Phnom Penh

Arriving in the city at the bus station, I hopped aboard one of my favorite vehicles, the three-wheeled Phnom Penh cyclo. My goal was find an inexpensive guest house. I'd had such great luck at one particular place. It's on a side street behind a monastery and only a short walk from the main road along the river. What was, two years earlier, a hidden gem of a guest house, was now a bustling tourist hotel. I negotiated a reasonable rate and walked up the four flights to my room.

I didn't intend to spend more than a couple of days in the city. I'm rather fond of Phnom Penh, but only because I remember how run-down it was on my first visit in 2002. I'm a big fan of old and decrepit (which is a good thing as I'm personally destined to be both). Fortunately, the railroads have remained untouched for decades (which is also unfortunate because it's almost impossible to take a train trip anywhere).

Life on the other side of the river hasn't changed much. There are more houses, but the ramshackle buildings held up by bamboo poles still cling to the riverbank.

Driving along another side street, I saw a makeshift pavilion. Recorded music was being blasted out through public address speakers. It was not until I got close that I realized I'd stumbled upon a traditional wedding ceremony. Well, maybe it's not quite traditional because I have no idea what sort of traditions might have been supplanted by western ideology, but the jewelery and silks were most certainly Khmer.

I really wanted to hang around and see if I could get a formal pose of the bride and groom. However, they did have a young photographer shooting the wedding and another doing video and I didn't want to impose. Ideally, I would have assisted the fellow in getting good poses (I used to shoot weddings), but I was unable to explain to him my idea as his English was so poor.

One type of individual I can always count on for a good pose is the stone statue. There is a studio right on the street near the national museum. It's a great spot for pictures just after sun rise.

There is a large park near the Royal Palace. At sunset, many people gather here at the riverbank to buy food from the street vendors or buy offerings for the shrine there. It's also the time when the local semi-professional photographers try to get locals to buy a posed photo. I turned the table on these two gentlemen, insisting that I photograph them. They were most pleased to comply with my request.

Monks are always a popular subject. I chatted with these fellows for several minutes. They appreciated the opportunity to practice their English.

The next day, it was time to bid farewell to Cambodia. I had one more tour through the streets on my cyclo before boarding a bus to Vietnam.

See a few more photos here.

Back-country adventures in Cambodia, Part Three

I was standing beneath a canopy of bright stars, with blackness and dead silence all about me. Pushing the bike up the incline of the road would soon exhaust me. I tried to convince myself that there might be a little village over the next rise.

As my eyes adjusted I could make out tiny lights; faint blue lights hung on the land between the road and the trees. There were shacks out there! They were using LED lamps, probably hooked up to car batteries. I pushed the bike to the side of the road and located a path down through the field. "Soo-sa-day!" I called, shouting hello in Khmer. "Soo-sa-day!"

I heard a door open and someone started walking toward me carrying a small flashlight. I greeted the young man then pantomimed riding a motorbike and the engine dying. He looked at the bike with concern. I then pantomimed sleeping and pointed to his shack. He nodded his head, smiling broadly, and gestured toward his home. He helped me pull the bike down the path. As we approached the shack he called to someone inside. I parked the bike and unpacked my gear. My host helped me up the short ladder steps.

The interior was about four meters on each side with floors and walls made of bamboo slats. The roof was lined with palm fronds and tarpaulins. The interior looked as much like a small warehouse as it did a home. There was no furniture to speak of, but mats, small stacks of clothes and bedding, sacks of grain, tools, etc. In the back I could see a small extension with the fire pit and water bucket. On the center column was a small shrine and an LED lamp lighting the scene. As I entered my host's wife and child greeted me. It was rather obvious that they were not prepared for company, but I was made to feel welcome. My host introduced his wife, daughter and newborn baby girl.

My hosts and rescuers.

The first order of business was to get prepared for bed. I pulled out a clean t-shirt and shorts as well as my toothbrush, tooth paste and soap. My host led me back outside and guided me along another path to the well. He dropped a bucket down and pulled up enough water to get clean. It was too cool for a bucket shower so I washed as best I could, changed clothes and we went back inside.

They laid out a straw mat near the door for me to sleep. When I sat down, the little girl came over and sat in front of me and just stared. I started rooting through my bag pulled out some candy. The parents gave them to the child who ate them with much delight. I realized I also had some nail color and gave that to her mom, who turned it over to her daughter.

Talking was all but impossible. I did my best to pantomime my journey and augmented the tale with images from my camera. I opened my pocket PC and showed them some more photos from my other trips. I asked them about the various things I saw in the hut. There were bags of rice or some other sort of grain. Some was for eating, some for planting. I did mange to learn that a truck would come by the next morning around 7:30. Before it got too late, a blanket was brought out for me and we settled in to sleep.

The next morning I was up before sunrise and went out to look around. The hut was sitting in a cleared area that had numerous young trees, bushes and other plants. I could imagine they had a pretty good subsistence farm but couldn't imagine how they might earn cash. Perhaps my host worked somewhere locally. I could see evidence of other huts further down the road. Wisps of cooking fire smoke emanated from a few of them. My hosts were rousing and everyone was now getting up. I learned that we were joined in the night by my host's younger brother. Some how he got in without waking me. He came out and I introduced myself. He was fascinated by the bike.

The shack is about 25 meters from the road.

After getting cleaned up, I packed my bags and pushed the bike back up to the road. I stood there looking into the distance and wondering if the truck would come early. I had a lot of time, so I headed back to the hut to pose the family for a photo.

Family photo time!

Back up the road, some of the locals came out to see the stranger and hear the story about how he wandered in during the night. They talked among themselves then stood on the side of the road. I wasn't sure if they were waiting for something or just entertained by the foreigner in their midst. Occasionally a scooter would come by and sometimes stop to talk to the people on the road with me. Everyone wanted to know what I was doing there, but no one spoke English.

Waiting for the truck.

When the truck appeared on the horizon, plenty of locals had come out to the side of the road. I was assuming the truck would be a 3/4 ton truck or larger vehicle. It was a little Toyota pickup. As it slowed down, I was horrified to see that it was packed with people, bags of rice, and equipment. There was no way they'd be able to get my bike in the back and would probably push the little engine just to take me on as a passenger. Would I have to wait until a larger truck appeared?

The little truck pulled over and my host explained the situation to the driver. He came over and drew a figure in the dusty road; he wanted twenty dollars to take me to town. That was pretty expensive. I looked at huge load on the truck, thought about how they'd have to unload the vehicle, take me and the bike to town then come back to pick up the goods. I grimaced and agreed to the amount stated. I could have haggled, but eager to get going.

