Phnom Penh, Exit...

Hit the morning traffic leaving Phnom Penh: the air not so dense.

Piles of people, animals, produce and wares: pushed, dragged, rolled into town.

Riding against the grain, I stopped, finally catching a glimpse of something green. Proper Asian cities really make you appreciate the Asian Face Mask Phenomenon.

Through Muslim villages, I raced the carts and trucks, pushing up the ever so painfully slight incline through the provinces.

Hard working women giving me a thumbs up, and wide white smiles.

Schoolboys on motorbikes followed me at a snail's pace, practicing their English. Inviting me to dinner with their families.

A race between me and a pack of kids on rusty, single speed bikes (for 6 miles).

And then all at once: Desolation.

Was it the abruptness of this that brought me to such a funk?

I haven’t said much about the drawbacks of my self imposed isolation. Of riding alone. Of the quiet that comes with a language barrier. Of not speaking English for days on end. 

There have been highs and lows, and I can’t exactly call this leg a “low” per se, but looking back, I had been beaten down a few notches.

Or, at the very least, I had reduced my emotional state to that of an 8 year old’s.

It began at my check in at my lodging.

The woman who ran the place spoke English rather well!

“I like your big nose!” she exclaimed.
“I would like to borrow it!”

“THANK YOU!” I replied. “Thanks.”

I locked my bike, I changed into the shirt that Morgan had given me in Vientiene, and I walked back out the door. My legs were weak that day.


 My feet didn’t know what to do with the ground.

About 15 military vehicles piled around the lodging.

No matter.

Kept walking.

Kompang Chhnang, your eyes were all over me. It was earlier than I had wanted it to be. The sun was still pushing me around, and I could feel the entire town’s eyes.

Where the hell was I, anyway? I was more dehydrated than I could keep up with.

How I ever in a million years ended up on the back of some random man’s motorbike is beyond me. My defenses were low, my map, inadequate, and my body, exhausted.

I’m just not one for personal tours.

But he got me. And the wind gave me a lift.

A chubby man in his 30s, learning English, spending half of his time as one of the only “tour guides” in the town, and by tour guide, I mean random man whose English is just good enough to weasel money out of anyone that looks the slightest bit out of place…

i.e. the white girl on a bicycle with the big nose.

I was strict with where he brought me. I was short. I was skeptical. No, no sunset tour. NO, no village tour.

I just wanted silence. And a little more wind than my bike could provide in the stifling heat.

More silence than I was already getting? Whoa, Linz...might be time to tap back into reality...

We rode to the river, where he introduced me to his buddy, a 10 year old with a canoe…and in we paddled, through a maze of a Vietnamese floating village, on the waterways to Tonle Sap…

More and more, the Vietnamese take to the waterways of Cambodia...maybe this was the change I felt in Kompang Chhanang.

Or maybe it was the fact that the above mentioned military was planning on bombing Thailand from across my "hotel."

Maybe that.

Or that fact that I was then deserted by my tubby tour guide.

When he reappeared, we fought like one of those awful couples you only see on television.

Except we were literally not speaking the same language.  He made excuses and asked for forgiveness, and I threatened to walk back through the village by myself, and refused to get on the back of his motorcycle as he slowly rode next to me.

My legs were so tired, I could barely walk.  Something about this town wasn't sitting well with me, but it was most likely only fatigue. All these hot tears were on my face.

We made amends.

Gripping his shoulders as we veered off, further into the village, our fragmented conversation picked up where it left off, and we both apologized.

Down dusty paths, we visited a family who made palm sugar.

The mother of the house grabbed my wrist and dipped my hand into the pot of thick, brown sugar from their trees.  Big smiles as we all looked at each other, licking our fingertips.

Cycling Cambodia's Coastline

The ocean dragged me in, southwest to the Cambodian coast.

These communities, beach communities: the shopkeepers, the bartenders, the dirty old fishermen untangling nets in too hot sun, kids with tricks and restless teenagers with oceans in them--the town holding secrets undetectable by the visitors upon visitors who walk the shores, and bring their plastic things, and eat and drink and buy and bicker. I know it. And you know, it never feels right to know too much about a place before even having a chance to explore.

