A Boat Called Rambo or You Can Get There From Here, But You Don’t Want To Go

February 13, 2008

There are several ways to get to Phom Penh from Siem Reap in Cambodia. You can travel by plane which is fast but expensive; or you can go by bus which is very cheap but requires about 18 hours. There is also a steamer that takes you across the Tonle Sap lake and then down the Tonle Sap river. This is pricey but reputed to be a leisurely paced trip of three days in a luxury wooden riverboat. Then there is the express ferry which makes the trip in five hours for only $25.

We didn’t have the time for a leisurely cruise and because we had already taken delightful, relaxing trips on the Perfume River in Hoi An, Inle Lake in Myanmar and the Mekong River in Vietnam, we elected to try Rambo, the Express Ferry. After all, the guide books promoted this as ‘an adventurous alternative to air travel’. Adventurous doesn’t begin to describe it.

The ticket price included pick up at your hotel and reserved seating inside the boat in air conditioned comfort. You could also ride on the upper deck, but we were told that this could be both hot and wet, so we opted for the inside comfort. Little did we know what we were in for.

We rose at 5 AM and were packed and ready for our 5:45 pick up. However, the ride didn’t appear until 6:30 and turned out to be a very battered mini van filled with backpackers. We squeezed aboard and our luggage was hoisted onto the roof. We were packed in like sardines and I sat across from a girl with her legs between mine and her knees pressed so hard against me that my voice rose at every bump. Lorna was little better off as the back of her seat was broken and she frequently fell back onto a bearded backpacker.

We lurched off only to stop a few minutes later to pick up four more victims. Once again, the luggage went up above but this time it was all tied down with odd bits of shoestring sized ropes. We set off again for the 20 km drive to the river. This took half an hour and we eventually stopped at a stinking fishing village where we were told to get out. Our dust laden bags were tossed down and slipping and sliding on the muddy river bank, we made or way to the sorriest excuse for a boat I’ve ever seen. It was falling apart, filthy and only accessible by means of a long, slimy 8 inch wide gangplank that looked, like the boat, to be in danger of momentary collapse. There was no way that we could manage to balance ourselves and our luggage on this slippery slide, but flashing a dollar bill quickly remedied this and several muddy urchins leaped forward to assist.

We were relieved to learn that this was not Rambo, simply a tender that would take us to the real boat. We set off down the muddy, smelly river traveling 20 minutes before stopping alongside a long, low torpedo like tube with a pointy end. I was dismayed to see ‘Rambo’ poorly painted on the side. Apparently this partially painted hulk was our luxury liner. The baggage routine was repeated for another dollar and our bags were simply dumped in a pile at the bow. We descended into the depths only to discover that everyone had been assigned seats 19 and 20 and it was a free for all as the 130 of us scrambled to find a place to sit on the 85 seats inside. Lorna and I fought our way to the back and took possession of two hard, upright seats that were so close to the ones in front that we would have needed to cut 8 inches off at the knee in order to fit in. Luckily the backpackers opted for the open air and upper deck. Leaving Lorna to guard our miserable seats, I pushed my way out and saw that the upper deck was nothing more than the bare curved roof of the torpedo with a 6 inch high rail around it. Below seemed like a better bet. After all, we had seats.

The engine coughed into life and we started off. Try as I might, I couldn’t get comfortable. The bare steel girders stuck out into the seat and the window beside me was opaque with age and paint, right at the water level and was leaking although some kind soul had tried to patch it with a few band-aids. I lifted my backpack off the floor hoping to use it as a cushion only to find that it was soaking wet from the water that was running along the floor.

There wasn’t a life jacket in sight and the only exit was 70 rows ahead. There were two little doors amidships, but both were dogged and painted shut. I was more than a little concerned until I realized the water was only about 4 feet deep. We could see people standing up in the lake beside us, so even if we sank, we probably stood a chance of getting out alive.

