Siem Reap Pt. 2

The following few days in Cambodia passed by in a blur of dusty roads swept up by tooting vehicles, cool afternoons lounging in the water of the pool at the hostel, and vibrant evenings navigating the lantern-lit streets and alleys of Siem Reap.

In the days, the temperature would rocket up to as high as 34 degrees. Everyone would hide amidst the cool shelter that the hostel compound provided in the height of the afternoon, preferring an early trip out in the morning or evening when the temperature was still sweltering, but avoiding the point at which the sun was in the viscerally scorching angle in the sky which it usually took up around noon. An occasional day-time tour would take travellers away from early morning until late afternoon, whilst the rest of the city would wind down to a gentle lull. Drivers would nap in the back of their tuk-tuks; shop keepers would retreat to the back rooms, lazily glancing to the door every 20 or so minutes to check for customers; and market stalls stood empty and abandoned until much later in the day. We woke early one morning towards the end of our stay in Cambodia to take a tuk-tuk to Tonlé Sap – a beautiful freshwater lake and river which runs into the Mekong Delta’s vast system of swamps, lakes, islands and rice paddies lurking in the South of Vietnam.

Along with some fellow travellers we’d become acquainted with at our hostel, we clambered into the back of our tuk-tuk and rode half-in, half-out of the vehicle (there were 5 of us perched in the back) for about 30 minutes out of Siem Reap. We reached a small farm-like building alongside some steep banks which we assumed must lead to some boats on the far side, and after a short period of time which involved buying tickets; spraying ourselves from head to foot in mosquito spray; and then fumbling about in a lightless bathroom whilst trying to avoid sitting in an ominous looking gathering of ants, we hopped back into the tuk-tuk and made for the tracks along the bank.

We’d travelled about 800 yards along the bank before our driver got out and began chuckling to himself. He explained to us in broken English that he’d taken the wrong turning at the top of the bank, and subsequently needed to turn around and drive back over to the other side. We all had to hop out and walk to meet him, or else risk the beloved vehicle’s suspension failing and ending up in the rice paddy at the bottom. I’ll admit, at the time I wasn’t against the idea of winding up on my arse in a waterlogged field - the temperature being what it was at that time in the day - but still, we ambled over the bank to meet our driver, as we did, passing a herd of rather thin-looking white cattle known locally as Zebu or Brahmin, all slowly climbing up the bank from the other direction.

Back in the tuk-tuk again, we watched the rest of the herd pass, bells tied around a select few necks clanged dolefully as the air from the drive rushed past our hot faces. Looming around the next corner was our boat. Now, I'm sure you'd imagine the rivers and lakes to be a refreshing greeny-blue: an oasis of life away from the dusty streets of the city. However, this was not the case. The waters were as muddy as the surrounding banks and rice paddies, opaque with the stirring comings and goings of boats. Supposedly there were crocodiles and fish, but you wouldn't have known, and judging by the locals swimming in the river whilst loosening their fishing gear, they can't have been of a worrying size or temperament...

A view of the boats which toured the Tonlé Sap waterways

The view from the back of our boat - another tour following close behind

Just some of the river-side dwellings along the Tonlé Sap

Locals untying some of the fishing instruments from the sides of the river

The canoes which toured the Mangrove forests around Tonlé Sap

We were passed from tuk-tuk driver to boater, boater to restaurant owner, restaurant owner back to boater, and boater back to tuk-tuk driver, all with the assured and tireless efficiency of locals well-versed in the matter of tourists. Somewhere in the midst of all of this we clambered into canoes and were taken out among the mangroves by two locals to the lake – a woman and girl who couldn’t have been older than 15. The latter of which was our canoe guide and had a giggle of such infectiousness that she had us all in great fits of laughter as we rebounded from one mangrove tree to the next and again as we were twice lampooned by an underwater netting fence.

Passing through the trees should have been a tranquil and enlightening affair, but having seen the size of the spiders strung between the mangroves above us, and knowing our charming punter’s method of haphazard navigating, I wasn’t able to breathe a sigh of relief until we were back out in the open air perched beside a caged crocodile the restaurant had shown us earlier whilst trying to encourage us to have some lunch.

