Crossing the mountains of the tropical rainforest

Crossing the mountains in the jungle turned out to be a far more authentic experience than we ever expected. Finding yourself on a city scooter in the middle of the rainforest, on a dirt road the Chinese are only just building, with at least 40 km of deep tropical jungle in both directions to the nearest building, was definitely more than we bargained for. Especially after a proper tropical downpour started and the road turned into a river within 5 minutes. And the scooter wouldn't start and wouldn't go through the mud...' And when we finally made it to the end of the jungle, we found out the last boat of the day had left without us. Nothing left to do but spend the night with the workers in their work camp...

In the morning the wild sounds of the jungle stopped and at 6:30 the even wilder sounds of chainsaws began. Right under our window someone was making roof battens out of a solid beam, with a STIHL chainsaw with a blade about 90 cm long. Considering he was doing it all by eye, the battens came out pretty straight.

The first person we met in the morning was the owner (young, a fairly good-looking girl who spoke a human language), all dressed up, saying she was off to the town of Vealven and would be back around noon. At that moment we still thought that was our destination too, so we wanted to go with her. But that off-road Toyota pick-up (belongs to the local cop) was already waiting for her with the engine running, so they didn't wait. Only in the evening did it turn out that yes, they were going to Vealveng, but there are two of them and theirs is our Pro mui, where we changed taxis yesterday. Once she left, we ate about 10% of the breakfast that had been brought (rice and 2 pots of meat, sort of lunch and dinner too) and set off to negotiate transport with the locals. Luckily we found a nice young girl who spoke a human language and the negotiations began. 8 local guys, some playing billiards, some fixing motorbikes, one poor translator and two Barangs. We don't have a map (no local one probably exists, or it's out of date) and on top of that the locals only have geographical knowledge within their own radius of action, which is about 5 km. In the end we agreed they'd take us to Old Vealveng, which is 10 km along an awful road and where, according to the guidebook, there should be 2 guest houses and an information centre. They wanted 25$ for it, which is really a lot, but it was worth it for the experience. It wasn't 10 km but about 4, the ride on the motorbikes was full of adrenaline, but we survived. Along the way there was a Buddhist pagoda on a hill where about 8 monks were praying, otherwise just jungle or green plains where the jungle had been burnt down. The biggest surprise, though, was the destination. We expected a bigger little town, but it was exactly 6 shacks, about 3 motorbikes and one ox, which they were just hitching up to a plough straight out of the Veverka brothers' workshop (not to be confused with the Wewerka sisters, they never invented any plough :) )

So that's where they dropped us off, as in, go have a walk around then. Only now did it dawn on us why they'd looked at us so insanely uncomprehendingly when we said we wanted to go to Vealveng. Anyway, jungle and other temptations all around, so we grabbed our gear and set off. The first surprise was the end of the road. About 30 m from where they dropped us there was a stream, a log across it for pedestrians, and beyond that just a huge plain and at the end jungle and mountains again. We don't know what happened here, but that plain definitely looked man-made, it showed signs of rice being grown long ago (dykes) and of cattle being kept recently (pats). But it was completely empty and because the light was great (sun under the clouds) it looked dramatic, even imposing. It could have been about 4x4 km and given the recent rains it's all more or less waterlogged. The riders of our 2 motorbikes set off with us, which we gratefully appreciated. We managed the first and second log across the river fine, at the third the water was already deep, the log narrow and partly submerged. First I tried it with the camera around my neck (the locals walked across it like it was Charles Bridge), which cost me a panicked retreat, one wet shoe and a big laugh from the Khmers. So we put the cameras in P.'s waterproof backpack and made a second attempt. Me without any load was fine, P. with the giant backpack also gave up halfway and went back. At that point the Khmers were really cracking up at how useless these Barangs are. They carried the backpack over for us and then P. managed it.

