🇰🇭 A Rainy Night at the Barber’s Shop: Gratitude and Goodbyes in Cambodia

Morning Shelter and Gratitude

September 24. I left Siem Reap and found myself sleeping at the entrance of a small barbershop. The night was rainy, but thanks to the roof above me, I stayed dry. I felt deeply grateful for that simple shelter.

When I woke up, I noticed something unfortunate. The new pants I had just bought in Siem Reap were torn apart. I still don’t know how it happened—perhaps I moved in my sleep. The damage looked almost as if a stray dog had bitten through them. I sighed, but quickly laughed at the absurdity. On the road, clothes can be replaced, but a safe night of rest cannot.

As I stretched and packed my things, Det and his wife—the kind couple who owned the barbershop—appeared. To my surprise, they prepared breakfast for me. Meat, fresh and warm, a true gift before a long day of cycling. As I ate, I thanked them, and I told them, “May you both always be happy together.”

Det picked up his phone, tapped into Google Translate, and showed me a single word: “Hero.” He must have heard my name, Hiro, and thought of the English word. But the misunderstanding was beautiful. His message gave me strength. For the rest of the day, I carried that word in my heart.

A Trim and a Lesson in Hospitality

Before I departed, Det insisted on giving me a trim as thanks for staying at his place. My torn pants, I decided, would not go to waste—they became a turban wrapped around my head, a new form of usefulness.

Det trimmed my beard with careful hands, and I felt refreshed. When I sat down afterward to write my blog and finish a little work, I noticed a fan above me. Det had quietly switched it on for my comfort. That kind of thoughtful hospitality—small gestures with big meaning—always touches me.

Finally, he asked me to leave a message on his shop’s signboard. My handwriting is far from artistic, but when he saw the words, his face lit up. That moment alone made me glad I had picked up the pen.

When it came time to say goodbye, Det and his wife sent me off with their smiles. From our first meeting to our last farewell, they had made my short stay unforgettable. I silently wished them long-lasting happiness as I climbed onto my bicycle again.

Encounters on the Road

The road toward Poipet—the Cambodian-Thai border—waited ahead. As I pedaled, a car slowed down beside me. The men inside shouted, “Can we take your photo?” I laughed and waved. That kind of enthusiasm always warms me. It reminded me that even strangers care enough to capture a fleeting moment of my journey.

At my first rest stop, the shopkeeper handed me my change with care, counting every bill slowly and respectfully. That simple kindness mattered. Travelers rely on such small acts of honesty. With my energy restored, I pushed forward.

The second stop was different. An older man waved me in, urging me to rest. But instead of letting me relax, he insisted I stay to watch a televised boxing match—Japan versus Cambodia. I smiled politely, but I knew I had to keep moving. Sometimes kindness comes wrapped in distraction, and travelers must gently decline.

An Unexpected Gift: A Guesthouse Like a Hotel

Later, I met another Cambodian man on the roadside. He noticed I was looking for a place to stay and said, “I will introduce you.” Following his advice, I arrived at a guesthouse.

But this was no ordinary guesthouse—it felt almost like a hotel. Clean, comfortable, and welcoming. After a long ride, it felt like luxury. I thanked him silently for guiding me here.

Since I had arrived earlier than expected, I took the chance to walk through the town. The marketplace had a very different atmosphere compared to Phnom Penh or Siem Reap. Foreigners were rare here. The stares I received from locals carried curiosity, not hostility. It was a reminder that I was stepping into places few outsiders visit. And yet, that is exactly what makes travel rich—the chance to feel the unique air of each unfamiliar place.

A Sweet Surprise at Day’s End

On my way back to the guesthouse, I noticed something familiar: a food stall selling small, round snacks that looked almost like takoyaki. They were called “Nongkul.” Crispy on the outside, soft on the inside—just like the Japanese dish.

The difference was in the final step: dipping them into a sweet broth. For some, the sweetness might be unusual, but for me, it was a delightful new experience. I savored every bite, grateful that even at the end of a long day, the road had offered me one more surprise.