Going up the river

I took a boat from Battambang to Siem Reap. It's an all-day affair, since the water is low and the journey slow.

A group of 15 euro-backpackers and I sit in the back of a pickup truck for an hour as we make our way to the river. It's a bumpy, roller-coaster of a ride, and we cut through farming fields with squash and rice.

I sit in the back and talk to an Albertan insomniac who works in a Cedar mill. His main concern is globalization, and he's deeply pessimistic about the economy.

Finally, we get to the river and board a thin, dirty, covered boat.

The motor roars as we go up the muddy river, the bank of the shore exposed like an open wound. Our boat creates waves, which recede, leaving minnows (and a few big fish) flapping around on the bank.

It's a slow trip, and not too pleasant. The motor breaks down here and there.

Then it starts to rain, hard. We unroll the side flaps, but the water is everywhere.

We sit in silence, the rain poring in, the motor roaring, moving slowly up a muddy river, thinking the same thought: "why didn't I just take the bus?"

Then, the river widens and reach a floating rest stop as the rain clears.

We greatfully leave the boat and plunder the rest stop. They serve us coffee, sandwiches, cheese, candy, and pastries. We inhale the food as the sun comes out. The swiss and German take out their cigarettes and all is right in the universe.

We spend the next six hours going up the river, which is wider. There are small fishing boats all around, and we pass the fishing villages, nets, and sorting centers.

The children wave and shout at us from the bank. I lay on the prow of the boat, taking in the scene through my camera and taking pictures.

When we arrive at the Tonle Sap lake, the water is serene. Unbroken silver, with small fishing huts/stations here and there.

Someone is singing a song, to the tune of Bob Dylan's "shelter from the storm."

We're going the river, to get to old Siem Reap
the sun is hidden behind the clouds, and the water ain't so deep
passing fishing villagers in boats that look forlorn,
the rain is gone and the breeze is cool, on an uneventful morn.

the nets of fate have been cast, and the catch is reeling in
the birds are circlin' overhead to celebrate our sin,

the future's not on the river, but the past had had it's way
with the people in these dirty boats the live from day to day

we're going up the river, to get to old siem reap,
the sun is stuck behind the clouds, and the water's getting deep.