15/4/25
We slept in till almost 6am. We lazily had two hot coffees from the resort. Two for $3. When Jonathan was fetching them he bumped into some westerners. A young Belgian guy with his family plus his Canadian girlfriend. They had lived in South East Asia, currently Phnom Penh, for his whole life. They actually entertained the idea that Jonathan owned the resort. Must have been the fact he was lumbering about in his pyjama bottoms. They were going to hike up the mountain.
We left at around 7am heading east. Today was gonna be a shorter day. There were limited places to stop in between here and Laos and the day after would have to be harder. After we left the shadow of the mountain we were on the outskirts of Preah Vihear. On a whim we went to the market. A kilometre away we found the bustling street. A hive of scooters as always.
Just as we were devising a plan to locate tofu, we spotted it across the street. Frankie went hunting and found some cooked sweet potato. The people seemed to appreciate our attempts to wish them happy new year in Khmer. We rejoined the 64. It went through charred land for miles and miles. Some people were living in very poor quality accommodation. Simple huts on stilts. Others were more modern.
Occasionally some hyper wealthy people would speed past in Range Rovers. We didn’t know how large the wealth inequality was here. But it seemed vast. Rampant capitalism must be at play. The terrain wasn’t very interesting. Well it was interesting, but it was repetitive. Over and over again we passed the same types of structures and typical family scenes. We’d got used to all the butterflies around us. Very beautiful, big and fluttering all over the place.
We passed through a village. It’s not on any of the maps that we could see. We think it was called ‘Por Team’. It was a beautiful place. All the villagers were gathered around in groups celebrating. A whole group were just standing in the back of a trailer. A group standing near the road saw us coming and playfully sprayed us with their water pistols. We gratefully accepted their cooling waters and cheered them on.
It was hard to differentiate one mile from another. The terrain and surroundings were identical for what seemed like an eternity. We just sailed along as a chorus of greetings followed us. It was seriously impressive that from 50m away they could spot the foreigners on the least noisy form of transport there was.
As always the last few kilometres were the hardest. We arrived in Chhaeb at about noon. It was the only place we knew of accommodation before Stung Treng. According to Scott there had, until recently, only been one option, Mey Mey guesthouse. A new one had sprung up. No information was forthcoming apart from the map pin Scott sent us. There was a sign on the main road and a line of wooden A-frame bungalows appeared. There was various building site paraphernalia lying around.
A young man came out to greet us. He spoke relatively good English. He gave us a bungalow at the end of the row. Sadly, it was close to the temple. Which was playing loud music. On repeat. We were used to it but never had we had to endure staying next to it. It was probably worse as it was the holiday. The bathroom was unfinished. No tiles on the wall. No shower. We had to double check they were happy for us to use it. There was a big plastic tap and a bucket.
The temple music started off tuneful. It was just about endurable. Suddenly, beats started. Heavy bass. Bass so strong it shook the entire bungalow. We thought it couldn’t possibly last very long. Frankie went to ask the owner. It would probably carry on until 10pm. Nope. We packed up. Gave the man all our small notes, 1800 Rial, and went to the next best recommendation.
Nita Home Resort was a kilometre back the way we’d come. Fifty metres up a dusty track. Two, small, wooden a-frame bungalows. There was no one around. We noticed the air conditioning was on in the far bungalow. Shouting brought out a man wrapped in a towel. He let us into the other bungalow. Peace at last. While we let the air conditioning cool the metal roofed sauna down, we went to the market.
It was even further away now. We traipsed in, under the usual watch of the locals. While we were browsing for vegetables a man approached us. He spoke great English. He helped us find some herbs, locate someone to sell us rice, sold us a huge red dragonfruit himself and changed a 50 dollar note to Rial. The currency exchange was closed. Best exchange rate we’d got yet.
Laden with water, rice and vegetables, we went back to our little hovel. Thunder had started rumbling nonstop. The sky was dark. Rain was definitely coming. We moved the bikes to the front of the bungalow and covered them with the tarp. We brought a few panniers inside. About an hour later it started. First light tinkering. Then it was like it was hailing, the metal roof exacerbating the sound. Peering out of the small tinted window we could see the tarp had blown off. Jonathan went out to fix it and was immediately drenched to the bone.
We wondered for a while if we should have brought all the bags in. Nothing we could do now. The rain abated after an hour. We could still hear some music pounding away in the distance. We ate our dinner, then some dragonfruit and mango with rice. It was quite a cosy space. We couldn’t help but consider what camping in that sort of torrential rain would be like.
Surly They Won't Make It 