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A Tale of Two Kitties: Scruffles and Odin

It started with three

About three weeks ago I was on my way through the alley to head to the local convenience store. As I exited the alley I saw three kittens eating fish out of a flattened basket on top of a 2 meter high stone wall. As I approached a local woman hit the basket with her hand, and one of the kittens flew out of the basket and fell to the ground below. That is the first time I met the little white kitten pictured just below. I call him Kasper.

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The little one called Kasper. He would be dead within a week of this photo being taken.

When I arrived back at our apartment I told Shalma about the kittens. The next day she would get to meet them for the first time.

When we went down into the alley way there were only two kittens there. They chased after us, frantically meowing. It was Kasper and the kitten who we would later bestow with the moniker of Scruffles. We felt bad for the beasts and went to the convienience store and bought them a can of cat food. They began to gorge themselves and Scruffles would not let Kasper near the food. Below are pictures of our meeting with these little ones.

 

After our meeting with Scruffles and Kasper, Shalma and I went around the corner to a Lebanese restaurant and cafe called Aroma and met another kitten living in a plant pot. He had been living at the cafe for several days. He was extremely skinny and unwell. The owner of the cafe later told us that the cat had accepted some food and water the first day he arrived at their business but refused to eat or drink for several days afterward.

 

This little black cat was one of the sweetest things I have come across in this world. So neglected by life, and without a mother, he was magically full of love. He made quiet meows from his resting place in the planter. I peered over the table at him. He wanted so badly to love and be loved (yeah, this is an anthropomorphism and I don’t care) that he jumped onto the table, inspected my beer, then eventually settled, curled up like a furry snail shell, next to Shalma’s hip. We kind of wanted to give him loves, but he was so dirty we feared what kind of diseases he might share with us.

Cambodia: A cruel world for domesticated animals

We had no intention of giving these cats a home. We had already witnessed pretty terrible animal cruelty in this country. We had seen live chickens tied together by their broken legs, pigs in tiny cages on the back of 125cc motor scooters, presumably headed to slaughter. Aside from the more abhorrent things we witnessed, we simply saw neglect. And who could blame people who make less than $120 a month for being neglectful of the world around them that they are powerless to influence?

Shalma and I accepted that this was the life that animals must live in Cambodia; this was their lot. In that acceptance, we decided to help just a little and fed the two cats another time. We figured the restaurant cat would be taken care of, although Shalma had tried to feed him and he had refused food. I think we both put him out of our mind and began to focus on our little alley cats. After all, they were the critters on our front stoop.

Kasper went missing

A few days after we fed the cats Kasper seemed to vanish. He was gone. Baby kittens easily become victims of predation, often from feral dogs, but sometimes from wild animals as well. They also have a great deal of trouble regulating their body heat and frequently die of exposure even in a tropical environment such as this. It was the peak of the rainy season, so it may be that Kasper got drenched in water and died of cold. Shalma  and I wanted to believe that he was somehow rescued, but we have failed to delude ourselves. I really liked that cat, and I am sorry he is dead. Scruffles was now all alone in the alley.

Scruffles motorbike

Scruffles all alone in the alley after losing his brother

 

About a week after our first meeting wth the kittens we walked by the restaurant and saw the little black kitten. He looked dead, like a carcass, a hollow shell that shouldn’t remain living. His eyes were swollen almost shut and appeared to popping out of the sockets in his emaciated head. There was a thick film, and he was essentially blind. He responded neither to sound nor touch. This was one sick animal, a truly pitiful sight. We went home and neither of us were happy about the state of suffering we saw this poor creature in.

Shalma was almost frantic in her sadness and concern. She asked if she could bring him upstairs right then and there and I told her that I thought it would not be a good idea. As much as I would like to lie, I shall refrain; neither of us had a dry eye. We were both profoundly affected by the suffering we saw. Shalma asked if we could take him to an animal hospital in the morning. I agreed. Then, in the most solemn of moments, Shalma exclaimed, “I will go down and get him first thing in the morning!” She wasn’t joking.

