The sunset show which is putting a small, sleepy village in northwest Cambodian on the map.
Dusk is almost upon the small, sleepy village of Banan. The drop in temperature, though slight, is most welcome in the dry humidity of northwest Cambodia’s latter months. It brings a coolness to my damp skin which is almost energising. The golden pagoda atop Mount Sampov glows in the light of the sun, as it dips towards the horizon. ‘Nearly time!’, Chaya appears in the doorway of my host home, gently prompting me to get a move on.
We pick up our bicycles and set off along the burnt red dirt trail. I peddle hard, trying to propel myself forward and in line with Chaya but the terrain is resistant, or so I tell myself. We pass docile oxen grazing contentedly after a long day of pulling carts, and the friendly neighbourhood mutts who liked to pose as watchdogs come sundown, protectively patrolling their premises and eyeing us dubiously. We cycle on swiftly towards the limestone mountain towering above us with a grandeur only accentuated by the flat low-lying plains surrounding it. It is difficult to comprehend what Chaya told me earlier that day. During the Khmer Rouge Genocide (1975-1979), the mountain had been an execution site. The caves, which had formally served as Buddhist temples, became the Killing Caves of Mount Sampov.
The dirt road changes to smooth tarmac, pulling me from my thoughts, as we turn right on Banan’s main street which hugs the foot of the mountain. Modern music rings from the large, black speakers, erected clumsily in the seating area of a restaurant under renovation. Pots bang, pans hiss and aromatic spice smells fill the air. Colourful tuktuks arrive and battle for parking space, bringing with them tourists from nearby Battambang Town. Once disbanded, they are directed to the rows of white plastic chairs assembled across from a hollow on the mountain side. Front row seats.
As six o’ clock approaches, a high pitched chirping penetrates the space between the mountain and the spectators, growing louder as the chatter dies down. Finally, the first bats emerge from the belly of Mount Sampov, followed by a swarm of five million strong, coming thick and fast and eager to feast. Over the heads of enchanted onlookers, the colony meanders; a black smoke silhouette against the oranges and pinks of the sunset sky.
Several minutes pass and the swarm at the cave mouth appears to thin, eventually trickling off completely. ‘Sometimes barangs visit the caves and climb the mountain’, says Chaya, ‘but many just come to watch the bats fly.’
As we don our headtorches and cycle home, I reflect on the changing landscapes of Banan. The supposed simplicity of rural life which visitors such as myself so often romanticise. The horrors which took place within Mount Sampov under the Khmer Rouge, and its enduring legacy. The inevitable changes tourism will bring to this community, for better and worse. A rebirth of sorts; like the bats re-surfacing from the depths each evening.
