Wild ducks paddle in and out of
the riverside vegetation and bob up and down on the gentle wake from
out boat, oblivious to us. We passed the occasional fisherman standing
on a dugout canoe watching us watching him. We pass remote floating
homes that look cared for with washing hanging out to dry in the heat
of the tropical sun, adorned with pot plants and flowers, quite different
from the many shacks on the other side of the lake. Some houses are
built on tall bamboo stilts fully exposed by the low waters of the dry
season. Occasional Chinese cantilever fishing nets look timeless in
this natural setting and are primed ready for action. They demonstrate
the trade links throughout the region and the import of knowledge and
ideas from other cultures. The mighty Mekong reaches over 4000 km through
South East Asia providing food for over 50 million people. It’s
a major waterway that rivals the Amazon.
The Sangker becomes narrower and narrower and the boat eventually docks
at a cluster of floating wooden shacks where we disembark. We are in
the middle of the river where it divides into two, pretty much the middle
of nowhere. In one of the shacks there is a small area
with tables and chairs where there is the possibility of refreshments
although I think our western constituency would not appreciate the fare.
We wait a short while before being divided into two smaller groups and
boarding on to two smaller boats or “kanut” that soon
arrive.
From here on the river is now too narrow and too shallow for the larger
boat to navigate. We set off with 12 of us on what is quite a small
boat with a fabric roof to shade the sun, and again the engine is roaring.
It’s an outboard motor this time similar to the engines on longtails
where the motor attaches to the stern of the boat and the propeller
is some 2 to 3 meters away at the end of a metal shaft dipping into
the water. The tiller man controls the depth of the propeller in the
water by leaning on the throttle handle. The propeller keeps snagging
on vegetation and branches in the water and breaking down. The crew
have to jump into the river and un-snag the propeller time after time
throughout the whole journey.
I sit and watch the
wake as our little boat hits the silk smooth silt of the banks of the
river and like a miniature tsunami washes a part of it away. I wonder
about the damage this is causing to this fragile environment. The traditional
“tuks” are slower and in less of a hurry than the motorised
tourist boats and cause no erosion. Ten years of this and there will
be nothing left I think to my self. This is a finely balanced eco system
that cannot be replaced easily. It seems to me to that it’s being
damaged so tourists can travel this way. It makes a few precious dollars
for the boat owners at the start and ends of the trip but not much for
anyone this is apart of a much bigger issue. Better to take the bus
it’s only a couple of hours ride.
We can’t really get off our seats, the boat’s too small for
people to move around, too small to stand upright, too small to have
a good stretch and nowhere to stop. The torturous seats are made from
four narrow wooden slats about an inch wide with gaps between them.
They offer precious little support to your glutinous maximumus. During
the last three hours of the trip discomfort turns to pain and with the
tropical sun belting down this is an endurance test.
It’s a curious mix of people onboard. There are two overweight
French ladies travelling together, an American couple, a middle aged
Taiwanese lady travelling on her own who is very well dressed and looking
slightly anxious, a German bloke, Andre, who was wearing trousers that
were half denim half corduroy and shoes and socks who sat with a bag
on his knees for
the whole journey, another French couple, an English couple who didn’t
speak for the whole journey, probably in shock, an Australian woman
who was on her own who lived in East Timor, three polite and caring
Khmer crew who didn’t speak any English except “hello”
and
me who could only say “johm riab sua”, hello in Khmer. I guess
the boat sounded a great way to travel and conjured up visions of the
Orient Express and perhaps a Nile cruse but the reality was stark utility
and nine hours worth of it.
What made the journey worthwhile were the unspoiled tropical wetlands.
The people we saw gave a glimpse of another way of living.These were
noble people who spent their lives in homes on stilts or floating on
water in a landscape that was submerged for half the year. They lived
in harmony with nature, in tune with their environment and their seasons.
Although this part of Cambodia was ravaged by the Khmer Rouge and closed
to outsiders for some years, those days were now gone. A new openness
and a welcoming of foreigners is now prevalent.
The boat eventually stopped in a very narrow, shallow part of the river
and was pulled tight to the riverbank by two Khmer men who were waiting
for us. We were given a signal to collect our gear and to get off. We
were at last at Battambang. We scrambled up the steep muddy
embankment and were met by two luxury mini busses that took us the short
distance to the Royal Hotel. Its modest entrance and reception area
gives no clue to its massive cavernous interior. It’s classic modernist
architecture a legacy of its communist origins and only
$6.00 a night. I love my large double room it’s huge with two double
beds’, two fans and I can’t wait to get into that shower.
About Gary: I was born Edinburgh Scotland in 1956 to an Italian father and
Scottish mother. I got my first camera when I was about 10 years old
and used it until I was 30 when I bought the camera that I still use
now.
I have first degree in Silversmithing and Metal work and a Masters
Degree in Design from The Glasgow School of Art. I studied photography
in my first year at university as a subsidiary subject. I worked as
an Independent Designer and lectured part-time for a number of years
before becoming unsettled and looking around for new interests. I love
new challenges, adventure and other cultures, and find travel satisfying while
taking pictures keeps me busy when I’m away.
©Gary Morga 2005
All rights reserved
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