Shalma tossed and turned throughout the night. She was absolutely unsettled by the plight of this kitten. I hardly got a wink of sleep due to her restlessness.  Needless to say, Shalma is really special to me largely because of her compassion. True to her word, she was  up at six in the morning. She dragged me out of bed and we went down the seven flights of stairs and around the corner to look for the little black cat. He was nowhere to be found, and I realized that I still had not opened my right eye yet. The left side of my brain must have remained asleep throughout the whole ordeal!

We went back upstairs and had a couple more hours of restless sleep. We went back downstairs at about 9:30 and found him curled up in a little ball on the pavement. He looked even worse than he had the day before. It was almost unbelievable that an animal could look worse and still remain alive. The security guard of the little market next to the restaurant told us that he had taken the cat inside during the night. Shalma picked the cat up and wrapped him in her favorite NASA t-shirt. I called him Odin, for the Nordic god who was once known for healing the sick. We piled into a tuk tuk and headed for the other side of town.

It soon became apparent that our tuk tuk driver was from somewhere out in the provinces and had no idea where he was going even though we had showed him on a map. He also spoke very little English, so as Shalma was trying to keep the cat in the bag I was leaned over and giving directions to a place I had never been before. Eventually, we wound up at the vet, and the tuk tuk driver let us out. We soon realized that the office was closed even thought their posted hours said they were open. I opened the security gate and called out for someone. A woman (who also didn’t speak English) came and told us as well as she could to come back later. I really need to learn Khmer; life would be a lot easier! Eventually the woman got the vet (who turned out to be her daughter) on the phone and she told us we could leave Odin for the time being. Shalma and I needed to decompress and decided to walk two hours to get home.

We felt pretty satisfied having hopefully saved Odin’s life. At that point we kind of imagined he would have a 30% chance to live if he was lucky. We sort of resigned ourselves to that. When we arrived home, we walked past little Scruffles. Shalma had awoken to her affection for baby cats and wanted to sit with him for a while.

Shalma and Scruffles

Shalma cuddling Scruffles for the first time, still wearing the backpack we had just used to transport Odin to the vet.

As you can see in the picture above, Shalma is welling up with emotion. However, at this point we felt like we had done enough to save a single cat. Scruffles was still destined (in our minds) to remain an outdoor critter. All we could do is hope that he survived. From what we had seen of him he was a hardy beast that could handle the outdoors better than the competition. However, he was sweet and anxious for attention. He meowed repeatedly and ran toward us every time we saw him. Nonetheless I was anxious to go back upstairs, and Shalma told me she wanted to spend more time with Scruffles but that she would follow me up shortly.

The first thing Shalma told me when she got upstairs was that a woman shooed her off just as I left her with Scruffles. Shalma told me that the woman said, “Take him!” The local people living in modest apartments in the alley below us have suffered from stray cats. They are little more than a nuisance as they keep people awake all night with their incessant meowing through through their thin walls. The cats also create a competition for food. Few Khmer people will take in a cat like Scruffles when caring for the kitten may cost them nearly what they make in a month. The cats are little more than annoying objects and only useful as rat killers.

Shalma was disturbed well into the evening thinking about Scruffles. She told me that she wanted to go downstairs and check on him. I tried to convince her not to do so. I told her that she would annoy the local people by fawning over this animal. Sure, I felt the same way as she did; I was also concerned. That didn’t mean that I wanted to interrupt anyone’s lives. For poor people living in the tiny alleyway apartments, the alley itself acts as a playground, a place to do laundry, a place for business, and a community center. I felt we had no right to invade that as foreigners. In my mind, we should try to create the least amount of fuss possible. Eventually, Shalma went downstairs anyway.

I got a little worried after waiting for more than an hour for her to come back. I tried to call her on my phone, but she wasn’t taking my calls. Eventually she answered and told me that she was coming up shortly. When she did finally come up she brought a surprise with her: Scruffles!!!

