Hacktreks in Asia

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Uncliched Cambodia Rachael Walker "To your left is yet another mass grave, containing the bodies of women and children, and to your right ladies and gentlemen, you can see the tree against which the brains of babies were bashed out"

The cliché appears to be a prerequisite stylistic feature of pretty much any travelogue. "Intrepid" travel writers fearlessly regale us from our sofas with witty and audacious anecdotes of "breathtaking" natural wonders, "awe-inspiring" architectural feats, "rollercoaster rides" of cultural and sensory bombardment, and bed-ridden bouts of the ubiquitous Delhi belly/ Taipei tummy/ Shanghai shits (delete according to destination) brought on by overzealous consumption of invariably "fragrant" and "mouthwatering" local cuisine.

Since adventure travel went mainstream; since "getting off the beaten track" became the done thing and smugly outdoing one’s fellow travelers (for those seriously engaged in the noble venture of exploring the world beyond the glossy pages of Condé Nast no longer resort to the vulgar and ignoble label of "tourist") a source of joy for gap year students the world over ("Oh really? You’ve artificially inseminated goat herds in Outer Mongolia? Well when I was in Myanmar, I lived in a mud hut with hilltribes, and went without food, water - not to mention a hairdryer - for a whole year") the stock of travelogue clichés has swelled almost infinitely to become a veritable raging torrent of triteness.

Every aspect of the traveling process (for indeed a process it has become, with certain obligatory stages to undergo, criteria to fulfill and mental "been there, done that" boxes to check) – from "Planes, Trains and Automobiles" style adventures in transportation via rickshaw, llama and aircon-devoid, chicken-replete local bus, to resting one’s weary head in insalubrious guesthouses hosting five generations of extended cockroach families, to mingling with warmhearted, generous, yet poverty-stricken natives (one NEVER encounters a contemptible, mercenary, local fat cat when traveling) - has been banalised by an inescapable discourse outside of which we find it impossible to conduct our overseas adventures, the unambiguous culmination of which is that we always return to dreary old home, our lives irrevocably altered.

Cambodia however, is a destination that defies clichés. To quote one oft-used travelogue banality "it has to be experienced to be believed". Although it some ways it appears in itself to be a bastion of cliché, tantalizingly luring the Canon-toting, Berghaus-bedecked adventurer to its shores – after all, it epitomises communism gone wrong and houses possibly the most magnificent and awe-inspiring temples on the planet - like all good subversives it stubbornly and persistently refuses to fit the mould, challenging preconceptions and defying beliefs.

Ok, ok I admit it. I went to Cambodia with clichéd motivations. I wanted to be dismayed and dumbfounded by the incomparable majesty of Angkor Wat, and perhaps indulge in a spot of humanitarian pilgrimage (as one does) to the Killing Fields. However, as soon as I arrived in Phnom Penh, my bladder crying out for a squat toilet and a rather large bump appearing on the crown of my head from where it had been repeatedly thwacked against a (dysfunctional) air-conditioning vent during the hellish 7-hour boneshaker of a bus journey from Saigon, I realized that this was not going to be a simple matter of another country ticked off my "must-do-before-I-die-list", another stamp in my passport… History appeared to be permanently etched onto the decaying facade of each once splendid French colonialist edifice, whose atrophy continued to symbolise the evils of socialism in the hands of a madman.

My first day’s sightseeing in the capital was to be a sombre one. The day began pleasantly enough, with a visit to the gildedly sublime and suitably "Ooooh…aaahhhh…" inducing Royal Palace. My afternoon however, would be dominated by a scenic tour of Phnom Penh’s genocide hot spots. My first stop was Tuol Sleng: the high school commandeered by the Khmer Rouge in 1975 and turned into Security Prison 21 (S-21), a highly unsophisticated detention-cum-torture centre for such hardened thought criminals as intellectuals, professionals and anyone else suspected of harbouring counter-revolutionary tendencies.

The most striking aspect of any visit to the museum that Tuol Sleng’s stark, grey, barbed-wire festooned concrete shell now houses, is the haunting vision of innumberable photographs of S-21 victims staring wistfully down at the visitor from still bloodstained walls (their compliant gaze into the camera lens elicited not by any desire to pose dutifully for their Khmer Rouge photographer, but by the persuasive power of repeated electric shocks to the back of the head) accompanied by the voice of a world-weary tour guide, heard in an almost aural soft focus, so sickening are his accounts. If photographs function as windows into the lives of others, then a glimpse into the abridged existence of these individuals is a truly unbearable vision. 20,000 victims were imprisoned in S-21 during the Khmer Rouge’s regime of terror. When the detention centre was discovered by liberating forces in 1979, only seven remained "alive". Only one of these is still alive today

