314 Kilometers to Thanksgiving

There are some things you never learn about Sean until you've spent most waking and all sleeping hours with him, traveled across three countries, and shared with him just about everything, from plates of rice to toothpaste. For instance: when Sean is packing, he enters a deep state of meditation. He furrows his brow, slowly picks up each sock, each book, each bag of nuts, turns it over and over again in his hands, and intently places it into his backpack. The comprehensive blueprint developing in his brain is almost visible, impeccably tailored for maximum efficiency. When Sean is in this state, there is little communication until the masterwork of folds, ties, stacks and bulges lays before him. Also, Sean likes food. Everybody likes food, but Sean celebrates three holidays every day: Breakfast, Lunch, and Dinner. Sean is almost never happier than when we've found a rickety street cart selling bowls of rice with beef curry on top, or bowls of banana with coconut on top, or almost anything else that could possibly be put in bowls with anything on top and ingested. I can tell when Sean is about to ask if I want to get lunch, because there is a spring in his step, and the air is charged with the gastronomic possibility seeping from his brain. And then there is Sean preparing to sleep. He doesn't lay himself down in bed. I don't think I've ever seen him settle into his bed like a human being, he's more like a breaching narwhal: he stands at the edge of the bed for three, two, one, and then, WHAM! He flops, he falls, he crashes, face first into the pillow and closes his eyes.

In the same way, there are many things that you don't learn about a country until you've breathed its air and felt its dust on your feet, ached in your legs from walking its roads, and filled yourself with its food, its water, its perceptions and its history. Things like the etiquette practiced when a bike tire pops. If you are in Cambodia, anywhere in Cambodia, and your bike tire pops, don't despair, you won't be alone to wrestle this calamity for long. Soon a man in a white brimmed hat will lumber along and stand over you. Then a group of boys on their way home from school will amble down the road, school bags dangling and hands on hips, to stand behind the man. A woman holding a baby will pop out of a tiny shop you didn't know was there and say something to the man. She'll be followed by her three children, her mother, and the dog that lives under her porch. And they will all be experts in the field of bicycles and popped tires. The man will crouch by your bike and start tinkering with the wheel, demanding a tool here and there, talking to the boys. The woman will yell something at him, the dog will sniff your leg, and the baby will stare at you, wide eyed and open mouthed, almost perfectly mimicking the bemused expression that is slowly growing on your own face. You'll try to help, but they'll say "no, no"and wave you away. You''ll stand there helplessly as they rip apart the back of your bicycle and tinker and touch until the new wheel is on. Then you'll shake hands with the man, repack your bag, in shambles after scrambling for tools (under the intense scrutiny of the woman and her baby), smile at everyone, they'll smile back and you'll be on your way. Another thing you may learn as you pass through the Cambodian countryside is that you can practically measure your distance and speed by the number of "hello's"and "bye-bye's"shouted at you by excited Cambodian children and a few beaming Cambodian men and women. You'll begin to understands patterns: patterns in the seemingly insane traffic, in the stretches of rice and barley fields, and in the smells that pervade you sometimes subtle, sometimes overwhelming. The land and its people begins to have a personality.

Sean and I arrived in Cambodia about two weeks ago. We made it across the border and checked in at the Yellow guest house at around eight. We quickly discovered that the room had cable TV, and, needless to say, flopped on our beds and watched a commercial free trashy movie before drifting off. We spent about a week in Siem Reap, exploring the area. It's very small, probably Littleton size, but full of tourists. The tourists visit Siem Reap to explore Angkor Wat, the massive temple outside the main site that is Cambodia's pride and joy, and the many temples that surround it. Due to that dastardly cable TV and a rather opulent state of mind that led to much food searching, Sean and I didn't make it to the temples for a few days. We started at Angkor Wat, spent three or four hours exploring the temple grounds: the various pools and libraries, and the massive stretches of bas relief that surround the main building. After Angkor Wat, we visited Ta Prohm. While Angkor Wat was impressive in sheer magnitude and intricacy, the way in which nature has defied that ingenuity at Ta Prohm was much more impressive. It is evident that Ta Prohm was once a massive and elaborate temple, but it has been totally overgrown by the forest. It has been restored to a certain extent, but the jungles tangled hold over the temple is supremely evident. Massive stones are suspended by the gnarled hands of trees, torn from ancient walls and lifted ceaselessly, effortlessly, by giant creaking muscles. There are vines crawling over every broken palisade and bridge, layered leaves covering every pool. But the disrepair is more awe inspiring then depressing. Although surrounded by ruined works of ancient man, Ta Prohm reminded me of the infinitely more ancient primeval forces barely held at bay by any civilization, that will cover the greatest works of man at twilight Looking back on it, it reminds me of Shelley's "Ozymandias", the massive stone head of a once great king, half hidden by desert sands. In fact, one of the prominent features of the temple is a decrepit statue depicting the stone head of Prajnaparamita, goddess of wisdom.

After a week in Siem Reap, we decided it was time to be off. We bought two bicycles at the market, packed our bags, and began the 314 kilometer bike to Phnom Penh, the capital. Our goal was to reach the city by Thanksgiving, so we could celebrate with a real feast. At first, the going was a bit slow, but thoughts of Turkey, Gravy and stuffing eventually urged us along. After miles on a bike, the rhythm of your legs and the gentle sweep of the passing landscape lulls you into a trance. Your legs become a separate entity, and your mind, separated from the physical exertion, wanders at will to new and undiscovered depths. Unless you start to get hungry, then the thoughts go no deeper than your stomach. We arrived in Phnom Penh four days later, the night of Thanksgiving. We searched, to no avail, for a long wooden table decked with traditional Thanksgiving food. Eventually, we settled on a fancy restaurant, ordered a copious array of food, stuffed ourselves, and retired happily to our guesthouse. We sat outside for a bit, talking with a traveling Italian man. I was sorely tempted to make a lame joke about Amerigo Vespucci, and how appropriate that we should meet the progeny of a founding father on this most patriotic day, but lame jokes often become lamer in translation, so I refrained. Maybe the lameness would have been lost in translation...but i don't think so.

On Monday we get our visas, and on Tuesday we're off again to a small town forty kilometers outside the capital. Then we may head north on our bikes, and our plan is to reach Vietnam by the 14th, which we'd better do because our Cambodian visas expire on the 15th. But there are many meals between now and then...