The major decision to be made when considering a trek into the jungle in Northeast Cambodia is National Park or not. Being severely disabled when it comes to decision-making in the end we effectively punted for the people who were nicest to us. Trekking into the National Park would’ve involved a day boat ride there and back before we got to the jungle and the guides stared at us like we’d asked to strangle some pandas.
On the morning of our trek we were shuttled off from our hostel by a local guide and his mate to trekking HQ, a typical village shack surrounded by curiously clean pigs. Packing light we’d only brought one bag but when we arrived at HQ we were informed we’d have to carry our own beds. Thankfully there weren’t four-poster affairs but apparently US army supply – I wondered if they were missing them. The only way to carry these were to strap them to a bag – the ONLY way – and so Tim bent over graciously while he was laden with our necessities. Good pack-horse.
We struck off into the jungle, down a little path behind his house. Our guide had very little English so his friend accompanied us to translate whenever he could.
The reason that it seems more attractive to push on to the National Park and the protected area is obvious even from the road. The poor communities rely on rice crops to make their living and in order to plant rice the land must be cleared. The landscape behind the village is a apocalyptic wasteland with stretches of burnt patches and scorched tree-stumps to the horizon. The air smells of smoke and the area seems deserted, punctuated by the occasional snap and bark of a territorial dog.
It was a particularly still day and it took the pack-horse about 20 minutes before it was covered in sweat, it was confused why I seemed remarkably fresher. Stupid pack-horse. We were pleased that our guides seemed as uncomfortable as we did and breaks were reasonably frequent, if nothing else than to replace lost water.
As we delved deeper the terrain kept changed. From destruction of the jungle into luscious forest, tall thin trees towering above us and smelling of dry leaves. We kept going and the foliage got thicker, the plants intertwining at our feet, it smelled of hot flowers. Towards our camp it changed once more into thick white bamboo plants, shards carpeting the floor.
We arrived at out camp next to a small stream and lake. As we prepared to jump in and wash away the sweat something appeared out of the jungle on the other side of the lake that made my jaw drop.
The last thing I expected to come walking out of the jungle was an Italian man in his pants, but that’s what appeared, roll-up cigarette hanging out of his mouth. We were stunned to say the least, and I even manage to hide my giggles when he spoke. ‘Excusy the dress,’ he said in an accent that has become more and more stereotypical as Tim and I have mimicked it.
The lake was cold and thus delightful. After a swim we sat on the tarpaulin of our camp, watching the guide prepare dinner in a bamboo tube. He tipped in meat and vegetables and other various ingredients until I suspected he was attempting George’s marvellous medicine. The bamboo tube was popped on the fire and 20 minutes later out was poured the most delicious campside food. Recent illness had still left Tim and I depleted in the appetite department, which our guides seemed to find ridiculous as they chomped on their third bowlful.
The night was spent in reasonable comfort, swinging in our hammocks, though we woke to rain that looked like it was set in. After breakfast our guides happily went back to sleep to wait out the rain, it seemed their busman’s holiday was going very well.
After the rain delay, strangely listening to Cambodians playing snake on their phones, we marched back to HQ. Our thighs burning we arrived back to find the pigs had got themselves dirty, we knew how they felt.
The next day we were due for a bus to the Laos border but first we were to meet one of the greatest men who’s ever lived, or so he wanted us to believe. We shall call him Mr NGO, but he was doing an excellent impression of Ace Rimmer. I was waiting for the classic line ‘Smoke me a kipper I’ll be back for breakfast,’ but I wasn’t disappointed with his own original outbursts. Here are my favourites,
‘I’ve opened two f***ing massive malaria centres.’ and ‘In the NGO world there are those who work on the humanitarian side or on the conflict side. They say humanitarians must be crazy. Ha! I guess I must be crazy.’
Excellent.
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