Tuol Sleng Torture Room

The Killing Fields – the next stop for subversives on their unrelenting journey towards fate – was an equally unbearable sightseeing sojourn. A visit here – like Tuol Sleng – is hardly a conventional tourist tour: "To your left is yet another mass grave, containing the bodies of women and children, and to your right ladies and gentlemen, you can see the tree against which the brains of babies were bashed out" (thought crime apparently transmitted genetically). Not exactly the stuff of "wish you were here" postcard gloating. The rainy season adds an altogether more gruesome aspect to the whole Killing Fields tourist experience, since during this time the visitor is greeted by the chilling sight of bones, teeth and tattered rags of clothing still clinging tenaciously to them poking through the sodden earth (do you think I could get a job as a Killing Fields publicist?), its topsoil washed away by the deluge of rainfall. Only two-thirds of the bodies buried en masse here have been exhumed, with the other third left as a mark of respect in their involuntary final resting place, lost to the Cambodian soil for all time…

By this point in my Cambodian odyssey, I was unashamedly craving some serious tourist comforts. Although I usually consider myself an adventurer with quasi-Livingstonian pretensions, by now the only challenge I was willing to set myself was to break all records of vodka consumption from a mini bar, followed perhaps by an endurance test in ultimate foot massage. Fortunately for me, such luxuries abound in Siem Reap, the town that fortuitously borders the fabulous Angkor temple complex, so off I set the following day, via high-speed hydrofoil up the Mekong (the aforementioned bump on my head unable to face another battering courtesy of yet more pothole-ridden Cambodian versions of what is conventionally labelled "road").

Those with a hankering for the unspoilt had better visit Siem Reap quick sharp. Myriad Novotels, Hiltons, and other largely French and Japanese-funded crass commercial monstrosities are springing up at an alarming rate along the road to Angkor. Charming, traditional – and most importantly for the budget conscious, cheap – guesthouses can still be found, however (if you don’t mind sharing your room with a gecko or twenty) and the touristy emphasis means that personal security need not be the issue that it is in nocturnal Phnom Penh. As a result Siem Reap is the perfect place to indulge in a spot of shopping in the market for the traditional Cambodian checked headscarf, the "krama" (my Buddhist spell check desperately wants this to be karma, but alas…), an out-of-this world blind massage, or the heavenly Cambodian gastronomical pleasure that is amoc, a fish curry, flavoured with coconut milk, galangal, chillies and various other unidentified herbs and spices, steamed to produce a satisfyingly wobbly, crème caramel-like consistency. Mmmm, mmmm…

Several chilled-out bars, such as the Soup Dragon, the predictable yet tittersome (after one too many lethally cheap local beers) Angkor What?, and Red Piano (the latter a reputed favourite of Angelina Jolie, as any visitor involuntarily treated to the Tomb Raider tour of Siem Reap, from the Sheraton where the amply-bosomed one rested her head to the squat toilet above which she dangled her perfectly-formed posterior will doubtless learn) are all excellent places to wind down, a cocktail or virtuously addictive "mixed fruit shake" in hand, after a hard day’s "going Lara" (boys as well as girls – admit it!) in the temples….

"Ah! The temples!" I hear you cry. "What about the temples?" Well, the Angkor complex spans an area the size of present-day Greater London, so there are more than enough architectural marvels to keep even the most avid temple aficionado occupied for several days. The three "must dos" however, are the Inca-reminiscent, multi-faceted (literally, its architectural focal point being 54 huge smiling heads beaming down at the visitor) Bayon; Ta Prohm, the set of Tomb Raider where immense roots of gigantesque, bloated jungle trees oozing bark and branches literally spew forth from the dilapidated temple rocks; and of course the unrivalled Angkor Wat. Indeed, my only regret at having visited Cambodia is that I will never again experience the stunned gasp of awe-induced wonder at seeing Angkor Wat with fresh eyes.

To dwell too long on the majesty of the temples, however would be to descend once again into the realm of the cliché, though admittedly those most clichéd, tourist-frequented sites tend to be the ones most worth visiting in the world. It would be folly indeed to forego the resplendence of the Taj Mahal, for fear of being labeled "bandwagonistic"… So here is my conundrum in concluding my Cambodian travelogue: how to avoid the cliché? I was amazed by awe-inspiring architectural wonders, I was culturally, and sensually bombarded, I did meet countless warmhearted, friendly individuals living laughingly defiant in the face of incomprehensible poverty. And yes, I did go back to rainy old Blighty with my life changed forever… I guess there’s only one solution, readers. You’ll all just have to book a flight to Phnom Penh, and experience Cambodia’s delicious, daunting, dazzlingly un-mainstream and counter-trite delights for yourselves.
© Racheal Walker December 2003
racheal_walker@yahoo.co.uk

alt viewpoint
Cambodia
Past and Present- James Evans

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