The guys started rearranging the bags on the truck while pulling out ropes and tie-downs. Before I knew what was happening they hoisted the bike up on top of the bags of rice and strapped it down on all sides. It looked like the whole thing would roll over on the first turn. Yikes!

That little Toyota could haul a lot of cargo.

I thanked my host one more time and discretely handed him a folded five dollar bill. He waved his hands in refusal. I knew damn well he could use the money but didn't want him to lose face by my insistence (especially when his neighbors where there). I pointed to his daughter then pointed to the money. The message was "this is for your daughter." He bowed as he shook my hand and accepted the donation.

The truck driver offered me a place in the cab to sit. It was packed like a sardine can. I declined, choosing to ride on top with the other male passengers. I was really disappointed that I was not riding the bike on this particular road. We passed through some very interesting landscapes and some very curious villages with conical huts.

We pulled into the town and my bike was hauled down. I pushed it to the repair shop and explained, in pantomime again, what happened. The guys talked among themselves, poked at the bike, dismantled parts of it and otherwise ignored me. I figured that they needed to spend a bit of time with the patient, leaving me to wander off and explore. I pondered over how much it would cost to get the bike sent back to Phenom Penh.

Downtown Saen Monouram.

I went to a cell phone shop and called Joe. I had promised to call him when I arrived and he was curious why I hadn't called the night before. He figured I could look after myself, though. I explained the situation and he laughed saying an adventure is what you make of it. We agree to meet in Phenom Penh in a few days.

An hour or so later, after some breakfast noodles, I returned to the shop to see my bike just sitting there. It wasn't dismantled. This was either very good news or very bad news. It took a few minutes of pantomime with the mechanics to figure out that the bike was OK and that the cost was less than the ride into town. I packed my kit, rode around a bit and headed out.

Joe figured the trip from Ban Lung to Saen Monourom was just shy of 200km, making it a day trip for an experienced rider. That it took me the better part of 24 hours made it quite the adventure, but I still had to make the 400km ride back to Phenom Penh. My adventure was not quite over.

At this point, it's probably worth mentioning that I was slightly handicapped on this whole trip. My speedometer didn't work. That meant that my odometer didn't work. That's why I had such a hard time figuring out if I'd made it to Kaoh Nhek. I didn't worry about it when I was with Joe because he knew how fast we were going and far we had gone. He also had something else I didn't have, a map.

I had to make my way back to Phenom Penh using dead reckoning. As I left Saen Monouram, I knew I had to go West and there was only one road west. I figured that so long as I stayed on the main road it would lead to Rome, or Phenom Penh as the case may be. I wasn't sure if I'd make it to the capital before nightfall, but knew I could make it to the little crossroads town of Snuol, near the border of Vietnam.

The province of Mondelkeri is made up of steep hills. On the first large hill out of town I ran across a curious sight, a small pine forest. It was just sitting there, apparently planted, nowhere near the tropical jungle trees. It made me think of North Carolina except, for the view. As I continued, I encountered numerous large earth hauling trucks. It was obvious construction of some sort was going on, but I saw no other evidence of it.

The roads were generally pretty good, but I soon found myself heading down a steep hill with two huge ruts running down the middle. The large vehicles had been used during the rainy season and had left deep furrows in the dirt road. It was into this disastrous groove the bike slipped. Normally, if I became slightly unbalanced, I would simply turn the bike in that direction and I'd be OK. However, with the front and back tires firmly entrenched I was unable to steer! To make matters worse, a large truck was coming toward me and the driver had done his best to get plenty of momentum for the uphill run. It was at this unhappy moment that I discovered that my back brakes didn't work.

It's possible that the brakes broke when I hit the ground hard the day before, or maybe when the guys were loading or unloading the bike or maybe the guys at the repair shop managed to damage it unwittingly. That didn't matter much at the moment as I had about thirty seconds to get out of the way of the truck and keep the bike upright. My adventure on the dam the day before was a terrifying three seconds in which I had to act instinctively and hope for the best. This new terror was dragged out long enough that I could enjoy weighing the consequences of every decision I could make.

If I used the front brake too hard, I might lock the wheel and flip the bike, but more likely the back end would swerve and knock me over ... in front of the oncoming truck. Even pumping the front brake would reduce my control. Turning the wheel to pull out of the rut was out of the question; doing so would simply wedge the wheel against the side and the bike would drop in the opposite direction. I maintained my balance by holding my feet out and kicking down into the dirt. That meant I couldn't use my foot to quickly shift into a lower gear. I could always attempt a controlled fall but skidding and rolling across the dirt and gravel in shorts and t-shirt was not the least bit appealing. Of course, if I didn't take the dive right away I might end up tumbling straight into, or under, the truck.

I worked the front brake and scanned the rut to see if there was somewhere I could break free. Ahead I saw a large stone. I could launch the front wheel off the rock and jump over the edge of the rut. It almost worked. I got the front wheel on the road but I was starting to lean the back toward the damned rut. The only way to prevent a dirt dive was to steer back into the trap I had nearly escaped.

The deep groove flattened out ahead. This gave me a chance to ride up the side and pull back on to the smooth surface. Moments later, the truck grumbled past and I coasted to the bottom of the hill. I looked back at the truck as it ascended. The hill didn't look the least bit dangerous from the bottom and the ruts looked downright harmless. I chalked it up as another win for me and continued on up the next hill with a keen eye for road ruts.

The dusty red road carves a path through the green jungle.

Some time later I encountered road crews at work. These were a mix of Japanese engineers working with Khmers surveying the road and building bridges. Not long after I saw the first evidence of land mines. An area off the side of the road had been cleared and posted with numerous warning signs.

I found it curious that anyone would bother to put a shelter over a land mine. The site was not about to be rained on during dry season and the work crews were unlikely to bother with sand bags and sun screening when they could just dispose of the ordinance and move on. I had to conclude that this site was there for foreign dignitaries. They could look at a mine first hand and go home to tell everyone they saw a real live mine.

This mine site was too well maintained for anything but photo opportunities.

Further up the road I met guys who were actually doing something with the mines, finding them and disposing of them. I spent a few minutes watching the men in action before pulling out my camera. The commander rushed over and warned me not to take any pictures. I could not figure out why they were forbidding photos unless they just wanted to keep tourists away from the action; they were not bothered by my presence otherwise. Curious.

It's OK to shoot the signs and the field, but not the workers.

I assumed the road would get better and better as I approached Phenom Penh. However, it was actually getting narrower and more rural looking. I was pretty sure I was on the right road. I was certainly going West and there were no other roads, but I still felt uneasy. Although the road got worse, I took some comfort that I was seeing shacks and little villages now and then.

