moderatelyExcessive

My latest journey (accompanied by my friends James, Jenna, and Gianrigo) was to the seaside town of Kampot and the mountaintop ghost town of Bokor. It was epic. After a three hour ride on 250cc dirt bikes just to get to Kampot, we considered whether to bunk down for the night and tackle the mountain in the morning, or whether to attempt the 17 mile climb within the remaining two hours of daylight we had. We opted for the latter, and we chose poorly. What we knew was that the only road up to the mountaintop was hardly a road anymore, but just a path made of mud, boulders, and washed out section of roadway. What we didn’t know was that during rainy season, storm runoff forges foot-deep gouges in the mud and road surface.

I wiped out about a third of the way up the mountain, bruising my hand, cracking the LCD display of my camera, and sending the ring on my left hand flying off the hillside. Undeterred, I got back on my bike and rode no more than 20 feet before James wiped out right behind me. I stopped to help him, and after he recovered, I got back on my bike which then refused to start. A truck coming down the mountain that night stopped to help, and when no one was able to start the bike, we arranged for the truck to take it to a mechanic at the bottom of the mountain. We knew as we waved goodbye that it was the last truck coming down the mountain that night, but James and I decided we’d both get on his bike and soldier on. Only after the truck had disappeared around a bend did we realize that James’ bike wouldn’t start either, and the other realizations set in quickly: that it was getting dark quickly, and that we were only a third of the way up the treacherous mountain path. And it was starting to rain.

James and I spoke of the sense that the mountain simply did not want us there. That it had kicked our asses for being so cocky about the ride up.

We desperately called the driver of the truck to urge him to come pick us up, but his phone went unanswered for over an hour before James and I decided to start the long walk down the mountain; James coasting on the broken bike, and I walking carefully behind. It grew dark quickly. It rained harder.

As I walked alone on that jungle path, unable to see much, and with little idea of how much progress I was making downhill, I wondered if I had made the mistake that was going to get me eaten by a tiger, or worse, by a pack of bad monkeys with small mouths and sharp teeth.

Eventually, the driver called James and told us he’d send his friends to come help us. We had only traveled a few miles down the mountain, so we stopped and waited. The night turned black and sounds from insects and animals I’ve never heard before filled the air.

We found a guest house for the night, had the bikes fixed in the morning for the princely sum of $8, and vowed to tackle the mountain again. This time, we paid the mountain proper respect by praying to it for safe passage, we carried a traveling monk totem, and we lightened out backpack loads. After two or so hours of white-knuckle riding, we made it to the top.

We set up camp in one of the abandoned villas at the top. The views would have been spectacular, had we not been as high as the thick cloud layer covering the region.

Over that night and the next day, the mountain revealed itself to us slowly. We ventured around in the thick mist, often having little sense of where we were or where we were headed. We sought out an abandoned casino/hotel at one point, and frustrated, I turned to James and asked aloud, “How can we be missing something so enormous?” The mountain immediately responded by lifting the mist enough for us to see that we were standing no more than thirty feet away from it.

The mountain seemed to choose what we would see and when we would see it. Between the four of us, we spoke very little while journeying atop it. It was a thoughtful place; not spooky or threatening.

These pictures should give you some idea of what this journey was like, but it is unfortunate that I had no ability to see what I was shooting.