Camino Milagro

The coldest day in Siem Reap is too hot for a bike ride but a bike ride is still the best way to visit the Cambodian countryside. This would not be the spandex leggings and Bianchi road bike type of ride. My region-appropriate rental came with a coat of dust and a not-Shimano derailleur. My cycling tour guide wore flip flops and a straw hat.

I met up with Sambath at Butterfly Tours' tiny storefront two miles and a world away from the tourist scene on Pub Street. At 9am, I was already dripping with sweat and wondering how I would survive a 17 mile bike ride in 100 degree heat. But no time to reconsider -- Samath hopped on his bike and waved me onto the rutted city road. A few minutes later, we were pedaling past lime green fields of ripening rice, lounging water buffalo, and tiny shacks selling cold water and mangoes.

We dodged motorbikes and beeping tuk-tuks crossing on to a copper-brown dirt road lined with wooden houses on stilts and fat black pigs and sinewy farmers in plaid head scarves. Sambath swung up alongside me to talk about growing up with 5 siblings on a rice farm and his dream to help his community recover from war and poverty. When I told him I had worked in California state government, he replied "Then you would be able to advise me about how I can become governor of Battambang Province."

I was relieved of my advice-giving responsibilities when we arrived at an a open-air shed of unmilled poles where a smiling, round-faced grandma manufactured rice noodles. Arun wore an ankle length wrapped skirt and, like many aging Buddhist women, had shaved her head. She showed us the complicated (and not-one-bit-hygienic) process of making rice noodles on equipment that Buddha himself might have used. I sampled a few of the gluey rice threads and left a bunch of bananas on her small table. Arun kissed my cheeks and called me "sabbayrikreay." Happy.

For a few more hours, I belonged to a community of rice wine makers, coconut meat grinders, basket weavers and welcoming children. At the end of the ride, we returned to a simple feast of rice cakes and tea. A praying mantis landed on Sambath's finger and he giggled as he drew it to his nose for a closer look. Still dripping with sweat, I thought about how our path that day was one Sambath called “plov os ja.” A road of miracles.