April 4, 2025
Letters from Indochina (Part 5)
By Simon J. Lau
The day started early and didn’t slow down. I’d booked a full-day tour to see the countryside and some of the area’s cultural landmarks. Before hitting the road, I fueled up with a big breakfast from a roadside spot near my hotel. It looked simple, but the food was fantastic—way better than the upscale place I tried yesterday. A stray dog wandered around the tables, and I couldn’t resist slipping him a few bites before I left.
The Battambang countryside felt raw and novel to me—endless rice fields, winding dirt roads, and simple stilt houses tucked along the roadside. Life moves slowly out here, especially compared to the pace of the city. Kids often waved as I passed by, and I always made sure to wave back.
One of the more unique experiences in Battambang is the bamboo train. Originally, the train tracks were built by the French for transporting goods, but after commercial use declined, locals repurposed the tracks. Rural communities started building makeshift “trains” from bamboo platforms mounted on axles and powered by small motors. These became an ingenious way for people in the countryside to travel, especially when roads were unreliable.
When my tour guide said it was the slow season, he wasn’t kidding. The bamboo train is usually one of the main highlights for tourists in Battambang. As a solo traveler, I was told I’d likely have to pay for two seats—or wait and hope another tourist showed up to split the cost. I ended up waiting around for 30 minutes, but no one else came. I was initially ready to pay for both, but decided to try and negotiate it down to one. Since it was so quiet, they agreed—and I got the ride all to myself.
Along the way, I saw small burns scattered across the countryside—thin columns of smoke rising from piles of brush, rice husks, or harvested stalks. These controlled fires are common in rural Cambodia, especially around Battambang, where farmers burn agricultural waste to clear land or prepare fields for the next planting season. The air smelled faintly of smoke, and in some areas, a light haze hung over the fields.
The ride was super bumpy, but it was a fun and unique way to see the countryside. Ironically, on the way back, a local girl asked if she could ride with me on my platform so she could meet her boyfriend somewhere down the line. (You can see her bags and motorbike helmet on the train.) I was totally cool with it—it actually reminded me of how locals used to rely on these bamboo trains for everyday commuting before they became a tourist attraction.
We made a stop at Plov Thmey Suspension Bridge, a narrow, swaying footbridge that stretches across the Sangkae River. It’s mainly used by locals—motorbikes and pedestrians crossing side by side—and it bounces noticeably with each step. It definitely felt tight whenever a motorbike passed, but the locals seem to navigate it with ease.
While here, I met an older gentleman—a Chinese-Cambodian now living in Canada—who had lived through the Khmer Rouge. He was chatty and seemed eager to connect. Born in Cambodia in 1955 to a Chinese family, he grew up speaking only Teochew, a southern Chinese dialect. When the Khmer Rouge took over in 1975, he was 20 years old and was forced to learn Khmer. “If not for the Khmer Rouge,” he told me, “I may never have learned Cambodian.” He would later spend four years working in harsh labor camps throughout the country. “I was lucky,” he said, “I survived.”
When the Vietnamese invaded in 1979 and installed a new government, his family fled to Thailand, but were forced to return. Eventually, they made it to Vietnam, and after years of uncertainty, they immigrated to Canada in 1987. He was an interesting character—full of stories—and the first person I’ve spoken to who had first-hand experience living under the Khmer Rouge.
Roasted rats are a common sight along the rural roadside. We passed three or four vendors selling them as we drove through. My tuk-tuk driver told me he never suggests it as a stop for tourists—he knows most would find it disgusting. They would likely think of city rats, but these are actually rice paddy rats. In other words, they feed on grain and crops, not garbage like the ones you’d find in urban alleys. I’d seen them featured in videos before and was curious enough to give it a try, so I bought one.
I’ll be honest—the presentation left a lot to be desired. But taste-wise? It really did resemble boiled chicken. That said, if I end up with some mystery illness or become patient zero for COVID-25, you’ll know where it all started.
There are also tons of small-scale farming operations out here. For example, we stopped at a grasshopper farm right off the road. The family running it was kind enough to let me look around and take photos. When the grasshoppers are big enough, they fry them and sell them at roadside stands to passing locals and travelers.
Several cultural landmarks on the itinerary included Banan Temple Hill and Phnom Sampov, two of the region’s most well-known sites. Banan Temple Hill—often referred to as a “Mini Angkor Wat”—sits atop a steep hill with more than 300 steps. The climb is a bit of a workout, but the payoff is worth it: sweeping views of the countryside and a quiet, moss-covered temple that feels ancient and serene.
I’m not going to lie—many of the structures are in rough shape, with “Danger” signs posted around crumbling walls. It’s clear the place could use a bit of TLC. Still, it’s a peaceful and photogenic spot, and a fitting introduction to Angkor Wat, which is next on my itinerary.
Phnom Sampov is a limestone mountain with caves and pagodas built into its slopes, best known for the Killing Caves—another haunting site reminiscent of the Killing Fields near Phnom Penh. During the Khmer Rouge era, victims were thrown or discarded into the cave, their bodies left to pile at the bottom. Definitely not a pretty image—but sadly, very on brand for the regime.
While most visitors opt for a motorbike ride to the top, I was determined to hike the entire trail—from the parking lot to the summit and back down again. By the time I reached the bottom, my legs were shaking and I was completely wiped out, but I was proud to have completed it on my own.
As a sort of finale, I stayed to watch the famous bat cave. Just before sunset, millions of bats pour out of a narrow crevice in the mountainside in a continuous, swirling stream that lasts nearly an hour. They emerge in a tight, ribbon-like formation, twisting and sweeping across the sky as they begin their nightly hunt for insects. It was an incredible sight and definitely a great way to end the day’s tour.
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