We set off across the giant plain and only here did the Khmers reveal that there's a crocodile reserve in the distance.
The next ford was really something. Tiny log, only halfway across and the rest almost waist-deep in water. Remembering the consequences of diseases from bilharzia mud, I refused this ford, saying we'd go around it. We did go around it, but about 1 km on there was another ford. The log submerged about knee-deep in water, the last 3 m mud. Nothing to be done, shoes off, trousers up and off we went. At worst my liver won't be eaten by booze, but by Bilharius wormicus.
After another 1 km or so and two more fords there was a sign banning hunting crocodiles, grazing cattle, using engines, fishing etc., because there's a crocodile reserve here. No other sign of civilisation anywhere, apart from dried cow pats and, a bit further on, a fishing net and a cover off a motorbike. No crocodile anywhere. We kept going, at one ford Patrik fell waist-deep into the water (see photo). A backpack really does come in handy. We got all the way to the jungle, photographed a carnivorous sundew, but we couldn't go further because of a proper swamp.

The Khmers chose a different way back. I don't know why we hoped there'd be fewer fords. Not only were there not fewer, they got harder. Totally full of water, we stopped even taking our boots off. They're waterproof, sure, but not up to the knee. The worst was one ford where several logs were laid across the river one after another. The river, or rather the stream, flows very slowly and looks shallow. Since this was a tough ford, the Khmers gave us a plank to lean on as a stick. At first its length of almost 4 m seemed excessive, until over 2 m of it sank into the mud. When I bravely crossed the stream on the submerged log, I jumped onto the grass with relief (and the camera on my shoulder). It was grass alright, but floating. My leg went through the turf and sank up to mid-thigh into the water. I scrambled back onto the log and humbly walked along the logs all the way to the real bank, where the Khmers were howling like bricklayers watching Chaplin. That stretch of floating turf was wider than the flowing stream, about 30-40 m altogether. From the bank I first photographed a leech (fat as a Spanish slug, but it could stretch out to 12 cm) and then Patrik wrestling with the floating grass and the logs. In the end we bumped our way back across the swampy plain to the village and congratulated ourselves on what an experience we'd had.

After getting back to the guest house we tried to find out from the locals how far it is to the coast on the other side of the mountains, where we want to get to and where the Hoch Kong national park is. Apparently it's insanely far, an awful road, big rivers, 7 hours by motorbike. Since the price for the ride dropped during the day from 400$ to 200$, and since we don't trust the local geographical knowledge, in the morning we want to head back to the main road (meaning the dirt road passable even by an off-roader) and get some sense out of someone. I'd give those poor locals the 2x100$, but Patrik feels they're trying to fleece us and that we have to find someone cheaper.

I spent the rest of the afternoon in a hammock and finished the book about a little girl who survived the rampage of the Khmer Rouge, a concentration camp, a labour camp for orphans, a training camp for child soldiers, a refugee camp after Cambodia was occupied (liberated) by the Vietnamese, an attempted rape by a Vietnamese liberator (she was 8 years old), an escape by sea to Vietnam, an attack by pirates during the mass boat transport to Thailand and finally the transfer to the USA. Today she lives in the USA and has written her memoirs. Probably the most tragic story I've ever read. Considering it's an autobiography and that it all took place exactly in the mountains where we are now, quite emotionally demanding (it happened 1975 – 1980!)

In the evening I also enjoyed the great local shower (a barrel of water and a pot) and during the time the generator behind the cottage is running (6-9 pm) we charged the cameras and the phone. Today I turned the phone on partly to find out the exact coordinates of the place where we are from the GPS. I've never had such zero idea of where I am. The fact that no map exists for the GPS didn't surprise me that much. But that you can't even get a paper one made me pretty nervous. Hopefully tomorrow we'll get to a place that's on a map. Otherwise I'll find out at home from the GPS coordinates on Google Maps.

In the morning we got up, this time not to the racket of a chainsaw, but to the stink of burning PET bottles. As Klaus says: „Ecology is a luxury of rich nations“. We paid $37 (one night $5 for the both of us, one giant meal $7 for the both of us) and they took us on the moto again across the tank training ground to the crossroads. There were again just a few locals and they confirmed that there's no way to get to Hoh Kong other than by moto. They offered us a ride for exactly the same $200 for both of us as those two guys yesterday. We spent ages trying to talk them down, but they didn't budge on the price one bit! So in the end all we „gained“ by the haggling was that it cost us $10 extra (for the ride to the main road) and we set off about 3 hours later (9:45), but the experience was worth it!

