There’s such a lot of world to see

The next morning meant time for Matt and I to say goodbye – I was carrying on east along the coast, and he was heading back to Phnom Penh to catch a flight. So it was farewell to my fellow boat-trip survivor, party person extraordinaire and scrabble champion (God, it was tough to type that – perhaps you could just forget I said it?), who is now a big chunk of my happy memories of Cambodia. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again – there are so many wonderful, interesting, intelligent, kind, funny people in this world, and I’m lucky enough to be meeting tons of them on this trip.

I’d read a bit about Kampot, but not a huge amount – I knew it was one of the last places that tourists started visiting in Cambodia, being one of the last Khmer Rouge strongholds (to this day, there are quite a few KR still in these here hills). It seemed to get similar reviews to Battambang – a charming lakeside town – so I wasn’t holding my breath, to be honest, what with Battambang being a bit of a let-down. But first, I had to get there.

I often wonder if it’s at all possible for me to have a completely uneventful journey. I swear, though, I’m not making these things up (I know that some of you believe I never got the nerve to leave the country and so am holed up at Manchester Airport Travel Lodge, hunched over a laptop, using a combination of Google and Photoshop to fake my journey). The best and quickest way to get to Kampot was to get a seat in a share taxi. I could have the whole car for $25, or I could have one seat for $5. Seeing how chocka these cars get (none of this four-person max in a taxi nonsense they have back home), I asked if I could have two seats, for $10, which would mean having the whole front passenger seat to myself. Usually there are two people in there. This was agreed, no problem. So I was sitting there like Lady Muck, enjoying all my space, when the back started to slowly fill up, and fill up. Not only the back seat, but also the boot. I’d put my backpack in there as I was the first in the car, but soon the boot was wedged open and two double sized mattresses were balanced on top of the open boot, tied down with a flimsy looking rope. It was, I suppose, the ultimate boy racer spoiler. I wouldn’t have been surprised if it had taken off in a big gust of wind, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang style. Soon there were six people on the back seat, and me on the front seat, and I expected to set off soon. But no. Apparently there was room for one more passenger – sharing the driver’s seat. He was squashed up against the door, and the driver was leaning right over on to my side, controlling the pedals with the tips of his toes. Road safety rocks! These people would beat the world record for “Number of Cambodians in a taxi”, I’m sure of that, so get me Norris McWhirter’s phone number. (Or did he die? I’m never sure).

At the regulation lunch stop -despite the journey only being 2 hours long – I stayed in my seat, loathe to risk losing it, and so carried on reading my book. Some little girls came up to try to sell me some fruit, but became engrossed in the pictures in my book. No, no, it wasn’t a picture book per se, I’m pleased to report my reading level is now past the need for pictures – but it was “Billy”, the biography of Billy Connolly. The pictures they were looking at were of Billy’s beautiful, intelligent, and very, very, very blonde wife Pamela Stephenson. I was therefore highly amused when they pointed at the pictures and asked if it was me – I can’t think of anyone who I bear less resemblance to. Still, it was deeply flattering!

Against all the odds, including a heavy rainstorm during which the driver didn’t slow down one jot (perhaps he couldn’t reach the brakes?), we arrived in Kampot. I could instantly see it was a delightful little town, full of the sort of charm that was promised, but never delivered, in Battambang. The river runs sleepily through it, and most of the place is just set up for locals. Tourism is only just on the move here, which makes it quiet, friendly – in short, everything I needed to recharge my batteries, which were running pretty low. Perfect.

I got a room in the Blissful Guesthouse (and the name don’t lie), and spent the rest of the day doing not much at all. Just what the doctor ordered, methinks. The Guesthouse has been one of my favourite places I’ve stayed on the trip so far – the rooms are basic, but lovely and bright, and the people are so very, very friendly – not in the OTT Monkey Republic way, though, but just in a relaxed, feel right at home way.

The next day was an early start. I’d booked a trip to the Bokor Hill Station, built in the 1920s as a luxury hotel, but abandoned because of war. It was then taken over by the KR and used as a base and a prison, and was the scene for a good few battles. It’s now been deserted for years, and is just the shell of a few buildings. To add to the eerie nature of the place, because of the altitude, mists frequently come rolling in through all the open windows and door, thick enough to seem like a physical presence. I tells ya, I’m not a superstitious person, but being up there certainly caused the hairs on the back of my neck to stand up.

