Climb any mountain

As a student I had the good fortune to read philosophy for a year at Burgundy university, back in the days when the British taxpayer funded such civilized activities (or wasteful luxuries – I guess it’s a philosophical question?).

Dijon should have been ideal for me – a small city with a big student population, beautiful old buildings, and gastronomic delights a-plenty. But something was missing, and it took me fully six months to work out what it was.

The answer: hills! The Burgundy countryside may be picturesquely criss-crossed with famous vineyards, but it’s also flat as a crepe. For a boy raised in the Pennines and studying in the shadow of the Pentlands, the flatlands of eastern France literally lacked a vital dimension.

Imagine then when, years later, I was offered a two year volunteer placement in Cambodia, surely one of the flattest kingdoms on earth! Between the Cardamoms to the west and the Mondolkiri uplands to the east, the country is essentially one big, flat ricebowl.

At least this makes for good cycling, and I was fortunate to buy a decent mountain bike from a former volunteer. Not that there are any mountains here. But glancing at a map of my remote rural area I was delighted (and amazed) to see the alluring contours of two sizable hills, just within riding distance. What was I waiting for?

I usually cycle in the early evening, when the rich, warm sun shows the country at its most beautiful. But I was heading for the hills, so needed an earlier start. As the archetypal Englishman, I set out under the blaze of the mid-day sun (the mad dogs slept in the shade).

To counter the ferocious heat I packed water and money for more drinks, and donned my VSO peaked cap, pro-style Angkor 30k cycle vest, long lightweight sport-shorts, and – of course – double-skinned running socks. As my colleague Pete would say, ‘all the gear and no idea’.

The ride out of my village was stunning. Now the rains have started, the fields are vivid green. Oxen ploughed, and farmers were taking small rice plants from their nurseries and digging them into the fields. This is the true meaning of ‘transplantation’, before us health people misappropriated it!

By the time I reached the village of P’koum the blazing sun was making me parched, and I stopped by one of the ubiquitous orange ice-boxes. It contained no ice, but I savoured a warm coke whilst my hosts further tested my agricultural knowledge (they were not impressed that I only knew ‘market fruit’, not ‘village fruit’ - did you know there was a difference?).

You may assume the inhabitants of a village called Poum T’mai (‘New Village’) lack creativity. Not true! Every house on the road to this picturesque hamlet sported increasingly bizarre scarecrows, often with cowboy hats, paper-painted faces, jeans, and stylish tops. These, explained a wizened old Khmer guy, keep away diseases, dengue in particular. Quaint custom or dangerous hocus-pocus? (You get dengue from a nasty daytime mosquito, and a scarecrow ain’t gonna help you, no matter how dapper his shirt).

Yet all this was a distraction – I wanted mountains! By now they loomed tantalizingly in the distance, but the route still wasn’t clear. Asking locals here for directions is futile: if they point confidently they may have a vague idea; if they sweep their hand over their shoulder they have no clue and just want you to leave happy. They gestured at the hills, and left none the wiser.

Suddenly the road started to climb, and I felt that sublime tensing of the legs - finally I was going uphill! In contrast to the ricefields all around, the hillside was covered in trees (I guess as it’s hard to grow rice on a slope?). The dirt road snaked around the contours of the hills, so the view was limited, but no matter - I just felt great to be back in a three-dimensional landscape.

Elated, I reached my final village, the more imaginatively named Sway Sor (White Mango). The ice box offered coconut, and as usual my mouth ran ahead of my brain and I commented on how warm my can was. To my delight the kind shoplady produced a chunk of ice and crushed it. Less delightfully she then placed it in a chipped, pale-pink toilet scoop, and gestured for me to add the juice. I doubt many people can claim to have drunk coconut from a battered pale-pink toilet scoop in front of an audience of inquisitive peasant-farmers – it will certainly be one of my lasting memories here!

I wasn’t quite finished in the village. My lower arms had developed a worrying glow - pro-style cycling vest it may be, but the sleeves were amateurishly short, and I needed cover. So White Mango’s first clothes auction was soon underway. First on offer was a lovely brown Camel-brand shirt, overpriced at $15. A snappy striped work shirt fitted nicely but at $5 was still way too much. Finally an old lady hobbled up with an old shirt – crumpled and fishy, but undeniably long-sleeved. It came free with red paint stains and mud-clods, all for less than $1 – bargain! And so I set off home, looking rather like a New Village scarecrow, protected at least against the blazing sun.

The relentless attention can take its toll, as can pedaling in the heat, so I soon stopped under the tree in a pagoda. No peace here though – after a few milliseconds I was surrounded by young monks. ‘Where you go?’ ‘How much you bike cost?’ ‘Why you dress in old shirt?’ Time to press on.

There was still time for more experiences before I got home. Firstly, on the outskirts of New Village the biggest snake I’ve ever seen slithered across the track in front of me. It was so darn big it got stuck trying to get through the wooden fence. Of course I had no camera and no witnesses, so it’s safe for me to say it was bloody huge!

And finally, just before I returned to my village, I knew deities other than the sun-god were looking down on me. On a deserted track with nothing but ricefields for miles I saw a moto in the distance. As it neared I realised that the orange structure on his sidecar was not another empty icebox. Rather, the last my drinks money bought a delicious ca’rem (small baguette with white and purple ice cream, topped with condensed milk and peanuts – yum!).

Some things I failed to learn in Burgundy’s top philosophy school, but now understand:

· Learn about agriculture, or you’ll think transplantation is just organs and fruit just oranges

· Cover your arms, or you’ll have to buy a fishy old scarecrow shirt from a rice farmer

· Find your own way, as asking directions is futile!

· Shut your mouth, or you’ll end up drinking coconut juice from a chipped pale-pink toilet scoop

· Rest where you like, but don’t expect to find peace in pagodas

· Say your prayers, and you might just meet an ice-cream man when you most need and least expect him

Oh, and accept that Cambodia’s flat, and live with it.