It was supposed to be 90 km altogether, the first part was perfectly rideable. Red packed clay with jungle hacked away along the edges and drainage ditches. After roughly 30 km we reached a big Chinese camp (the road is being built by some Chinese company) and a new bridge. From there the road started to get interesting. More and more often big potholes, construction works, vines hanging down to the ground, sometimes we even had to get off. I don't know if you've ever ridden 90 km on a motorbike as a pillion. Here it was a bit more complicated, because the terrain was more for motocross, the rider was a tiny Khmer of about 50 kilos, my 55l backpack between my legs, flip-flops on my feet, and behind him an almost two-metre-tall, 80 kilo barang. All that would still be fine if it had been a big off-road bike, the kind they ride in the Paris–Dakar Rally. But the locals don't have machines like that, so they ride tiny scooters, the sort that clerks in a hurry ride around town. Mine at least had an off-road tyre on the back, but Patrik's still had a normal city tyre with almost no tread. On top of that, the helmet is an invention that hasn't made it here yet, but with this load the scooter doesn't go very fast anyway. I'd guess it was about a 150cc engine, 4 gears, but an automatic clutch. The boys here grew up on these things (they literally ride them from birth, they're driving from about the age of 5), so they really know how to handle them even in the worst terrain. My rider was a bit older, but Patrik's was maybe fifteen. He was the only one who spoke English though, so he negotiated the deal and therefore wanted to ride. His scooter was typically urban, it even had fairing and lights and even a licence plate saying Phnom Penh. He'd probably nicked it in the capital only recently :)

After many more kilometres of a shaken-up arse, calluses on my hand and cramps in my thighs, the road practically disappeared, from then on it was just a barely passable trail surrounded on all sides by jungle. In places, picture a tunnel about 2m across hacked through the vegetation and vines, in places such a climb (or worse – descent) that it took 2-3 of us pushing the bike to get it up the hill. And as if there wasn't enough adrenaline, a proper tropical downpour started! Something like that is hard to describe, but within 10 minutes the already gruelling road turned into a wild riverbed! Because the layer of soil here is very thin, it can't absorb much water, so it all just pours over the surface. The nearest civilisation (not counting the tents of the Chinese workers) 45 km away in both directions. And in this stretch there weren't even those tents. All we could do was rely on the skill of the Khmers and their machines and keep going down the riverbed under a steel sky with waterfalls coming from above. I started worrying about the waterproofness of the camera bag, so I pulled out the waterproof cover. For the camera it made sense, for my body not at all. As Forrest Gump said, the water came from above, from the side, from behind, from the front and sometimes even from below. My super special goretex waterproof boots were by now serving as a decent water reservoir. At every stop we first flicked off, and later even cut off, leeches. Those slimy bastards grab onto the soles of your boots and then, using the suckers on their head and their arse, they move up terrifyingly fast, right up under your trousers and up your sock onto your skin. There they latch on and suck. You can't tear them off, because they're slimy and can stretch like crazy. Luckily they were tiny, up to 3 cm, not like that 12cm monster I photographed yesterday. I even tore one off right below my butt on the back of my thigh. I grabbed it through my trousers, so it worked. Apparently they're harmless, they just squirt disinfectant and some anticoagulant into the wound.

In places the authenticity of the experience felt like it was right on the edge of fun. We weren't in any immediate danger, but there was the thought of the bike breaking down and us being stuck in the middle of the mountains in a tropical rainforest overnight. Since the rain started we hadn't come across any tents, and not a single vehicle either, motorised or not.

In the end the whole ride took 6 hours and although in places we pushed, in places we walked and in places we prayed the bike would hold out (and a few times picked it up out of the mud), the rain finally stopped and the tropical rainforest revealed itself in all its post-rain glory. Birds were out-shouting each other and all the other critters, mist from the forest in the hills below us slowly rose and the horizon of endless, utterly impenetrable green was beautifully sharp and full of contrast. Not even Kateřina Jacques knows that many shades of green biomass :-)

The fact that we made it to the end of the road at 15:45 was quite a success. What wasn't a success is that the last (and only) boat left at one. You can't go any further, there's no bridge over the river (about 80m wide after the rains) and above all there's no willingness among the Khmers to take us any further. Luckily there's a camp of workers at the ford, the ones building the road from this side (so far they're at the stage of blasting rocks with Semtex, as it turned out in the evening). So the Khmer bikers arranged a place to sleep for us with the Khmer road builders. First we sat down with a large family by the road. They had a few young lads, a cultivated father of the family, a grandma, a mother and a girl of about three. Naturally I was drawn to her, I miss my girls out here. So I slowly started getting to know her. The muesli bar I offered tempted her, but she was scared of me, so she sent her mum instead. It reminded me of a scene in Italy, when Žofka refused to go with me into the garden of a restaurant, because apparently „a mean man went in there“. So I quickly went to see what kind of „mean man“ was there and there was just a perfectly nice black guy. So for the local kids it's me who's the „mean man“ this time, because I'm weirdly white and about 30 cm taller than everyone else.

