Packing light, digging deep.

Sick of the sex tourists and earnest NGO interns of Phnom Penh’s expat society, disillusioned by Cambodian culture marinated in the trashiest of Western ideals; I wanted a raw Khmer experience. The Cardamom Mountains seemed promising, with the Phi Pot River as villages' only link to the highway. A haven for endangered sun bears too, I’d read. How rooted can globalisation really be in a country whose genocidal regime purged foreign influence a mere few decades ago? I stuck out my thumb and went to see, bumping out of Phnom Penh atop a yam truck. At the Sihanoukville junction I hopped off and headed west on the back of what started life as a Japanese Honda. The string and kismet now holding this moto together credits Cambodia with its continuation if not creation. Authenticity prevails! I thought, until my young chauffeur shouted out of the blue — “I love Justin Bieber, TOO MUCH.” The 8-hour road 'n' river journey ended at a muddy Cardamom village and Bieber fever had beaten me there. Middle-aged ladies shook their booties to a stereo blaring “Baby Baby Baby, Oooh” for their evening workout. I navigated a scrum of dogs carpeting the sole guesthouse-cum-café (standard Khmer decor), and found a balcony from which to watch a sudden downpour. Justin's backup dancers retreated, but a high-end fashion show began. Men stripped to Armani underwear and lathered up for a spirited 'wash' in the brick-red rivers Cambodian roads become in a deluge. Viewing an unscheduled communal bath equates with a trip to the theatre, here. After the electricity got switched off at 8pm, three youngish guys joined me with cards and candles. A fierce game of Presidents and Assholes ensued with rice wine that felt like a slap in the mouth. I marvelled how I'd ended up in this scenario again — it's seemingly ubiquitous around the world and at the same time quintessentially local. I've played versions of this game against my family in New Zealand, sipping merlot. Against Bedouins in the Sinai, smoking nargile. Against artists in Moscow, downing vodka. For a while my open relationship with the world felt more... cosy. Until my opponents divulged a more sinister form of globalisation than pop music, fake brands and chameleon travellers: sun bear poaching. Turns out China's demand for allegedly medicinal bear bile is one of the few opportunities people here have to make money. So, haven the Cardamoms are not. But they're certainly a dose of Cambodian reality — which I think is what I sought.