Cardomom Adventures in Southwest Cambodia

It was high time for a motorbike ride.  The weather has become ridiculously hot, in fact some of the hottest weather that Cambodia has had in years.  Phnom Penh is pushing into the 40s, and even the Khmers are melting (evident by the fact that even on the weekends, there are less locals out on the streets). I am feeling the heat too – a room without a/c, even with two fans blasting at full strength cannot relieve me from the pool of sweat I am swimming in when I wake in the morning.  Most people can't sleep in this heat but I can – albeit a deep, enveloping, almost suffocating coma-like sleep that leaves the mind flowing thick like treacle.

Original plans to bike to Mondulkiri, in Cambodia's southeastern corner were scuttled, as plans to meet friends changed.  The Cardomoms were a natural second option – Cambodia's pristine virgin forests, some of the last in southeast asia, that run from Koh Kong all the way into Laos – some 4 million hectares.  It is here where tigers and leopards roam, the gibbons sing and strange insects await.

the rumbling beast

I rented the same bike as I had before, during a previous day trip through the outskirts of Phnom Penh.  Lee, my Cambodian bike rental guy with a thick Australian accent (allo mate!) was excited to see me, and helped me plan the adventure.  The bike had been slightly modified from before, fitted with a growling muffler (the bike had no horn, so it was to make sure people could hear me coming – more of an excuse than anything I think) and this time rear view mirrors.  Only in Cambodia would this bike be considered street legal, if that means anything at all on the general anarchy of Cambodian roads.

I left in the morning, after a fine breakfast, and headed down the NH 3, on the basic premise of avoiding the more direct route via the NH4, which while a beautiful stretch of road, is notorious for its mad drivers and reckless minivan/bus drivers.  The NH3 was a second, although less glamourous road, full of construction that left me covered in red dust and a sore behind from the potholes.  The destination was Sihanoukville, and specifically Otres Beach, where friends were staying for the long weekend (the King's birthday).  I was excited to return to Otres, as it was one of the first places that I'd travelled in Cambodia when I arrived, now some five months ago.  I stopped in Kampot, which was sleepy as usual, looking like a true road warrior – body armour, jeans, goggles caked in red dust.  I travelled the stretch between Kampot and Sihanoukville, past Bokor National Park, with its ever-looming misty clouds and rain drenched slopes.  My greatest obstacles were the wandering water buffaloes that lumbered across the highway, not a care in the world.

Otres was just as beautiful as I remember – this time I was seeing it on the edge of the rainy season.  The waters were shallow and hot, and refreshment meant a good swim out to the deeper areas.  The heat also attracted the sea urchins and jellyfish, and I was stung by one for the first time.  A little vinegar did the trick.  We were blessed with big sky, thunder and lightning – amidst the sunset the dark looming clouds pushed southward, bringing cooling winds.  I stayed for three nights, fuelled by yummy fish tacos and margaritas at Cantina Del Mar.

sunset on Otres Beach, south of Sihanoukville

(Note:  it is in Sihanoukville where I saw the most blatant examples of the trade in illegal vehicles – I saw two Lexus SUVs on the road with American license plates – one from Kentucky, the other from Massachusetts.  Apparently the latest fad is to leave the license plates on?  The audacity of some in this country!)

Onwards to Koh Kong, a 140km ride to near the edge of the Thai border, a town notorious for smuggling, gambling and prostitution, although it seems to have cleaned up in recent years (or at least the sins had become a little less obvious).   I met with Nick Berry, the owner of JungleCross, a motorbike tour company, who I was hoping could give me a few tips on getting into the Cardomoms.  Nick is a former Londoner, self-described anarchist, and quasi-alcoholic with and unending thirst for Angkor Draft who had lived in Koh Kong for nearly 10 years.  A rabid trail bike fanatic, he'd found love in the Cardomom mountains, which he described as a trail rider's dream.  Over beers he described how rapid developments were changing the Cardomoms – the trail that coursed through the mountains had only recently been classified as a road, and last December a bulldozer had carved a wider path through the jungle.  Nick must have taken a liking to me, as he decided to come for a ride with me up to the first river, about 55 km from Koh Kong, where the start of the “real jungle” began.