My idyllic getting-to-know-you with the little girl and her family (by gestures they offered us the best reed bed under a tarp, plus food) was interrupted by Patrik. In the meantime one of the locals had dragged him into their shelter, saying our moto-Khmers had arranged a place to sleep for us there. I really didn't feel like leaving that relatively cultivated family, but Patrik (and mainly the pushy Khmer) wouldn't take no for an answer.

As we found out later, the whole camp is divided hierarchically. A bit off to the side are the big shelters of the Chinese, those even have walls of corrugated iron and a new off-road car (Toyota pickup) parked in front of them. That'll obviously be the highest caste, the ones who organise, plan and check the work. The little family with the kids will be the junior officers and specialists like the pyrotechnician. Behind them, in shelters, live the drivers of trucks, diggers, bulldozers and so on.
Our accommodation turned out to be a bit off to the side of the camp. On one side a big muddy puddle, on the other a rubbish dump running down to the river and the fireplace next to it. This is where the day labourers, diggers and helpers live. They welcomed us very enthusiastically, cheering, pulling us by the hands, measuring their height against ours, trying to work out where we were from. That they didn't react to Czech didn't surprise us, only football fans react to that here. That they didn't react to „next to Germany“ and in the end not even to „Europe“, that did surprise us. One of them said he spoke a bit of English and he really was at least three lessons further with English than we were with Khmer. Then came the classic situation, like when an American walks into a village pub back home. First we get him drunk on spirits (theirs is sold in a plastic bag tied up with a rubber band). Then they decided they'd teach us Khmer, seeing as they don't speak English. With the growing amount of alcohol the initial warmth and friendliness turned into pushiness, and when for the third time it seemed to me that somebody had grabbed my arse, Patrik and I decided we'd rather go and explore the Chinese part of the camp.

In the camp of the junior officers they were playing volleyball. They had a nicely stretched net, lines made of rope and vines and surprisingly the game even had a system. First I photographed them and laughed at them, then they finally got the idea of taking me into the game. And that was a really great experience. The ball was a bit of a slipper, but then I got the hang of it and it was a laugh. They deliberately played a lot at me and although they jump like springs, I still had a bit of an advantage at the net. A block with both arms up to mid-forearm caused enormous laughter, but they laughed hardest and slapped their knees when I taught the setter to high-five after every successful smash. They ran cheerfully around the court and among the spectators, imitating the slapping and howling with laughter. Because all the sets and all the smashes went through me, before long I was pouring sweat like a pig. The Khmers play barefoot and just in shorts, I had trainers and long trousers and long sleeves. My dearest has ordered me to stick to all the anti-malaria precautions, so I don't expose too much of myself to the mosquitoes. After the volleyball we went for a health walk down to the river, which is surrounded by jungle and therefore very photogenic.

Which actually reminds me that the very first thing the workers made us do after showing us our cabin was to go and have a wash in the river! We were issued towels, soap, shampoo and led almost by the hand down to the river. Although you're not really supposed to, the river was fast-flowing, so in the end I got in, though without putting my head under. It was of course lovely, but timing-wise unfortunately before the volleyball.
After the walk to the river came dinner. They brought each of us a bowl of rice and with it 3 pots of various sides. There was plenty of vegetables, some small fish and something that resembled potatoes. Considering we're actually in the jungle, pretty damn good. Sadly our Khmer wasn't up to a very long debate, and the booze further reduced their ability to communicate. Plus we started to suspect the place was one big gay community :)
So we crawled into our „cabin“. The whole structure of wooden poles and bamboo is about 8m long, has no walls and a roof of plastic sheeting. Only between the kitchen and the „bedroom“ is there one wall made of tarps. The floor is packed dirt, some sleep in a hammock, some have a bed made of split bamboo. Our cabin apparently belongs to the foreman, as it has a bed made of planks and 2 coat hooks. We were a bit worried someone would crawl in on us during the night, but needlessly. With our bony arses the night on the planks was rough, but luckily there was a mosquito net, so we slept fairly decently. Also because we went to bed at 19:05 :)