To be honest, I wasn’t particularly happy to see that Shalma had brought wild street fauna into our home. My first response was to ask, “Don’t you think this is something we should have discussed?” That is when she told me that she went downstairs to find boys playing catch with the frightened kitten. Shalma had made them stop and took the kitten from them. That is when she met a Khmer woman in the alley who had actually rescued several cats herself and explained to Shalma how most people here don’t care about the cats and would never spend such a large portion of their income on them. The woman explained that her own mother could live off of less than two dollars a day, which is much less than it costs to take care of all the needs of a cat.

Anyway, Shalma gave Scruffles a bath so he was less of a wild animal. In the picture below you can see a Scruffles who (as it turns out) does not enjoy a nice relaxing evening in the bath. In fact, he doesn’t seem to be relaxed by it at all for some reason.

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As you can see Shalma missed his nose, and little Scruffles was pretty annoyed by this bath because nobody told him what a bath is. Admittedly, baths tend not to be particularly warm here in Cambodia, especially for cats. I have yet to be in an apartment that has warm running water in the bathroom sink, and even the showers don’t quite cut it if you’re looking for anything truly hot and steamy. At any rate, Scruffles eventually dried and settled right into being a cute little cuddly thing. You can witness this in the pictures below.

It is difficult to explain why, but Shalma and I were emotionally exhausted at this point. There were a lot of tears over both cats. We didn’t want to take in these cats, and in fact had zero intention of doing so. When we first took in Odin we talked about getting him fixed up just enough to release him back into the wild. We were realizing that this wasn’t sufficient. Our hearts just wouldn’t let us do that. Making matters worse, there is really no place that can take cats at the moment. Resources are limited and it was peak cat season. Making matters worse, there was recently a massive evacuation of a famous local housing project called The White Building that is being razed. This exposed countless feral animals that have left the few shelters at capacity. You can read a little bit about this den of drugs, prostitution, and squalor in the hyperlink.

Taking the Scruff to the vet

It became clear that we had to look after these cats against our will until we could find them a forever home or figure out what the hell we were going to do with them. Shalma and I could not take Scruffles to the same vet that we took Odin to because it just happened to be closed, so we took him to a wonderful place called Animal Mama here in Phnom Penh. There we me the couple who run it, Yulia and Darren, two extremely lovely people who kind of got caught up the way we did, and ended up opening an animal clinic.

Inside their office Darren was telling us about the dogs wandering freely in the lobby. One was rescued from becoming soup, another was a beautiful Belgian Malinois that was once a de-mining dog, saving people’s lives only to eventually be abandoned. One dog really touched my heart; his name was Hercules. I was never sure what kind of dog Hercules was because he was tortured by sociopaths beyond recognition. He had his lips and nose cut off. They cut off his penis and many of his toes as well. The would-be coup de gras was when they threw him into boiling water, which has left him without skin on much of his body. And yet he persisted and survived to be the sweetest and most loving animal to us, humans, who do not deserve his love and affection. Dude, there are a lot of tears, man. This is actually hard to write about.

Getting the kittens back

We left Odin at his vet for six days and Scruffles stayed at Animal Mama for five. When we got them back they were both doing better but Odin was having a lot more trouble. They both have worms pretty badly, but Odin was far sicker and much more infected. We ended up taking Odin back to the vet for an additional three days before getting him back.

We picked Odin back up just a week ago. I started cooking fresh chicken from the market for them. I boil it, strip it off the bone, and then chop it up finely. The fresh chicken still gets them very excited, and they are both putting on weight, Odin a lot slower than Scruffles. Scruffles is really rounding out nicely. Here are a couple pictures taken of him last night:

He’s rounding out and looking like a cartoon cat. Unfortunately, Odin has a scorching case of ringworm and will be back at the vet for the next seven days. On the upside, Odin has been gaining weight too and has began to jump, meow, run, play, eat a bunch, and use the cat box.

Our next course of action

This has been a pretty emotional trail to wander down, and it has been a lot of work. We are still trying to maintain the health of the cats. At the time of this writing Odin is back at the vet. He had a considerable amount of ringworm, and will be treated around the clock for the next seven days. We will have both cats vaccinated and they will receive final doses of deworming medications. Hopefully they will be at the pinnacle of health within the next week or so.