The road was your typical red dust, somewhat rutted.  It was obvious that even the work of a bulldozer could only temporarily tame these mountains, the rain and the jungle. Already in parts the jungle was fighting back, reclaiming the road for its own.  Jungle deluges had already washed away sections of the new road, requiring tricky manoeuvring down steep declines among ruts and rock.

We stopped at the first river, and Nick determined that its level was easily doable, and good indication that the rest of the rivers (there were two more major ones) would be passable.  My first river crossing on a dirt bike! 

On Nick's suggestion, I decided to camp at the first river – here was no-one around, the waters were cool and refreshing, and it had a nice secluded camp spot, sometimes used by the rangers that patrolled the mountains.  I had brought with me a military-style hammock (with built in mosquito net) and a few provisions, including a poncho, which made for good rain cover.  Nick and I parted ways, and there I was on my own, in the jungle, nothing but me and the winding sound of cicadas, and the family of eagles that lived on the edge of the river.  I could hear the thunder in the distance, so I quickly set up camp, just in time to feel the first drops of rain.  I climbed into the hammock and took a nap.

butterflies sucking salt from my shorts

Deluge.  My poncho-turned-tart offered little protection as the rain bounced off the ground, soaking my   non-waterproof bag.  I had nothing to cover my bag, so in minutes everything was soaked.  I managed to keep my precious few belongings – journal, camera, phone – out of the direct rain, but the dampness of the jungle left everything damp, pages curling, my phone instantly developing a hazy screen due to condensation.  Despite the wet, there was nothing I could do but curl up and hope for the best – it was getting dark, the lightning strikes were getting closer, and I could hear the rain walls as they travelled through the valley.  Soon the rain tapered off, and as the light faded, the glowbugs and eery sounds of strange insects emerged.  In the distance I could hear the gibbons singing to each other in the trees.  I half-slept through the night, slightly uncomfortable by the dampness and legs falling asleep, waiting for light to break.

I woke the next morning to early sun – everything steaming.  Worried that the rains may mean an impassable next river, i quickly packed up camp and set off, my bag doubled in weight from sogginess. Nick was right – this was getting into true jungle territory.  The roads became steeper and the jungle became thicker, at several times I found myself manoeuvring through thick bamboo walls that had already taken over the road.  Everywhere were butterflies – intense yellows and blue, and huge black monarchs as big as birds.  At one point just ahead of me, I came across an entire family of wild boars -  a pack of twenty animals including piglets – who scattered frantically when I came into sight.  Periodically I travelled through makeshift camps, locals living on the edge of the road, presumably the families of rangers. 

The Cardomoms are rich in resources – animals, minerals, trees.  And as such, they fall prey to poaching, illegal logging and the pressure from very interested mining companies.  Sadly there is little protection against these threats and the mountains are notorious for illegal trade.  The remoteness of this region is no match for corruption, poorly paid officials and outright greed.  Big cats are poached (in one recent case, a famous tiger poacher was caught with 64 paws – he's now in jail for 10 years), monkeys are caught (gibbon babies can fetch upwards of 1000 USD) and its rare woods (ebony, sassafrass) are harvested at tremendous profit (the latter is valued for its chemical components, which are used in the production of ecstasy).  Smuggling across the borders is rife, and there is a very active trade route that runs through Thailand and Burma.  The military is one of the chief actors in this trade – and they seem to poach/illegal log with virtual impunity, while the poorly paid rangers are no match for such types, often themselves turning a blind eye for a cut in the profits.

everything soaked and drying in the sun - even the camera was damp

30 km past the first river and I hit the second.  This was a larger river, and the assumption was that I would cross via a bamboo bridge.  Well, there was no bridge – presumably washed away – making my journey impossible from this point on.  I was disappointed that my trek would apparently go no further, there was simply no way to pass these waters without risking the loss of my bike.  Even if I did make it across, the depth of the water would have meant a submerged engine, and I did not have the expertise to deal with that.  Sadly, I turned back and followed the red road back towards Koh Kong.  By the time I reached the first river again, the sun was shining hot and hard, so I decided to make the best of it and took a good spell lounging next to the water, cleaning up, drying my soaked belongings on the hot rocks.  I briefly considered staying another night on the river, but I was lacking food (all I had in my belly was a few cookies that I had brought with me the day earlier, not expecting to kip out in the forest).

