Cambodia by train
Backpacker Essentials: September 2003

Jo Hegerty found herself wanting to get from point A to point B in Cambodia – by train – and it turned into quite an experience.

So why do it? “Well, why not?” was the logic that propelled my friend, Rob, and me down Victory Hill and onto Sihanoukville train station’s only platform.

The day before, we had come to the station on a reconnaissance mission. With a little imagination, I could see that the station with its 14 arches and glass walls had been a grand structure once upon a time in the French colonial period. Today, most of the glass is gone and the concrete is stained and shabby. The grass is overgrown and a few cows seem to be the only inhabitants.

We eventually found a sleepy looking man in a singlet and through a combination of Rob’s high-school French, pidgin English and sign language, managed to ascertain that there was a train leaving the next day at 8am. Tickets were 4600 riel, bookings were not essential.

There are 105kms between Sihanoukville, a beach town on Cambodia’s south coast, and Kampot, a small town that provides access to Bokor National Park and Cambodia’s French past. A minibus will get you there in a couple of hours. The train takes seven. If you’re into averages, that’s about 15kms per hour. And the train itself? Well, it’s a little run down….in a completely dilapidated kind of way.

So we found ourselves at the station at 7.30am the next day, ready for the 8 o’clock departure. We were told that the train might leave at 8. It might leave at 9. Maybe.

A few trains limped in and out of the station. “Thank God that’s not our train” we’d joke. When our train did arrive at about 8.40, we stopped joking, gritted our teeth, said, “It’s an experience,” and bravely shouldered our packs.

As we walked through the long grass alongside the train, we started to get a little nervous. In most carriages, the floor had rotted away long ago but, undeterred, some bright sparks had slung hammocks in the doorways. This idea did not appeal to me.

Following more frantic sign language, a young man with a rifle slung over his shoulder waved us towards the ‘passenger carriage’ down the track.

As well as having seats and a floor, our carriage was painted a jaunty green and was inhabited by a crowd of locals and two other crazy farangs; a middle-aged French man who sat stoically ignoring everyone else and Giles, the world’s cheeriest French-speaking Swiss person.

It was clear from the beginning that we were to be the in-flight entertainment. We had quite an audience and the train wasn’t even moving yet. No one spoke much English but they chattered away happily to us in Khmer and we nodded and smiled a lot, everyone was happy. A tired-looking older woman in a red cap and matching lipstick took a liking to my mate. Assuming Rob and I were married, the crowd joked with me, gesturing that I should let her sit on Rob’s lap. Much to the crowds’ amusement I encouraged her. Rob, however, was unimpressed.

On the platform, at the end of the carriage was a Khmer man in aviator sunnies and a leather jacket. He sat astride his brand new motorcycle with his arms folded until our arrival at Kampot.

With an arthritic crunch, the train finally came to life and most of our new friends got off. The Cambodian version of trainspotters, I guess. And so our journey began. But then it stopped. And began again. The erstwhile prostitute, who may have been a few bananas short of a bunch, beamed at us and went to sleep.

The track follows the coast for most of the journey, cutting through thick emerald jungle and occasionally offering a glimpse of the sea or stopping at a tiny town to take on passengers. Giles spent most of the day sitting on the roof.  I was content to remain in the carriage due to the train’s mildly alarming shuddering and swaying motion.

An hour or so into the journey, a toddler sitting near us began to cry. I had had a few rolls of film developed and managed to bore the child into silence, much to the relief of her mother, who soon forgot about him and became engrossed in my happy snaps. Before long, word had got out and soon most of the train was peering at the photos. “Phnom Penh?” they would ask, “Bangkok” I would reply regretfully, wishing I’d developed some of my 15 rolls from Angkor Wat.

Partly for want of something to do and partly to appease the woman who kept poking me and saying “yum yum?”, I decided to brave the catering. It was simple, but delicious; chicken, mint, sweet chilli and rice. I couldn’t convince anyone else to give it a go, though. They may have been put off by the fact that the meal was served from a bucket.

At midday, the train stopped for an hour for no apparent reason in the middle of nowhere. I was pleased to discover that there was a standard hole in the ground toilet at the end of the carriage but I was a little disturbed to find the eyes of the old prostitute peering through the slats and even more put off by the cow watching me through the glassless window.

Cambodia’s people are among the most friendly and gentle in south east Asia. The men, on the whole, are also very good-looking. But, every country has its share of drunken unattractive men. These three were Cambodia’s share. We named them gold-tooth, pimple-face and the drunk. Fortunately, after leering at me for a while and squeezing Rob’s muscles a couple of times, they got bored and resumed drinking until they passed out at the other end of the carriage.

We passed the time learning new and useful Khmer words such as buffalo and cloud from our new friend, a young man in a polyester shirt and pants.  He was heading to Phnom Penh, which allegedly takes 12 hours. At some stage, we were also joined by a monk, who looked no older than eleven. He stared at us through his long eyelashes for hours, chain-smoking.