Late in the afternoon, after spending a few hours wondering if I was going the right way and how far I was from Snuol, I passed another adventurer going the other way. I recognized the fellow immediately. I met him in Stueng Traeng a few days earlier. This wild looking Swiss national would look more at home on stage performing with Metallica or Dethklok than riding a dirt bike through rural South East Asia. I spotted him again when I was in Banlung. By the time I processed all that information, I realized that I should have waved him down and asked for directions (not that there any directions other than East or West, but he'd at least know how far I was from Snuol). By now he was long past me and I gave up on the idea of catching him.

About half an hour later, as I was maneuvering around crater-size pot holes in the road, Swiss guy roared past me on his bike. I was taken by surprise and raced after him, catching up about five minutes later. I got him to pull over and we took a look at his map. He wasn't sure where we were either! He had arrived on a new road that was not on his map. We continued the direction I was going, but not riding together. He was an independent sort and went off on his own. We took turns passing each other as we sped up and slowed down. It was nice to know that another westerner was nearby should either of us run into trouble.

The road eventually crossed a larger road. We stopped and discussed the situation. I was pretty sure Snuol was to the left, he thought it was to the right or possibly straight ahead. Looking at the map, we had no idea where we were. Fortunately, there was a mechanic shop right on the corner. The people there told us that the Vietnamese border was just down the road to the left and Snuol to the right. I was tempted to go to Vietnam, seeing how close it was, but only just tempting. I said goodbye to my Swiss acquaintance and headed toward Snuol. It had taken me over three hours to make the 125km trip.


As appealing as the name may be (Snoooool!), the town was quite boring. I thought I might spend the night there, but it was simply not worth it, nor was there anything that looked like a guest house.

The market at Snoul was not particularly attractive.

I still had some daylight left and figured I could make it back to Phenom Penh even if I had to drive at night for a couple of hours. I might not have a speedometer, odometer or brakes, but by golly I had a headlight! I actually stopped and checked to see if the the light worked at this point. Murphy had been my riding partner more than once on this trip. I rode to the other side of town and found something I'd not seen in a long time.

Oh heaven, paved roads! I was able to maintain a good clip as I sped out of Snoul. I passed plenty of proper cars and trucks and was passed, in turn, by other cars who knew the road. "Oh, look, road signs!" I could see exactly how far I was from the capital and could therefore determine my speed. I would have a few hours of nighttime travel, but I'd be back in Phenom Penh having a drink and a good meal that very evening!

As I crossed an area with standing water, I started hitting bugs. A lot of bugs. A lot of big bugs. Big bugs that hurt when they hit my bare skin, particularly my face. I used my sunglasses to protect my eyes for as long as I could, then used one hand to act as a deflector while the other hand suffered the rigors of controlling the bike. It was like riding through a hail storm of crunchy arthropods. As it got darker, I hoped they would grow less numerous. They didn't.

Riding on a paved, well traveled Cambodian road at night is very different than riding on an unpaved, untraveled Cambodian road at night. I hadn't counted on the amount of traffic, but it was the oncoming headlights that nearly did me in. Drivers often kept the high beams on all the time, opposing traffic or not. Of course all that traffic kept the air moving, which picked up the dust, which blew into my eyes. I wrapped the dark portion of my Khmer scarf over my face as a dust screen. While this filtered out the fine particles and the big bugs, it also reduced my visibility somewhat. Fortunately, it was a straight road and the vehicle lights would alert me should I overtake another traveler.

Did you know that Cambodian trailers don't have lights? I found this out by nearly rear-ending a old man on a motor bike hauling an enormous trailer-load of wicker shelf units. I was speeding into the darkness—not at full speed, thankfully—when my light struck a dark shape. I squeezed the brake and prepared for impact. Fortunately, I was going slow enough, and he was going fast enough, that I did not smash into his shelves. After that I kept my speed down unless I could get in close behind a car or truck.

This should give you an idea as to the crazy stuff they haul on the back of a little motor scooter.

I kept watching the signs indicating the distance to "home." It was not encouraging. While the previous week had been hours of leisurely riding, this current situation required one hundred percent of my attention and it was, quite frankly, exhausting. As soon as I came upon a good size town, I decided to find a place to crash, figuratively of course. I found a big, clean looking, new guest house on the other side of the next town I rode through. It looked like they were getting ready to close up for the night when I arrived. The cost of the room was about five dollars. I pulled my bike into their lobby/garage with the few other scooters there and wandered down the road to stretch my legs and get something to eat.

The restaurant I found had a rather lackluster selection of prepared dishes. Lackluster was combined with tasteless as I ate the mysterious vegetables and picked at the even more mysterious meat.

Back at the guest house I asked the gaggle of staff hanging around the counter for the key to my room. It was decided that someone would show me to my room, something entirely unnecessary. Of course it was the transvestite that took the key and led the way. I've seen plenty of "ladyboys" in Thailand, but this was the first I'd seen in Cambodia. He made smalltalk as we climbed the three flights stairs to the room. I couldn't figure out why they put me in a room so far from the lobby. It wasn't like the place was full. I saw evidence of maybe only a handful of people in the place.

The room was typically small, but it had a bed and a shower and that's all I wanted. As I expected, the ladyboy offered me a massage. I declined. He was doing his best to be persuasive, but I had absolutely no interest. I bolted the door when he left and unpacked my gear. First order of business was a long hot shower.

One leg scrubbed, the other only washed.

At a few of the country guest houses I visited, I noticed a bristle brush in the shower. I always assumed it was for cleaning the shower, but I later learned their true purpose, to scrub the red Cambodian dust out of your skin. I soaped up and went to work with the brush.

Over the past few weeks I was in the sun most every day and had picked up an amazing bronze tan. However, after some work with the brush I discovered that what I really had was a coat of dust that had dyed my skin. The dust also acted as a sunscreen as I suffered not a single burn the whole trip. For comparison's sake, I thoroughly scrubbed my right leg for a before and after shot (you can even see the red marks where some of the bugs hit me).


The next day I woke early and took my time getting back to Phenom Penh. I'm glad I didn't keep going through the night because I would have missed some terrific scenery. I also had the opportunity to visit a monastery and an ancient Khmer temple along the way. I made it back to the capital around lunchtime. I checked in to my hotel, cleaned up, changed and took the bike back to the rental shop.

When I walked into the shop, the proprietor's wife greeted me. "Oh, you had a problem with the bike!" It wasn't a question, but a statement. I thought I misunderstood. "You were able to fix, yes?" OK, now how the heck did she know I had a problem and fixed it? Could the bike shop in Saen Monouram have been in contact with them? I couldn't see how. I was flabbergasted. I told her what happened to the bike and the situation with the back brake.