Our charming mangrove tour guide

Both our tour guides laughing at us getting stuck on a underwater net

Punting through the mangrove trees

It's very hot on the lake, so there were strategic umbrellas in the canoes

This is why I used the umbrella...

We took a final boat out to the enormous Tonlé Sap lake where we all took far too many pictures standing on the hull of the boat, and after the long ride and tuk-tuk back we all collapsed into the pool at the hostel once more, considerably scorched despite frequent applications of factor 50 sun cream on my part.

Later that same evening, Mat and I decided to take a walk into town to get some of the fried ice cream sold by street-side vendors we'd spotted a few times previously. At night time, Siem Reap is filled with mazes of shops and market stalls selling gemstones in all sizes and colours; ‘designer’ handbags, dresses and shoes; and bottles filled with rum, vodka and snakes and scorpions that didn’t have the fortune or foresight to escape fast enough. There are herb stalls at every corner where you can pick up kampot pepper for a bargain and a smile, mixed cooking spices, incense and tableware. If you have enough room in your luggage, you can spend a very small fortune at the markets in Southeast Asia, but it takes a well-trained eye to guarantee quality.

We found an animated man selling fried ice cream on the main strip and sat on tiny plastic chairs whilst we waited to eat it. If you’re not accustomed to the term ‘fried ice cream’, and few from colder parts of the world would be, the word ‘fried’ is probably a bit of a red herring: the seller pours the flavoured cream, fruit -and whatever else you choose to have with it- onto a generator-powered icy plate (excuse my lack of technical jargon). This soon causes the cream to freeze and thus turn into ice cream. Throughout this process, the creamer (again, forgive me if that’s not the correct term) uses what are essentially two metal spatulas to scrape and flip over the solidifying cream – almost as you would toss a salad. It’s an obvious alternative to storing ice cream in such hot countries, and we were very glad of it after our long day in the sun.

The entrance to the Art Centre from the bridge, selling lots of trinkets and treasures

Mat enjoying the small, plastic seats whilst we waited for the fired ice cream

Professionally preparing the fried ice cream

Again, in its colder, more solid state

Wandering down Pub Street

We walked around for an hour or two and observed Siem Reap get steadily busier as the night drew in: the colours of the neon signs and lanterns illuminating one by one; the smells of mysterious sizzling meats beside the road – some green, some white, some pink and moulded into bizarre shapes. Walking down small alleyways, we passed diners at candlelit tables which marked the side entrances to restaurants and cafes. We even stopped by Pub Street: standing at one end we took in the madness as tourists and locals vied for seats at the already-hectic bars and clubs.

We walked on. We were working on a bit of a tip from one of the travellers working in our hostel who had recommended a lesser-known cocktail bar hidden away down a side street. Everyone’s always looking for the next best-kept, less-frequented place, this is the first thing you learn whilst doing any kind of small or large-scale travelling. We dedicated a good 40 minutes to traipsing the streets in search of the secret bar. Retracing our steps a third time, we were about to give in to our hot, weary feet, when we found a sign on a wall which matched the picture on the business card I’d been given in place of a clue - this was it.

We went inside and were delighted to find a treehouse-like structure erected in the middle of cosy little square. Swinging seats hung from the underbelly of the treehouse, where various gatherings of makeshift tables and chairs - including palettes and bags of sand over upturned crates - were dotted with candles and provided snug meeting places for couples and parties alike. We both ordered some tropical-sounding cocktails which turned out to be much sweeter than we’d anticipated and conspired to do some people-watching. It was not yet too late, though darkness had long since fallen, and unlike the never-ending bustle of Pub Street, this hidden cocktail bar was still pretty empty. Two separate parties which Mat and I had guessed to be young teachers on a night out sat at tables either side of us. Half-listening to the gentle dips and crests in their conversation, and with the cool breeze of the table fan playing softly across our tired necks and faces, we mused to ourselves that we wouldn’t mind staying here a little longer.