But there were beautiful sunsets and the beaches to the left were worth every rock my bike pounded over. The trip to the shore, however, was for the ride itself: along the coast from Sihanoukville to Kampot, to Kep.
Sihanoukville: Cambodia’s very own “resort” town, named after King Sihanouk himself, and packed with tourists from the capitol, taking the weekend to lie in the sun and be pestered by fruit selling children, and women trying to convince you that your legs are hairy.

“Pedi-kee-oo-ah, very cheap, Madam! Look your leg! Hairy, hairy, Madam! You want pineapple? Maybe lay-tah?”

Lady, if I wanted you to take my leg hair off in front of a beach front worth of people, I will be sure to hunt you down, in the meantime, if you don't stop touching my legs, I might have to break yours. Thanks.

p.s. I actually had shaved my friggin legs. In fact, despite the awkward biker tan lines, I'm pretty goddamn happy about them.
What?

That's what I thought.

My stay was one day too long, but I somehow managed to share a room with a [drunk] girl from Longmeadow, Massachusetts—one who summers on Nantucket--and also, to spend time with an artist of the photography sort, named John. Dinner of grilled crocodile and barracuda is not such a bad thing, either.

But, it was time to go. Way.

Past Ream National Park, along the coast where it was mango trees for miles, and small waterways leading to the ocean. Just enough rolling hills to keep me busy, and gorgeous Khmer children, big brown eyes and beautiful skin, flagging me down for a big wave and a shout.

I’ve never been happier to be pushed around by headwind. There was wind!

Jesus, I love the ocean.

But, despite the cool air and scenery, the traffic just out of Sihanoukville was a little more than disconcerting. For once, I missed the blaring horns that signaled an oncoming vehicle. The morning rush of buses and trucks out of Sihanoukville came furiously down the road, silently swiping past me, leaving inches of space, or else sending me hurdling into the packed red dirt of the shoulder. I missed the obnoxious warning signs of Thai truckers, the polite outward swerve of the Laotians.

This may not have been such a problem, if the drop from the pavement to the dirt weren’t so dramatic. I don’t care what kind of tires or tread you’re dealing with—sudden movements with a fully loaded bike over unpredictable surfaces is serious business. Your awareness of weight distribution, of balance, had better be damn keen. Finally, the highway gave way to a fork, where I wheeled off to the right, to follow the coastline to Kampot.

Kampot: An entirely uneventful town. Plenty of places to eat, riverside, and packed with expats. "Are you and ex-patriot?" one man asked me, after relaying to me his life-altering-two-week-volunteer-work story, along with some "pointers" on purposeful travel. Hmm...a good question. I thought back to David in Phnom Penh, and his daily battles with the "how much have YOU saved the world today, because I saved it THIS MUCH" crowd in Cambodia.

Not quite sure what these people are doing here, specifically, but they seemed dedicated and earnest enough, however intensely irritating.

The real reason for stopping in Kampot, instead of charging on for a 100 mile bike to Kep, was for pepper.

Kampot is home to some of the finest pepper plantations in the world, and after being thrown off the charts by war, is finally picking up its feet, and producing both pepper and salt, as beautifully as ever.

There is nothing like fresh green peppercorn, and even freshly dried peppercorn (that's possible, right?) is hard to beat. They even have a bit of shine to them.

Which brings me to Kep...

While Kampot produces the goods, Kep, yet another French masterpiece in ruins, puts them to use in combination with their ocean front goodness.

Kep winds around the coastline, where skeletons of French villas sit on the side lines, looking lost and broken..

Sunset overlooking Rabbit Island...

Dinner of green peppercorn crab and a BeerLao...


Then back to the city before heading north...

Phnom Penh, Cambodia

There is something unbelievably satisfying about crossing a border by bicycle. I think back to my many run-ins at customs. The sweat, the fear, the questions (do I have something to declare?) and finally, the stamp.

But here, I was just cruising through. This may be directly due to the fact that I was the only person crossing the border all together, and I am funny looking enough in my cycling gear that I am, yet again, more of a spectacle than I am a threat.

Everything happened at a leisurely pace, and before I knew it: Cambodia.


It was sheer desolation and dust through northeast Cambodia. To the point where it was almost eerie. I worried about finding food and water. Yet again, the Mekong was just too far off, despite its appearance on the map.

The capitol of Cambodia, smack in the center, could not come fast enough.

This was for two reasons.

One: The dust-desolation factor.
Two: David Burgess.


