Cambodia

9 – Cambodia: Kam Pot, Siem Reap and the Temples and Palaces of Angkor, and Phnom Penh

Nothing much happens in Kampot. The blue, swift-flowing Kampong Bay River flows past crumbling colonial houses, passes under bridges built by the French and bombed by the Americans, and winds up in the Gulf of Thailand. 

The epitome of a sleepy river town, so peaceful and quiet it’s as though time has stood still since the French left, albeit reluctantly in the 50's, it appeals to a particular group of grizzled ex-pats who gather on warm breezy evenings over tall glasses of Cambodian beer, and relate amazing back-packing adventures.

Ever since I read about Kep crab and Kampot pepper, exulted in my guidebook as the best in Asia, I’ve been dreaming about eating dinner here. The experience began with a visit to the crab market to see them brought in fresh from the sea. All the dealing is done by women. 

We invited our tuk-tuk driver, Wan Dan, to join our Kep crab feast and he was so moved he invited us to lunch with his family on their farm in the country. Next day Wan Dan drove us in his rickety tuk-tuk over unpaved, pot-holed roads into the bucolic serenity of palm trees, rice paddies and farm houses. There are no cars here and only a rare motorbike; everyone’s on bicycle. The villages have no electricity or running water, but plenty of telephone towers. Farmers, bent over their fields tending vegetables, use cell phones. Traditional Khmer houses are built on stilts, with place for animals, hammocks, dining, and bicycles in the shade underneath.

We stop to look at a temple in a cave and children appear wanting to guide us. They point to a sign indicating the place has been cleared of mines.

When we arrived at the family farm the children were gathered around a vendor on bicycle selling ice cream on hot dog buns. Well, if the French can eat pain au chocolat, why can’t Cambodians eat ice cream on soft rolls?

Wan Dan’s wife killed a chicken that morning; his mother roasted it and prepared a delicious dish of string beans, with herbs from her garden, and boiled rice for lunch. We brought a large Durian, known here as the king of fruit, which appeared to please her. Wan Dan’s father, a hero of the anti-Khmer Rouge forces, came out to say hello. 

On the way home we visit a Kampot pepper plantation that boasts the best pepper in the world, and I wouldn’t argue. Those Kep crabs were also sweet and succulent and perfectly cooked.

We took a boat ride in the choppy Gulf of Thailand and a sunset cruise on the Kampong Bay River, lazily ambling along the quiet shores of mangrove and palm trees. Somehow, three tranquil days passed blissfully in Kampot.

After a seafood lunch in tourist-filled Sihanoukville, we board the only plane at the airport and fly north to the lovely town of Siem Reap, starting point for visits to the famous ancient temples and palaces of Angkor.

I won’t even try to describe this place. Like Halong Bay at the beginning of our journey, Angkor is one of the world’s wonders, and the crowning glory of our incredible journey. I attach a few pictures in hopes of expressing something of the magnificence. I just want to add one thing: as magnificent as the buildings of Angkor are, so are the trees.

The end of my journey comes in Phnom Penh, capital of Cambodia, a thriving city, teeming with life and energy, which is nothing short of a miracle considering it was completely decimated and abandoned during the Pol Pot era of Khmer Rouge in the 70’s. The people came back and have rebuilt their city. The new young king has returned from Paris and taken up residence in the royal palace. If he'll let his people get educated, something good might happen here.

Business looks good, judging by all the tourists eating, drinking and shopping, although, based on what I saw on our drives through the land, and stories told by people i met, I’m well aware of dire poverty in Cambodia. As our driver informed us, “the people of Cambodia are poor but the government is rich.”

Oh, yeah, patricia ate spiders: big, black, thick-legged, deep fried ugly monsters, with crickets & slugs on the side.... yuk! i was so revolted i looked away.

Saigon and the Mekong Delta, South Vietnam

Part 8 -- Saigon (aka Ho Chi Minh City) and the Mekong Delta, South Vietnam

New Year’s Eve: There are nine million people in metropolitan Saigon and they all drove in to the center of the city, around the park, in front of our hotel, on their motorbikes, to celebrate. And they brought their 30 million country cousins along for the ride. Vroom vroom vroom…

They drove around the center of the city like a many-limbed beast slithering and squirming in an unending stream like lava through the streets of Saigon. Impossible to cross the street; we got stuck a few blocks from our hotel and thought we’d never get back.

Patricia fulfilled a heart’s desire: she ate fried scorpion and charcoal-grilled crocodile in a restaurant that serves many unusual dishes (see pic). She’s also devoured silkworm cakes for breakfast and is eager to eat spiders in Cambodia. Not me.

We dined in the night market on roasted oysters and charcoal grilled shrimp- both the biggest and most delectable I ever ate. This fabulous restaurant is set up and taken down each night.

I found a t-shirt with a picture of Mao holding up a Louis Vuitton bag, his i-pod plugged into his ears, his I-pad and i-phone in his hands, and all the happy Chinese people around him doing the same, in the midst of billboards for coca cola etc. I want to copy it and sell a gazillion of them. Taking orders….