When I saw Joe a few days later, he solved the mystery of the clairvoyant moto-shop. It turned out that the owner happened to be visiting Banlung and ran into Joe just after I called him. Joe told the owner what happened to me. The owner then alerted his wife to expect me and the sick bike.

I'm looking forward to repeating this trip one day so I can take my time going through the "death highway" and spend a bit more time exploring. I also want to go back and visit the family that had billeted me that night and bring them some photos. It would be interesting to do the trip during the rainy season, but I'll be sure not to drag a girlfriend along on the back of the bike.


Big map of the entire adventure

Backcountry adventure in Cambodia, Part Two

Joe explained that the "Death Highway" was named by a guy who decided to take the direct route between Banlung and Mondulkiri province and spent two days slogging through mud in the rainy season. That wasn't bad enough, but he brought his girlfriend on the back of the bike with him. The "death" part comes from her threats to kill him for dragging her along.

We were all set to take the trail south, but Joe's bike broke down. It was nothing major, but serious enough that it would require a couple of days to get the parts he needed. I had a severe case of itchy feet and really wanted to get moving. We discussed my chances with a few other experienced riders. They recommended I wear long pants—the road was rife with brambles—and offered tips on how to tell if I was going the right way. They figured that in the worse case scenario, I could hire a ox cart to haul the bike out if something bad happened. No one defined "bad."

The next morning, I got up a bit late, packed the bike in a hurry, my beautiful basket strapped on top of everything, and headed south to the ghost town of Lumphat. This place was once a good size town. What remains today is a working cell tower, an overgrown fountain at the intersection of the two main roads, some abandoned concrete buildings and a few wooden homes scattered about. When I stopped, many of the locals would point to the basket lashed atop my gear. Some offered to buy it from me.

My next goal was to find the river crossing. A small ferry took foot passengers and motorbikes across for a dollar. I took a well used trail leading to the river but there was no boat. In fact, I could not see how it was possible that any boat could navigate those rapids. I spent the better part of an hour asking directions and being sent back to the same spot.

There's no way a ferry is crossing here!

Finally, in desperation, I found someone who could speak a bit of English to guide me to the river crossing. It turns out it was a little further up the river than I had been searching. The ferry consisted of a wooden platform strapped atop two longboats. The crew consisted of six children, the oldest of which was probably fourteen, the youngest about four. I gave the thirteen year old captain a dollar and he started the engine for our crossing. Unfortunately, during the voyage, the laundry that the eldest girl was working on went overboard and the clothes sank before the captain could turn the craft around. Had I known they'd sink so fast, I would have gladly dove in after them. It would have been a refreshing dip at that point in my journey.

The first mate keeps a steady eye on the crew as the captain carefully navigates the treacherous waters.

On the other side, I maneuvered the bike up a steep hill and on to the dirt path that would lead me south to the village of Kaoh Nhek in the province of Mondulkiri. It was early afternoon and knew I'd have to push it to make it before dark, but I was feeling pretty confident. Then the path forked. Then the fork forked. I could see through the trees that there were actually numerous trails. Sometimes they would converge, sometimes they would just fade into the ground. The seeds of doubt were now planted and my confidence was waning. Was I on the right trail?

To my left I spotted a large open field. On the north side there were numerous wooden homes about a kilometer away. I figured it wouldn't hurt to drive by and see if I was on the right trail. Unfortunately, there were no trails leading to that village and I didn't want to cut across the rice paddy even if it was dry. I decided to keep going south and hope the trail became more distinct as I progressed.

It was somewhere near this point that I discovered why bikers hate sand. I ran into small deserts of the stuff. The front wheel would sink in, the bike would lurch forward and the rear wheel would spin and slip sideways, unable to grip the ground. I ended up having to use my feet for extra traction and balance to get through these spots, and there were a lot of them. Fortunately, the brambles I had been warned about, were not in abundance. This was good because I was still wearing shorts.

The landscape looks more like Africa than South East Asia. I half expected to see a pride of lions resting in the shade beneath some of those trees.

I had crossed the river an hour ago and had yet to see a single human being. In fact, with the exception of the houses near the rice paddy, I had seen no sign of human habitation. It was around this time that I "dropped" the bike. I was going along pretty smoothly then suddenly I was lying on my side and the bike lying on top of me. If that wasn't enough, the engine's radiator vanes were pressed tightly against my bare leg, burning my thigh. I squirmed out, assessed the damage and got the bike going again. That was the first time I'd lost control of the bike; it gave me a much greater appreciation for how heavy it was.

Eventually, I did find signs of life. A woman and two men had taken shelter from the sun beneath a large tree. I stopped to say hello and determine if I was heading in the right direction. We were unable to communicate anything meaningful about the direction I was heading, but it was clear the woman was very interested in my basket, gesturing she wanted me to give it to her. A few kilometers down the road I ran across a family in their ox cart but did not stop to chat.

After that, it was another long stretch of lonely trail. About an hour later, I was navigating down a gully where a river might once have run, when I saw a sight for sore eyes, a motorized vehicle. A crude truck laden with supplies was making its way to the bottom of the riverbed. Through pantomime I managed to establish that I was heading in the right direction. I managed to drop the bike a few more times over the next few hours, but remained uninjured.

In the mid afternoon I rolled onto the most road-like trail I'd seen since I left Lumphat. There were houses on an open stretch of road. There was even a store where I bought a bottle of water and quaffed it in one go. I made it! Or had I? I asked the store keeper if I was in Kaoh Nhek. He shook his head and gestured to the south. Oh well, it was nice to have some water.

An unknown village on the road to Kaoh Nhek.

I had a few hours of sunlight left, so I followed the road. It led south then east. I was pretty sure it was the wrong direction, but roads around here have a tendency to change direction. As I rode by, I asked a woman "Kaoh Nhek?" pointing along the road. She nodded enthusiastically pointing in the direction I was aimed. I drove down the road to a fork and turned right. After exploring several meandering trails, I decided I took the wrong trail and doubled back. The other trail eventually led through a bamboo grove, across a steam and on to a savanna-like plain. The condition of the trail led me to suspect it was not, in fact, leading to a larger village than the one I just left.

I bet this place looks magical in the rainy season.

I followed the trail for a few kilometers before finding a couple of kids leading ox carts away from the village from which I came. When I pointed in their direction and said "Koah Nhek?" they responded with a different name. Wrong way. I rode back to the village, a very long ride. I glared at the woman who led me astray and continued into the village to get proper directions. I was also in dire need of gas.

