Cambodia’s Floating World

Traveling to Cambodia, James Fahn finds that the best way to get from Phnom Penh to the temples at Siem Reap Is by ferry across the Tonle Sap. Here he describes the memorable journey.

The Nation

November 22, 1992

Angkor Wat may be the soul of Cambodia, but the Tonle Sap Great Lake is the country's beating heart.

Each year, this immense body of fresh water pulses to a natural rhythm, expanding across Cambodia's central plains as it becomes swollen by the monsoon rains, only to shrink back to one quarter the size during the dry season.

Life in Cambodia moves in time for the same annual cadence. With the rains, the Mekong rises, spilling water into the Great Lake through the Tonle Sap River. This waterway usually the lake's main artery actually reverses itself, becoming a vein through which the lake is fed with seeds and fish eggs. These are then spread across the flood plain, a fertile feeding ground for spawning fish.

People, too, have lived off the lake's bounty for ages. Out of all the fertile regions on the Indochina Peninsula, notes G. Coedes in his historical text The Making of Southeast Asia. "the Tonle Sap basin, being a self-contained territorial until with the required natural features, was best Fitted to become the area of settlement for a homogeneous population of sedentary agriculturalists and to give rise to a civilization based on a centralized State."

And humans have traditionally respected the lake's seasonal vagaries. Fishermen, for instance, find fry difficult to catch until the drier months of April. May, June and July, when the Fish have grown and the lake has shrunk. In the past, fish were so abundant during this season that the Khmer invented ways to dry and marinate the fish some of which have become international delicacies for the leaner periods.         

Around the lake's edges, fanners plant floating rice in dry ground. As the waters rise, the rice germinates, growing to three, four, even five meters in height. It's then harvested when the lake again recedes. It was thanks to the Tonle Sap's largesse, after all, combined with an ingenious irrigation system, that the temple-cities of Angkor flourished. So what better way to make an excursion to the ancient Khmer capital of Siem Reap just off the lake's northwest shore than by boat across the Tonle Sap?

Not only is it historically appropriate, it is also practical: no outrageous airfares, no landmines, no potholes and no bandits, or at least fewer of them.

The time for departure comes shortly after arriving in Phnom Penh:  A fellow journalist and I have determined that the government ferry is the way to go. We buy some hammocks and provisions at the market and, early on a Thursday morning, make our way down to the port on Karl Marx Quay. Passing through a swirl of rickshaw drivers and lumber-stacking workmen, we cross a narrow wooden plank to board the good ship Rasamy Udom ("Aura" or "Full of Light").

The scene on board is no less chaotic. Below decks is musty cargo, sacks of produce piled high. A steep wooden staircase takes us up to the main deck. Searching for a path through the maze strung-up hammocks and the milling, curious crowd, we find some open space near the rail.

Being city slickers, we prove utterly incapable of stringing up our own hammocks. Plenty of eager Khmer hands are there to help us, however. The multitude of hammocks hanging from the roof make the deck look something like a bat rookery, but  abundant light and a cool breeze come pouring through the open sides of the boat.

After a brief search by the police for weapons, the boat starts up. We sail through the light port traffic and up (down, rather, at this time of year) the Tonle Sap River. The engine is mercifully quiet. We chug past the first major landmark: the Tonle Sap Bridge. It was here that New York Times correspondent Sidney Schanberg was confronted by Khmer Rouge troops when they entered the city on April 17, 1975, as recounted in the movie The Killing Fields. The bridge was blown up in that year, and now ends halfway across the river. "A bridge to nowhere." my friend remarks.

We are traveling at the culmination of the rainy season. But the river is calm, the weathe is mild and sunny, and it will stay that way for most of the trip.

On board, all is calm, as well. Like Indian trains. Cambodian ferries are moving villages. A small stand sells tea, rice and delicious Tonic Sap Fish. Downstairs is a kitchen, where women in colorful sarongs cook, wash and gossip. Nearby are the (clean and functional) toilets and the local "well": a hose which pipes hot water from the engine room for washing up; one hefty, old woman taking a shower splashes so much water around she manages to clean off everyone standing within a two-meter radius.

Up on deck, passengers chat quietly, picnic on mats they've spread out or doze in their hammocks. Swaying to and fro with the gently rocking boat and looking out at the scenery, you can almost believe you are flying. A swing in a hammock proves just the thing to put a crying baby at ease.

But mostly people just sit on the bench by the rail, draping their legs over the side as they watch the world go by. And what a world. Riverside settlements of thatched huts soon give way to dense jungle. A drowned world, the bloated river swallowing the shoreline.

