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. Above us, the golden pagoda atop Mount Sampov glows as the sun dips towards the horizon.
‘Nearly time!’, Chaya appears in the doorway of my host home, gently prompting me to get a move on.
We grab our bicycles and set off along the burnt red dirt trail. I pedal hard, trying to keep pace with Chaya but the terrain resists – or so I tell myself. We pass docile oxen grazing contentedly after a long day of pulling carts, and the friendly neighbourhood mutts who like to pose as watchdogs come sundown, protectively patrolling their premises and eyeing us dubiously.
We cycle on swiftly towards the limestone mountain which towers above us; its grandeur accentuated by the flat low-lying plains from which it rises. It’s difficult to reconcile this peaceful landscape with what Chaya told me earlier that day. During the Khmer Rouge Genocide (1975-1979), the mountain was an execution site. The caves, once Buddhist temples, became the Killing Caves of Mount Sampov.
The dirt road gives way to smooth tarmac, pulling me from my thoughts, as we turn onto Banan’s main street which hugs the foot of the mountain. High tempo music blares from the large, black speakers, clumsily erected in restaurants still under renovation. Pots bang, pans hiss and aromatic spice smells fill the air. Colourful tuktuks arrive and battle for parking space, bringing with them visitors from nearby Battambang Town, who are ushered towards rows of white plastic chairs arranged opposite a dark hollow in the mountain side.
Front-row seats.
As six o’ clock approaches, a high pitched chirping cuts through the space between the mountain and the spectators, growing louder as chatter dies down.
Then, the first bats emerge from the belly of Mount Sampov.
They are 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.
Minutes pass and the swarm begins to thin, slowing to a trickle before stopping altogether.
‘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 rural simplicity visitors so often romanticise, the violence held within the mountain, and the quiet, inevitable changes tourism will bring.
A rebirth of sorts; like the bats emerging from the depths each evening.