The rest of the time we sat in cafes and watched the Saigon traffic, which is phenomenal.

From Saigon we drive south into the Mekong delta. Roadside cafes offer hammocks to lounge around and think about nothing as you sip your drink. Apart from tourist transportation there are no cars here; everyone is on motorbike.

We reach the river and board a boat traveling north. I expected a peaceful bucolic landscape with small fishing villages, farms and rice paddies, but instead found big bustling cities built along the banks of the busy river engaged in constant commerce. I saw more tourists at the “traditional” floating market at Cai Rang than pineapples.

After two days dawdling in busy Can Tho City we drive to Chau Doc, a Khmer city on the Bassac River, where I get to see what I was hoping for: a quiet, laid back provincial town with real river life of fishing and farming. On the boat again we see small villages with tiny houses built on stilts, made of wood, straw, rags, corrugated iron, flattened tin cans and bottle tops, fronting the river. We visit a floating market, see fruit gardens, fish farms and a lot of fishing with nets.

In a seafood shop we feast on grilled fresh oysters and clams, giant prawns in tamarind sauce, and grilled crabs with onions – everything alive until cooked. We drink red wine from Dalat, a town in Central Vietnam where French occupiers went to rest and cultivate their favorite vintages. Not bad at all.

A couple of cool dudes on motorbikes drive us up to the temples and pagodas of sacred Mount Sam, from the summit of which we see Cambodia, seven kilometers away. Our drivers are delighted to get paid in US currency.

Early next morning we board a speedboat and navigate up the peaceful Bassac River into the great Mekong River where three hours later we stop at the Cambodian immigration station on the river. The captain changes the boat's flag. My passport has no more room, it seems, and my guide bribes the official with $5.00 so he can find a little spot to place his official stamp, and my visa is issued. Welcome to the Kingdom of Cambodia!

A few general observations before I leave Vietnam: Wifi is everywhere; even the simplest bamboo hut in the middle of nowhere is wired. Everyone has a cell phone; towers are everywhere. Streets are cleaned constantly; no trash remains un-swept for more than a few minutes. Public toilets are clean and supplied with soft toilet paper.

Hotel breakfasts are rich, varied, mostly buffet style: chafing dishes with local specialties:spring rolls,soups, vegetables and noodles, as well as western style dishes:eggs, cereal, fruit, toast, jam, pancakes, croissants –you name it. But the “breakfast coffee” is strictly for tourists; it doesn’t pack caffeine like Vietnamese coffee. A cup of Vietnamese coffee, however, is so thick you can stand a spoon in it.

And, a word about Communism – as I see it: Whatever we, the USA, fought to save the Vietnamese from is working very well, thank you. Private enterprise thrives; prosperity is on the verge everywhere.

Hoi An - Central Vietnam

Part 7 - Hoi An, Central Vietnam

The sandy coast of the South China Sea, between the great port city of Danang and the quaint old town of Hoi An, displays miles of billboards with pictures of what’s to come: great luxury resorts, villas, condominiums, golf courses, tennis courts, gated communities… just like south Florida, waiting for rich people to invest and frolic in the sunshine. Development money comes from rich countries such as Singapore, Japan, China, USA, and the Vietnamese will benefit.

I’ve peeled off my woolies and have donned capris, sandals, a cotton shirt and sunglasses.

Hoi An – a grid of charming two-story, two-hundred year old houses – consists of small shops, cafes, bars, restaurants, and spas. Loudspeakers mounted high on electric poles broadcast soft music that wafts through the air and hovers over the lovely old town like a soothing balm: calm, unobtrusive, conducive to relaxed shopping. There’s nothing to do here but shop.

You can also look at the gentle river, walk across the lovely old Japanese covered bridge, enter a few preserved ancient homes and temples, and wander the huge central market which is primarily for locals. At night they light lanterns around the city and along the river, and it’s all quite pretty.

The vendors of Hoi An take a close second to those in Sapa for hard-sell techniques. They call out, badger and follow you, repeating and shouting as though if you have money you must be deaf.

Competition here is impossible; shop after shop selling the same stuff: handbags, tee shirts, clothing, shoes, hundreds of side-by-side tailor shops with thousands of bolts of cloth, clamoring to sew up whatever you want made-to-order, and “spas” that offer cheap massage and beauty treatments.

There were six spas on the street of our hotel, on our side alone, not counting the spas in the hotels. One spa lady followed me down the street for two blocks trying to convince me to get a massage. “Why not?” she kept asking.

My guess is it’s all owned by a few rich merchants who own and stock the shops and threaten their employees with horrible torture if they don’t sell. The children of these poor people come after you in the evenings, showing up at your table in the restaurant, badgering you to buy something, their dark, tender eyes pleading. It brings out the worst in me because a polite, “no, thank you,” isn’t understood, no matter how often I repeat it. And, if you buy from one ten more show up.

Meanwhile, the sons and daughters of the rich merchants wear Armani tee shirts, play tennis and sip expensive cocktails at the chic, manicured country club near the central market. Ahhh, communism!

