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handlebars for the uneasy balance of water. The floating village emerged slowly, houses perched on stilts, then on pontoons, tethered in loose clusters, rising and falling with the lake’ s pulse.
Children paddled past in metal basins, steering with flip-flops. A floating shop displayed petrol in reused bottles and packets of instant noodles that swayed gently in the breeze. Dogs slept on narrow porches inches above the waterline.
Life here was negotiated daily with the lake. In wet season, homes drifted further out; in dry months, they were hauled closer to shore. Fishing nets hung like laundry between poles. A woman poured tea in chipped cups while explaining that fuel prices rose, fish stocks shifted, and schooling required a long boat ride to a classroom that bobbed even during lessons.
Standing there, I thought about our bikes waiting patiently on dry land. We could cross provinces in a day, chase horizons, choose our discomfort. The families here were anchored to water and weather, their mobility defined by currents rather than engines.
When we finally rode back into Phnom Penh at the end of the tour, the skyline felt less like a symbol of progress and more like a question. The same country that polished Bentleys and built high-rises also burned wood into charcoal for a fraction of its city price, schooled children when the harvest allowed, and celebrated a tin-roofed house as a miracle.
Riding the backroads and tracks of Cambodia had given me more than miles of red dirt and the satisfying growl of a motorcycle beneath me. It had forced proximity. From the elevated seat of a dual-sport, I had seen over walls and into courtyards, into workshops, into lives lived with a resilience that outpaced any engine.
The bikes were tools, magnificent,
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