Soon a larger road will cut into the forest, running from Koh Kong, upwards to Osom and to the northern part of the mountains in Pramaoy.  Construction is continuing at a rapid pace.  This will inevitably mean more traffic, and in Cambodian tradition, more garbage littering the jungle (styrofoam,   drink bottles and plastic bags continue to be the bane of the developing world).  Each day, a little more of this pristine wilderness is chewed up and lost to development and modernity.

I will return to the Cardomoms, soon, and complete my voyage through its ranges and valleys.  But it will have to wait.  Anyone interested in a little adventure in the next year or so? 

The Sulphur Jets and Grasslands of East Java

It was damp and rainy in Ketapang, the ferry terminal across the straight and the closest point on Java to Bali. Transport towns all have a similar transient feel – plenty of transport trucks, grubby road stalls and potholes.

I was travelling with my good friend Natasha, meeting in Bali after spending a week in the Maluku islands in the far eastern region of Indonesia (the famed “spice” islands, historically renowned the lucrative trade in nutmeg and other once rare and exotic spices). Our intent for this leg of the trip was to rent some kind of 4wd and spend a good week exploring this region. We figured it would be much the same as Bali, where vehicles are easy to rent.

“Java is not the same as Bali. No one will rent you a 4wd drive here without a driver,” said Leo, the friendly man working in tourist office. We were not interested in hiring a guide, preferring to make our way around ourselves, at our own pace, and cheaper. We were naturally suspect and looked for a second opinion. And it was true. Nobody would rent us anything, not even a moto, without some kind of driver. 

Leo offered to rent us a small hatchback, as he had contacts in Banyuwangi, the closest town just south of us, so we gave up on the idea of a 4wd and as we had no other options we thought what the hell, it's better than nothing. And I liked the idea that we were probably the only foreigners in East Java with a car of our own.

It was the afternoon by the time everything was settled, and we decided on our first destination: the Kawah Ijen plateau, a steep hill climb through the jungle. As it was late in the day, Leo suggested that we take the eastern road to Kawah Ijen. “It's a bit steep, but you won't have a problem,” he said. Perfect.

Have you ever driven on the left hand side of the road? Stepping into the right side of the vehicle, the instruments and gearshift felt oddly placed, and I hesitated a bit when i saw the traffic. The local owner of the car gave me a look down, clearly worried about the prospect of this foreigner behind the wheel of his pride and joy, wondering if it would return in one piece. 

I was not concerned about driving on the left hand side – I'd spent the last couple of weeks on the moto in Bali and my mind was thinking this way. But the road rules for a car is so much different. A car is higher on the food chain in southeast asia, more priority on the road than a moto, but less than trucks or buses. But it lacked the manoeuvrability of the moto, which I was used to, and now I had become an object to overtake by the more nimble scooter, a national pastime it seems. Everybody is gunning to overtake and get beyond everyone else. Traffic becomes this organic form, as motos madly rush to overtake cars and trucks, often death defying manoeuvres playing chicken with the oncoming traffic, horns blaring, high beams flicking to say hey! out of my way! Buses take the cake for the most aggressive, and plainly crazy driving styles, overtaking around corners, edging in at the last moment, pushing oncoming traffic out of its way. In Asia, the bus reigns supreme on the highway.

We climbed up the mountain side for close to an hour – green and lush, this area gets plenty of rain. We passed small villages, local honey farms, farmers making their way to and from coffee plantations lining the road (this is Java afterall – a heartland of coffee production). At first, the road was pockmarked, but the higher we went, the worse the road became. Whole sections were washed out, rocky and pitted. I pushed the little sewing machine through some nasty spots until finally it was simply too much for the car. I was doing my best to inch us upwards, hoping that the bad stretches would soon come to an end, but soon the road became simply too steep, too rough, and too much of a liability. I'm going to burn the clutch out on this thing I thought, smelling that familiar burnt metal smoke - not worth it.

