Back in Phnom Penh

After two and half weeks in Kampot, I'm now back in the capital, Phnom Penh, though still in the company of Mark and Jasmine. I'd figured I was almost at the end of revamping of the Khmer Phrasemaker then last night I sat down with Jasmine and went over the nouns with her. She is a very exacting and insists upon me using the politer versions of the language. It seems that much of what I gleaned from Mouly may now have to be changed. It is a daunting prospect that may well see me having to retrace my steps to Kampot in order to get this finished. On the bright side I can most certainly get by in Khmer now and have quite a formidable array of words and phrases at my disposal.

A few days ago I went up Bokor Mountain with an older couple from England, Norman and Viviane. They'd hired a car and driver to go there and after an elongated conversation with them, they invited me along. It was rough going; the road up is a shambles of ruts, rocks and potholes. At times we all wondered whether the aging Toyota Camry would be able to make it.

The attraction of Bokor Mountain is primarily the view. From the top it's possible to see across to Vietnam on the one side and all the way to Sihanoukville on the other. The lay of the land is surprisingly similar to that of Santa Barbara; the mountains are almost the same height and drop to a short flattish coastal plain with a succession of islands breaking the horizon. Of course the details in a Cambodian landscape are decidedly different to those of California. The flat lands are broken into squares of paddy fields edged by suggestions of villages and there is no beaches. In their place mangrove swamps hold domination. The vegetation on the mountain is wildly different; in place of chapparal is a dense carpet of jungle complete with hanging vines, raucous birds and the delicious fear that somewhere amongst it all there may be tigers. The French made the top Bokor Mountain into a retreat from the daily blast of Cambodia's heat. They started building in the twenties, put in view pointing restaurants, made a church and of course constructed a capacious, elegant hotel to service them. It all stopped working at the beginning of the seventies and eventually wound up as one of the last bastions of the Khmer Rouge who finally surrendered the place in the early nineties. Poverty and nature have taken their course. All the buildings have been stripped of whatever fixtures they possessed, down to the very wiring of the electrical systems and, for her part, Nature, has struck with a vengeance mottling the outsides with the patina of decay then coating the surfaces with a beautiful orange mould or lichen that brings a shock color to what would otherwise be a dismal affair. Wandering around the old hotel, through the once elegant rooms whose only remaining decorations are the beautifully tiled floors, the weight of history is palpable and as though trying to humanize the place once again scores of latter day tourists have etched their names and messages into the walls. All it does in the end is add to the melancholy.

Viviane had been given a the flower of an insect eating plant as a joke gift. It had the exact shape and dimension of a prodigious penis with a green hue that would have made even the most ardent prostitute back away in horror. It's difficult to be refined and graceful when snapping pictures of a floral dildo but she pulled it off. I am very impressed by the couple. They love to travel and have a preference for creating their own experiences rather that relying on a tour company to do it for them. Their attitude toward Cambodia was refreshing after all the negativity of the Kampot expat community. They always tried to find the best in everything and were more than willing to accept the limitations of a developing nation. Even so the return journey down the broken road started to play on their nerves and it was with a mighty sigh of relief that we arrived back on the main road.

I had been given the seat next to the driver, and budding Khmer speaker that I am, couldn't resist attempting conversation. It worked its magic. I sensed that if I hadn't talked to Dtay he would have remained a silent, unknown entity. Instead he blossomed into a personality and made a special effort to help us enjoy the outing; he picked exotic berries for us to try, gave us all expertly delivered back massages at one rest stop and became my smoking companion when ever we stopped for a pee break. Toward the end of the expedition Dtay suggested we all go for a swim at a well-known spot near Kampot. With a long face I explained to him that we didn't have the gear for it with us. "At bun-ya-haa!" - no problem - he assured us and went on to explain that it was possible to rent shorts and towels at the swimming hole. I was elated, not because I'd be able to go for a dip but because I understood him; understanding what is said in response to my numerous questions has always been a bit of an issue.

The swimming hole was a refreshing cool delight and was situated next to a set of rapids that exuberant boys leapt into accompanied by tire inner tubes and howls of pleasure. It was a perfect end to a good day. Just as we were leaving a couple of four wheel drives pulled up and disgorged their cargo of westerners. We'd seen them earlier on in the day up on Bokor Mountain; apparently going for a paddle is the culmination of every tour.