A Battambang Kind of Day: Bamboo Train, Swinging in a Hammock, Rice Paper, Spicy Bivalve Tidbits

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"Is it safe?" the fair skinned Canadian woman asks, frowning. She eyes the small platforms of slatted bamboo lined up at the station where visitors start their short journey on the bamboo "train." They look like rafts that would sink in water.

"Not really," I say. I've ridden this popular attraction in Battambang before. I know how fast the platforms can go, and I know the thrill of hurtling through space with no protective head gear or seat belts. It's something my mother would tell me to never do.

"You might as well, you've come all this way. It's very scenic." I have an ulterior motive in convincing her to go. I would only pay $5 instead of $10 if I ride with someone else. She thinks for a moment, and discusses with her tuk tuk driver, who assures her he would wait.

"I sit on that cushion there? My feet go forward? I have to sit like that for an hour?" I said the same things the first time I rode it. After we get settled, a traveler from Belgium joins us. The driver starts the small motor, and off we go.

The platform jolts with a loud 'cluck--clunk' when we meet an uneven joining in the rails. The shortest distance between two points? Definitely not the rails for the bamboo train! They swerve and dip, and make hourglass figures as we watch them disappear beneath us, less than 18 inches below And the best part is when a platform approaches from the opposite direction. We both stop. The occupants of the other platform dismount and step to the side, while the drivers remove the platform--- that's why it's made of bamboo--so light! They toss the axles also, and the platform on the tracks continues. The breakdown and re-assembly take perhaps 3 minutes, and both parties are on their way.

At the end of the run we stop and take a look at an old brick factory, with the giant dome shaped oven and brick making machine. On the return, we meet many more platforms, all of which get disassembled as we watch and then continue.The one hour round trip is just right, and leaves time for more adventures around the city.

From the putt--putting tuk tuk I enjoy watching the morning around Battambang. I see men washing motorcycles, people sitting on red plastic chairs eating breakfast bawbaw, vendors lined up selling tiny packets of something that are artfully strung and hanging from umbrellas. Racks of charred bamboo pieces hold a mixture of rice, beans, and coconut milk, a favorite morning snack. A smiling boy and girl unfurl a roll of aluminum foil for their reflective kite. Dozens of red "Angkor Beer" signs festoon the roadside, children play in the schoolyard, a dog darts out, people sweep mounting piles of plastic into bigger piles of plastic, destined to swirl in the next breeze.

At the base of the big statue of the crouching dark man, people make offerings and play music as traffic swerves about. I ask my driver to stop at a place where huge cut tree trunks line the road. Artisans are grinding and chiseling the beautiful wood into elaborate forest scenes, Buddhas, peacocks, fish, elephants. A real peacock perches on a tree nearby--he's one of the live models. Glad they don't need a model elephant. The biggest piece under creation will sell for about $4000.

We pass the "Crocodile farm: hold a baby croc!" sign. No thanks.

We stop in a shady quiet street. I thought I was going to see rice paper making. I wonder about the delay. But now I'm inside my driver's mother's home, lying on a low hammock while she and a daughter are arranging bowls of fruit, offerings for the Chinese New Year tomorrow.

"It cost $20," she says in Khmer. Only the best fruit for Chinese New Year. Nice round apples, plump oranges, clusters of plum sized grape things, huge pomelo looking fruit. The television is tuned to some cheesy singing show, and here I am swinging in a hammock, examining family photos lining the wall.

After a friendly visit, my driver returns, and we weave down a road hugging a small river. Racks of transparent rice paper dry in front of houses. We stop. The woman demonstrates her weaving loom and sells me two silk scarves, hand woven by her. I watch a daughter mix the rice paper batter. The weaver offers fresh spring rolls she's prepared just for me. I see the fresh lettuce, and danger screams in my head. I had just recovered from a bad belly and don't want another.

"Does it have pork? I can't." She pulls the meat out and pours a very green cup of hot tea. I gulp and pray I will remain healthy, then eat the delicious spring roll and peanut sauce. I read the contents of the Thai tea mixture. It includes a yellow dye.

At Wat Ek Phnom, an Angkorian era ruin, my driver leaves me, saying he is busy. Another driver takes over. He sleeps in the shade of a big tree while I wander the ruin. Its crumbling stone blocks hang precariously. A teacher lectures a group of students who lounge about the rocks. Several slip away, giggling madly. An adult rounds them up and returns them to the fold. A young couple, smartly dressed in traditional garb, are posing for their wedding photographs. I ask the groom the date for the wedding, and he says in two weeks. I wish him luck after I snap photos. His photographer tugs at his ballooning pants, and places the groom's hands and head just so. Later I see the pair inside the ruin, now in different outfits. The bride holds a frozen smile, and complains through her clenched teeth. Their photographer turns and snaps a photo of me.

On the return trip. I examine the cart with the "liah huel", spicy chewy bi-valve tidbits. That's my translation of the small shells flecked with red pepper. If I didn't get a bad belly from the spring roll, I could just eat one of those. Guaranteed puking for hours. A loudspeaker on the cart blares "liah huel" over and over again, drawing pedestrians, bicyclists, and people out of their houses. Even my driver snatches one off the cart.

The day is not over yet as we stop to watch a mother and daughter team producing rice paper. A rhythm flows in their process. Daughter ladles a small amount of batter on a screen over a hot pot and spreads it, then covers with a pot lid to briefly steam it. Using a thin spatula, she lifts the steamed paper off an identical screened pot and drapes it over a piece of PVC pipe slipped onto one of four arms on a twirling stand. Mother takes the PVC pipe with freshly steamed rice paper and carefully spreads it on a wire rack nearby. A full rack goes in the sun to dry for a half hour or so. A young girl removes the dried papers, and stacks them in a huge basket that already contains 1400 rice papers. They can sell 100 rice papers for about $1.25.

This village is known for producing rice papers, all churned out in assembly line fashion by hard working women.

I crave a massage. I ask my driver to take me to a place where "people with not good eyes"--as I said it--give massage. People who have lost their vision are trained in Japanese style shiatsu massage, and they are just what I need while traveling in Cambodia. I find a woman at one of the "Seeing Hands" massage places who had studied in Siem Reap just over a year ago. She says she likes giving massage. Before she learned, she just stayed at home, she says.

After getting prodded and pushed just right, we head to the fruit stalls so I can buy some hairy looking rambutan and the small round yellowish fruits with the big black seed. Foreign fruits are so much fun. Then back to the guest house, where I decide to forego the evening acrobatic performance and the ride out to view the massive bat exodus from the cave. The bat flight is my favorite, but it has already been a Battambang kind of day. I'm pleasantly weary and need to pack my bags for onward travel in the morning!

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Photos

In the hammock in the house of my tuk tuk driver's mother
She's preparing fruit bowl offerings for Chinese New Year. Note the cheesy singing show on TV

People make offerings at his base
He figures into the legendary history of the place.