CommentaryExpat LifeTravel

Driving Monks to the Beach

I sat down to begin a day of work in the small office of the NGO where I volunteer. It was the day after Khmer New Year, when all through the pagoda, not a creature was stirring – not even the massive turtle that lives in the reservoir.

I was looking forward to getting some work done before the school children returned to scream and throw empty packets of noodles everywhere. Of course, I began by checking Facebook. I was scrolling down the news feed when Sambo, the energetic English teacher, poked his oversized head through the door. “Will you drive a monk to the beach?” He asked. I only thought for a second before replying in the affirmative.

I’d been living in the Wat for over two months and driving my red Suzuki for two weeks. The journey from Wat Baray in Takeo to Kep was to take three hours. Obviously when a convoy of monk-carrying Cambodians are involved, things are not going to go smoothly. I packed a bag full of sun cream and hats, loaded my monk and set off.

Naturally, I assumed we’d take National Highway 3 to Kampot and then zip across to Kep. Naturally, I was wrong. For some insane reason the guys decided that the best route was to cut across National Highway 2 (what I like to call, “the highway of pothole death”) and make our way to the beach via crater-strewn death traps also known as “Cambodian Roads”.

“We drive fast – understand? You not get leave behind” said Supon, the only one of the crew who could speak English. I rejected his paternalism with a macho nod. I had it under control. We set off. Potholes approached like advanced level Space Invaders. I weaved in and out accelerating madly inbetween. “Must keep up with the orange streaks ahead,” I thought to myself.

The roads worsened. We would hit 100km/ph for a few seconds and then decelerate to a crawl through the dirt obstacle course that Cambodians call “road works”. My arse was marinated in sweat and aches. My spine flattened from pothole jolts. We bounced and bucked over Martian roads in the intolerable heat.

When it seemed like it couldn’t get any worse it was time for a detour. Without explaining what was going on we left the “roads” in favor for a single raised track about 2 feet wide. I swayed flipping my handlebars left and right to avoid teetering into the Paddy fields below.

My orange cargo abandoned his Buddhist equanimity and grabbed onto my shoulders in fear. We cornered sharply. For two miles I looked death and broken-bones in the face. If I crashed and survived then I certainly would be imprisoned for grievous monk-wounding. Why this marvelous detour into medieval village?

It was lunch time. Our party was 16 strong so lunch had to be pre-arranged. I wasn’t sure if it was a business or the house of a relative. We arrived; I jerked my leg over the bike and scrambled for the shade. As is customary, the monks ate first while we lay people waited. When they were done, it was our turn to “nyam bi” i.e. eat nondescript sour soup and rice. I had long since stopped caring about my diet. When you live in a pagoda and eat whatever the monks leave, you get used to eating gruel and rice for every meal.

Fortified by two coffees, I emerged from the warren of paths between the paddy fields next to the Khmers who were waiting for the sweary barang to catch up. “So, where to next?” I asked, hoping to be told we would be back on some semblance of a road. “We go over this mountain now” said Supon. Oh, obviously. Why drive on newly tarmaced, flat highway when you can rattle and buzz your way over a mountain on a 100c moped carrying a monk on the back?

The road was clay red. To say it was potholed is to infer that there was a part of the road that wasn’t potholed. I can’t say that. It was rather like driving on the Moon, if the moon was a few billion miles closer to the sun and had enough gravity to make sure you smashed your tailbone every time your seat dropped into the next mini-crater.

We climbed steadily. As we came around the peak of the small mountain, through scrubby bushes and rocks the horizon became hazy blue. It was rather like that moment in the BBC version of the Chronicles of Narnia when, after hundreds of miles and trial-by-witch, the Pevensie children gasp, “why, Aslan! It’s Cair Paravel”. We curved back down the mountain and onto the smooth quiet roads of Kep.

The young monks stripped down to their orange boxers and vests and hit the water. I was alongside them swimming and splashing. On the beach, a busload of Korean Christians joined hands in prayer and then hit the water, all wearing t-shirts and long shorts. It had taken 5 hours to get here and was probably worth it.

I left the next day leaving the guys from my village in Kep. I had an appointment in Phnom Penh and the group had started talking about driving to the top of some local mountain to visit a religious site (and probably to pay respects to the victims of the drive there).

I drove to Kampot, got on Highway 3 and was back home within three hours which included the time it took to eat breakfast. I listened to Nirvana’s Nevermind on my mp3 player and overtook a large truck with ease. Why, in God’s name, did we not go this way in the first place?

Nathan Thompson

4 thoughts on “Driving Monks to the Beach

  • Nice Nathan, enjoyed the read. Keep it up!

    Reply
  • Thanks Nathan, you capture that amazing Asian dry heat well, I love it, it’s very still and warm. It sounds like it was another great day out in Cambodia.

    Reply
  • Pinnochio

    I bet you made a few stops along the way on that unique road. Maybe to pick up some elyxir, video, recharge the cell phone etc. Monk=Unemployed Beggar Bum. I bet the trip back was to drop off a bowl of rice for restitution. Live and learn

    Reply
  • BaoDaoDynamite

    I find this narrative to be a nice read. It is enjoyable. Thanks for sharing, Nathan.

    Reply

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