Mind you, getting up there was an adventure in itself (it would be, wouldn’t it?) There were 10 of us in the group, and right from the start we were getting on so well and laughing pretty much constantly. Good job, really. We were in a pick-up truck that could seat 8 of us in the back, while two of the guys went inside with the driver. Weren’t they the lucky ones? As soon as we were on the road up the hill, the path got narrow and very bumpy – it’s getting on for 100 years old, and a combination of the ravages of war and a lack of maintenance means that it’s a series of potholes, loosely joined by a spot of road. We kept getting thwacked in the arms and heads by passing branches, so we had to devise a system whereby the people at the front shouted “duck!” and we all did. Closest thing I’ll ever get to the SAS. This was tough enough, until suddenly one of the girls said “Oh my god, did you see the size of that spider?” Now this girl has spent two months living in a jungle, so we were guessing she wasn’t a cissy when it came to spiders. Soon, though, we saw what she was taking about – huge, absolutely massive, Bird Spiders (so called because they eat birds). On the side of the road they were bad enough, but when the webs strung right across the road – well, let’s just say we got very, very friendly with the people sitting opposite us in the pick-up – our heads were flat on our knees, and our laughter had that slight touch of hysteria about it. We turned to our guide and asked, “But are they poisonous?” “Hmm”, he replied, “A little bit”. Not the answer we were looking for. Turns out they probably won’t kill you but even so, the day you get bitten by a Bird Spider – not the best day of your life, for sure. After that, every little bug that landed in the truck had us shrieking like little girls, and waving our hands around. And I’m not even afraid of spiders but these bad boys – I wouldn’t cuddle up to one, that’s for sure. Although I’m glad to report that I held a stick insect that the driver found, and only one of the other guys would. I kept stum on the fact that we used to keep some as pets in Quality Street bottles, and so was very used to them. In fact, I went so far as to big up my bravery. Sharks – no, but Stick Insects – bring them on!

We went for an hour’s trek through the jungle at the top of the hill, which was amazing fun in an Indiana Jones way (although I was concerned by the axe that the guide took – there are a few tigers out there), and we got to see some of the bird spiders really close up, including virtually doing a commando roll underneath some of the webs, they were that low. We also had to be on the lookout for leeches – our guide got one, and one of the Canadian guys had one go down his shoe, but got it before it bit him. None of them seemed to want my sweet blood though. Either that, or there was none left after the mozzies had been at me.

Next stop was lunch (a delicious vegetable curry, one of the best things I’ve had here), and then we were free to explore. The place was a photographer’s dream, so I’m afraid I showed the customary lack of constraint. The place is incredibly atmospheric, all rust and crumbling walls and moss and just – well, just plain walls. Every single thing, light fittings, the lot, has been stripped out of the place, just leaving it bare. Likewise is the church (it was a Catholic church before it was abandoned, so I’m not sure on whether it still counts as consecrated land or not) – just eerie and sad.

The journey down was just as much fun as the journey up, although this time, the two guys who had been in the front previously were up in the back with us, swapping with three others. They hadn’t seen any of the spiders on the way up, so, as we ducked one time (it becomes second nature after a while), we heard a shriek. The guy sitting next to me, Sun, started laughing his head off and I asked him who was freaking out. “The rookies”, he replied.

Back at the guesthouse we all ran for the shower, a particular relief to find out there were definitely no spiders anywhere on my person, and sat down for a few well-deserved drinks, congratulating ourselves on surviving the creepy crawlies, and the creepy buildings alike. It was truly a marvellous day, incredible fun, and I would recommend it in an instant to anyone coming to this part of the world. A real highlight.

I spent another couple of days in Kampot, but made an executive decision to do not much whatsoever. I became a big fan of the hammocks at the guesthouse, and spent many a happy hour just hanging out (pun intended). We watched the England v Ecuador game at the guesthouse, although I think I was being punished for missing the Sweden game – due to a heavy storm, the reception on the tv went down. I had my phone though, and Michael and CL became the official football correspondents for a whole room of people, sending me updates like the stars they are. Better than John Motson, and at least twice as good looking. Thanks, guys, it was appreciated by a whole load of people, not just me.

And you know what? For the first time in weeks, I’m bang up to date with this blog. In a few minutes I’m going to set off for Kep, about 12 miles further east along the coast, and then I’m going to try and stay on Rabbit Island for a night or two. Off I go. Until next time… Look after yourselves – and each other.

As the bus wound its way to the south coast and the promised land of white beaches, Matt and I exchanged nervous looks as the rain continued stoically. Trying to bolster our mood, I got manic at the first ray of sunshine and giddily shouted, “Blue sky!” in the style of a mother encouraging a toddler. Matt was dutifully impressed, and admitted it was a good spot. Sure enough, the closer we got to the sea, the bluer the sky became and the rain dried out.

