The glories of liquid sugar: Snoul towards Senmonorom

November 20, 2016

YOU remember the picture of the atrocities of the Khmer Rouge? It was just one that surrounded the memorial. Impossible to see them without a lump in the throat.

The consequences are evident in the youthfulness of the population. Not only is everyone young but you see barely anyone you'd call old.

But despite all that, or perhaps because of it, everyone is happy. Happy to be alive. It's unwise to come to Cambodia if you can't ride with one hand off the bars. Even more than Vietnam, you'll spend your time waving back at excited children. Even adults, who at first stare quizzically, dissolve into uninhibited smiles and waves when we greet them first.

I found it sad that the ideal image in Cambodia is more western than local. At least she has dark hair: more blatant posters showed blondes

We are in election season here and the People's Party dominates the billboards. We can't read them but we recognise the same three faces. Given that the Khmer Rouge killed people for wearing glasses, all three candidates have them.

The People's Party has not just billboards in every village but often an office as well. I will vote for it if it campaigns for even more machines making drinks from crushed sugar cane. They are reason enough to come to Cambodia and you get to spot the little machines with a gasp of relief and gratitude.

Stop me and buy one: crushed sugar cane can convince atheists of angels in heaven

There's nothing clever to them. You switch on the electric motor that turns the rotors and feed in two-metre lengths of white cane. They emerge in shreds and dribble pale green liquid into a jug. Adding ice cubes is enough to convince an atheist of angels in heaven.

It was in the shade beside one machine that we got talking to a gentle man of 42 who introduced himself as head of the local school. With a population so strikingly young, he has a big job. And a difficult one, because the Khmer Rouge murdered all the teachers and therefore those who'd teach the next generation of teachers.

"We have only two real ones," he told us. "The rest are volunteers, unqualified, but they don't know much."

He accepted the situation because he had to. What else was there? And it had been a great deal worse.

"We didn't have enough classrooms, so we used to teach the children under a tree." He smiled. "But we've got enough buildings now."

He, his two teachers and the volunteers teach all the children in the village. At the moment there are 371. They start school at six and they can stay until they're 18, although presumably many leave before that. Those with the talent go to universities in the cities.

The school runs from Monday to Saturday so today, Sunday, was the day off.

Religions mix up here and each influences its neighbours. We passed briefly through a Muslim district and mosques were calling the faithful, although not with the chant we know from other Islamic areas. And it's Sunday whereas the big Muslim day of prayer is Friday. Pragmatism rules. If everyone works on Friday and children are free on Sunday, then Sunday it is. And if it's better to shout something else from the crescent-topped mosques, then shout it.

So, Sunday it was and we crossed with knots of children - a tiny minority of the total - walking in religious dress but no less inclined to shout and smile and wave and giggle as everybody else.

There's not been a lot to Cambodia so far to please the eye. It's more rural than Vietnam and the people even friendlier. But the fields stretch to the horizon, their different crops undivided by fence or ditch. Everything is green but we recognise little.

The tiny towns are strings of shanty businesses and houses on stilts, the ground beneath them used for shade, meals and even for full-scale beds. It's hot but clearly it gets even hotter.

Tonight we are in one of a line of concrete rooms with bars rather than glass in the windows. It's clean even if the walls have suffered, and a fan is waving cool air across me as I write. We have just been down the road to one of a choice of ad hoc cafés - this in a village of no more than a few hundred - and eaten a meal of the tastiness that every cyclist deserves at the end of a day. We could have ridden further but, further, there's nowhere to stay.

The café owner, or perhaps the owner's mother, delightedly practised her French on us, asking the words for things she indicated.

And what's the word for...? Steph gives an ad hoc French lesson

A glass: un verre

Drink: boisson

And so it went on, grinning and nodding as each word came back to her.

The local posse prepares to escort us out of town

In time we shook hands with everyone and walked back here. The children, a dozen of them who'd been watching delighted and fascinated from the yard next door, chirruped as they walked along beside us.

Lovely people, Cambodians.

Today's ride: 59 km (37 miles)
Total: 296 km (184 miles)

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