Our next goal is to get the kittens adopted. This is a task far more easily said than done. The chances of adopting the cats out here in Phnom Penh are somewhere close to a million to one. Our hands are kind of tied to the point that we can either take them to the US or release them back into the wild. Our apartment is not equipped to keep them long term. We cannot even open our windows here in the tropics because nobody puts screens on windows in this country. We have already had Scruffles attempt suicide, but Shalma rescued him.

We have one friend in Oakland who would like to take in Odin, and we would like nothing more than to place him with her. As for Scruffles, I am sure that we could easily find him a home because he is so sweet, funny, and incredibly affectionate. Plus, most of the cats here have weirdly short tails (Khmer cats are kind of their own breed) and I am sure someone would enjoy taking in such a special looking cat who really had no other option.

We know there are a lot of animals to be rescued in the US, so I can understand why it seems odd that we would send more animals there. But these animals literally have no chance to have a long healthy life here. I honestly never wanted to do any of this stuff; I feel like it just happened to us, and I am not the type of person things just happen to. We have put a lot of time and money into the care of these cats because we really felt compelled beyond responsibility. Shalma is thinking of setting up a gofundme account to aid in transporting the kittens and assure their medical costs in the near future can be covered. I am really hopeful that we can get them both to the US. It would be kind of a miracle for them.

If anyone would like to take in Scruffles or help out with transportation or anything, please do not hesitate to contact me.

 

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Motorbikes, Buddhism, The Khmer Rouge, and Odin’s Balls

The Plan

On Friday the 23rd of June I picked up my not-so-brand-new 1999 Honda xr250 from Lyda, the finest motorcycle mechanic in Phnom Penh. The following day, my lady and I had plans to ride the 144 kilometers down to the Southern coast of Cambodia to visit the beach town of Kep and nearby Kampot, home to the famous Kampot peppercorns. No, the peppercorns aren’t a Cambodian rugby team; I mean literal peppercorns. Unfortunately, Shalma and I went out with a few friends here Friday night, and I am not sure how many pints I had, but we both stayed out a little too late for an early Saturday morning departure. Nonetheless, I would not be deterred–I had a new motorbike and I needed to check things out. Ah, sweet freedom to not be at the whims of tuk tuk drivers! And so it was that we set out for a local Saturday excursion to Wat Phnom and the Toul Sleng Genocide Museum (AKA S21).

Wat Phnom

Wat Phnom is often referred to as the “monkey temple” by tuk tuk drivers. Evidently, there used to be a lot of monkeys at the temple and there still may be some now. After doing a bit of research, I learned that there were pretty aggressive monkeys there as recently as 2011, and they even had to shoot one at some point. Poor monkey! I am not sure whether there are any macaques lurking about the temple grounds these days, but I can assure you that neither Shalma nor I spotted one.

The temple is not far from our digs by the river. It is a short jaunt by motorbike, maybe five minutes at the most. We headed over there and it is quite a sight to see! It is a relatively large temple compound on a human-made hill in the middle of a roundabout.  It is a massively busy roundabout like most in this city, full of diesel-spewing busses and vehicles of all kinds, tuk tuks, 125cc motorbikes hauling flat beds full of propane tanks, and all the usual chaos of Cambodian roads.

We pulled my bike up right onto the sidewalk in front of the temple and paid our admission of a dollar each. We then proceeded by foot to the top of the hill to the main temple on the mount. There was a man selling candles, incense, and some long stemmed lotus flowers. We slipped our shoes off and stepped inside the temple. I set my five incense sticks alight on a giant candle that was over a meter high and as big around as a 4 inch toilet pipe. I planted my sticks of incense in a vase full of sand or ash and proceeded to light my candle and place it on something that looked a bit like a wooden boat.

As I was about to complete my final task of slipping my flower into the urn where all the actual Buddhists are putting their flowers (I have no idea what is going on, just following queues), I turned and saw Shalma trying to place her candle on the wooden boat thingy. As she was attempting this brave feat, a woman who was incredibly involved in praying knocked over the massive toilet-pipe candle and it nailed Shalma in the back of the foot. Remarkably, although her heel was covered in yellow candle wax that made her look like a 10th century leper, she was unharmed by the hot wax. We surmised that she was protected by her offerings to the Buddha.