It was getting dark, so we heading down the mountain and eastwards, towards the town of Jember, staying overnight in a former dutch plantation turned hotel with an exquisite garden and working organic farm, growing coffee, vanilla, nutmeg and selat (snakefruit) with its own melk bron, complete with dutch cows and milking stalls. Here we saw bumblebees the size of a thumb travelling orchid to orchid collecting nectar, and flocks of doves that flew circular patterns above us, making an eery high pitched dull buzz whistling noise. It stopped us dead in our tracks, never had we heard such a strange chorus coming from birds.

Second run at Kawah Ijen. The alternative, longer road was poor and washed out (Lonely Planet needs to update their section, noting that this road is easily passable. Clearly not true!). Made it to the top and the skies grew dark and then opened up – the road suddenly coverted itself into a river (a good indication of why these roads are so washed out). 

Gunung Kawah Ijen is a smoldering and wide mouthed volcano, with a one-kilometre wide turquoise coloured crater lake (one of the most acidic in the world). The brim of its crater accessible after a steep 3km climb. Here your lungs are assaulted with the acrid smell of sulphur, as it jets out in large plumes from an active vent, and whether you get truly gassed depends on the direction of the wind.

Escaping volcanic gasses are channeled through a network of ceramic pipes, resulting in condensation of molten sulfur. The sulfur, which is deep red in color when molten, pours slowly from the ends of these pipes and pools on the ground, turning bright yellow as it cools. The cooled material is broken into large pieces and carried out in baskets by the miners. Typical loads range from 70–100 kilograms, and must be carried to the crater rim approximately 200 metres above before being carried several kilometres down the mountain. Most miners make this journey twice a day. It is truly something out of the 19th century and a clear nomination for one of the worst jobs in the world.

We decided to make an expedition down the rocky trail to see the plumes up close, and watch the workers chip away a the thick plates of sulphur. We wind was blowing northward and away from us, so we could avoid the stench. Half way down we took a breather on a large stone lip. A couple of other adventurers were heading up the trail, scarves wrapped around their faces, teary eyed. “If I'd known how terrible that was, I would have never gone down there,” he said continuing his climb upward. And soon we found out. The winds changed and we were hit with the warm noxious smell of thick sulphur. The trail itself led down through the thicker parts of plume – no way am I venturing down through that I said to myself – and so turned around. Nevertheless, we all felt as though we had experienced some form of natural chemical gassing. Nature's revenge!

Expedition #2. Venturing to Gunung Bromo requires more travel on Java's main highways, which after a couple of hours of unending, sometimes hair-raising traffic, I was glad when we turned left and back onto the smaller winding roads up the volcano. Fresh alpine honey was bought en route, and as the roads ventured higher, we were met with an incredible vista of the steep valley, with its manicured hills of cabbage, beans and carrots and pines, all peeking through rolling mountain mists. The air was decidedly colder too and the whole thing felt as though we'd left Indonesia and found ourselves in Switzerland. We bought some wool scarves and hats (the most unlikely purchase of the trip) in anticipation for our early morning climb the following day.

Forget Switzerland, this was volcano country. Climbing to the outer brim, we saw the sunrise and saw the region in its true beauty – the volcanoes Tengger and Semeru and the eternally smoking Bromo (another sulphur gas jetting monster) to its left-hand side. Surrounding the area is the 'sand sea', a wide perimeter of sand, mud and ash that encircles the inner brims (the volcanoes are actually inside the brim of the larger, older volcano head, some 7-10 kilometres across). We hiked upwards and around the brim of Bromo and made it to an even higher point overlooking the craters from the other side. Not a soul around, and barely even a footprint. It was apparent that only the more adventurous (and that's not saying much) ever walked farther than the viewing platform of Bromo, the 253 stair climb to the lip of the crater enough exertion for one day.

We headed eastward the following day, starting early to avoid the worst of the traffic (drivers seem to reach a particular point of insanity after about 3pm). The destination was Baluran National Park, on the northeastern tip of Java. Baluran is akin to an Indonesian savannah – with large open grasslands hosting kijang (indonesian deer) and a species of peacock. It is said that leopards also live in this park, but are seldom seen. Poaching is also a part of reality here, a difficult job for the handful of park rangers that have to patrol its sometimes thick bush.