The sidewalks of Hoi An are an obstacle course, not only filled with badgering hawkers but clogged with so many parked motorcycles there’s no place to walk. Fortunately, no cars are allowed in the old city.

Nearly everyone, especially the women, wears masks, on or off their motorbikes. It’s weird to buy fruit from a masked vendor.

Lunchtime, we go from one banh mi stand (little street food stands with glass cases) to another sampling various styles and mixtures each vendor offers on this scrumptious sandwich: the best warm, crispy French baguettes smeared with paté, layered with sliced roast pork, pork belly, sausage, steamed meatballs, and god-knows-what-else, doused with meat sauce, mayonnaise, chili sauce, another sauce, i-don’t-know-what, and covered with thin-sliced cucumbers, pickled radish, cilantro, and other fresh leafy herbs.

Banh mi is the summa of street food in Vietnam, in my opinion. Maybe it doesn’t sound so good but let me tell you they are addictive and on my next journey to Vietnam I will do a survey of all the banh mi stands in the country.

Our last night in Hoi An we have dinner in a restaurant that serves only two dishes: white rose – soft stuffed boiled dumplings, some flat, filled with meat, others oval, with fish – and fried won tons - tender, light-as-air, flaky triangles smothered in sweet tangy vegetables with a few shrimp and fresh herbs scattered around. Both dishes are sublime.

Patricia continues the unending quest to fill her already overstuffed suitcase with souvenirs, while I’m content to sit in a café, stirring sweetened condensed milk into thick-as-mud coffee, and watch happy tourists on rented bicycles carting off all the goods they can carry away from Hoi An.

I also say goo-goo ga-ga to every baby I see in preparation for my new grand-daughter coming in February.

Back to Vietnam - Hue

Part 6 -- Hue (pronounced H’way)

Okay, Hue has a fabulous Citadel and great tombs; I’ll give it that; and a river with an appealing name (Perfume, which it doesn’t live up to) runs through it; and pretty parks along the banks. I’m sure it’s all lovely in spring, but right now it’s pissing rain and cold and I’m not happy.

We wander around the huge central market, which the guidebook says is one of the best in the country, but how many piles of oranges, baskets of chilies, stacks of bamboo shoots and mounds of soup greens can I look at? Can’t find any nice shops or boutiques either but lots of junk: piles of tin watches, plastic sunglasses, and household paraphernalia. Where did we go wrong?

We cross the Phu Xuan bridge, stroll through the sculpture gardens along the Perfume River, meander through the maze of ill-lit back streets, and rush back to our warm, four-star luxury hotel. Sure, our room has a huge picture window but we can’t see the view through the thick foggy grey mist.

The staff at the hotel is very kind; they send us to restaurants they’re sure we’ll love, and where I feel a bit like a sucker. Okay, the food is tasty, spring rolls impaled on toothpicks sticking out of a pineapple with a candle inside, giant carrots carved to look like pagodas and fruit like aquarium decorations. We order specialties of the house: a good fresh steamed fish with onions, salad with “figs” that bear no resemblance to any figs I ever saw, and a chopped mussel dish that has no mussels as far as I can tell.

Patricia and I prefer to eat in local dives – like the one at the corner down the street, a large open space with many tables but no walls. We sit near the open kitchen where a woman fries things in her woks and pans and doles food onto platters. The damp wind blows through the cavernous hall.

As I study the menu I notice the waitress clearing the next table. She takes the plate of leftover pickled cabbage that the diners didn’t eat and dumps its contents back into the serving bowl by the kitchen. She does the same with leftover chili sauce and salad sauce. Patricia devours the pickled cabbage, sauces, and all the rest with gusto. I order noodle soup. At least I saw it boiling.

At night, the chambermaid turns down our beds and leaves a little piece of candy with a note, “Have a nice dream.”

Hue looks not so much like a city but an ugly sprawling suburb with bad lighting, dingy streets and crumbling houses. It boasts the high school attended by Ho Chi Minh and General Giap (who defeated France in the Battle of Dien Bien Phu, and is still alive at age 105).

The main attraction here is the magnificent Citadel, seat of Feudal Nguyen Emperors who reigned in South Vietnam from the early 17^th. Century until the Communists took over in 1945, and it’s inner sanctum, the forbidden palace, built in 1804. It’s an exact replica of the Chinese Forbidden City in Beijing, only constructed 200 years later. Most of it has fallen apart and been destroyed but it’s being rebuilt according to the original plans as a tourist attraction, not unlike the Venice Canals in Las Vegas.

Returning from the Citadel we board a chugging, rickety dragon boat down the dreary Perfume River, where we sit on wobbly plastic chairs, shivering, while the boatman tries to sell us picture postcards.

We hire a driver to take us to the Emperors’ tombs, scattered around the countryside outside the city. They are fabulous, fantastic works of art, landscape, and architecture along the lines of what any self-respecting King would prepare for himself so as never to be forgotten: sumptuous and costly hand-carved stone mausoleums.

Great. Only I need some sunshine to warm my old bones.