We left Kratie behind on the 19th when we set out on our mission to get to Sen Monorom in Mondulkiri Province. This little outpost is off the standard cookie cutter backpacker trail because it takes a little bit of work to get to and there isn’t a whole lot there besides trekking and domesticated elephants. It sounded pleasant and was (sort of) on the way to Laos, plus we were trying to make sure that our last week in the country was in rural centres rather than big cities, where local culture gets lost, so off we went.
When asking about tickets in Kratie, we learned that the buses are three-seater bucket seat benches (actually 3.5 courtesy of an additional little strip of seat) and they sell four tickets for each bench. “Cozy” doesn’t quite do it justice. We were told that we had the option of buying an extra ticket, which would give us two full seats, instead of having to cram Rich’s shoulders in between two other sets plus mine. Done. We boarded a minibus for the 5 hr trip and were shocked when we arrived a full hour AHEAD of schedule. We might’ve made Cambodian history on this one. Also shocking was the behaviour of the young British guy behind us, who steadfastly refused to move over on his seat when a fourth person was added to their row. They hadn’t paid for the extra spot and clearly hadn’t been aware that the trip was going to involve snuggling with a stranger. We ended up relinquishing a bit of our third spot to someone for about an hour, but since Cambodians are small-framed, it wasn’t much of an imposition. Given that the Brit behind us was stick thin, I don’t know what his problem was.
We arrived in Sen Monorom without a plan and were surprised to see not a single tuk tuk. Was this the end of tuk tuk territory? Instead of being bombarded by tuk tuk drivers, we were quickly introduced to the exuberant Mr Tree, who offered to give us a tour of his lodge and, if we didn’t like it, he’d bring us back to town. We got into his car – a car! The first one since the airport taxi in Borneo! – and headed off to the lodge, where we paid $5 a night for a very simple en-suite tent-like wooden bungalow that we would later learn was shared by a large, very vocal gecko. Other merits of living in a hut in Sen Monorom include being serenaded by the odd car alarm bird, listening to pre-dawn duelling cockerels, dawn birdsong, and the soothing sounds of the neighbour’s tv… It also appeared to be the home of a new orange pyjama fashion trend – countless women were spotted in their citrus-coloured finery, both at home and around town.
We had a very entertaining 3-night stay at Tree Lodge, that started with an afternoon of lounging in the restaurant and chatting with Tree. We learned that there are, according to the WWF, three tigers still living in the forests near Sen Monorom, as well as a number of beers. Wait.. What? Oh…. Baaaaaairs. Rich had to clarify for me in a brief moment of confusion and we shared a laugh later when we realized that there was no beer on Tree’s menu.
Mr Tree had the most maniacal, contagious laugh I’ve ever heard, and was a bit of a sadist when dealing with Pat, his 10.5 month old son. Tree would spank him, with increasing force, to see how many spanks Pat could take before he cried (the answer was four) or pinch Pat’s nipple pretending it was a mosquito biting him. Very odd to say the least, but Pat was one of happiest babies I’ve met in awhile, so he clearly wasn’t too affected by the torment.
Other Things I’ve Learned From Pat
A) Jailbreaks are hard when you can’t walk yet – through the clever use of a length of PVC pipe, he was contained to the bedroom for long periods of time, despite his best efforts
B) Who needs diapers? They’re expensive! Just pee where you stand! – this includes the seating mat or the dining tables. Soap isn’t an issue; cloth rags are apparently suitable sterilising material. Yikes.
C) Strollers are exciting playpens – standing, facing backwards, arching over the front wheels, it’s a miracle that he didn’t get flipped out in a heap on the floor
D) Charm the pants off strangers and you’ll never be bored – he suckered at least three of us in during our three days there
E) If you put them three of more feet off the floor, play pens don’t need four walls – after it was built on our first day, the new seating platform worked beautifully as a holding pen for Pat. It must be down to sheer self-preservation that he didn’t dump himself out of there, but he never seemed to have any interest in exploring the unprotected edge of his white-collar, minimum security baby jail.
Apart from playing with Pat, we met a few locals with impressive English and French skills. The area appears to be hugely popular with French backpackers, not all of whom speak English, so guides have picked up quite a lot of French. On our first night, we went to Phat Gecko Bar, where we met Mot, who was at least trilingual (to some extent, anyway). I don’t know if Mot was drunk on rice wine, high on something, or just naturally exuberant (though I suspect it was more likely option A or B). Over a few shot glasses of rice wine (sipped, not downed in one) and conversational gems that included phrases like “awesome, possum”, “F me sideways!” and spontaneous bursts of Bob Marley tunes, he assured us (“brother” and “sister”) that he is “a gentleman, not a mental man”. Given that he proudly announced how great he is at guessing nationalities and then declared that I was from Germany, I’m still not convinced that he had his statement the right way around. After an hour or so, I had the strange feeling that, if we stayed, we were going to be in for a painfully-odd-but-memorable night. I knew it would be something we wouldn’t forget, but I didn’t think it was an evening I was desperate to experience. We were both tired and opted for a lift home instead of hanging around for food and more rice wine, and neither of us were disappointed with our choice.
