"Next door, Richard, He definitely has coffee."
Indeed he did. Richard a tall, ruddy faced Englishman with a shock of sheep fleece hair has handcrafted his own blend. It is a medium roast of Laotian, Vietnamese and Cambodian beans.
"Took me forever to keep them from burning it." He confided in me one day. He has a right to be proud. It is one of the best coffees I've ever had. It has a strong rich taste with a lot of earth and absolutely no bitterness. The only draw back is that He and Terry are never up before ten and I would have to wrap my morning ritual around that.
It's been raining for days now. I see on CNN we are trapped between two storm systems. One is pummeling South Asia stranding and killing thousands in India. The other is battering the coast of Vietnam. Richard says that usually they don't get that much rain here. During the wet season it rains for an hour or two and then the sun comes out. Not this year.
I made the trip to the top of Mt. Bokor. The road is a wreck. It was destroyed by the tractors and bulldozers that were used to illegally log this national forest in the 90s. The former governor who profited now resides comfortably in the local jail ordering take-out from all the new restaurants opened by westerners in the last decade.
We were in a monster 4 wheel. I was lucky to happen on the only tour guide who owns one. We passed several lesser vehicles mired in the mud on the way up. Even with the elevated suspension a few of the passengers vomited out the window and into the surrounding jungle.
At the top of the mountain is Bokor city, a ghost town of 20 or so buildings. It was built by the french in 1922. It features a crumbling 92 room hotel. The windows are all gone and it has been stripped bare by vandals and weather but the floors and rooms and the ceilings remain. Red and green mosses cling to every surface. From the many terraces there are magnificent vistas of the towns below, surrounded by jungle, bordering on the ocean.
photo ©2007 catherine griss
Bokor City had been abandoned twice. The first time was during world war II. The second was after the occupation by the Khmer Rouge in the mid 90s. The Vietnamese had retaken the mountain and forced the CPK back into the jungle. They re-emerged later as the CPP Cambodian Peoples Party and have regained power under that facade.
Unlike everyone else I had booked a two day tour. That meant that while the others went back down to the warmth and safety of Kampot, I was left behind at the ranger station. There was not much to do except wander alone in the fog on the heath. Visibility was only ten feet. I walked along the rocky road past the casino, hospital and church, past the Black Bamboo Palace built for King Sisovath. I reached the crest of the road and did not see the Grand Hotel. I thought for sure it was right here. Then a gale lifted the fog momentarily and the darkened halls of the wrecked facade appeared and disappeared just four meters beyond me.
Heading back, I made my way up the steep incline of a hillock just beyond the church. At the top there remained a lone gun mount installed by the Vietnamese Its a wonder how they got that massive scrap of metal up there. As I came back down I stopped and entered the ruined church. I stood in the empty vestibule listening to the moaning whistle of wind as it wrapped around the mountain. On the back wall of the chancel amidst other graffiti was the inscription: 23-10-1991 This church we are the protectors, Tep-Sary, Vannol, Nob, Yonara.
photo ©2007 catherine griss
I happened back on the ranger station at meal time. I was invited by the ranger and his family to eat with them on the small mat on the floor of the office. He lived there with his wife and small daughter and brother in law who was a fellow ranger. I was happy to get the rice and vegetables and bits of strange chewy things otherwise the only thing would have been cup-o-soup, or tins of pork or tuna, or potato chips made with krill.
That night I sat alone in the dorm reading beneath a lone fluorescent light fixture. A loose door swung somewhere in the wind banging against a wall with every gust.
The weather was the same in the morning and this time there was really nothing to eat. The truck showed up around noon and I happily rejoined the new group for lunch. We visited the massive waterfall again as we headed back down off the mountain. I had been on it the previous day and with a night to digest it, walked nimbly along the edge of the cliffs ducking under the torrential falls.
Back in Kampot I returned to Bonkors for an espresso. Richard asked my how it was.
"I nearly froze to death up there." I said. "First I took one blanket, then two, then three and then four. I was lucky the other beds were empty."
That night I heard what sounded like a live rock band around the corner from the hotel. I walked down the darkened streets to where a grimy red and yellow stripped tent had been set up. The whole block had been cordoned off for a wedding. The band was doing a spot on rendition of Carlos Santana's Oye Como Va. The lead guitarist played an old Gibson Les Paul to the sound of no applause. Except me. I crept in close to the entry way so that I could hear better. There, a group of brides maids at the entryway, unhesitatingly scooped me up and sat me at a table. All of the women at the event had spent what looked like years planning their outfits. They wore multi colored dresses that were a cross between The Jetsons and ancient Khmer court gowns. Their hair hung in impossible sculptures on their heads. They wore elaborate make-up that reminded me of Malvina, an alien woman on Lost In Space who secretly drank the precious rocket fuel from the Robinsons craft. They were dipped from head to toe in glitter. Plate after plate arrived at our table and I was encouraged to take my fill. All the while the under appreciated musicians played Cambodian covers each song sadder than the last.