Rewind to my final year at school: sitting on the couch, the couch, at a certain university in Rhode Island. Plans were being made, the post college plans, the travel plans that kicked my entire life in gear. And for David, his plans could not take action fast enough.

And so: Study abroad, Vietnam.

I remember being amazed, and even a little scared for him.

Here I was, making my plans for New Zealand (not knowing that I would then spend a large portion of the next three years traversing Asia), and there was David, heading off to study in Vietnam.

Vietnam!

This, my friends, is what got the wheels turning.

All of a sudden, this was an option. People do this.

Fast forward to the life I’ve created for myself on the road, and with every move, there was always that question of, hey, maybe I should meet up with David somewhere!

Year one distraction: Japan.

Year two: Nepal.

And finally, year three, here we are, with David now a teacher in Phnom Penh, Cambodia, and me, a cycling fool in Southeast Asia.

We fittingly met up at the Tela gas station (feel free to get the reference) by his place near the Russian Market...

In this somewhat seedy neighborhood, I got down for a good week, feeling the comforts of home by way of solid company, music, and cooking, all the while digging deep into Cambodian culture with the help of a crash course given by my hosts.

David lives with Courtney, a drop dead gorgeous Fijian native of Tahitian descent.: A girl with an impeccable proper British accent, and a seemingly effortless drive to more or less, save the world.

This is a girl who started work at her first NGO at age 16, a girl who practically runs the show at her school in Cambodia, has ties with the U.N., and regularly takes trips to Phnom Penh’s dump to feed the children. All the while, she is sweet and composed, and a gracious host.

These guys really spoiled me.

Life went on rather seamlessly. While David and Courtney worked, I explored the city, while after work hours were dedicated to David and I stomping through as many of Phnom Penh’s grittiest markets as physically possible.

Dinners in; Dinners out; Angkor Beer & Mangosteen!

Even a chance to finally watch the Olympics!

Basically, I didn’t want to leave. Flashbacks of nights with Tristan and Katie in Korea.

With a final night out, David and I roared through town by motorbike, sharing ipod speakers, and jamming out to expertly picked music for late night city cruising.

I was leaving for the coast, with plans to come back to Phnom Penh before wheeling my way north to Siem Reap…but all the while thoughts and thoughts: not enough time, not enough time!

Cycling 4,000 Islands, Laos

Muang Khong, or Don Khong Island, (not to be confused with Don Khon Island) is the largest of the many piles of sand scattered through the Mekong in southern Laos, many of which only make an appearance during the dry season. There is almost entirely nothing to do, or see, which for some, is the perfect excuse for a long and lazy stay.

For me? Yeah. Lying on the beach and baking in the sun is somewhat likened to a slow, hot, painful death by boredom.

There is a time and a place for everything, and although I may find enjoyment in such “activities” (?) for an hour or so, especially after the likes of a Cape Cod winter, I have my limits.

Sunshine is for running around in.

Sunshine is for frisbees and handstands.

Period.

Needless to say, I keep my beach bum time to a minimum.

Growing up on the Cod, it is work, work, work, during daylight beach hours, then hit the sand at sunset: Love is a beach bonfire.

Although, the more I think about this, the more I think I should take up surfing. I might even manage to tire myself out enough to then sit on the beach with my friends. It’s been a long time coming.

In any case, south down the Mekong I went, to the more popular, tropical island, Don Det, by way of yet another river crossing...
,
(essential life skills 101: balancing a fully loaded bicycle on a canoe)

Apparently the islands were best explored by bicycle, so off I went, and pedaled and pedaled, over rocks and sand, down the one way path encircling the island.

There are two options for your island accommodation: the sunrise side, or the sunset side. Both sides are lined with lopsided little bungalows, some more upscale than others, from mini pseudo resort huts, to tied-together-twigs next to a hole in the ground squat toilet. Either way, living arrangements become more and more secluded the further south you trek..


About midway down the path before the bridge to Don Khon Island, I found myself a place, cool and quiet under my mosquito net.


Electricity is at a minimum, usually being cut out around 10pm, however, more and more generators are finding their way to the shore these days. And, despite the fact that change is eminent, and that the Vang Vieng crowd makes up a decent portion of Don Det, it is utterly laid back here, quiet, and peaceful..

If you happen to actually take advantage of what the sunrise side has to offer, you may even catch a glimpse of village life, nearly, just nearly untouched.