We stayed in an eery-feeling homestay, also the hometurf for several groups of monkeys. At dusk, as the tide was low, the monkeys would venture out and forage for clams, sea grass, little crabs and shells in the shallow waters of the bay. I had never seen monkeys on a beach before, let alone those that had a taste for seafood (I always thought monkeys generally avoided the water). Capping the experience was an early morning jaunt to the observatory post, where we had a 360 degree view of the grasslands, wild jungle and the ancient crater of gunung Baluran at the centre of the park. One day I will hike in there...

The Winding Roads of Bali

Arriving in the Denpasar International Airport gives you the first two indicators that you've arrived in Indonesia. Customs officials smoking clove-heavy kretek cigaret and the pleasant rhythm of gamelon music as they eye over your passport. (Only later do I realize that this was likely Javanese style gamelon, which is much softer than the rich clang! clang! clang! clang! Of Balinese-style gamelon.)

We already knew that Denpasar was nothing special – Malcolm had been here 4 years ago – so we made our way to Ubud, about one and a half hours north of Denpasar. Ubud is considered Bali's cultural epicentre and source of locally made handicrafts, and because of its draw, you can also find plenty of craftwork from other regions of Bali. Ubud is Bali's second largest tourist haven, although it is a far cry from Kuta which hosts an impressive beach and much of the alcohol fuelled party town atmosphere with the usual drugs and prostitution, clubs and glitzy Russian vodka bars.

Despite a fairly constant flow of tourists, Ubud attracts an older crowd, and those who have a few more bucks to spend. This means beautiful little boutique hotels alongside rice paddies, and pleasant hang outs for food and drink (fond memories of Casa Luna and the Jazz Cafe). I also found what is officially the best mango lassi I have found. My brother immediately scoped out the best place for good coffee, and it was a daily trip every time we found ourselves in Ubud.

It was time to ride. This was a week long meet-up, long planned with my brother – to ride around the island as a troupe, the route that he had done on his own on his last trip here. The mood was a bit melancholy as we were missing a key person, our father, whom at the last minute was unable to come. We headed eastward, aided by a locally bought travel map which turned out to be completely out of date. From Ubud we travelled through the towns of KlungKlung (one of many former kingdoms in Bali) to Padang Bai (the ferry terminal for travel to the islands of Lombok and beyond), then up along the coast, carving through the hills as we moto'd between gunung Agung and gunung Seraya, two ancient volcanoes.

By evening we made it to Tulamben, a well known scuba diving town, where the USAT Liberty is shipwrecked right off shore. Due to a nasty cut, Malcolm couldn't swim, so I snorkelled into the tepid waters above the wreck, watching parrot fish, needle fish, clown fish and so many more coloured fish that I cannot name (to be a marine biologist...). Apart from the coral covered wreck that sat 10 metres below me, the highlight was snorkeling with a lazy school of tuna (maybe 100) who eyed me nervously as swam a few feet away. A wall of tuna eyes.

(note: I ate many of their brethren over the next couple of weeks (in steak form), along with barracuda, a beautifully firm muscly fish similar in texture to tuna but even more delectable. Served best grilled, with garlic butter sauce. For about three bucks for a huge plate of fish, you really are in a sea-foodie paradise.)

We found ourselves in the outskirts of Singaraja, on the northern coast of Bali, in a pleasant oceanside hotel, where the sand was a salt and pepper in colour due to volcanic stone. Shared perfectly calm sea waters and big sky with a few fisherman, and skipped perfectly rounded stones, amusing the little kiddies with my prowess (and nursing a sore arm for days afterwards!) Our evening was interrupted by a four hour drunken domestic dispute between a Kiwi ex-special forces soldier (whom I previously overheard describing in detail when he shot a man in Afghanistan who “made the wrong move”), an obviously mortified Greek woman, and an extremely pickled Calgarian ex-pat.

We made a quick getaway in the early morning and climbed the long winding hill to the mountain town of Kintamani, overlooking gunung Batur, where we were accosted by suspect guides perpetually asking if we were interested in trekking, even driving alongside your moto at 50 km/h, shouting “trekking? Trekking?”. Seasoned persistence or desperation, I suppose it was low season after all. We made a quick getaway and travelled south, then east, taking the winding side roads through valleys, countless rice paddies, small towns, banyan trees and local temples).

