At sunset, Kampong Chhnang (Port of Pottery) breathes like it has for centuries.
As the river turns gold, small boats drift in with their quiet cargo—round-bellied clay jars, water pots, cooking stoves—each shaped by hands that know the river’s moods. This is where earth meets water. Clay dug from the floodplain is kneaded at dawn, spun on wooden wheels by midday, and fired before nightfall. By evening, the jars are ready to travel—downriver to Phnom Penh, across Tonlé Sap, into kitchens and courtyards far from where they were born.
Fishermen call greetings to potters. Children balance warm vessels on their hips. Smoke from kilns curls into the sky, carrying the scent of wet clay and fire. Nothing here is rushed. The river decides the pace.
When the sun slips low, the boats pull away, silhouettes against the amber water. Each one carries more than pottery—it carries a craft older than borders, a rhythm passed from parent to child, a promise that as long as the river flows, Kampong Chhnang will keep shaping earth into everyday miracles.