Gas is carefully ladled into my tank.

The gas guys knew enough English to give me the right directions. I had to travel south west, not south east, just as I expected. As luck would have it, three fellows were heading in the direction of Banlung who were willing to show me the way. "Lead on, my good fellows!" They were on little scooters, but knew the road so well that I had a really tough time keeping up with them on my big off-road bike.

It's fortunate that I had guides. There was no way I would have found my way through the maze of trails. In fact, some of them led right through people's back yards (or what passed for yards in that part of the world). One of the guys dropped out as he reached his destination, but the others raced on. A couple of times they got far enough ahead of me that I had to pour on the gas to catch up to where I thought they were; they were able to race out of sight in the bush in mere seconds. I almost lost them completely when I dropped the bike heading down a dry riverbed. I had to retie my gear, restart the bike and go speeding up the trail to where I hoped to find them. I managed to catch up. I'm sure they were quite enjoying the merry chase, out pacing the big bike on their little scooters.

The most interesting part of the ride was just north of Kaoh Nhek village. I thought my guides had taken me on to an elevated road as we were riding on a long straight berm a good three meters above the plain. It wasn't wide enough to be a proper road however. I figured out what it was a few minutes later when I noticed the difference in foliage on the two sides of the berm; to my right was typical barren desert plants, to my left was green plants. The land on the left was getting more water than the land on the right. It turned out I was riding across the top of an earthen dam, an ancient Khmer barang. While it was dry, enough moisture was captured on the one side to help the plants.

The scooters were well ahead of me now. I could see them on the left, beyond a right angle bend in the earthworks. On this flat and clear road, I had the advantage and opened the throttle. I was grinning like a maniac because I had made it safely through the death highway and was within spitting distance of Kaoh Nhek with an hour of daylight to spare. I was almost there! I was making short work of the distance between me and my guides.

Then I noticed that the road ahead of me disappeared. There was a ten meter gap in the earthen berm and I was racing for it at full speed. I put on the brakes and hoped I could keep the bike pointed straight ahead without skidding. I flew off the edge and came down hard. Somehow, I managed to stay upright. The momentum carried me up the other side. As I continued on, I replayed the last few seconds of my life. "Holy flargin' snit!" I would have pulled over and allowed the shakes to subside, but my guides were pulling away and I feared that I might yet take a wrong turn. I continued after them, focused on the goal of getting back to a real road.

The dam ended as it merged into a a good looking dirt track. I tell you, after all the hours I put on that trail, I had a pretty good appreciate for dirt tracks. The trail became straighter and wider. My guides were at the end of their journey, but gave me assurances that Kaoh Nheaek was further along the road. Road indeed! For moments later, I saw regular four-wheeled vehicles parked along the side. Eventually it turned into proper graded gravel road.

Not long after, I came to a crossroads with low buildings all around. I stopped at the corner and asked "Kaoh Nhek?" The pedestrian nodded enthusiastically pointing to the surroundings. I'd made it! I drove around a bit to see what the town looked like. Down a side road I discovered a bit of Kaoh Nhek's pre Khmer Rouge past. There were a number of abandoned buildings, including a large school complex. Some of them riddled with bullet holes.

Part of the old school complex.

There was still a some daylight left, so I rode around to see where I might stay. I knew Saen Monouram was south, but there was a brand new road leading off to the west. I was intrigued and drove a couple of kilometers to see if it went anywhere interesting. It was a beautiful gravel road, but it was not going in my direction.

Ah, what a beautiful road!

Back in Koah Nhek I stopped at the restaurant bar to see what I could eat. Nothing appealed to me. I didn't see anywhere to stay so I decided to continue on to Saen Monouran, about an hour's ride south. As I walked toward the bike, I noticed a dark stain, a pool of oil beneath the engine. "Uh-oh, that can't be good." There was a mechanics shop a hundred meters away, so I coasted the bike over and gestured to the problem.

The bike mechanics examined the engine. They shook their heads indicating there was nothing they could do. I was boned. I thought about where I could stay and how I could get the bike to Saen Monouran—or all the way back to Phenom Penh. Then I noticed the rack of oil bottles. I figured that the accident had occurred about an hour ago when I nearly bought the farm at the dam. Saen Monouran was an hour away and had decent accommodations. I could fill the bike with oil and drive until it ran out, add another liter and keep topping it up until I arrived. I bought two bottles, thought about the drive and bought a third for good measure, then bought a fourth to fill the oil pan before riding off.

The road was flat and even and broad. There was no traffic. I figured I could make the journey in an hour with a bit of determination. I opened the throttle and raced down the "highway."

Darkness descended more quickly than I had anticipated. The light on the bike was enough to show the way, however. I saw a light ahead of me and soon overtook a small truck, heavily laden with people and goods. As I ascended a hill, I noticed that the bike was struggling a bit. I eased back on the gas but knew I had to check the oil level soon. I pulled over, stopped the bike and checked the oil with my miniature flashlight. I had to check it again using the bike's lamp to be sure. The dipstick was dry. I pulled out a bottle of oil and poured it in. The bike sounded great after that and I continued. However, I was painfully aware that I'd only been on the road for fifteen minutes and I hadn't seen a single dwelling.

It wasn't long before the bike was struggling once more. I'd barely gone ten minutes. I pulled over. The oil pan was empty again. In went another bottle of oil and I drove on. Along the road ahead of me, I could see warm friendly looking lights through the trees. A place to stay? I'd stay here the night and see about getting a ride in the morning. When I came around the bend, I discovered the source of the lights. The trees were on fire.

The Khmer locals clear the land using the ol' slash and burn method. They cut the bark from the lower part of the tree, let the tree die then burn it as it stands. The road was lined with ancient trees and they were burning them down a few at a time. I wondered if this place would make a good place to sleep. The nights were cool and it would be warm there in among the burning trees. I'd be blackened with soot, but it might be better than shivering all night long.

I left the trees behind as I drove back into the enveloping darkness. The engine was struggling again. I opened my last bottle of oil. I road past another burning grove but kept going in the hope that I would find a village or a few houses in which I could seek shelter. I could feel the engine struggling. I pulled over, examined the dip stick and fed it more oil.

The truck I had overtaken earlier passed me as I stood on the road. I was tempted to wave it down, but there was no room to get me and the bike in the back. I puttered up the next hill and coasted most of the way down the other side. I scanned ahead in hope of seeing some light, a town or even burning trees for all I cared. The engine was struggling. I'd only gone a few kilometers. There was no way I'd make it to the town. My goal was to get over the next rise, but as I rode up, I knew the bike wouldn't make it. I killed the engine and coasted to a stop.