The river is now glassy smooth, enveloping submerged trees. The foliage is well adapted to flooding, but many of the trees seem to be drowning under creepers. Sugar palms, the landmark of Cambodia, stand in rows like sentries guarding the interior. Now and then we pass a narrow, jungle-canopied riverlet which winds its way beckoningly toward that mysterious destination.

Herons and kingfishers foraging by the river's edge take flight at our approach. Occasionally, we see signs of settlement: a simple hut, fishermen casting their nets, two boys shouting with glee as they toss themselves off a swampy tree into the water. But we are struck by the lack of people here, the uncultivated land. Have they all left? Or been killed? Or has this always been riverine jungle?

Sometimes our reverie would be interrupted by the sound of a helicopter  - "Here, it's the sound of death," my colleague points out, referring to the American war and a UN chopper would fly by. The UN's black-on-white, four wheel drive vehicles can be seen lined up and waiting at a ferry crossing.

Cambodia is actually The first place to host UN naval patrols, but the only forcing we see going by water on this trip are a backpacking couple on board our ferry and an NGO worker moving by in another boat; inevitably, it has a flag with the organization's insignia fluttering in the breeze.

Late in the day, two well-forested mountains, intricately carved by the setting sun, drift into view.

"Khmer Rouge territory." my friend murmurs. "If you were Cambodian, where would you be?" Gone. I think. I'd have left the country or died trying.

The twilight glances off the water to port: its reflection shimmers off the roof of the deck, loaves of bread and colorful sarongs hanging from the ceiling sway in the glow. The ship is indeed "full of light".

We dodge naked, scampering children as we move from rail to rail trying to lake in all the myriad views on offer. One solemn boy with a haunted look on his face stares at me intently. The telltale bumps of scabies dot his features.

Around sunset, we approach the town of Kompong Chhnang and the river widens into the mouth of the Great Lake.

Life on the lake seems like an ocean world from the pages of a science fiction novel.  Water is everywhere: the thick clouds, the spreading sea. And everything is adapted to life in this immense waterscape. There are wading birds and trees which thrive underwater. Human activity floats: the houses, the shops, even the town halls. Fish farms -- partially submerged cages in which catfish are raised -- are shaped like boat hulls to make them easy to flow.

            We go up to the bow where the skipper stands alongside a huge wooden wheel, looking out attentively.  Clumsy tourist that I am, I accidentally step in his way, and am good-naturedly hauled back, then invited to sit down to a meal of rice and fish.

At the prow sits a shrine of small plants, probably dedicated to the nang rua (boat goddess).  Blinking lights add a festive touch, but they cannot compare to the fluorescent pink and orange clouds which form a temporary backdrop to this surreal voyage.

Even after the sun has set, the nearly full moon is bright enough to write by. Venus is a brilliant point of light above the horizon.  Flashes of heat lightning echo among the thunderheads.  We are now definitely on the Great Lake.  It grows ever wider as we move past more floating villages.

Young English students approach timidly to test their language skills. They ask similar questions, so perhaps they have studied from the same book.

"Thais have always feared the Khmer," my companion, a Thai, explains.  "After all, Angkor was built with the help of Thai slaves.  We think of them as big and dark, with strong black magic: the Khom who could walk under the earth."

These young men do indeed have dark skin.  But they are slight, with big eyes and baby-like faces.  And their handsome features are tinged with sadness as they try to convey the plight of their country.

Buy is a sailor returning home to Siem Reap.  Kashon is a sports teacher from Kompong Speu being transferred from a post in Phnom Penh to the provinces.  One dashing young man speaking suspiciously good Thai tells us he is a military intelligence officer.  He says he's surprised by how many words for “happy" there are in Thai. “How do you know which word to use?" he asks. “In Khmer there is only one, sok sabay.”

A flare goes up front the shore and we head towards a town. Is it a signal that someone wants us to pick up something, or a directional guide? We dock and transfer cargo, but no people.  This seems to be an express boat.  The police come on board once more to check for arms, and we are off again.

The boat seems to be moving carefully along unseen channels. A handheld torch acts as a searchlight, picking out trees which apparently serve as markets. The lake varies in depth from place to place and season to season, ranging from 40 centimeters to 10 meters.  But it's getting shallower. AII the logging now occurring in Cambodia may have increased the rate of sedimentation to as much as four centimeters per year.  The Tonle Sap, like all lakes, is slowly dying.

Occasionally, the engine is cut and a passing boat is hailed. A shouted conversation rings out over the otherwise silent water. Are they talking about directions, the weather, or perhaps news of sea-borne bandits? All the guns available in Cambodia have meant an increase in unofficial "river taxes".