From the research I have done, it appears the temple was originally built in the 14th century. It looks very old, but much of it has been rebuilt. I am not sure which parts are old or new.  I would like to also point out how lush and green the compound is. Although you are in the center of a roundabout, you really feel like you are at a temple in the middle of the jungle somewhere. Below is a gallery of photos. I have not captioned any of them because I really don’t know much about Buddhist temples. I hope to learn more as time goes on.

 

 

S21: The school turned prison and torture chamber

We left the temple with a light and airy feeling. The day was bright and sunny, and the clouds were like happy little white cotton balls smiling down on us. We went back to our little apartment by the river and sent a message to Dimitri. Hey, want to go to S21 with us? He replied that he would like to go. He lives right across the street from the former Khmer Rouge complex and yet he had never gone. We headed straight over to his place. Almost immediately the weather and mood became ominous. Fluffy clouds had turned dark and brooding. Needless to say we got drenched on the short ride over to Dimitri’s place. It wouldn’t have been so bad if I hadn’t gotten lost along the way. By the time we had gotten to Dimitri’s top floor apartment the sky had gone into full-on monsoon mode.

The rain on Dimitri's Balcony

The monsoon rains on Dimitri’s balcony

We waited for the rain to quiet a bit. Dimitri made me his famously delicious Greek frappe ice coffee. We got a little hungry and had some french fries, then it was time to leave to see the prison.

I didn’t take any pictures at S21. You aren’t really supposed to, but I did see people doing it. I don’t even know where to begin with this place. It was the last stop before a paranoid and genocidal regime drove people to the killing fields to murder them. The Khmer Rouge implemented all methods of torture in this place. They would hang people by their feet until they passed out, then lower their heads into giant vats of human waste and water to revive them. Almost every one of them confessed to all manner of things. A New Zealander who was caught by the Khmer Rouge while sailing around the world even admitted to working for the CIA under orders from Colonel Sanders.

S21, a former school with a grand garden, was once the site of children playing and preparing for the excitement of their lives ahead. It is much larger than it appears in pictures or even looking down on it from Dimitri’s roof. Each building is three stories tall. The large classrooms were turned into torture chambers. Some prisoners were in shackles attached to thick rebar. They were crammed like sardines with no room to move. Others were placed into the tiniest makeshift cells that were made of either wood or brick. There was nothing but a can to defecate and piss into. If you missed and made a mess you were forced to lick it up. People were tortured throughout the night and day.

There were only a handful of survivors who made it out. One of them was at the prison the day we were there. I had found myself silenced after what seemed like an eternity inside this pit that still resonated with the evil of its past. My brain seemed to have shut down because I could not process my imagination of the pain and torment that happened at this place. I know I was stone-faced. I felt like the wind was knocked out of me and I could not react. Then we walked by this old man who had survived being tortured and housed in this hell. He was selling a book on his ordeal, and as we passed him he smiled at us. I have to admit, it was his smile that finally broke me down. It was devastating to see a man who had gone through so much turn and flash a kind smile. I could hardly control my emotions. I grabbed Shalma’s hand and practically ran from that place. I never want to go back ever again.

S21

The view of the S21 Prison complex from Dimitri’s balcony

 

My first bribery

On Sunday morning our plan to go south was a go. We should have packed the night before, but we neglected to do so. We meant to leave at 7 AM, but it turned out to be closer to 8 AM, right in the midst of the chaos of Phnom Penh rush hour. When I say chaos, I mean that there are few rules evident, and people seem to believe in a strict system of anarchy on the roads. I hear there is some sort of method, but so far I have seen none. This is not to say that you won’t get pulled over for a little bribery. This particular morning was my turn to pay a bribe for going the wrong way down a one way street. Mind you, it isn’t completely obvious that the street is one way since there is a constant stream of traffic flowing in both directions throughout the day.