Below are the signatures of the workers from the bunkhouse, from the lunch break the following day :)

Since we'd turned in early, we were up with the crew at six. Rice with cabbage for breakfast didn't tempt us, so we popped into the local „shop“ for lemonade and biscuits. Apart from drinks in cans and 3 kinds of biscuits they had nothing else, but that was plenty for us. Plus the lemonade was ice cold, which you appreciate in that 30°C. Just above the camp two rivers meet, we went for a walk downstream over the rocks and there were rapids and behind them another confluence. Looks like there'll be one more around the corner to the right. All that water from six months of monsoon has to get out of the forest somehow :)

Over the rocks we also went upstream along the left tributary as far as the rapids. On the way there was a path cut into the jungle (we don't know whether by people or by other critters). But we were put off going into the jungle when I ran face-first into a web woven from what looked like fishing line. The size of the photographed spider matched the thickness of the thread. Plus the thought of leeches, brr! Back at camp we just flop about in the heat from nothing to nothing. The workers left in the morning to graft, so it's quiet here. We're waiting for the boat to leave, it makes us a bit nervous that we didn't see anything navigable even a kilometre downstream. Supposedly they'll drive us there by truck at one.
I also remembered that last night the village got evacuated! An old boy in a hat came down from the hills and gestured something with his hands and then everyone started moving down to the river. They dragged us along and kept saying boom boom. I remembered how we'd passed a small tracked machine with about a 3-metre drill and around it lay rolls of grey stuff with little wires. When it went off, a little cloud appeared above the jungle on the hill, about like that mist after rain. At half six in the morning I went to have a look, but the road had already been smoothed by a bulldozer and was passable again.
At 12:15 we nervously started shifting towards the ford, before that we'd asked about 6 people altogether whether the boat really goes at one and whether the truck would take us there.

When at one we were still at the ford and no truck anywhere, it dawned on us that like everyone else we'd have to wade the river on our own two feet and jump onto the bed of the truck full of dirt that was standing on the other bank. We'd already seen the Chinese guys' pickup cross the ford twice (it was a Ford, not a Toyota), so we knew it's mid-thigh at most.
On the truck bed with ten workers it was a laugh, but once it set off along the stony road full of potholes, the laughing stopped and we were fighting for our bare lives. After about 6 km the Chinese pickup overtook us and luckily the Khmers yelled at it and flagged it down. Our truck wasn't going to the port, you see, but the pickup was. We quickly hopped with our backpacks onto the pickup bed and immediately realised that the truck was actually pretty nice and slow. There were already some barrels, planks, sacks and about 5 people on the bed. What was left for us was the spot right at the back by the drop-down tailgate, the best place to fall out from.
Luckily we survived it and made it to the port. Here the road really does end for good, beyond that just a wide, calm river and then the bay.

Then there was a tug-of-war over which of the two boats we'd get on. The Khmers were shouting at us not there, not there, that's the Chinese boat and the Chinese are yuck! There's seriously solid bad blood between them, the Chinese are considered here (and are) a much more advanced and civilised sort and the Khmer workers can't stand them.
In the end we got on with the Chinese and we did the right thing. The driver was banging on about $40/person, which freaked me out, because I didn't have anywhere near that much anymore. The boat was a rotten wooden longish punt with an engine bizarrely attached to the side, you steered it with a rope tied to the propeller shaft (screw). There weren't even benches, we sat on the floor. Since it was 22 km and therefore 2.5 hrs, I had time to get to know the crew. A weird Khmer was steering and he had an even weirder sidekick. There was also another barefoot old man, a Thai. Up front sat 3 Chinese, decently dressed, they had shoes and a briefcase. Eventually I got talking to them, the Chinese woman wanted to know where we were from and the younger of the Chinese men spoke English. He was an engineer who's apparently planning that road. From him I know that the section of road built from this side of the mountains is 38 km long, on the rest of the way to Koh Kong a ferry will operate and it won't get finished. Eventually the talk turned to the Khmers. The Chinese woman complained about how terribly money-grubbing they are, that the Chinese supposedly aren't at all. As proof of her words the Chinese guy let me in on the fact that they rent the boat for a flat $200 a month, they go with it every day and therefore I don't have to pay those $40. He announced it to the sidekick straight away, who looked pretty sour :) Just before we got to Koh Kong it started pissing down again.
Between Koh Kong and Thailand they built a bridge in 2003 and with that Koh Kong became so much part of the Thai economy that prices here are quoted in Thai Baht!
After the bridge was finished, the originally backward farming village of a few houses turned into a pulsing seaside tourist resort with several dozen hotels and guesthouses and attractions like diving, boat trips, bike trips etc. Last year or the year before they also finished a highway and 4 bridges from the capital of Cambodia, which paradoxically connected Koh Kong to Cambodia only after Thailand. Until then hardly anyone made it there, because on the way there was not only a dirt road but also 4 river ferries.

