entering the weaving village

The boat trip was an interesting process in that the ferry started up stream and with the diesel engine running slowly floated at an angle down stream until we docked at a diagonal from our embarkation. At this point we hired some Honda 90 motorbikes to take us deeper into the jungle skirting Buddhist temples past hanging bananas, dodging animals until we came to a stop looking out at a rope suspension bridge suspended over another smaller river that we would need to cross to get into the weaving village. 

    This was a distinct problem due to the fact that Marianne had a fairly well developed fear of heights, open gratings and she was definitely balking at crossing the swaying suspension bridge which seemed to combine most of her phobias into a kind of “Grande Mal” gesture. There was however no choice having come this far and definitely this would not be the proper place to become agitated, since we were without a doubt the first people that looked like us to arrive at this juncture in god knows how many years. So the decision was made for Marianne to more or less close her eyes and follow right behind my footsteps across the undulating bridge. The walk was uneventful and soon we could hear the unmistakable clack of weaving looms. We were in the village of Prey Trey.