I turned off the light and was plunged into a velvet darkness. The stars were crisp and bright and outlined the horizon. As my eyes adjusted I could make out big trees a few hundred meters off the road. I stood there astride the bike and wondered what I should do next. It was quiet. I'd hoped to hear a karaoke machine in the distance, but there was nothing, not even bird songs.

End of part two. Click here for part three.

Backcountry adventure in Cambodia, Part One

I was faced with three choices. I could 1) wait a few days for Joe's motorcycle to get fixed, 2) head back the way we came, or 3) tackle the "Death Highway" alone. I wasn't keen on waiting because I'd grown tired of the small Cambodian town of Ban Lung where we had spent the last few days exploring. Nor was I keen on heading back on the boring dusty road that brought us to the town. That left me with one choice: the "Death Highway."

First, let me explain how I came to this crossroad. I'd spent a few weeks traveling around Bali and Java where it rained almost every day. As much as I like rain, I was feeling a bit fungal and longed for someplace dry. I knew just the place; I hopped a plane in Jakarta and flew to Phenom Penh, Cambodia.

I'd planned to spend about a week in Cambodia; a few days in the capital and a few days exploring the temples of Angkor. When I arrived, the first thing I did was call my expatriate photographer pal, Joe Garrison. He told me he was taking the next week off to do a motorbike trip and asked me to join him. I was hesitant because that would cut into my travel time. I was also concerned that this meant hiring a bike much larger than the scooters to which I had become accustomed. He explained that a new road into the North East had just opened. The region would soon change as trucks and tourists had greater access to the country. I realized that I would not again have an opportunity to explore this part of Cambodia with an experienced guide. I agreed to accompany Joe. We would travel with a few other intrepid explorers, but Joe suggested that, as photographers, we would go our own way when photo opportunities presented themselves.

Planning the route on the  pool table of a local bar.

What belongings I could take had to fit on the small rack at the back of the bike. This required traveling light as part of my luggage included some spare parts for the motorcycle. With a solid breakfast in our bellies, we were on the road North by mid morning. I'd spent the day before getting used to the big bike. I'd only ridden an off-road motorcycle once before and found it surprisingly easy to handle.

In preparation for the road, I purchased a pair of riding goggles in the market. I put them on as we headed down the dusty highway leading out of Phenom Penh. As we passed through out first dust cloud, I realized that the goggles only served to funnel the wind and dust straight into my tear ducts. I pulled them off and jammed my sunglasses tightly against my eye sockets. I was just in time, too, a moment later I took a large dragon fly right between the eyes. Had he been flying a couple of inches lower, I'd be pulling bug parts from between my teeth.

Joe pulled off the road at a river crossing where we met up with four other riders with whom we'd be traveling. We maneuvered onto the ferry with the various cars, trucks pedestrians and motor scooters and chatted as we crossed the river. They were all seasoned Cambodian explorers, so when the ferry operator tried to overcharge us, these guys were having none of it. They managed to keep the operator honest and we paid a dollar each. They told tales of being ripped off by ferries, of pilots threatening to turn the boat around if the foreigners did not pay double or triple the going rates and bikers calling their bluff. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't.

Crowded ferry boat

I managed to get my bike off the boat, driving up the steep bank and past a group of kids waving like maniacs. Joe and I took the rear as we planned to shoot photos along the way if anything caught our attention ... which took only a few seconds for me. We passed two huge wagons, laden with clay pots, being pulled by teams of water buffalo. I was stunned that Joe didn't stop then chased after him not to be left behind.

We met up with the rest of our group at Kampong Cham, a large town on the Mekong just north of Phenom Penh. We pulled in to an expat run restaurant just ahead of a motorcycle tour group of Eastern European men and women decked out in matching riding gear. Our dishevelled crew looked like a bunch of bums by comparison. We spent a few minutes watching the fishermen on the river before making our way to our next destination, Krachi. As before, Joe and I hung back, planning to catch up later. We drove along the river road and I gawked at the sights.

We came to a temple complex spread over the top of a hill where we met one of our riding companions. He explained the rest of the group would continue on to the ferry and Krachi while Joe and I explored the monastery.

The view from the hilltop

We spent about twenty minutes exploring then drove off down the road. I was a bit put off by the fact that we were heading away from the river, but Cambodian roads (and rivers for that matter) have a strange way of twisting and turning and felt we'd end up at the ferry before too long. After an hour or so, we were getting a bit suspicious and tried to ask direction. Joe knew enough Khmer to get by so we knew we wouldn't have any trouble ... except the locals never heard of Krachi. "Kratch-aye?" No. "Kratch-eye?" No. "Kratch-ah?" Nope. "Kratch-ee?" Sometimes we'd get a positive response and gestures to the West, a direction we knew was away from our destination. Joe's cell phone would not work this far from what passed for civilization, and the map was of no use as we couldn't tell where we were and the locals had never seen a map before - we were pretty much on our own

Joe was concerned that I might be upset that we were not on the right road. "We're still in South East Asia, right?" I asked? He nodded, giving me a peculiar look. "Then I'm happy" I said with a dusty grin. I was exploring curious back roads, visiting villages that rarely see westerners and trying to talk to locals who probably never heard English before. I had plenty of laughs trying to use pantomime where Joe's Khmer failed us. I was actually having a blast.

After double-backing on countless roads and trails, we were ready to give up and go back to Kampong Cham, spend the night there and try again in the morning. We made it back to the monastery about an hour before dark and stopped for a rest. We examined the map but were unable to ascertain where we were. Joe wanted some sugar cane juice so I took the opportunity to try my hand at the cane press.

Turn the crank and crush the sugar cane to a juicy pulp

Joe and I stood beneath an archway looking down a road leading toward the river. "Ya know," he said, as he sipped his sugar cane juice, "I wonder where that road goes." We looked at each other for a long moment. We figured the ferry would stop at dusk so we had about an hour. We were on the road two minutes later.

We were encouraged by the fact that there were numerous motor bikes and a few cars on the road. We passed by the most interesting riverside dwellings and I longed to stop to examine them. They looked like traditional American Indian long houses except they were round instead of long, if you know what I mean. We rode on, though, in a rush to get to the ferry and other side of the river to our companions. Darkness descended like a dusty velvet curtain, but we were passing a few cars so we were sure we'd soon come across the ferry and it might still be operating.