We had gotten a little lost. Apple maps isn’t as dependable as one might imagine. I had to go a single block up the wrong way. There were plenty of other people around on scooters who suddenly did an about face. I was too slow to recognize what was happening and a young man in a blue uniform jumped right out in front of my bike with his arms out saying something in Khmer. I imagine it was the word for stop but I did not comprehend much since I was just trying to avoid mowing him over at that point. I managed to stop without hitting him and pulled my motorbike to the side of the street.

What’s up, I asked. He said “wrong way” in somewhat choppy English and motioned for me to go talk to this other guy who was dressed in the same type of uniform. Both looked like teenagers, but I assumed that the guy he motioned toward was the boss. I stepped up to him. He was slight of build and appeared to be a little nervous–not the type of police intimidation I am used to. I asked him what he wanted but he spoke seemingly no English. There was another young man operating a coffee cart and blaring some god-awful pop music out of a small radio. Shalma later informed me that this was all taking place to a Justin Bieber soundtrack, making the situation seem more absurd. The officer motioned over to have the coffee cart Belieber come and translate.

I asked the Bieber fan what the officer wanted. He said that the officer wanted five dollars because I had gone the wrong way. I told him to tell the officer that he was out of his mind and that I would give him two dollars. The officer immediately conceded and said he would take the two. I began to wonder if this was his first bribery experience too. I felt kind of bad for him since he had come down from the five dollar mark so easily. I handed him the two dollars, and then almost reflexively, I handed him another dollar as a tip. He let me go about my business and we were off to the races.

The road to Kep

It was tricky getting out of town, again with all the crazy traffic. I really need to strap my GoPro to my head one of these days and post the experience. When we finally got on the road the monsoon rains began. I had a small poncho that Dimitri gave me, but I bought another from a lady on the side of the road. Real American rain gear would be pretty heavy in this heat and humidity. Having said that, it was cooler than one might have expected and I probably could have used a little more gear. At the very least I should have worn my motocross boots instead of my Converse Chuck Taylors.

All of the roads consist of a single lane in each direction. Cars often drive with the yellow line situated in the middle of their bumper for no apparent reason. When the roads are congested it is a dangerous symphony indeed! There will be mopeds, tractors, very small busses that are loaded with people, and Toyota Hiluxes all going different speeds. All the cars act as though they are in a terrible hurry and tend to go way too fast for the conditions. Cars will pass your motorbike only inches from your shoulder at high speed. When an oncoming car goes to pass the the car in front of them, they completely ignore you if you are on a motorcycle; they simply expect you to go onto the shoulder. At one point there was a car passing a tuk tuk, and then a Toyota truck passed the car while it was in mid-overtake. They were three vehicles deep, taking up the whole road and coming in my direction!

Shalma and I motored on for hours. There was traffic the whole way. It was mentally exhausting since there isn’t a moment to put your mind at ease. It is a constant sensory extravaganza where the participator is constantly looking for the danger that is, and anticipating the danger that is very soon to be! In all of this motoring, we did take some breaks. We had a bahn mi type sandwich made on the side of the road by what was probably an eight-year-old girl, and we took a couple leg-stretching breaks as well.

At one point we found ourselves gazing over rice paddies as we motored along. They are the most beautiful shades of green and the aromatic scent is reminiscent of opium incense. The green of the rice paddies is punctuated with emaciated cows and rather well-fed water buffalos. It caused me to wonder, how do the buffalos eat so well while the cows appear to be starving? The whole time I kept thinking about how much the scenery looked the way Vietnam looks in photographs and all those war movies I grew up with. Shalma later confirmed she had been thinking the same thing. After a while the road stopped and we found that we could go no farther. We had taken a wrong turn and ended up at the Vietnam border crossing. No wonder it looked so familiar…

We headed back the way we came and found our way onto the correct road. It took us five and a half hours to go on a trip that should have only been 150km. I should again stress, it is relatively difficult to go fast on these roads if you want to live, especially if it is raining. We were both ready to get off the bike and get some food and rest–me especially since my forearms were burnt to a crisp from the sun. We found our way to Kep and got into a room in a guesthouse for $15 per night. And then we tried to eat tacos, which wasn’t the best idea we had ever come up with.

