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| Sunday, 21 September 2003 |
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In search of secret Cambodia I remembered the comforting words of Ake Hyden at the emergency hospital in Battambang who said, in Cambodia the mines are usually small, so the person who steps on a mine normally doesn't die, they only lose a limb... by ROSHIN VARGHESE Mention Cambodia, and images of Angkor Wat are conjured up along with the infamous skull mountains of the Pol Pot era. But I was in search of secret Cambodia, tucked away from the tourist trail. To learn Cambodian cooking and see the remnant of temples overtaken by the jungles.
So when my friends Marc Lansu and Debbie Watkins sent me off to the market, with a young chef, from the Bodhi Tree restaurant in Phnom Penh, I learnt much more than cooking. For there I discovered how to buy crunchy morning glory stems, smell the huge vats of fermented fish which is eventually turned into prohouk, a fish paste, eat salted, ash covered duck eggs and crisply fried grasshoppers, sample the countless varieties of rice sweets steamed in banana leaves, and watch wafer thin rice paper wrappings being made, and learn to steam bamboo rice cakes. Once the shopping was done I was back at the Bodhi Tree struggling to master the art of making the staple Cambodian soup, experiment with fresh tamarind leaves to enhance flavours and marinate meat in egg and sesame seed for a Cambodian barbecue. And above all learn the technique of cutting vegetables to a hair like thickness. Replete with eating well and experimenting with local food in Phnom Penh, I was persuaded to spend the next four days on the back of a motorcycle to explore interior Cambodia away from the cities and tourists. Using Battambang in northern Cambodia as base I set out to discover the pre Angkor temples which dotted the country. After a two hour bike ride through rice fields and village markets I had my first glimpse of one of the pre Angkor temples near Battambang. A long trudge of 350 odd laterite steps and I was led straight into the narrow doorway of the 11th century, Wat Banan. The cluster of buildings on the small plateau seemed to have been put together at random with laterite blocks, some smooth sandstone bricks, some chunks of rough stone, a few carved lintels and apsaras all thrown in for effect. The five prasats (towers) which had once gloriously pointed upwards to the clear blue heavens seemed to have forgotten their creator, King Udayadityavarman II and totter in this deserted village. The only splash of colour here, the crimson hibiscus flowering wildly.
It was twilight when I reached Ek Phnom, another 11th century temple with it moats filled with lotus buds. Abandoned and left to the elements I savoured the quiet before joining the local bike drivers for a snack of sun dried sea snake crushed and lightly tossed with spices and herbs. Early one morning long before the sun had risen I was all packed and ready to leave Battambang. My duffle bag strapped on to the handlebars of the motorcycle I was all set to exchange the bike for the comforts of a speed boat which would take me to Siem Reap and Angkor Wat. In the comfort of the boat, I watched the moon set and an hour later the sun rise. The long wild grass dripping with dew on the river banks, slowly dried in the blazing sun while I quenched my thirst with a fruity breakfast of rambutan, laichees, logan and mangosteen, on the speed boat. We sped down the river for few hours before we merged into the Tonle Sap lake. Nothing quite prepared me for the size of the Tonle Sap lake. As far as the eye could see there was water and no visible land mass. After a three hour boat ride, the chance to stretched my cramped legs came when we got to a floating village in the middle of the lake. Built on large bamboo poles, the flimsy looking houses are complete with a little verandah and one large room. My quest for local food drew me to the floating provision shop cum caf,. There I sampled what seemed like fried bread and a strong glass of lemon tea made using the muddy coloured lake water and surprisingly suffered no ill effects at all. Then I was in Siem Reap, the town nearest to the famous ruins of Angkor Wat.
Shimmering in the afternoon sun all the descriptions of Angkor wat had not prepared me for its awesome size. The temple itself is spread over one square kilometre and the bas reliefs running around the temple corridors spectacular in its rendition of stories from the mahabharata with khmer kings and apsaras in the narrative. After seeing the splendour of Angkor, I was drawn towards seeing its precursor which I discovered was Beng Mealea. Was it the scare of SARS or was this too far off the beaten track, because I was the only visitor to Beng Mealea in the area apart from half a dozen children who attached themselves to me. Two wizened old men indicated that it would be wiser for me to use their services unless I wanted to be blown up by the land mines dotting the ancient ruins. Sign language and rough weathered hands helped me clamber up the slate grey mounds of fallen stone, swing on vines as thick as my thigh and graze myself on the sharp thorns of the beautiful bamboo growing wild in the middle of the 12th century temple built by Suryavarman II. The spectacular remains of the place overtaken by the jungle with long dark and dank corridors, its stone grilled windows and the remains of the turtle carving library transport you to an era gone by and images of Lara Croft, Tomb Raider. Emboldened by my success of discovering Beng Mealea I decided to venture further afield to Prasat Preah Vihear, although everybody had enough of my quest for more off the beaten track Cambodia. Even my husband and son, thousands of miles away were tired of my changing dates, flights and hotel bookings. So I left familiar Siem Reap and set out for an expedition into the unknown. After hurtling along for six hours through dense forests on roads which hardly existed and wooden logs thrown over rivers for bridges we came to the bottom of the Prasat Preah Vihear hill. There I exchanged the comfort of my car for a so-called mountain bike. A spindly motorcycle with thick tyres and a primitive system to cool the engine - a jerry can of water which dribbled on to the engine. In case of punctures a cycle pump was strapped on with rope and rubber bands. The temple is 550 metres above the plain. The road no more than rubble and the gradient so steep I was continually slipping off the bike. My fears swelled when I saw little red sticks dotting the sides as we bravely assaulted the climb. The little red bamboo sticks were merely markings to indicate the existence of land mines. A fraction of the land mines had been de mined to clear the road. I remembered the comforting words of Ake Hyden at the emergency hospital in Battambang who said, in Cambodia the mines are usually small, so the person who steps on a mine normally doesn't die, they only lose a limb. At the end of my one hour journey I had my glimpse of the imposing mountain temple of Prasat Preah Vihear. Clinging to the rocky cliff face, the location is dramatic and this masterpiece worthy of a king. A succession of seven Khmer kings is credited to having produced this mountain temple with its gopuras. Beginning with Yasovarman I from the late 9th century to Suryavarman II who reigned in the middle of the 12th century. The wild butterflies and battalions of dragonflies which floated through this roofless marvel guided me through perfectly aligned doorways. The smell of the wild grass being cut was as heady as identifying an early rendition of the churning of the oceans. But the journey down hill proved to be treacherous thanks to a tropical downpour. For within minutes the roads just vanished into slush and stone. Abandoning the bike half way down, my guide, Mr. Ro and I started the four kilometre walk back to the car. The torrential mountain streams forced our feet to follow the currents and I prayed furiously for safe passage. When a bolt of lightening whizzed past my shoulder I promised myself I would give Mr Ro an extra $ 5 if I made it alive. When the thunder boomed, it was another $ 5 and when I saw the little red, land mine markings, slip and slither I gave him another $ 5. By the time I reached the safety of car, dry clothes and a house to sleep in Mr Ro had earned more money than I had with me. Late that night I celebrated my birthday quietly, with wet hair and damp clothes, my dinner companions - the driver and guide, the restaurant, a large dining room of our hosts. Eating roast pork dipped in sour pepper sauce I was glad that there was no tombstone in Cambodia saying she lived and died dangerously. |
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