Kids kicking rocks and dirt through freshly swept paths, yanking school uniforms away from untamed, wriggling, river splashing, sun brown bodies...

My company on Don Det consisted of France, by way of Sophie (whom I met in transit to Luang Prabang, and again in Pakse), Karen (!) and Roman (go on, say it with a French accent).

Although Karen wasn’t feeling well and stayed in her hammock, Sophie, Roman and I went on a bicycle adventure, to the waterfall, which ended up more like a canyon of rushing water.

Fitting perfectly with the pace of the island, we ate a lunch that took about an hour and forty five minutes to appear at our table, then pedaled on, running into island wildlife along the way.

Even the wildlife was chilled out to no end.


Hey bird of prey, why are you just sitting next to me? Don’t you want to peck my eyes out or eat fish or at least fly away and circle the sky looking all majestic? Are you ok? Do you like…want a cracker?

God, Don Det, your innocence caught me off guard.

Cycling Champasak, Laos

I allowed myself a day in Pakse to regroup, have a beer, do some sprints by the Mekong River, and get over myself, before heading South.

Valentines day was spent a short way from Pakse, in Champasak, which, contrary to popular belief, isn’t a town of all, but a string of villages, a ferry ride across from Route 13, leading to ancient ruins (thought to be the pregame to Cambodia’s Angkor Wat).

With two lawyers from Portland, Oregon, and Alaska, good old heart day was spent at an Italian guys house…who, strangely enough, lives in “Champasak,” where he tinkers with his old Camero (!?), plants things in his garden, and cooks up enormous portions of Italian food from his family’s recipes, which he then serves to people in his backyard. Dope.

Also, my lawyer friends were late, so the Italian dude thought I was being stood up on Valentines Day, which then allowed me free wine and appetizers! Game on!

Once they showed, however, the lawyers were hilarious and enlightening company. So great to be with equally Asia-travel-obsessed-Americans. They are difficult to come by, let me tell you.

The Mekong River just wasn’t getting old, and the views were gettin’ prettier by the day.

And while the ruins themselves weren’t as spectacular as I had imagined, the village life on and off the island, was fantastic.

Crossing the river, once again to get back on my path, it was south to 4,000 Islands, where, despite the fact that the river was two seconds to my right at all times, the route was unbearably dry.

Burning fields, yet again.

Tombstones marking my progress.

And food? Nowhere in sight.

But at least there was a monkey farm.

I had missed my chance of fueling up at a crossroad about 30k prior, where toothless women waved fistfuls of flattened, and grilled up rats on sticks.

Oh, the regret.

Luckily, before keeling over, I found a woman about to serve up some noodles to a few of the men in town, in a village called Napheng.

It was there that I was treated like a somehow tame, rare, wild animal.

In spandex.

The mother of the situation, shaking her head and wagging her finger at the boys…

(who were actually grown men, especially when you count the grandpa…but you really couldn’t tell by the way they clapped their hands together with glee at the sight of me, fidgeting in their chairs)

“Yes, we know she’s alone, and cute in that she’s-so-ugly-she’s-cute kind of way, but we have to let her go back to the wild, kids—it’s just not right to keep her here!”

“But Mo-Oom, just look at her, can’t we keep her?” (ruffling my hair, tugging my shirt, clicking the gears of my bicycle)

“I think she’s hungry! Let’s see if she’ll eat a CHILI! Here, put it near her mouth and see if she’ll eat it!”

I ate the chili.

A round of applause, and I was sent on my way, scooted out to the wild, from whence I came.

Approaching my turn off, I could literally smell the water. Relief. A canoe crossing the river yet again, to the quiet of Muang Khong to spend the remainder of the day pedaling and people watching...

Cycling the Bolevan Plateau, Laos

Seeing the days elevation on the map, and linking this with the whole idea of “Cycling the Bolevan Plateau,” I had decided that I would obviously be cycling up and on to the plateau, stretching across miles of a flat, lego-like rock formation in the plains. Feeling the cool breeze in the heights. Seeing the barren stretches of land. Standing cliffside with hands on hips. Wiping my brow before posing for a photo, hair whipping around my face.

Well.

I got some of it right.

I climbed. Yes.

Even posed for a photo. This is me at hour number six, defeated, slumped over the headstone like mile markers of Route 16.

This may have been the most gradual “climb” of all time.

