Chau Doc, Vietnam to Phnom Penh, Cambodia
The sun slid from its mid-day zenith about the time we found ourselves sitting astride the border. Downstream was Vietnam and a few tens of yards away, the flag of Cambodia gently rippled in the occasional puffs of wind. Political borders often make no sense when laid upon the land and here where the Mekong flows one would not expect to observe much difference between these neighboring countries. The surprise lay in the fact that Vietnam and Cambodia are as distinct as if they were on opposite sides of a mountain range or a vast ocean.
The sun enters and exits this part of Southeast Asia in a flamboyant fashion every day, so the delicate pink followed by flaming crimson of morning was no shock. Nor was the sound of engines out of place, for the Mekong in Vietnam is a bustling place from the moment of first light.
Strange bamboo frameworks marched along the water’s edge like pre-industrial cranes. It was to these structures several boats were headed. Within moments the single occupant of each had scampered up a vertical arm that slowly descended with this added weight. An identical arm rose from a pivot point and on its end appeared a net filled with squirming fish. Here were machines that needed no fuel other than the energy of man.
Industriousness is something that definitely is not lacking. Before the low angle light had even begun to lose its golden glow the floating market of Chau Doc was bustling with merchants and shoppers galore. In town we dove into the rush hour, pulled in our own private chariots as our “cyclo” drivers wove between cars and motor bikes, finally depositing us near the shore-based market where fruits and vegetables, fish and poultry were presented as if they were works of contemporary art.
The river was lined with what would appear to be houseboats on initial inspection but proved to be uncountable numbers of private fish farms. Tilapia and basa are important exports from this region. Even the fish were filled with vigor, competing for the handfuls of food tossed into their midst.
Further upstream along the edges of the Tan Chau Canal, community members swarmed into the fields to harvest the golden heads of rice. A threshing machine, an unusual piece of modern equipment not seen too often here, was followed by carts pulled by water buffalo or cows ready to bear the stalks and now-separated grains in different directions. Here and there rice mills spewed chaff from a funnel into giant baskets to be carried on shoulder yokes to awaiting vessels while the rice itself emerged in colorful yellow sacks.
On the other side of the border, it was the silence that attracted our attention. There was no putt-putt sound and the ubiquitous long-tailed boats were gone. The low-lying land stretched out for miles in all directions with only the occasional sign of habitation. The fields were lush, all shades of green. All manner of crops were tenderly watered, weeded and harvested. For miles and miles we were immersed in this rural atmosphere and calmed by being here.
Bedtime however brings a different scene. Orange lights glow along the shore, their reflections on the water like beckoning fingers. The city of Phnom Penh awaits outside our windows. But for tonight we’ll rest.
