At 7am we got a
tuk-tuk to the bus station, where I ran around frantically looking
for some snacks for the journey, eventually returning with a nice
selection of fruit and some Oreos. Then we hopped on the bus, where
we were joined by several Buddhist monks. When the bus reached the
outskirts of Phnom Penh, we stopped at a big bakery where we bought
some surprisingly good rolls. Our next stop was in a pretty
rudimentary restaurant, where we joined a queue of people waiting in
the light rain to use the row of squat toilets out the back. Each
came with a cistern of water and a bucket, which were used to flush.
While we were hanging around back out front, I started chatting to a
French guy, Jon, who I discovered was also going to the village of
Chi Phat.
Back on the road,
the bus eventually stopped beside a cluster of simple shops on the
edge of a bridge and dropped us off. As the bus drove away, a man
approached us with a sign for a Laura Atkinson. When we indicated
that none of us was Laura, he walked away, leaving us wondering where
we were meant to go to catch the boat to Chi Phat. With a light rain
still falling, we started to cross the bridge, but then the guy with
the sign pointed us towards a hut down by the water so we all trooped
down there, passing a collection of livestock sheltering under the
bridge. When we reached the hut a woman indicated that we should put
down our bags and sit around a table at which some children were
incongruously playing on a smart phone. Among the hut's simple
furnishings I couldn't help noticing a rather large and sophisticated
stereo and was glad that I wouldn't be around when they decided to
crank it up.
After a while a guy
arrived and indicated that we should climb into the little wooden
boat moored down on the river and we were soon on our way. By now the
rain had stopped, but it was only a brief respite, and when it came
back, it did so with a vengeance. Although the boat had a small
covered area, it only covered a small area. The driver had furnished
us with a plastic poncho each, so we broke these out and I also
opened up one of our umbrellas. A little bit further on, the boat's
engine suddenly stopped and the boat began to drift into the
mangroves that lined the bank. A cloud of mosquitoes instantly
descended on us and we frantically searched for the repellent. When I
turned to see what was going on at the back of the boat, I saw the
driver bashing away at a spark plug, which didn't exactly inspire me
with confidence, but miraculously, whatever he did worked and before
too long we were on our way again.
While the journey
was pretty miserable, the scenery was attractive – stilt-rooted
mangroves on the river's margins rising to jungle-clad, mist-draped
hills. On the water we passed a collection of dredgers – big barges
bearing a little shack and a big crane. Some of them were at work,
dropping a large clam-shell bucket down to the riverbed and then
straining to bring it back up again bearing a load of sand and
pebbles, which they then deposited in a big dripping pile on the
barge. We also passed a strange little shrine set on a rock in the
middle of the river.
A bit more than two
hours after we set off, with the rain still falling and our
posteriors completely numb, we finally made it to our destination –
a small wooden pier attached to a small wooden building. Sadly, but
not unexpectedly, there wasn't anyone there to meet us, nor any
obvious signs telling us where to go next. We set off in what looked
like the most sensible direction and I spotted something saying that
the visitors centre was 230 metres up the road on the right. The walk
took us up a muddy road through a pretty basic village – wooden
shacks, very simple shops and a few 'restaurants' and finally to the
large open-plan visitor centre.
I should probably
explain that the village of Chi Phat is the centre of what's known as
a CBET (community-based ecotourism) project. The village used to be a
hub for wildlife poaching and a US conservation NGO, the Wildlife
Alliance, came in and set up the project to try to offer the locals
an alternative income that relied on keeping the animals alive,
rather than killing them. So villagers can sign up to offer
accommodation or act as guides or cooks or drivers. And of course the
influx of tourists brings money in to the other local businesses,
such as shops and restaurants.
When we arrived, we
were greeted by a young woman in pyjamas (more of which later), who
handed us a book with the various accommodation options available to
us – a range of homestays, guest houses and bungalows. Kate asked
whether there was a bungalow that slept four, the woman made a call
and Zoe and I were soon climbing on the back of a scooter and on our
way. What hadn't been explained to us was that the bungalows were two
kilometres from the centre of the village, and I watched with
mounting concern and ire as we drove further and further away –
tinged with fear as the dirt road/track that we were following was
wet and slippery and I had a heavy backpack on my back.
The bungalow proved
to be very basic – thatched roof and walls, two double beds, a fan
and mosquito nets, and a little en suite with (cold) shower, sink
(not plumbed in, so when you used it, the soapy water just dripped
onto your feet) and toilet. As we settled in, the rain also settled
in, so we spent some time sitting out on our little verandah chatting
to Brits Laura and Sam (Atkinson – of the sign we had seen earlier)
in the bungalow opposite ours. They had just finished a four-year
stint living in Hong Kong and were doing one last big Southeast Asian
holiday before moving to their next home (possibly in New York).
When we got out to
the bungalows, we discovered that they offered meals, but we had
already put an order in for dinner at the visitor centre, so the
owners (grudgingly) drove us back into the village on the bike. There
we had a pretty basic buffet meal (enlivened by the discovery of a
big Tokay gecko on the ceiling). While we waited for our (even more
grudging) ride back to the bungalows, I decided to give Sarah a
lesson in triangulation. We both crouched down near where I heard a
frog calling and then pointed to where we thought the sound was
coming from. And sure enough, when I started to search the point
where our trajectories crossed, a little frog hopped away (too
quickly for me to catch it).
The recent rain had
brought out the frogs all over the area, and I could hear several
species calling from a spot out the back of the bungalows. So, as
Kate and the girls climbed into bed, I grabbed my torch and camera
and headed down to see what I could find. What I found was a swampy
thicket too thick to move through with any ease. What I didn't find
were any frogs, apart from one small brown tree frog. As happens to
me all too often, my attempts to get closer to the sounds of the
frogs calling led to my getting increasingly disoriented until I
wasn't quite sure which way would lead me back out of the thicket.
Soon enough I was near enough to completely lost, which was when I
noticed how weak the light from my torch had become. Newly galvanised
by the realisation that I would very soon be lost in a swamp in the
pitch dark, I consulted my inner GPS one last time and set off in as
near as possible to a straight line in the direction that it
indicated – and was very soon out of the swamp and on my way back
to the bungalow and my (relatively) dry bed (just in time for the fan
to stop – electricity in the village is limited to 5-9am and
5-11pm).
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