After we got into the room we just kind of headed over to the first food place within sight, and that place was a taco stand. We ordered a three tacos each and I ordered a Cambodia beer. There was nothing really taco-ish about the tacos except for the shape. The worst part was the taco shell, which was really whatever fried spring rolls are wrapped in instead of a tortilla. Don’t get me wrong, I have no complaint about rice-based wrapped goods, but it sort of defies the beauty that is a taco. Needless to say, we both walked away hungry. We managed to forage some sliced mangos from a street vender and I bought some squid on a stick from another.

We were still hungry and needed a place to go. We collected ourselves and figured out that the good stuff to eat was down the road at the crab market. A friend of ours suggested going to a place called Mr. Mab’s down there. We took a tuk tuk over there and had a pretty romantic perch that sat just above the water on Mr. Mab’s back deck. The sea was in tumult due to high tides and the monsoons, so once in a while we would get hit in the face with a bit of sea water. You could hear the water rushing under the deck just inches away from our feet. The water (or whatever it carried) would hit the deck below our feet periodically. Shalma, who does not swim, found this unnerving. I, on the other hand, thought it to be utterly delightful. I asked her if she would like to sit inside anyway and she declined.

This all brings me to the Kampot peppered crab. When our plates arrived Shalma was so excited that she completely lost her fear of the sea. The dish is made up of a couple of crabs covered in a red chili sauce with green bell peppers and sprigs of green Kampot peppercorns. I have never had anything like it, and it is amazing but very messy. The peppercorns are very special. They have so much flavor. Sure, it tastes like pepper, but there is also a strong and almost astringent quality and flavor that is more similar to cloves than typical pepper. Below are some pictures of our walk around Kep. These pictures include this unique and delicious crab dish, and the squid on a stick too!

 

Kampot, Odin’s balls, and the Khmer Rouge–oh, and some Buddhist stuff too!

The road from Kep to Kampot is not a long one, nor is it particularly fraught with danger. However, not long after leaving I Kep I realized I wasn’t going to make it unless I covered my sunburnt arms. I didn’t have a long sleeved shirt with me so I told Shalma to keep an eye out to see what is being sold on the side of the road. She eventually tapped me to get me to pull over. Shalma said she found a yellow shirt for me. I circled back with Shalma and we found a thin yellow ladies cardigan. And of course, Shalma tried to talk me into buying it in order to save my arms from the damage. I refused, as she would have expected. Fortunately, a few kilometers down the road I found a suitable linen shirt for only $2.50. I think this shirt is going to be my friend for a long time.

When we pulled into Kampot I realized for the first time that it isn’t a beach town but a river town. It is one of those places that is a lot sleepier during the day than at night. It wasn’t immediately obvious where the best place to stay would be. As we rode my trusty xr down the riverfront road, I saw a giant Swedish flag hanging in front of a driveway. The place was called Kool Kampot and it really looked nice enough. I wanted to give Shalma a nicer place to stay than our digs from the night before, and we found a nice room there for $20 per night.

Kool Kampot is a fantastic place to stay. The rooms are spacious and clean with pleasing decor. They are also well air conditioned except for one that goes for $15 per night. There is a lovely upstairs bar that overlooks the river, and it is a fantastic place to catch the sunset. The staff is friendly and the owner Jeff is a truly kind Australian gent who goes out of his way to make sure his guests are comfortable. If you’re in Kampot it is a great place to stay.

After a relatively uneventful first few hours in Kampot, we found ourselves on the roof bar at 4PM waiting for the bar tender to show up. The beers are a bit more expensive but cheap enough that I lost count of how many I had. Shalma was drinking soda pop until she switched to a bloody mary. We had a marvelous time and made friends with two young ladies, one American and the other Dutch. Eventually, Shalma and I both got a little hungry and set off down the road to acquire food.