We decided to go explore some waterfalls the next day so, after a bit of a slow start, we set out on our rented motorbike with two distinctly different hand-drawn maps of the area (if one is good, two is better, right?) and a warning about using a mask to protect against “Cambodian snow”, and we proceeded to tour down some exceptionally poor roads. We went through a construction site – apparently the road is going to be paved at some point in the next fifty years – and down roads that had more potholes than flat ground until we went down a slightly treacherous, sandy hill and came to a halt as we rounded a corner.
Down a second hill below us, a bus had emptied its passengers onto the side of the road and was proceeding to back up in order to take a run at the hill we were on. Struggling through the sand, it very slowly reached the summit of the hill and the passengers celebrated by piling back in. I walked down the hill and waited for Rich – no way would Rich’s limited moto experience go so far as to carry us both down what was essentially a sand dune. Before he could get down the second hill, an old man came around the corner leading to the bottom hill and, in a cloud of red dust, dropped his bike on the hill. We both went to help him push his bike up the hill, but he was out of sorts enough to have not thought to turn it back on; after we had struggled to push the immobile bike up several feet of the hill, Rich got it running and gave it some gas, making the whole ordeal much easier. After receiving copious thanks from the driver, I turned back to Rich. We were both the colour of rust from the knees down, our feet barely distinguishable from the dirt under our shoes. We had, it appeared, been caught in our first “Cambodian snowstorm”.
“We’re turning around. I’m not going down that hill.” Fair enough! If Rich wasn’t comfortable driving, I wasn’t comfortable going, either.
After twenty minutes of backtracking (that seemed to last two hours), we finally found where we’d missed our turn. Once down the correct road, it was only a few minutes before we hit tarmac. I don’t know that my tailbone has ever been so happy. We reached Bu Sra waterfall a full two hours after setting off on what was supposedly a 30-40 minute drive. Crazy. And we still had to get back…
We enjoyed a beautiful swim, had a good clamber around the rocks, and then I either broke or sprained my stupid pinky toe when I stubbed it on a rock, bringing my explorations to a stand still. We never managed to find the steps down to the base of the second of the two falls that make up Bu Sra, but we enjoyed our time there anyway. One of the most memorable sights from the falls was of a woman and her young daughter, who had come to the falls to do laundry. Mom washed clothes while Daughter stripped off and played in the shallow water, all with the falls in the background. If doing the laundry always involved such a peaceful setting, I don’t think I would ever complain!
With great reluctance and a protesting sacrum, I got back on the bike to head for Sen Monorom, with plans to stop at another set of falls and a lake en route. The weather had different plans, though, and we were pelted for a short while with huge raindrops that made us worry that we were in for trouble. Fortunately, the rain eased up enough to make it less painful and we opted for a direct route back to the lodge instead.
That night at dinner, we confirmed plans with Mot for an elephant trek the next day and got picked up a little after 8 the next morning. The forests around Sen Monorom used to have about 55 domesticated Asian elephants working in the logging trade. Animal rights and environmental activists stepped in and taught the locals about how to use the elephants for something other than logging, and so the elephant trekking business was born. We had a lovely ageing female for the day an enjoyed a 30-minute walk down to a river, where we went swimming and had lunch, before she made her reappearance and we jumped in the water with her to give her a good scrub before riding bareback up the hill to the loading platform. Being in the water, feeling her giant legs tucked in underneath her body, swimming around to wash the dirt from the top of her head and behind her ears was an exceptional experience. Sitting astride her skull as she rose from the water was mildly terrifying (even though Asian elephants are smaller than their African counterparts, it’s still a long way down that trunk to the ground!) but unforgettable, as was the hour and a quarter ride back to the village, the entirety of which I spent with my knees tucked firmly into the sides of her head while her prickly hair exfoliated my legs and her flapping ears kept us both a bit cooler.
I was unsure of what my reaction would be to riding a supposedly semi-captive elephant now that it has become relatively big business (granted, there were only two of eight elephants being used in the village that our trek departed from, so it’s not THAT common). Mot told us that the elephants are left in the forest when it’s not their turn for a trek – I’m a bit skeptical about the details of keeping an elephant while letting it live in the forest. Nine years ago, I spent a half hour or hour riding an elephant’s head in the jungle north of Chiang Mai, but it seemed less of an issue then – whether that was because people were less aware of questioning how the animals were treated or because there weren’t as many elephants there, I’m not sure. Ultimately, these huge creatures are being treated much the same as horses. You wouldn’t abuse an animal that is your cash cow (cash elephant?), given that the abuse would be evident for anyone to see, right? We had healthy-looking animals and the mahouts were calm and quiet with them. I don’t think you could ever find out the “real” story, but I took comfort in what I saw and have faith that these men treat the animals with respect.
That night, we marvelled at how tired we were after a day of, essentially, doing very little, but we called it a night early since we’d be up early to catch our bus to Ban Lung, moving ever-closer to the Laos border and the end of our time in Cambodia.
Grateful for: the interference of animal rights activists, inner thigh muscles