Despite being one of Indonesia's premier tourist destinations, Bali remains very much true its religious traditions and ceremonies, arts and culture. The Balinese are primarily Hindu, and local animism mixed with Hindu traditions can be seen everywhere. Everywhere you go in Bali, there are temples great and small. Any house with sufficient space will have a family temple. The greatest temples use carved stone, which is a rich grey-black colour, telling its volcanic origins. They are chunky block forms, mixed with peaks and flowing arches, detailed with rich expressions of wide-eyed gods, guardians and local forms (Goa Lawah, for example, is a bat temple, nestled alongside a large cave where thousands of bats reside. The front face of the temple includes a very interesting gold painted bat carving.)

It is said that spirits reside everywhere, and must be respected and provided offerings. As with other parts of southeast asia, many houses offer small temples at their doorstep, where the spirits may reside instead of wandering, and possibly staying, in the house. Offerings are an everyday ritual, and are placed in front of houses, hostels, hotels, businesses, and just about anywhere than people may reside. Often you will see women and men with wet rice applied to their foreheads to symbolize that they have attended a religious ceremony or provided offerings to gods, or spirits. Immediately once the offering has been given it is no longer useful, so i didn't feel bad when I occasionally stepped on them – an inevitability because they are simply everywhere.

Spent many calm days lazing about in Padang Bai, gorging on fish dinners and jumbo grilled prawns, listening to the horns of the ferry, spending hours on its little white sand beach, where hawkers addressed you in funny ways (hello sarong! Hello cold drink! Hello coconut!) but even after a short while also wound their ways back to a shady spot under a palm The waters were warm and salty, bloodshot eyes an inevitable consequence of splashing around in the balmy brine.

Two weeks in Bali made me lose my initial feelings of hesitation about going to Bali in the first place. I was worried that this often described “paradise” (as I have heard from so many people over the years) would be a tourist trap but I realized quickly that maybe ninety percent of the tourism is localized and it was easy to find yourself in small villages, local warungs, swimming in coral reefs, with nary a tourist in site. Bali has the infrastructure to be whatever you want it to be, but I found myself exploring little roads winding through valleys and alongside volcanoes, hiking to hidden waterfalls, and meeting so many ever gracious, soft spoken and dignified Balinese people, warm embraces, and down to earth people. Often the tourist count for an entire day would be less than the fingers on one hand.

Leaving Bali meant a four hour bus journey westward, across the southwestern coast to the ferry port of Gilimanuk, fuelled by vegetable fritters complimented with spicy green peppers (nibbled strategically between mouthfuls, careful to bite with your teeth so as not to spill hot chili oil on tender lips) followed by sesame balls, packed with sweet bean paste. Across the shores lay the brooding, mist covered mountain peaks of Java, to be crossed in an aging, rusty hulk of a ferry, slowing cutting its way through the slate coloured waters of Selat Bali.

bye bye vieng xay!

An extended intermission of sorts

Yes, all went quiet on my own southeastern front for a bit. Apologies to mom, who has gently reminded me in the last while – no recently updates on your travels? - that some words are long overdue.

Reasons and excuses are plenty, but I mostly chalk it down to my lazy indulgence/need for my own computer. I've not been keen to spend hours in internet cafes, tapping away, when other more interesting things can/must be done. And, since taking the one truly applicable high school course to life – keyboarding 10 – I write faster using a keyboard, which compliments my somewhat scattered and sometimes quirky thought patterns, which manifests into periodic, abrupt and concentrated bursts when I demand (demand!) that it all must be written down at once. (This conflicts with my near equal enjoyment of writing text longhand, with its slower pace, the warmth of paper and the flow of ink from the perfect pen (Uniball black, 0.5 mm). There's also the the long term satisfaction grabbing your moleskin from that shelf or box in the years ahead and reading old passages – there's no computer comparison to that).

Now that I'm back in Phnom Penh, with the creature comforts of a home away from home, laptop equipped, I find myself studiously writing and recounting travels at the end of this last two months of walkabout. Expect a burst over the next few weeks!