We stumbled across a place called Pépé & the Viking. Evidently it is owned by two people, one French and the other Danish. One of the dishes on the menu that caught my eye was called Odin’s Balls, and it was described as frikadeller with mashed potatoes. For those who aren’t in the know, frikadeller are magical traditional Danish meat balls. They are made of a 50/50 mixture of ground pork and ground veal. They are simple to make with just a bit of egg, super finely diced onion, and some salt and pepper. In my slightly inebriated state, Odin’s balls it is!

We went in and sat at a lovely table out front. Unfortunately we sat near two American douchebags who were bragging about money and cars, but it was a lovely table nonetheless. Our food came out relatively quickly and came with a wee side of yogurt. This excited my Persian girlfriend who is keen to put yogurt on just about anything. I had never seen this dish served with yogurt and tried to tell Shalma, baby, this isn’t a bloody Kefta kebab! Mind you, it wasn’t really a true frikadeller either. They were far too small, like an Ikea meatball, and didn’t seem to have veal in them. Unfortunately, Odin doesn’t like having his balls dipped in yogurt.

Shalma and I had been eating the exact same foods over the entire day. The only time we diverged from this is when she dipped Odin’s balls in yogurt. This unsettled the gods of my ancestors and she was cursed with a foul stomach that ended up turning into something far worse. The next day we were meant to ride the motorcycle into Preah Monivong National Park together, but Shalma was not well enough to do so. Shalma told me she just had a bit of an upset stomach. She said she was fine but just really couldn’t go. Being the kind girlfriend she is, she asked me to go and promised she would be okay. I got onto my trusty steed and headed for the mountains, and what a beautiful place it is!

I headed toward the park, also called Bokor for the mountain that essentially is the park. It was about twenty minutes by motorbike from our guest house to the park’s entrance. Entrance costs a dollar and is well worth it. The minute you pull into the park you can tell you are someplace special. You take a long road in and begin climbing the hill. The roads are beautiful; the area hadn’t been paved until five or six years ago, a fact that had previously made it difficult to access.

The inaccessibility of the mountain made it a desirable place for both French colonists and the Khmer Rouge alike. Upon this mountain, which rises over 1000 meters above sea level, the French colonists built a holiday area in the 1920s called Bokor Hill Station. Many of the buildings still remain, although some have crumbled or been demolished. One can easily see why the French chose this area with its spectacular views and moderate climate compared to the rest of Cambodia. This area would later be the last holdout for the Khmer Rouge until the early 1990s. It holds a strategic military tactical position being on top of a hill with roads that are easy to protect from enemies. Two of the most important remaining structures are the Bokor Palace hotel and an old abandoned French church. The hotel was actually used as the the final headquarters for the Khmer Rouge. Long abandoned, when I was there I saw people working atop the structure, and it appears that there are plans to bring it back to life. In the gallery below I have included pictures of both the church and the hotel.

The roads going up the mountain are twisty, and the greenery is quite impressive. For a seasoned motorcyclist like myself, it was an extremely pleasant ride. They took care to bank each turn to perfection. However, one must proceed with caution. Locals driving on these roads cross far over the yellow line in turns. Some of the corners have mirrors, which is helpful, but not all of them do. Another danger is the gaggles of European and American tourists on scooters. They will rent a scooter to anyone in Cambodia. In Kampot, the going rate is $5 for 24 hours. People with no motorcycle experience often think they will be fine on a scooter because they can ride a bicycle. This is simply not the case. Tourists all over the world are regularly killed or injured from this line of thinking.

As you ascend the mountain, you come across this massive Loc Yeay Mao statue. Evidently she is an important goddess figure in Cambodian Buddhism. Near the highest point in the mountain, there is a roundabout and in one direction is Bokor Hill Station. To the right is the incredible and picturesque meditation waterfalls. Below are all the pictures from this section of my blog. I hope you enjoy them!

If you are still reading this blog post I am grateful for your attention span. Shalma is feeling better. The ride back home to Phnom Penh was much easier, and it took us only 3.5 hours. We may be going to Siem Reap for our next trip to see the famed ancient temples of Angkor Wat. It is twice as far, at about 340km. I will keep you posted!