The next day I sat at Bonkors and told Richard about the wedding. He was shaking so badly that he spilled half my coffee.
"I've got the shakes." He confided to me in his genteel accent. "It's not from drinking. My brother has it. My father has it. My grandfather had it."
I took a trip on the back of a moto bike to a sacred cave pagoda. There are many around Asia. All of them ancient sites all of them swarming with bats. My driver Zen was also keen on taking me to a pepper plantation. Kampot apparently has world famous and very difficult to get pepper. We turned off the main road and headed down a long narrow lane. Dust blew up behind us in a red cloud. In the not too far distance at the edge of a wide flat plain were a row of tiny mountains. As they drew nearer he told me that this was one of the last hold outs of the Khmer Rouge.
"There was a big battle here. Boom! Boom!" He gestured to the huge pits on either side of the road. We made a hard left and then curved back around.
"They make the bomb there and there and there."
I was holding onto the back of the seat of the moto and not liking the conversation at all.
"They have to find land mines all over here." He added cutting a wide swath with his arm.
"The soldiers kidnapped the three French tourist and cut the throat."
"When was that?"I yelled over the wine of the motorbike.
"Oh, long time ago. 1994."
I did the math. To my way of thinking that was not so long ago. A long time ago for me when visiting a battlefield was like Gettysburg... or Sparta.
The next day I saw Terry by herself at the pub. Twiglet, her tiny adopted kitten ran around between the bar stools.
"Richard can't get up this moooorning." She told me. Like Richard she too had a very elegant way of emphasising certain syllables in a word.
"He haaas the jitters."
She herself was walking around very stiff legged. She made me a cup of coffee and then held it on the way to the bar with the concentration of an Astronaut, to keep the spillage to a minimum.
"I'm not exactly up to paaar myself." Then she whispered. "I've been IN hospital. I'm recovering from Beri Beri."
"How'd you get that?" I wondered aloud.
"Alcohol induced. But its not from drinking." She added with a wave of the hand.
Indeed he did. Richard a tall, ruddy faced Englishman with a shock of sheep fleece hair has handcrafted his own blend. It is a medium roast of Laotian, Vietnamese and Cambodian beans.
"Took me forever to keep them from burning it." He confided in me one day. He has a right to be proud. It is one of the best coffees I've ever had. It has a strong rich taste with a lot of earth and absolutely no bitterness. The only draw back is that He and Terry are never up before ten and I would have to wrap my morning ritual around that.
It's been raining for days now. I see on CNN we are trapped between two storm systems. One is pummeling South Asia stranding and killing thousands in India. The other is battering the coast of Vietnam. Richard says that usually they don't get that much rain here. During the wet season it rains for an hour or two and then the sun comes out. Not this year.
I made the trip to the top of Mt. Bokor. The road is a wreck. It was destroyed by the tractors and bulldozers that were used to illegally log this national forest in the 90s. The former governor who profited now resides comfortably in the local jail ordering take-out from all the new restaurants opened by westerners in the last decade.
We were in a monster 4 wheel. I was lucky to happen on the only tour guide who owns one. We passed several lesser vehicles mired in the mud on the way up. Even with the elevated suspension a few of the passengers vomited out the window and into the surrounding jungle.
At the top of the mountain is Bokor city, a ghost town of 20 or so buildings. It was built by the french in 1922. It features a crumbling 92 room hotel. The windows are all gone and it has been stripped bare by vandals and weather but the floors and rooms and the ceilings remain. Red and green mosses cling to every surface. From the many terraces there are magnificent vistas of the towns below, surrounded by jungle, bordering on the ocean.
photo ©2007 catherine grissBokor City had been abandoned twice. The first time was during world war II. The second was after the occupation by the Khmer Rouge in the mid 90s. The Vietnamese had retaken the mountain and forced the CPK back into the jungle. They re-emerged later as the CPP Cambodian Peoples Party and have regained power under that facade.
Unlike everyone else I had booked a two day tour. That meant that while the others went back down to the warmth and safety of Kampot, I was left behind at the ranger station. There was not much to do except wander alone in the fog on the heath. Visibility was only ten feet. I walked along the rocky road past the casino, hospital and church, past the Black Bamboo Palace built for King Sisovath. I reached the crest of the road and did not see the Grand Hotel. I thought for sure it was right here. Then a gale lifted the fog momentarily and the darkened halls of the wrecked facade appeared and disappeared just four meters beyond me.
