Kompong Cham

The van drops us off a short walk to the new bridge over the Mekong river. Three of us now, and we are in Dara’s home town. Oddly, for having lived on the banks of the river in Phnom Penh for a month, this is our first look at it. Phnom Penh is situated at the joining of three rivers, the Mekong, Tonle Sap (which will be celebrated in November when it reverses its direction of flow), and Tonle Bassic. They form a compressed chromosomal X, the city bordering on the Tonles Sap and Bassic. Only in front of the Royal Palace can a view of the Mekong be had, and we simply haven’t made it to the right location yet.

The Mekong is wide and opaque like rivers back home on the prairies. The power of it is startling. I imagined a wide river to be slow and stately, but muddy, it boils beneath the bridge. Because the Mekong forms such an insurmountable natural barrier and the bridge is new, Kompong Cham is located entirely on one side of the river. Along with the new bridge, our guidebook describes a “sexy new esplanade” positioning the city to develop “cosmopolitan cool”. Already the esplanade is dowdy looking, and very inactive. But there is some new development a block or two north of us and we are here in the off-season.

We book into a seedy guesthouse just north of the bridge and facing onto the esplanade. Doors are secured with a padlock when out, which afford those in the hall a glimpse into the room between door and jamb. The bed is made of dense tropical wood, and I hoist it up so Anna-Marie can slide our pack under it. It’s out of sight and should anyone get into the room hardly worth the effort of repeating my action. The bathroom has a non-flushing toilet, a shower hose which functions as shower and sink, and a bucket to flush the loo. But we are on the top floor with a hallway-come-terrace in front of our room. If there is a sunrise we will see it over the river. (In the morning it will be overcast and we rethink the wisdom of choosing the room at the top of the stairs that everyone must pass to and from the other rooms on that floor.) Beside us is an ex-pat hangout, that we never make it into, a bar-restaurant translated as Lazy Mekong Daze.

Behind us the city charms. A large market sprawls out from a covered city block to encompass one or two streets in all directions. There is the vestige of French colonial architecture, the streets meet at odd angles and around the market are narrowed by covered stalls selling the usual fare. Plus a real delight, vanilla cupcakes, cooked in cast iron circular cookie sheets over and under a wood fire. We try some and then buy more as Dara tours us around, thinking we have a supply of quick breakfast before our morning visit to temples. But within minutes we have eaten them all, warm from the bag. Later, after Dara goes to visit her family, the two of us buy more and this time manage to squirrel a few away for the morning; though they are their best fresh out of the fire.

In the river south of the bridge is a huge island. We take a ferry over (a rickety wooden venture, overloaded with people and motos) and start walking toward a temple. There seems to be one (dirt) road on the island, busy with bicycles, pedestrians, motos, and children playing. But we pass by all the houses and from many a cheery “hello” rings out. Every Cambodian, it seems, knows at least this greeting. We blame it on a telephone add campaign with posters everywhere proclaiming “It all begins with hello” or just “hello.” After a while it is as annoying as going into your umpteenth store at a mall. If one more greeter asks me how I am…

After twenty minutes of walking we get out our map and realize we will cover only about one sixth of the length of the island. From the shore we see one thin end of it, and it looks quite modest. But there are hundreds of houses, swampy fields of cattle, fishing boats, make-shift gas stations, stores, schools, and a large temple complex. The complex has a greater than usual collection of statues depicting everything from standard tales of the life of the buddha to specific Khmer additions. A young monk agrees to be photographed and immediately begins jazzing for the camera.

On the return we are the first on the ferry. Waiting, we watch the sky darken over Kompong Cham. We first hear then see the rain over the city. Then we listen and watch as it crosses the 2-3 kilometres from shore to island—then dash for cover back on land. The downpour lasts for fifteen minutes, hopeful passengers huddled under trees, awnings, umbrellas and thin rain coats. It rains again mid-crossing, and we invite as many as possible under our two umbrellas. At the river bank, in the rain, a young lad, naked but with a plastic bag on his head, ties the boat to the dock.

For dinner we choose a grand Chinese restaurant (though the colonial shine has left it). Here we encounter a common upscale phenomenon, a waitress (they’re all women) to customer ratio of one to one. Our two waitresses alternate sitting at the next table watching us. This is disconcerting, but after a few meals under the watchful eye of staff we decide this is a class power relationship we are just not familiar with. They must dutifully watch us for the slightest indication that we have needs, and we must demonstrate our absolute superiority over them by ignoring their presence until we have needs. Anna-Marie in particular delights in violating this relationship, chatting up staff wherever we dine.

Despite the shortcomings of our guesthouse we discover CABLE TV! There are many channels in Khmer and Cantonese, but we gravitate to the Fashion and Discovery channels. Did you know that watching a whole runway show is actually boring? Or that repairs to the telecommunications tower atop the Empire State Building must be conducted in the cold and dark between 1 and 3 am?