equivalent of strolling straight into a beehive. I could feel my ankles already starting to itch before I'd even reached for the D50 repellent. Thirty minutes in and the bus repairs were now under way but it would seem slightly hampered by the lack of torchlight. The scene began to develop something of a surreal quality as nobody could see anything, let alone the underside of a ten tonne bus that needed to be jacked up and have its rear wheel repaired. I was starting to lose hope and fear that the stack of plastic chairs they'd placed as a marker in the road weren't quite going to make the grade as a warning triangle for oncoming traffic.

Clearly this situation wasn't ideal. We're on the side of the road next to a swamp, it's me, thirty Cambodians, a broken down bus and no discernible source of light; humidity was getting the better of me and I was now beginning to sweat, which wasn't pleasant as salt doesn't tend to mix too well with D50 mosquito repellent. I tried to ignore my stinging forehead and get involved in the unfolding chaos; the light issue had now been partially resolved with the use of a mobile phone. However, it would seem this particular mobile phone had to play a bollywood style ring tone in order for the screen to light up. So there we were, standing around in silence watching two men take off a wheel tyre to the sound of a Bollywood track, accompanied by the horns of passing traffic no doubt fearing for their lives at the sudden appearance of a stack of plastic chairs and an enormous bus.

With the wheel removed in semi darkness, it was now time to locate the replacement. I retired back to the bus assuming this part of the process was less complicated and hoped we'd soon be on our way. I had no room reservation arranged for Phnom Phen and was still hoping we'd arrive at a reasonable hour for me to find somewhere for the night. The five hour journey was scheduled to get me there for ten o’clock, however it was now looking more like midnight. As I began typing away on the laptop, I heard grinding sounds coming from the front of the bus. They'd found the spare tyre, but as I soon discovered, nobody had the key to the chain keeping the tyre in place under the chassis. The sounds I heard were initial attempts to literally crow bar the wheel from the bottom of the bus. I felt fairly useless at this point and decided to try and directly lend a helping hand. The light issue had still not been resolved and I saw this as an opportunity to make my mark. I suggested using my camera flash as a light and duly brought it back for duty. It sounded feasible in theory, however the flittering strobe of the flash had the unfortunate affect of nearly sending the makeshift mechanic into an epileptic fit. Given he was the only man who seemingly knew what he was doing, this was not the best idea I'd ever had. I retreated back into the expectant crowd and continued to anxiously listen as the grinding of the crow bar played out against the bollywood ring tone, now on its third loop.

Twenty minutes on from my flash episode and two hours into the breakdown we're still standing at the side of the road. With the spare wheel resolutely refusing to be broken from its chains, I started to prepare myself psychologically for a night on the bus. Just then a woman to my left engaged me in conversation; her English was fairly broken and tinted with American pronunciation. "I'm from Philadelphia" she said, which was more of a surprise than being addressed in English. We exchanged small pleasantries as she explained how she'd lived in the US for 15 years. Through the darkness I could see her face was somehow contorted and disfigured. As I turned away from our conversation the lights from a passing truck momentarily lit up her face, revealing horrendous third degree burns. It was a vivid image that immediately instilled in me a sense of pain and suffering. Whilst I felt real compassion for the woman it only added to my growing sense of uneasiness and isolation.

The spare tyre was eventually broken free with the use of pliers and a monkey wrench. At this juncture I was happier that the Bollywood music had been brought to an abrupt end more than anything else. A group of five men set about replacing the tyre and ensured the nuts were loosened, replaced and the tightly held in place by creatively hanging from the end of an 8 foot crow bar. Whatever gets the job done.

Back on the bus and back to my seat. I was now ready for a good sleep; the man directly next to me had the same idea sprawled across the back row. I'd like to say this was the end of the drama. Alas it wasn't to be. Not this time. Given the minute amount of space available for my head I'd had to make myself a makeshift pillow. In this case it was a bag of various scarves and table decorations I'd bought from Laos as gifts. It made for a wonderful little headrest. As I settled down I decided to open the window for some fresh air. In size more of a small vent than a window, but nevertheless enough to feel a well needed breeze. Unfortunately, it also provided for the perfect sized whole through which my bag of Laos collectibles disappeared. Gone. One hastened movement of the head had pushed the bag too close to the window and where it was sucked directly out into the open road. This was not turning out to be the bus journey I had hoped for. My initial reaction was to scream out to the bus driver. However it was dark, late and I was on a bus two hours late, which would have been a good mile down the road before my screams had made any sense to the bus driver. My sense of loss was brief and momentary and allowed me to reflect upon a guiding Buddhist philosophy that I keep close by my side. 'Hold on to nothing for everything is impermanent'. And so I did. I calmly sat back and smiled. This was all part of the experience and I hadn't lost anything that couldn't be replaced. Aside from the tiredness, I was in fact remarkably content and happy. I was living real life on the road and was happy to embrace all that it entailed. The good, the bad and the just plain unlucky.

The River Journey - Siem Reap to Battambang, Cambodia

My time in Siem Reap was a real treat; the temples of Angkor Wat were quite simply astonishing, both in their design and architecture as well as the very fact that so much had survived; a testament I think to the sheer engineering genius of the time. It wouldn't be out of place to suggest, in terms of structural ingenuity and ambition (and considering the technology available, or lack thereof), that the city of Angkor stands up on its own two feet against any other cityscape I have seen before in modern day times.