And there was the plateau: Immediately to my left, for three whole days.

Laughing at me.

No, no. There was no breeze. There was no breeze.

There was no breeze, and it felt as if the air was, in fact, suffocating me, instead. Not blowing past me, but pressing down on me. It is an absolute trick, that Southeast Asia plays, by simultaneously being dry enough that the fields around you are literally in flames, and yet the humidity is of such magnitude that I may as well have been riding my bike through hot jello.

No, I did not, in fact, go anywhere near the plateau. The route circled it, planting me at least 1 kilometer away at all times.

But despite the weather, the trip was sweet! I’m gonna go ahead and change the tone here, cuz really, yeah, ok, so it was hot, and there wasn’t much air circulation going on, but the route was beautiful! And if not aesthetically pleasing at times, it was at least culturally fascinating.

Day one rode through a village of blacksmiths, hand making tools, and blades, in the already unbearable heat. From there, I hit “Banana Junction,” fittingly named, and filled with vendors selling crazy tropical fruit that is often difficult to come by.

Jackfruit, canistelle, soursop, sweetsop, star apple, durian, at least 4 varieties of bananas, including the red kind! Yes!

To be honest, I had no idea what the shit half of it was, until I randomly ran into an actual botanist, who gave me the names of many of the above stated fruits.


Education score!

But whatever, pff…who needs names!?

Labels are for judging.

I think it was the best mystery lunch I’d had the whole goddamn trip.

And there have been a lot of those.

But they’re usually involving meat.

Which is generally, slightly more terrifying.

(More on the cycling Botanist and his amazing fake wife, Zoe, later)

And here is where I will officially take back all of the negative statements above, regarding the weather “on” the plateau, since it is only in these conditions, where the very nectar of life is born and bred: Coffee.

Everywhere.

Some of the best Arabica goin’ is reared up in Laos, and shipped off to the likes of Europe and the States (which is why none of it is coming home with me directly from the fields…they only leave the dregs for the Laotians).

There were waterfalls the whole way, culminating in the serene Tad Lo waterfall, one of the main attractions in the region; a place where travelers wind up mistakenly staying for twice as long as they had planned.

Although I have to say, the road to Tad Lo was a leeeetle beet trying for my road tires.

New roads are going in like mad, (to make way for the loggers that are busy deforesting the entire country, obviously), plowing through villages that were, even within the last ten years, extremely traditional (traditionally).



One of these things is not like the other, one of these…things….oh god.


Examples of the rapidfire change, swiping Southeast Asia…

At a market between Paksong and Tad Lo, I ran into two men from Holland, on holiday, in search of traditional Laos, by way of their excellent tour guide, Ban, and their faithful driver. We discussed these very things, noting that their “search” hadn’t been as culturally rich as they had hoped, due to the lightning like development that’s going on, in even the most remote of villages.

But Tad Lo, was, without a doubt, beautiful.

Had I not BEEN ROBBED AGAIN…I probably would have stayed a couple days, soaking up the BEAUTIFUL TRADITIONAL LIFE AND GORGEOUS WATERFALLS.

Yup.

That’s right.

Robbery numero dos.

Fast asleep in my bungalow, a local creep decided it was great idea to sneak in, robbing me of all of my cash, the cash in the pouch directly next to my face on my pillow, as well as my iphone (that was not only my last source of music, but my alarm clock, and note taking device).

I woke up late that morning. And cried at my picnic table for an hour, while my guesthouse owner lady, ran around with arms flailing, yelling at her neighbors to get someone to help me.

Clearly, she and her chickens could not.

It was not so much the money, or the phone, that was so upsetting, as it was the violation. Again.

Finally, after a Puerto Rican man tried to comfort me by telling me how he was shot in Nicuragua, Ban, the tour guide with the men from Holland showed up! Apparently, he was the only one in town that could translate, and get me out of there.

Without cash, I could not eat or drink, and without being able to eat or drink, I could not ride my bike for 100k, back to Pakse, through burning fields. Team Holland was kind enough to give me a lift back to Pakse, and in turn, a full day on their personalized tour through the Bolevan’s remaining tribal villages.

Education score, round two!

Not only that, but these men were excellent company, and more than generous with me. All in all, I may have had a rotten morning, but the day was one of the more memorable ones going.

We even found baby pineapples! Dude! So that’s how they do it!