The lake is growing still wider when we go to sleep in our hammocks.  I wake up at three in the morning and it's become an inland sea, the coastline no longer visible on either side.

It's an easy climb up to the roof where Milkv Way rips across the sky. With the moon now set, stars float bright and numerous above the sea's expanse. These same stars must have figure in the construction of Angkor Wat, which researchers now believe was built in such a way and with such precision as to aid astronomical observations.

At precisely four o'clock religious music comes from below, adding to the haunting atmosphere. Passengers start to come out on the roof to exercise. Soon the sky begins to brighten, revealing a gray and ominous cloudscape.

The boat begins to slow and finally stops altogether as a storm rears before us. The sea turns choppy for the first time and we all climb down as the rain starts to spatter.

It's not long before the boat moves off again. But the ripples it sends out in its wake are not cresting waves. So rich is the lake with silt that the thick, brown, soupy water seems only to heave a bit before settling back down, lapping gently against the bobbing foliage, back-lit by a rising sun.

Now we pass families fishing in their boats. Wearing conical hats and pajamas, these pale-skinned people look distinctly Vietnamese, and indeed the lake is popular with settlers from Cambodia's eastern neighbor. Their presence is fiercely resented by the Khmer, who have suffered for centuries from foreign aggression and now seek a scapegoat for their problems.

The fishing boats are full of plump, glistening catch. But that belies the true story of the lake’s resources: fish yields have dropped from 75,000 metric tonnes in 1939 to 26,000 metric tonnes in 1964, and are said to be still dropping. Experts attribute the decline to increasing sedimentation and destruction by local farmers of inundated forest on the lake's edges, which serve as spawning grounds.

The declining yields seem typical of this benighted country. What is it has brought this place, which once knew the glory of Angkor, so low?

Angkor's wealth, says historian Milton Osbome, was in people and in water. Its economy was based on a fantastic irrigation system which turned a once unproductive region into successful rice-growing area with three crops a year were grown to support a population in excess of one million. Unlike the contemporary Srivijaya Empire to the south, it did not depend on trade for its existence.

The main unifying feature of Angkorian Empire was not commerce then, but the acceptance by many lesser rulers that the king at Angkor was their supreme lord.  When external pressure (largely from nascent Siam) managed to shatter this relationship, the remarkable but fragile system of hydraulic engineering upon which Angkor's existence depended was also damaged.

Angkor Wat – an aesthetic and engineering masterpiece, the symbol of Cambodia, the largest single religious building in the world according to Osborne -- was eventually left to be overtaken by jungle. The nearest town is now known as Siem Reap, meaning "(the) Siamese defeated (it)", which indeed they did.

In a sense, Cambodia has never recovered from this catastrophe. Unable to recreate a lasting, stable system or vassalage, it has remained easy prey for foreigners from nearby and afar. A series of civil wars, says Coedes, “provided an excuse for both southern Vietnam and Siam to intervene in Cambodian internal affairs, greatly to the detriment of Cambodia's territorial integrity, since the aid supplied by either neighbor was never given free." He is describing 17th-18th century Cambodia but the message remains valid today.

The Khmer Rouge with its de-urbanization program (outlined in Khieu Samphan's PhD thesis from the Sorbonne), its construction of canals that run uphill, and its ferocious sense of insularity -- represent a twisted attempt to recapture a past that has been lost forever.

Still, the Khmer have at least managed to outlive the Champa civilization, which once thrived in what is now South central Vietnam. This Hindu culture was eventually conquered and destroyed by the Vietnamese emperors, who then pushed further south to take over the Mekong delta region from Cambodia.  All that's left of the Cham todav are small Muslim minority communities in Vietnam and Cambodia and a few Khmer-like towers (prasat)  lef abandoned on some forlorn hillsides along the Vietnamese coast.

I explain to my fellow traveler my theory that the Tonle Sap is the heart of Cambodia, that while it's still beating, it’s nonetheless dying. "Yes, but it's not a heart of darkness. Cambodia is really just an enigma.

"Anyway, cultures need to die so that they can be reborn."

The rising sun burns away our melancholy.  The boat moves by more and more floating settlements: raft houses tied together to form sea-borne villages. A pet dog scampers around on top of a cage.  Nearby, a stork ('is it also a pet?) spreads its enormous wings.

Finally, we ease into the port town of Phnom Krom, a spit of road lined by a vibrant market that simply fades into the sea.  A merchant woman we had met waves to her family in a floating shop.  Another journey ends with hellos and good-byes.

We see motorcycles for the first time in just over a day, a jarring sight.  One of them takes both of us and our bags on the 11-km trip along a beautiful river to Siem Reap, where Angkor Wat awaits us. But that's another story.