When night falls in rural Cambodia, it is dark ... very, dark. Our headlights didn't really light our way so much as they revealed thick clouds of dust before us. Occasionally we'd pass huts with a faint blue glow, locals watching TV powered by car batteries. Finally, out of literally nowhere, we rolled past a huge party. Music blared over the rumble of our bikes, light exploded from the darkness. A crowd was gathered beneath a canopy. "Wedding!" Joe shouted. I looked back, longing for light and revelry and maybe even cold drinks. Joe spotted a familiar SUV, one of the vehicles operated by the mine clearance crews. This was a good sign, oddly enough. They tended to sleep in what passes for normal accommodations in Cambodia.

Joe spoke to one of the locals. Here was the town with the ferry, which was closed for the night as it happens, and there was a guest house down the road. We pulled up and ordered two rooms for about three dollars each. His room had electricity, I had a candle.

After getting cleaned up, we sat out front and chatted with the adults, who eventually wandered away. We had fun entertaining the kids, however.

Joe entertains the kids with their photos

I was keen to see the party. Joe wasn't so keen. He said as Westerners we would be honored guests and he'd been to too many of these events. He capitulated, we returned to our rooms to wash. Taking a bath by candlelight is wondrously romantic. Taking a shower by candlelight, where you have to hold the candle in your hand because there is no where to set it down? Not romantic. Joe was waiting for me outside by the time I was marginally clean.

The party was in full swing. A live band dominated one corner of the lawn, dancers performed a traditional circle dance in front of the stage while everyone else stood on a sort of grandstand opposite. We tried to spot the bride and groom. We soon learned that this was not a wedding celebration, but a sort of Cambodian independence day. We were soon introduced to the local head man. I gathered that he was the Cambodian equivalent of a congressman. His teenage son spoke English and acted as interpreter. We sat at the head table and were introduced to the chief of police and the top businessmen of the area. As unworthy as we were, we were indeed honored.

My new best friend, the local chief

The chief dragged us up to dance. Girls appeared from nowhere and we joined the throng circling about the lawn in front of the band. Khmer style dancing consists of couples (or clumps of people) rhythmically shuffling in a big circle making hand gestures reminiscent of hula dancers. Fortunately I'm a natural at shuffling and I picked up the finer points of the hand gesturing on a previous trip in Laos.

Joe pointed out that the "audience" on the grandstand were not really part of the celebration, but spectators. These were people invited to the party but clearly not part of the "in" crowd. We continued to dance and talk (through the chief's son) and drink. The businessmen encouraged me to ask any question. I really was at a loss. I didn't want to ask anything that could be misconstrued, particularly political ideologies. I asked as to the number one crop in the area. "Rice!" he shouted with a smile (in Khmer, of course). Wow, who would have guessed! I continued to pitch slow balls and hoped for some inspiration. The men around me wanted to know what I thought of their town. Despite the fact I hadn't actually seen the town in that pitch black darkness, I truthfully assured them I thought it was very pleasant. My whiskey glass was refilled. These guys were drinking Johnny Walker, expensive stuff.

Joe alerted me that we'd probably be expected to stay until the wee hours of the morning unless we extricated ourselves. We told our host that we were having a marvelous time but after a long day on the bikes we were ready to pass out and we had to get up extra early and we were so happy we could join in the celebrations and were so pleased to have met so many fine people, etc., etc. We managed to get back to our rooms and I fell quickly asleep.

I woke as the sun cleared the horizon, shining beams through the slatted window. Joe had been up for some time, had some tea and had wandered the town a bit. We took our time and visited the market, a favorite photographic destination.

The Khmer head scarf is the Cambodian equivalent of denim jeans, everyone seems to wear it.

A vendor in a market stall calls out to potential customers.

Little riel fish are a mainstay in the local diet.

Wood planks are typically finished by hand.

We took the small ferry across the river and headed down the dusty road. I was very pleased to encounter one of the traveling pot vendors on the road.

A local kid stands beside the modern Khmer version of the gypsy tinker's cart.

As we crossed a bridge we spotted some of the crazy bamboo crane contraptions used to catch the riel fish.

Nets on these booms sweep the tiny riel out of the river.

At one point my bike felt sluggish. I looked down and discovered my tire was flat. Joe quickly spotted a bicycle repair shop that could do the job. The fellow struggled to get the rear tire off then started up a small fire to repair the inner tube. Joe, meanwhile, examined the wheel and discovered the cause of the problem. He pulled a small bamboo spike out of the tire. I was quite surprised that it penetrated the thick off-road tire. I have new found respect for the toughest member of the grass family.

The mechanic lights a fire on my inner-tube to repair the hole.

While we waited, I tried to hand out some of the hard candy I'd brought with me. The kids were too shy to approach, so I'd throw the candy toward them as hard as I could. It took them a few moments to realize I was trying to give them something they'd like. They'd scramble through the brush to get at my misdirected throws. They wouldn't come any closer than throwing distance, however. I doubt any of them had come so close to a Barang before.

Once the bike was fixed, we were back on the road and soon pulled into Kratié (Kracheh), a typical dusty downtrodden river town. Our companions would have spent the night here and headed for Stung Treng already. We had lunch and drove off on a road only recently cut through the wilderness.

Delightfully decrepit Kratie.

As I road down this wide road, racing to keep up with Joe, a dog dodged out of his path, then, looking straight at me, casually walked right in front of my speeding bike. If I swerved, I ran the risk of spilling on the loose gravel. Laying on the brakes was equally risky as I would skid and not come to a stop, so I released the throttle, held the handlebars firmly, and hoped he'd get out of the way at the last second. I closed my eyes. The bike bucked beneath me and something splattered my legs. I didn't look back. I didn't look down. Should I stop? What could I do if I did? I wondered if the dog belonged to some kid. After several minutes I got up the nerve to look down. My legs were splattered with mud.

When Joe came to a stop, I told him what happened. He shrugged and told me to get over it. The country was littered with dogs and most of them were strays. They got hit by cars and trucks all the time. No one would miss that dog. I felt better, but not much.

We continued on through the day. A few hours before sunset we arrived at the Mekong river town of Stueng Traeng. Joe called to get the location of the rest of the group and we met up with them near the river. Cans of beer were distributed and gratefully consumed. One of the guys saw the bandanna on my head and just about had a conniption. He forgot to bring his and begged me to sell him mine. Now, I love bandannas and have amassed quite a collection on my travels. On this trip I was carrying three favorites. After spending the evening with this fellow, I realized he was a really great guy and gave him my third bandanna. He was overjoyed. You can buy a lot of things in Cambodia, but good bandannas are not one of them.

That evening we went to an out-of-the-way Khmer restaurant that was basically the front porch of a house. My bandanna buddy insisted we try the beef in pepper sauce. This consisted of thin strips of fried beef you dip into a mixture of black pepper and lime. We ended up ordering two more rounds of the stuff it was so delicious. I spent the rest of my time in Cambodia looking for that dish.

