*Attention Mom: Please note that any peril this story has been exaggerated for comic effect. I'm absolutely fine. I'm being careful. Promise!*
Due to what can be universally recognized as a terrible decision, foreigners in Cambodia do not require any form of license to rent and drive a motor scooter. All one needs is five dollars American per day and titanium nerves. You can book individual tours to the various attractions around Kampot, but this is impractical and expensive compared to scooter rental. Having not piloted one of these machines since India ten years ago, I asked my guesthouse's booking agent for a crash course.... I mean refresher lesson. In a ten minute session that freaked out absolutely everyone involved I was reintroduced to the workings of a scooter ("Okay remember you push the start button there...no, that's the light...I don't know if you can do this"). Despite pronounced trepidation, I was outfitted with a lime green helmet that looked like half a bowling ball that served the twin purposes of protecting me in the event of collision and making me look extremely dorky. I was then issued the sort of map published by Chambers of Commerce (the kind with the note at the bottom saying this is not to scale and not intended for navigation) and sent out to refuel at the gas station at Durian Roundabout- a famous Kampot landmark with a giant statue of a Durian. Contemporary scholars are still debating whether durian fruit should be classified as food. There are spirited arguments on both sides.
I made a brief return to the guesthouse to assure the agent that any horrible accidents he had recently heard about did not involve me and, in spite of the odds currently being offered at the bar, I and more importantly the vehicle would return safely. I was then on my way. I did a lap around Kampot to get the feel of my wheels beneath me, taking a short interval to admire the famous lotus pond.
Freed of the confines of the city with its sights, sounds and multitudinous smells, the pace of traffic becomes a lot less frenetic in spite of the numerous motorcyclists driving against traffic. The roads are wider and well maintained. Road signs are plentiful and easily understood. These signs are so beloved by the locals that occasionally someone will plant a tree directly in front of them to protect the sign from the damaging effects of the sun. Within ten minutes on the road I feel confident enough to start passing other drivers. I don't manage to do this very often, however. Most Cambodians clearly think I drive painfully slowly. Most of them have been driving these things since they were ten, a fact clearly evident by the sheer number of children shooting past me. The speedometer claims that this thing can make it to 180 kph. I refuse to find out.
Mangroves
I have long wanted to explore a proper mangrove swamp so upon hearing one was nearby, I slathered myself with SPF 50 and the strongest non-DEET bug spray available and made a beeline for it. There was a little wooden pavilion at the head of the trail which was entirely full of young toughs. Typical of young toughs around here they grinned at my approach and waved, greeting me warmly in both English and Khmer. Once I had made it past the welcoming committee, I entered the forest into the shade and familiar tidal smell. Mangroves are scrubby little trees that put much more energy into growing impenetrable thickets of roots and branches than gaining altitude. It makes them the ideal nursery for fish and crabs and a haven for small birds. Unfortunately this also means they can act as a seine net for plastic bottles and other flotsam. I chose to enter at around noon, just when even the most determined water snakes would be looking for a shady place to hide. The only signs of life were dragonflies, tiny fish and crabs, ants, a couple of annoyed pond herons and egrets, some birdsong and whatever made that clicking sound (it was somewhere between a plastic bottle being pressed and popping gum. The path was pretty clear except for a few washouts where you either had to leap over them or doff your shoes and wade through the fetid black mud. The journey abruptly ended at a blue concrete marker that delineated the beginning of navigable channels. I definitely want to see more mangroves!
Kep
When you think of tropical beaches, Kep Beach is absolutely not what you have in mind. It is a tiny crescent of sand confined by a French era retaining wall. I had forgotten that it was the weekend, so the place was crowded with happy local families, each of whom laid claim to a pavilion, and spent the time lounging in hammocks, eating enormous banquets and blasting music. The sand was not to lie on or play in , merely a boundary to be crossed to get to the calm water or as a backdrop for selfies. It certainly wasn't the most glamorous coastline, but it made for a refreshing dip and allowed several Cambodian families to cheerfully introduce their youngest members to the concept of white people.
While durian may get all the statuary, the real agricultural star of the region is black pepper. Kampot's black pepper is famous worldwide as the absolute best available. Nearly every dish locally comes generously garnished with fresh flavorful green peppercorns. Nearby Kep has produced possibly the greatest culinary achievement with pepper- Kep pepper crab, a fact which they honor with a wonderfully tacky statue in the bay. The crabs are boiled with onions, shallots green peppercorns and some other ingredients that make the buttery white flesh succulent and flavorful. To obtain this delicacy, walk into any restaurant in the crab market. For one of the finest seafood meals of my life I wound up paying the princely sum of $7.50! I partially wish someone was there to enjoy this feast with me, but am mostly glad no one had to watch me eat it. There is no dignified way to eat crab directly from the shell.