Supposedly the first passenger car arrived in Koh Kong only after the bridge from Thailand in 2003.
With the rain dying away we started hunting for a place to stay. A nice wooden Guest House, in we go. But they say they're completely full! The King's got a birthday, the place is full of locals. We tried one more, same thing.
At that point I'm well hungry, it's about 4 in the afternoon and we haven't eaten since yesterday's workers' dinner. I don't see, I don't hear and I head across the street into a pub. Looks civilised, tiles on the floor, menu in English too and they even speak English here!
In this pub, after three days and 2 hours, we saw a barang again! (meaning another white mug).
I laboriously got my backpack and jacket off and sat down. True, the menu doesn't look very authentic, but after 4 days through jungle and villages without running water I've had enough authenticity and I want to EAT!
Then Patrik turns up and comments on the menu with the cry: „What?! 120Bt for a meal (about 80 CZK). Well I don't know about you, but I'm not going to support this rip-off!“
He took quite a risk there, he still doesn't really know hungry Kořán :) Anyway, we pack up and move on with our backpacks. On the way I buy some emergency peanuts from a little girl, oddly soaked in salt water.
We drifted into the local market. Like I say, at that moment I'd had authentic real genuine experiences up to here, so I didn't find it interesting to order food at a „stall“ where they cook on an open fire, on a beaten earth floor, without running water and in the dark without electricity. But I was so hungry that I ordered something, just so it's on the table. And it was. Rice and bare chicken bones and bean pods. In the whole portion there definitely wasn't even a teaspoon of meat! True, it cost all of 10 CZK, including water with juice (which I didn't risk), but after driving through impassable jungle I didn't for god's sake want to save money, I wanted to finally have a proper meal. I solemnly vowed that for dinner I'd go somewhere where they have a floor in the kitchen, where there's running water (in the toilet too) and where they serve meat and not bones or offal. (vow kept).
Then we walked through the town and found accommodation at Otto's Guest House, where a small room cost $3 and a big one $4! The quality matches the price. One shower per floor with mould on the wall, of course only cold water, the whole building slapped together any old how out of wood and the gaps between the planks about an inch wide. But it's a holiday, everywhere's full, plus we're knackered, so we take it. If I'd known that a few hours later a black mouse would run right along the bed frame, I might have thought twice.

All evening we debate what to do tomorrow. Most attractions aren't running, the season's over, the beaches are dirty and murky and the only attraction for tourists is a boat trip into the jungle :)
Most of the „experience“ agencies here are owned by Europeans (Germans, English), so we talked to them about what we'd just pulled off. It surprised them quite a bit, it looks like no Barang has yet come over the mountains from Pursat along that „new“ Chinese road. Supposedly it finally opens up the possibility of doing a sightseeing loop around Cambodia, until now it only worked star-shaped via Phnom Penh. In the end we left it till morning. For dinner we went to the better local restaurant Laurent, owned by some French woman. The food cost exactly 10 times more ($5 versus $0.5) than that horror at the market, but it was also 10 times better. It was funny watching a freshly re-educated Khmer honestly trying to behave like a liveried waiter in a posh French restaurant :)
I had not only an excellent Bai Loc Luc (rice with beef), but also a mango shake, lemon grass ice cream, chocolate cake and 2 glasses of wine. With that my longing for a return to civilisation was satisfied!