In Cambodia today, only three airports readily serve travelers: the capital, Phnom Penh; the southern resort city of Sihanoukville; and Siem Reap, the gateway to the magnificent Angkor Wat. While other airports once dotted the country, they inevitably fell victim to civil war, internal strife, or economic downturns, leading to their abandonment or the cancellation of scheduled flights. (Similarly, it’s not uncommon for fledgling domestic airlines to appear and vanish just as quickly.)
Hearing that one such defunct airport lay in Battambang, a city roughly 300 kilometers northwest of Phnom Penh, I decided to make a detour during my wanderings through rural Cambodia to visit the site of the “Old Battambang International Airport.” Call me eccentric, perhaps, but ruins and abandoned places have always held a certain pull for me. There’s a palpable sense of the people who once passed through, a lingering presence—an echo of the past—that lets you feel the sweep of time and the fleeting nature of reality.
Despite being Cambodia’s second-largest city by population, Battambang exists quietly in the shadows of the political and economic engine of Phnom Penh and the undeniable tourist draw of Siem Reap. Arriving after a five-hour bus journey from Siem Reap, I found the cityscape indeed modest, even plain. But this understated quality lent it a certain tranquility. The town’s layout and its older buildings still whispered of the French colonial era, and the air hummed with the rhythm of peaceful, everyday life. While not overflowing with major tourist sights, the town’s overall ambiance evoked the feeling of a forgotten capital.
When I mentioned my desire to visit Battambang Airport to the woman running my guesthouse, she didn’t bat an eye. “Oh, the airport? You should go in the evening! I go there often myself. Feel free to borrow a hotel bike,” she offered cheerfully. Her casual response caught me slightly off guard. I’d understood the civilian airport was decommissioned, the facility now under the control of the Royal Cambodian Air Force, staffed by soldiers and Ministry of Defense personnel. A little confused by her breezy reaction, I started pedaling towards the edge of town.
Twenty minutes later, I arrived at a simple gate. A few soldiers stood around, chatting idly. Beside them, however, a steady stream of young people on motorbikes, couples, and families were passing through without hindrance. ID checks seemed perfunctory, if they happened at all, and a nominal fee—mere cents—was collected sporadically. The atmosphere was incredibly relaxed; more than that, everyone looked genuinely happy, even excited, to be there.
Cycling through the entrance gate, I found myself not on tarmac, but amidst fields where water buffalo grazed lazily among shallow furrows. Whether these buffalo were fixtures during the airport’s operational days or were brought in after the land was repurposed for farming wasn’t clear. What was clear from the sheer vastness of the grounds was that this had once been a considerable airfield.
As I neared the central area, the airport facilities came into view: a modest passenger terminal, shuttered but appearing remarkably well-maintained, looking as if it could be brought back online with minimal effort. Venturing further onto the ramp area—the tarmac stretching out from the terminal towards the runway—I saw the control tower and distinctive Quonset hut-style hangars for small aircraft, all seemingly untouched by time.
And the crowds of locals who had been streaming in? They were scattered everywhere. People were lounging casually on the taxiways and the apron (the aircraft parking area). Motorbikes zipped down the main runway. Groups were dancing; others were jogging. Towards the edge of the ramp, along what was once a taxiway, food and drink stalls had materialized, complete with plastic tables and chairs. It was a scene of absolute, uninhibited, communal freedom.
Curious, I struck up a conversation with a young couple strolling along the runway. They explained the phenomenon. It apparently started organically when local high school students began sneaking onto the closed runway after school to enjoy the cool evening air. Word gradually spread about the unique pleasure of this vast, open space – the novelty of hanging out at the “old airport.” Now, it’s officially sanctioned: the grounds are open to the public every day from 4 PM until sunset, transforming into a beloved recreational hub for the entire community. “Ah,” I thought, “so that’s what the guesthouse owner meant by ‘I go there often!‘”
While Battambang hadn’t struck me as a city suffocating from urban chaos or confinement – certainly not to the extent that its residents would desperately seek escape in an abandoned space – my initial vision of a desolate, decaying ruin was completely overturned. Yet, there was an undeniable, infectious joy in witnessing this 1,600-meter runway and its expansive ramp functioning as a giant, open-air amusement park.
Countless defunct airports exist around the globe (Japan has its share), but this kind of spontaneous, free-spirited reuse and warm embrace by the local community must be exceedingly rare. It felt like a reflection of the inherent tolerance and easygoing nature – the magnanimity – of the Cambodian people. Instead of sensing the faint whispers of past travelers or contemplating the passage of time and transience amidst decay, I found myself swept up in the liberated energy of the twilight hour. I impulsively broke into a run, dashing down the centerline of the very runway where aircraft once roared to life, sharing a unique, unspoken delight with the Cambodians around me.
Blending in, sharing a simple moment of laughter and connection with locals – these are the unexpected treasures of travel. If you ever find yourself wandering through the Cambodian countryside, consider making the trip to Battambang’s airport grounds. It’s a detour unlike any other.
Postscript: I later learned that as Cambodia’s economy continues to grow and its aviation market expands, there’s talk that Battambang Airport might eventually reopen for civilian flights. It made me wonder: Could this daily public opening be a clever, informal way of preserving the facilities, keeping them integrated into community life and preventing decay, subtly preparing for a potential future? Or perhaps, attributing such foresight is just viewing Cambodia and its wonderfully resilient people through rose-tinted glasses.
∎