As the afternoon wore on I had just enough time to watch crab eating macaques pilfer sodas from the garage before riding back to Kampot.
Bokor
I woke just before dawn to the insane babbling of the common mynah, a bird doing its level best to sound like five birds at once. Letting myself out the gate, I rode in the direction of Bokor National Park. The roads were subdued by Asian standards and I was immediately glad I wore a light sweater.
I have made laughably little progress with the Khmer language. I can about manage "hello" and "thank you" Fortunately for me, most locals seem adept in understanding Large White Idiot. Just after entering the park, I managed to negotiate the purchase of a bottle of water and some cookies that would later turn out to be almost entirely sugar via pantomime. I rode on.
The jungle, at the southern tip of the Cardamom Mountains was a joy to drive through in the early morning. Cool and dense, every new turn made me want to hop off and explore. I couldn't find any decent trailheads though. The fact that I had the road almost entirely to myself was compensation enough. About halfway up the mountain, something large flew across the road ahead of me. I pulled on to the shoulder and got to encounter a bird that I always wanted to meet. Great hornbills are massive black and white canopy dwelling birds with a huge banana beak crowned with a large casque. They crash through the branches searching for fruit, honking to themselves and periodically launching into the air with noisy whooshing wing beats. They are ludicrous, majestic creatures incapable of stealth. They are unmistakable and unforgettable. It was of course at this moment that my camera had some sort of tantrum.
People who are not natural history geeks visit the peak to tour the derelict buildings and the massive Buddha. There's is also Popokvil Falls, which would surely be breathtaking if there was any water in them. It did open up some beautiful jungle views. I was sitting on the rocks admiring these and trying to determine what the birds with the striped banner-like tails are (I'm still not sure) when I was joined by a quartet of young guys who were photographing themselves posing heroically on the ledge, mooning the camera and generally having a wonderful time. This was my cue to find the trailhead for a short and satisfying forest ramble.
The ruins on the peak include an abandoned Catholic church, two deserted palace complexes, all dating from the 1920's and a hotel from the sixties. These have all been left to nature and graffiti artists. The deliciously creepy effect is somewhat spoiled by the recent construction of a gigantic and hideously ugly casino. The Black Palace at the base of the Buddha is particularly cool and allows a short satisfying jaunt into the jungle.
Due to what can be universally recognized as a terrible decision, foreigners in Cambodia do not require any form of license to rent and drive a motor scooter. All one needs is five dollars American per day and titanium nerves. You can book individual tours to the various attractions around Kampot, but this is impractical and expensive compared to scooter rental. Having not piloted one of these machines since India ten years ago, I asked my guesthouse's booking agent for a crash course.... I mean refresher lesson. In a ten minute session that freaked out absolutely everyone involved I was reintroduced to the workings of a scooter ("Okay remember you push the start button there...no, that's the light...I don't know if you can do this"). Despite pronounced trepidation, I was outfitted with a lime green helmet that looked like half a bowling ball that served the twin purposes of protecting me in the event of collision and making me look extremely dorky. I was then issued the sort of map published by Chambers of Commerce (the kind with the note at the bottom saying this is not to scale and not intended for navigation) and sent out to refuel at the gas station at Durian Roundabout- a famous Kampot landmark with a giant statue of a Durian. Contemporary scholars are still debating whether durian fruit should be classified as food. There are spirited arguments on both sides.
Freed of the confines of the city with its sights, sounds and multitudinous smells, the pace of traffic becomes a lot less frenetic in spite of the numerous motorcyclists driving against traffic. The roads are wider and well maintained. Road signs are plentiful and easily understood. These signs are so beloved by the locals that occasionally someone will plant a tree directly in front of them to protect the sign from the damaging effects of the sun. Within ten minutes on the road I feel confident enough to start passing other drivers. I don't manage to do this very often, however. Most Cambodians clearly think I drive painfully slowly. Most of them have been driving these things since they were ten, a fact clearly evident by the sheer number of children shooting past me. The speedometer claims that this thing can make it to 180 kph. I refuse to find out.