Heading back, I made my way up the steep incline of a hillock just beyond the church. At the top there remained a lone gun mount installed by the Vietnamese Its a wonder how they got that massive scrap of metal up there. As I came back down I stopped and entered the ruined church. I stood in the empty vestibule listening to the moaning whistle of wind as it wrapped around the mountain. On the back wall of the chancel amidst other graffiti was the inscription: 23-10-1991 This church we are the protectors, Tep-Sary, Vannol, Nob, Yonara.
photo ©2007 catherine griss
I happened back on the ranger station at meal time. I was invited by the ranger and his family to eat with them on the small mat on the floor of the office. He lived there with his wife and small daughter and brother in law who was a fellow ranger. I was happy to get the rice and vegetables and bits of strange chewy things otherwise the only thing would have been cup-o-soup, or tins of pork or tuna, or potato chips made with krill.
That night I sat alone in the dorm reading beneath a lone fluorescent light fixture. A loose door swung somewhere in the wind banging against a wall with every gust.
The weather was the same in the morning and this time there was really nothing to eat. The truck showed up around noon and I happily rejoined the new group for lunch. We visited the massive waterfall again as we headed back down off the mountain. I had been on it the previous day and with a night to digest it, walked nimbly along the edge of the cliffs ducking under the torrential falls.
Back in Kampot I returned to Bonkors for an espresso. Richard asked my how it was.
"I nearly froze to death up there." I said. "First I took one blanket, then two, then three and then four. I was lucky the other beds were empty."
That night I heard what sounded like a live rock band around the corner from the hotel. I walked down the darkened streets to where a grimy red and yellow stripped tent had been set up. The whole block had been cordoned off for a wedding. The band was doing a spot on rendition of Carlos Santana's Oye Como Va. The lead guitarist played an old Gibson Les Paul to the sound of no applause. Except me. I crept in close to the entry way so that I could hear better. There, a group of brides maids at the entryway, unhesitatingly scooped me up and sat me at a table. All of the women at the event had spent what looked like years planning their outfits. They wore multi colored dresses that were a cross between The Jetsons and ancient Khmer court gowns. Their hair hung in impossible sculptures on their heads. They wore elaborate make-up that reminded me of Malvina, an alien woman on Lost In Space who secretly drank the precious rocket fuel from the Robinsons craft. They were dipped from head to toe in glitter. Plate after plate arrived at our table and I was encouraged to take my fill. All the while the under appreciated musicians played Cambodian covers each song sadder than the last.
The next day I sat at Bonkors and told Richard about the wedding. He was shaking so badly that he spilled half my coffee.
"I've got the shakes." He confided to me in his genteel accent. "It's not from drinking. My brother has it. My father has it. My grandfather had it."
I took a trip on the back of a moto bike to a sacred cave pagoda. There are many around Asia. All of them ancient sites all of them swarming with bats. My driver Zen was also keen on taking me to a pepper plantation. Kampot apparently has world famous and very difficult to get pepper. We turned off the main road and headed down a long narrow lane. Dust blew up behind us in a red cloud. In the not too far distance at the edge of a wide flat plain were a row of tiny mountains. As they drew nearer he told me that this was one of the last hold outs of the Khmer Rouge.
"There was a big battle here. Boom! Boom!" He gestured to the huge pits on either side of the road. We made a hard left and then curved back around.
"They make the bomb there and there and there."
I was holding onto the back of the seat of the moto and not liking the conversation at all.
"They have to find land mines all over here." He added cutting a wide swath with his arm.
"The soldiers kidnapped the three French tourist and cut the throat."
"When was that?"I yelled over the wine of the motorbike.
"Oh, long time ago. 1994."
I did the math. To my way of thinking that was not so long ago. A long time ago for me when visiting a battlefield was like Gettysburg... or Sparta.
The next day I saw Terry by herself at the pub. Twiglet, her tiny adopted kitten ran around between the bar stools.
"Richard can't get up this moooorning." She told me. Like Richard she too had a very elegant way of emphasising certain syllables in a word.
"He haaas the jitters."
She herself was walking around very stiff legged. She made me a cup of coffee and then held it on the way to the bar with the concentration of an Astronaut, to keep the spillage to a minimum.
"I'm not exactly up to paaar myself." Then she whispered. "I've been IN hospital. I'm recovering from Beri Beri."
"How'd you get that?" I wondered aloud.
"Alcohol induced. But its not from drinking." She added with a wave of the hand.
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