We settled in, resigned ourselves to our fate and a little later everyone broke out whatever they had brought for breakfast. This was followed by a short abortive attempt to use the single toilet. Access to it was gained leaning hard on the door frame at the stern and pushing it hard to the right. This allowed you to open another door that let into the strangest most disgusting contraption I’ve ever seen. Stepping over the open place in the hull and avoiding the water rushing by, one entered a 3 by 3 foot room with a low, slanted ceiling and there in the corner was a squatter toilet perched on a 2 foot high cupboard open to the river below. I suppose one could have climbed up and squatted while hanging on, ducking the ceiling and trying to hold the broken door closed but it hardly seemed feasible or worthwhile. The women took one look and beat a hasty retreat, but some hardy souls or those who became desperate actually used it. After all, this five hour trip could make you that way.

Because Rambo was an express boat, we raced along slowing only to avoid the fishing nets. This was an art form as the nets were strung out with only their ends marked with sticks pushed into the river bottom. Where they started and stopped was anybody’s guess as there was a forest of little sticks everywhere. A little further down river the nets were more clearly marked with tin cans that floated along their perimeters. This enabled us to make better time, although the constant clanging as Rambo charged through the nets became very annoying. We did make good time every once in a while but there were may stops when the nets wrapped themselves around the propeller and had to be cut away. This seemed to happen only after we had dragged some poor fisherman’s nets for miles with the engine laboring harder and harder and more and more cans and nets streaming out behind us.

Three hours into the trip we slowed and stopped as two passengers got off to stay at a fishing village. Well actually we didn’t stop, merely slowed down as a dirty rusting boat marked POLICE pulled alongside. I don’t really think it was the police as all of the windows were broken out and part of the cabin roof was missing, but whatever it was, two backpackers leaped aboard and it drifted away out of sight. I envied them their escape, but not a stay however brief at one of the fishing villages.

Our trip was to take five hours and at hour six I got restless only to be told that the trip actually takes more than seven hours and might be longer if we ran aground. Oh help! True enough, seven and a half hours after we had stepped on board and nine hours after we had gotten up, we arrived at Phom Penh. In hindsight, we were quite fortunate as we subsequently learned that the ferries are so over loaded that some have sunk under the weight of the passengers and that they frequently run aground causing huge delays as they wait to be refloated.

Our hotel people met us but studiously ignored our luggage. Once again dollars worked their magic and our dusty blue bags now washed to a muddy sheen were extracted from the pile and brought ashore. The hotel man apologized that their car wasn’t available and took us to a tuk tuk (cart drawn by a motor cycle) where our bags were loaded and all three of us sat on top of them as we drove off.

Lorna was concerned about this hotel which had looked good on the internet and cost only $35 a night. Her fears were borne out when we entered a filthy lobby with greasy furniture leaking stuffing. Much to the amazement of the staff I asked to see a room before we checked in, so they took me up three flights of dark smelly stairs to a room that looked just like the lobby. The furniture was torn, the rug so spotted you couldn’t make out the pattern if it ever had one and the bathroom was a squatter toilet and an open shower. I refused to stay and after a few sharp words, my refusal to pay for the night, some pushing and pulling over our bags, we left for a better hotel.

None of the taxis in Cambodia are metered so we did the obligatory haggling, settled for half the asked for fare and still paid too much as we drove two blocks to a good hotel where we gratefully showered and had a stiff drink. And to think that we had to buy a visa to get into the country and would have to pay $50 to get out again. It will be worth every penny!

About the author:John Towler, Ph.D., has traveled to, lived in and written about more than 60 countries. His articles have appeared in print and electronic magazines including En Route (Air Canada in-flight), Lookout (Spain), Market Platz (Germany), Go World Travel, A Cooler Climate, The Long Trip Home, Travelwise, Waterloo.com, The Toronto Globe and Mail, Canadian Banker, Horse Illustrated, Exchange, Maine Business, HR.com, Workz.com, Exchange magazine, Small Business Canada Magazine, CanadaOne, Victoria Business Magazine as well as regional and national newspapers. He is an award winning photographer.
John holds undergraduate degrees from the University of Toronto and York University, two postgraduate degrees from the University of Alberta and has taught at seven universities in Canada, the USA and the UK. He is the former senior partner of a management consulting company, a former Principal and Vice Chancellor of Renison College at the University of Waterloo, a professor emeritus of the University of Waterloo, Andrew Jackson University, Breyer State University and the American College of PreHospital Medicine.
He divides his time between Canada and his home in Spain.