It had been an inspirational few days but it was time to shift gear again and move further south, snaking my way down the country through a combination of boat and then bus.The 'book' suggested a 5 hour boat ride and one that was regularly coined in tourist literature as being spectacular; hitherto I hadn't taken a boat trip for the sake of indulgence, so I was looking forward to some beautiful rural scenery and of course the inherent and abundant opportunity for photography.

It was an early start, something which typically leaves me restless and sleepless the night before. Getting up early isn't something I was born to do. Fact, Nevertheless I was up and ready at 6am and picked up by the boat company on time and in a small mini bus. There were only two other travelers on the bus, so I had a choice of seating and felt now I could relax for the thirty minutes until we arrived to the pier. This assumption was soon to be proven wrong and lets say upon reflection a little naive. The boat company, it would seem, had sold out for this particular boat trip and as the bus began to fill up to its full capacity I was beginning to wonder whether I'd soon be asked to get out the bus and sit on the roof. Hotel after hotel, after hotel, after hotel, it became self evident that the boat company had made the unfortunate mistake of confusing the small 15 seater mini bus with Dr. Who's Tardis. As the clock turned 6.45am, we were now at 50% plus capacity, with a travelling representative from each member of the European Union safely on board, and on each others laps, the newly anointed EU bus slowly made its way along the dilapidated riverbank towards its final destination.

The tight squeeze on the bus should have been forewarning and an accurate precursor as to what to expect on the boat; as we arrived, through the crowd of young girls selling bread and bananas, I noticed a few boats at the pier, none of which could have been mine as they were at full compliment already. Besides, the picture on the ticket was of a modern boat that ticked the all important safety box. The boats I had in front of me, aside from being made entirely of old wood, were swaying from side to side from the already burgeoning group of sunburnt clientele. As I approached the pier I could hear a French guy from my bus arguing with a young kid of about 16 yrs, (well it was more a case of stating the plain obvious than an actual two way argument as the kid didn't speak any English). "This boat is already full"..."there is no room, look!" was all I needed to hear from him to know I was potentially looking at another tight squeeze.

There were no seats left. None. There was also very little room to even sit down. Bearing in mind this boat trip was promoted as being 5 hrs in duration, the prospect of standing up or sitting on someone's lap for that entire duration, irrespective of how spectacular the scenery was, didn't fill me with too much joy. The only space left on the boat was right at the front, up on the bow and so it was where I made camp and turned my attention to food provisions. I had 6 thumb sized bananas, a bottle of water and some local currency to buy some snacks at any stop along the way; I was confident this was enough for 5 hours as the boat released its mooring and we began to weave our way into the delta river maze.

The boat ride turned out to be just as promoted, spectacular; watery green scenery and delta fauna for as far as the eye could see; the peace and quiet being broken only every now and then when we came across small villages dotted long the banks of the river. Makeshift houses of all shapes and colors propped up on wooden stilts, women invariably washing clothes in the river, children waving and paddling in small canoe shaped vessels, teenagers listening to stereos or watching DVD's on their boats, others taking advantage of boat antennas and watching TV, men drawing in their fishing nets from their boats, all manner of interesting sights as the boat continued to churn its way through the river past lives that were a world away from my own.

We made a short stop along the way for food provisions and it was a nice opportunity to stop moving and take time to visually consume the very make up of my immediate surroundings. It was amazing how these people had constructed their lives around the river; it was what shaped them, their lifestyle and their livelihoods. The river was their life force, a provider of food, work and transport; it was the blood running through their veins and for me offered a unique insight into our instinct and ability as humans to adapt and survive. It's an innate condition in every one of us, the need, desire and will to survive regardless of our surroundings. Something we often forget or rather aren't forced to confront, whilst cosied up in front of the television thinking about plans for the weekend when back home. Most remarkable of all and surely indicative of the essence of real human contentment was the abundance of happy smiling faces. These people seemed very happy and at every opportunity offered genuine waves and welcomes, particularly the young children and babies who were thronged all the way along the banks of each village that we encountered. A brief passing through simply wasn't enough for me and the transient nature of my photographic encounters left me with a lingering feeling of needing to know more.

As 5 hours on board fast approached, I enquired as to our estimated time of arrival (I did this by tapping the wrist and looking with an inquisitive face, something I'd mastered from various attempts in Thailand and Laos). It would seem another 2 to 3 hours was on the cards, but by this stage I was well settled at the front of the boat and despite the unforgiving nature of hard wooden slats, I'd managed to find that all important comfortable position. The suns rays were now beginning to hit hard but were offset with the breeze crossing the boat as we continued on our journey. In parts the passage way through the river delta was extremely narrow and left us at times having to take shelter as the boat careered into the thick trees and bushes standing above the waterline. We'd often have to let other boats pass by, leaving behind them a meshed trail of wooden debris as their lagging long tail propellers scythed their way through the water foliage and propelled their residents down the waterway.

As we approached Battembang I was unfortunately somewhat sun burnt but extremely happy I'd made the trip; I'd captured some beautiful photographic portraits and managed to last on a mixture of bananas, water, a few local pastries and good old fresh air.

Remnants of an Ancient civilisation - Angkor Wat, Cambodia