When we checked into the hotel earlier, I asked the staff if I they could clean and polish my leather boots. I'd purchased them just before my trip and I wanted to take good care of them. The staff agreed to do a good job. When I returned to the hotel that night, they brought out my boots. They were wet. They had not been polished, they had been washed with detergent, the residue of which was still on the leather. I cringed but hid my disappointment. It only then occurred to me that most of these people had never even seen a pair of boots, let alone know how to treat them. Just about everyone in that town wore flip flops.

The clean and comfy Strung Treng Guest House (on the right) displaying the typical Cambodian architecture.

The next day Joe and I made our way to Ban Lung. The old road was in fairly good condition, but the occasional hole was disguised by the dappling effect of the bright sunlight pouring between the broad canopy of leaves overhead. I'd cruise along, avoiding the smaller ruts and then slam into a small crater. Had the bike not been so well designed, I would have been thrown off a couple of times. Crossing bridges became a challenge. They consist of a number of rough hewn logs perpendicular to the road, overlaid with a pair of long parallel planks for your wheels. The first few were easy enough, just keep up your speed and hold the bike steady. As we advanced, the game got harder when the planks got narrow or had gaps between them. Sometimes the plank would end abruptly with a hole between the perpendicular logs. Because most of the bridges were slightly raised above the road, you don't actually see these impediments; they surprise you just as you start across, when there's no time to change your mind or switch to the other plank.

With planks running four across, this was the easiest bridge we crossed.

We arrived a few hours before sunset, encrusted in road dirt. The town itself was thick in dust. We found a hotel on the main road and I took a much needed shower.

The view from the hotel.

A hill tribe woman with her bracelets.

The only way I could agree to get one of the hill people to pose for me was if I purchased something from them. I wanted one of their sturdy baskets, but the only people selling those were the town souvenir vendors. It took a while to find something I could carry with me. I found an old woman selling silvery rings that I believe were bracelets but might have just as easily been used as oversize earrings. My acquisition of two of her bracelets enabled me to capture a rather reluctant subject.

Locally made  gold necklace and gemstones.

Vendors who dealt with the few tourists in the market, were more amenable to having their photos taken. Although she doesn't seem to show it, this woman was very pleased when I asked her to model one of her fine gold necklaces sporting some of the local gemstones.

Sunset on a back road in the town.

This is a big gem area and there is plenty of evidence of this fact everywhere. Gems are sold in market stalls. Gems are cut and polished on the streets. The most common to the area is the zircon.

A gem-smith picks through his collection of small stones.

Polishing a large gem on a hand-cranked lathe.

We spent a few days exploring around the provincial capital, taking day trips to see the waterfalls and villages.

One of the more impressive falls consists of a series of cascades.

Hill tribe women and children stand in a rubber tree grove.

Typical hill tribe village dwellings.

This curious structure is where a bridegroom sleeps prior to his wedding.

This is where his bride sleeps (note that Joe really isn't eleven feet tall, that hut is really small)

After visiting a few hill tribe villages, we determined the locals wanted nothing to do with us as they kept well away. Occasionally we'd meet a group willing to chat, but "No photo!" Joe wished we could find a tribe that was willing to let us walk around and photograph them. As we were returning from a somewhat uneventful, long and dusty ride, we stopped at an intersection that wasn't on his map. I was keen to get back to the hotel and a shower, but Joe convinced me to just ride down the road a bit and see what was there.

The road ended after less than a kilometer, but we were able to navigate the short path to a rather good size village. Instead of villagers ducking into huts, they started waving and yelling hello at us. They were all gathered beneath a nearby house. I grinned at Joe as we got off the bikes and got our cameras ready. We were met and half dragged to the house, between the wooden piles holding it up. A few dozen adults and kids were gathered in the shade, away from the afternoon sun. On the ground were large earthenware jars with three-foot long straws protruding.

The Cambodian equivalent of an afternoon highball on the veranda.

One of the villagers dragged me over to an old man sitting in front of a jar. The old guy, pushed the straw at me gesturing to drink. I was really, really hesitant about this. Throwing caution to the wind, I took a tentative sip. Rice wine. Strong rice wine.

The people around me laughed and the old man insisted I drink more. They watched as the level in the neck of the jar went down. I gave them a big smile and made yummy sounds of approval. They clapped and pulled me over to another guy and his jar of wine. I took a sip and gave a thumbs up sign of approval; they encouraged me to take another pull at the reed straw.

It appeared that I had become the informal judge of a rice wine contest. They dragged me from one jar to another. I sampled each and made various gestures about how good the wine was. It wasn't the sort of stuff I could enjoy by itself, but in the party atmosphere, it was quite good. I noticed that Joe had managed to avoid the proceedings.

We did our best to communicate with them, but Joe knew the score from his long experience in the country. We were about to be shaken down. One of the guys explained that the big part was a housewarming. We were expected to contribute. I don't know how much they were looking for, but I figured five bucks should be more than enough. Of course the guy to whom I gave the money made a sour face, but I just smiled back. They were getting a bit drunk and rowdy so Joe suggested we take our leave. I happened to have a full bag of candy in my bag and pulled it out to distribute to the kids who had gathered. I knew this would be difficult to manage, so I handed the bag to one of the older women to distribute. In the mayhem that ensued, we got on our bikes and waved goodbye.

The one souvenir I was determined to procure was a hill tribe basket. I was just as determined not to buy it from a market vendor, but from one of the hill folk directly. I wanted a basket that had some wear, some history, some character—and I wanted to support one of the villagers who trekked in every morning to sell their meager produce in the market.

Once the sale was settled, she was willing to be photographed.

My initial attempts to buy a basket were turned down, oddly enough. I finally found a young woman who did not turn me away immediately. I was quite convinced she had no idea that I was trying to buy her basket. Fortunately, a couple of locals stepped in to act as interpreter to explain my intentions before she warmed to the idea of parting with her basket. We settled on a price of about ten dollars. It was the same price as the tourist vendors, but I knew the money was going to a good cause.

After a few days of being in the town, I was keen to leave. My trip would soon come to an end and I really wanted to see some more of the country before heading back to Bangkok. Joe suggested we might try the so called "Death Highway" route south from Ban Lung to Saen Monouram. The dreadful name, he explained is a bit of misnomer because no one (that we know of) has died on it. Nor is it a highway. Or even a road, to be honest. It's more of a path. And not really much of a path, either. Oh, and it's not really marked.

End of part one. Click here for part two.