Mangroves
I have long wanted to explore a proper mangrove swamp so upon hearing one was nearby, I slathered myself with SPF 50 and the strongest non-DEET bug spray available and made a beeline for it. There was a little wooden pavilion at the head of the trail which was entirely full of young toughs. Typical of young toughs around here they grinned at my approach and waved, greeting me warmly in both English and Khmer. Once I had made it past the welcoming committee, I entered the forest into the shade and familiar tidal smell. Mangroves are scrubby little trees that put much more energy into growing impenetrable thickets of roots and branches than gaining altitude. It makes them the ideal nursery for fish and crabs and a haven for small birds. Unfortunately this also means they can act as a seine net for plastic bottles and other flotsam. I chose to enter at around noon, just when even the most determined water snakes would be looking for a shady place to hide. The only signs of life were dragonflies, tiny fish and crabs, ants, a couple of annoyed pond herons and egrets, some birdsong and whatever made that clicking sound (it was somewhere between a plastic bottle being pressed and popping gum. The path was pretty clear except for a few washouts where you either had to leap over them or doff your shoes and wade through the fetid black mud. The journey abruptly ended at a blue concrete marker that delineated the beginning of navigable channels. I definitely want to see more mangroves!
When you think of tropical beaches, Kep Beach is absolutely not what you have in mind. It is a tiny crescent of sand confined by a French era retaining wall. I had forgotten that it was the weekend, so the place was crowded with happy local families, each of whom laid claim to a pavilion, and spent the time lounging in hammocks, eating enormous banquets and blasting music. The sand was not to lie on or play in , merely a boundary to be crossed to get to the calm water or as a backdrop for selfies. It certainly wasn't the most glamorous coastline, but it made for a refreshing dip and allowed several Cambodian families to cheerfully introduce their youngest members to the concept of white people.
While durian may get all the statuary, the real agricultural star of the region is black pepper. Kampot's black pepper is famous worldwide as the absolute best available. Nearly every dish locally comes generously garnished with fresh flavorful green peppercorns. Nearby Kep has produced possibly the greatest culinary achievement with pepper- Kep pepper crab, a fact which they honor with a wonderfully tacky statue in the bay. The crabs are boiled with onions, shallots green peppercorns and some other ingredients that make the buttery white flesh succulent and flavorful. To obtain this delicacy, walk into any restaurant in the crab market. For one of the finest seafood meals of my life I wound up paying the princely sum of $7.50! I partially wish someone was there to enjoy this feast with me, but am mostly glad no one had to watch me eat it. There is no dignified way to eat crab directly from the shell.
As the afternoon wore on I had just enough time to watch crab eating macaques pilfer sodas from the garage before riding back to Kampot.
Bokor
I woke just before dawn to the insane babbling of the common mynah, a bird doing its level best to sound like five birds at once. Letting myself out the gate, I rode in the direction of Bokor National Park. The roads were subdued by Asian standards and I was immediately glad I wore a light sweater.
I have made laughably little progress with the Khmer language. I can about manage "hello" and "thank you" Fortunately for me, most locals seem adept in understanding Large White Idiot. Just after entering the park, I managed to negotiate the purchase of a bottle of water and some cookies that would later turn out to be almost entirely sugar via pantomime. I rode on.
The jungle, at the southern tip of the Cardamom Mountains was a joy to drive through in the early morning. Cool and dense, every new turn made me want to hop off and explore. I couldn't find any decent trailheads though. The fact that I had the road almost entirely to myself was compensation enough. About halfway up the mountain, something large flew across the road ahead of me. I pulled on to the shoulder and got to encounter a bird that I always wanted to meet. Great hornbills are massive black and white canopy dwelling birds with a huge banana beak crowned with a large casque. They crash through the branches searching for fruit, honking to themselves and periodically launching into the air with noisy whooshing wing beats. They are ludicrous, majestic creatures incapable of stealth. They are unmistakable and unforgettable. It was of course at this moment that my camera had some sort of tantrum.
People who are not natural history geeks visit the peak to tour the derelict buildings and the massive Buddha. There's is also Popokvil Falls, which would surely be breathtaking if there was any water in them. It did open up some beautiful jungle views. I was sitting on the rocks admiring these and trying to determine what the birds with the striped banner-like tails are (I'm still not sure) when I was joined by a quartet of young guys who were photographing themselves posing heroically on the ledge, mooning the camera and generally having a wonderful time. This was my cue to find the trailhead for a short and satisfying forest ramble.
The ruins on the peak include an abandoned Catholic church, two deserted palace complexes, all dating from the 1920's and a hotel from the sixties. These have all been left to nature and graffiti artists. The deliciously creepy effect is somewhat spoiled by the recent construction of a gigantic and hideously ugly casino. The Black Palace at the base of the Buddha is particularly cool and allows a short satisfying jaunt into the jungle.
After a quick inspection, I surrendered my scooter keys in return for my passport which was being held as collateral. The scooter and myself both survived unscathed. I then retreated to have a quick rinse and a celebratory beer.
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