And, wow, isn’t the sea a joyous thing? Quite apart from the fact that I won’t swim in it (SHARKS! They don’t like us! They eat us – I heard a bloke got eaten in Brazil just recently – they don’t want us in their house. To go in the sea is to gatecrash the sharks’ party and they, understandably, get narked, and so eat us. Frankly, it’s just plain rude of us not to stay out of their house), I find it an amazing, restorative place to hang out. I’m a true beach girl, and can – and do – happily stay there all the day long, just reading, dreaming, people watching, and working on my tan which, I’m sure you’ll be relieved to hear, has made its long-awaited reappearance. God bless those rays. I can completely empathise with people who need to live near the sea. Maybe I’ll join them there one day.

We were staying at a new place called Monkey Republic. Eddie had told me about it on the last night in Moskito, and I told Matt about it on the bus although, by that time, a combination of the Long Vodkas and Too Little Sleep resulted in me only remembering the word “Monkey”. I tried out various other combinations, “Business…Banana…Ing Around”, but none of them rang a bell. So the plan was, we would get a moto driver, shout “Monkey” at him, and hope he would take us to the right place, rather than punch us in the kidney. Fortunately, we were resolved our shame, because there was a rep waiting at the bus stop.

The nice people there give you a free beer on check in, so we supped that and eyed the sky cautiously, glad to see that it was getting a bit brighter. Monkey Republic is a good place to stay, although, as Matt asked me when we got to the beach, “Do you think they’re all on happy pills?” It had a touch of the “we’re all one big happy family and we do everything together and now we want you to tell us your name, where you come from, and two true things and one lie about yourself and we’ll all guess which is which!” Fortunately it never got to this extreme, as our suggestion would have been, ‘1. I came to Cambodia to score heroin, 2. I came to Cambodia to pick up ladyboys, 3. I have two heads. Over to you, folks!” Still, it was young and friendly.

That first afternoon we set the tone for the rest of our time there. Sitting on the sand, enjoying the hoardes of children that would just come and, after asking if you want a postcard/sarong/fruit/water/massage/hair off/manicure, even when you said no thanks, would then just drape themselves over you. Most of them were very cute, including one girl who guessed exactly where we were from; “You’re from England”, she pointed at me, “But he’s from Canada”. Little genius. I carried on the numbers game tradition that Brad had started up north, and was amazed by some of them. “Me: 6 times 8 is…” Them: “48” Me: Erm, hang on a sec…. erm… 32,40, yep, 48! Matt, being a harebrained daredevil, would swim and brave the sharks, while I watched the stuff, waved from the shore, and kept a beady eye out for fins. You never know…

At night we took a walk back down to the beach to eat, and ended up in a lovely place called the Bayon Bar, where we both had amaaaaazing barbequed fish, so fresh and delicious. It was a great, welcoming place, and, being the party animals we are, we started a Scrabble Tournament. Matt won the first one (JUST!), the next night I won the second, and I don’t want to talk about the third, and deciding, match on our final night. Let’s just stop talking about it RIGHT NOW! YOU HEAR ME?! It was so deeply relaxing – good food, a few drinks, good company. We ended up staying till the wee small hours of the morning. The bar is owned and run by a Canadian ex-pat, Roger, who was an interesting and inspirational person to chat with, so many, many, many hours and drinks later, we stumbled back up the hill to the guesthouse.

Sihanoukville is blessed with lots of beaches, so on our second day, we hired a moto (don’t worry – Matt drove, and drove very well. I do think he has a death wish though as at one point I joked, “Do you want me to drive?” and he replied “Yeah, sure, if you want to”. I backed away in fear). This gave us loads of freedom, and we ended up on a lovely, white, deserted beach that was a tad rough around the edges, but that’s just because it’s completely undeveloped. Here we reached our zenith, as we constructed, in sand, a model (I like to think it was to scale) of Angkor Wat. It was genius, even if I say so myself, and as we left it there on the beach, I like to think that, hundreds of years from now, a French explorer will go back to that beach and rediscover it.

That night was the England v Sweden match, being shown at 2am Cambodia time. We went back for more barbequed fish (and just to remind you all, I won the Scrabble that night), and about 10pm, went back to the guesthouse for a nap. I’m sure you can see what happened next. Matt woke me up at 12 midnight, and my reply was along the lines of ”I’m not going anywhere”. So I missed the match. I know, I know, don’t shake your head in disgust, I’m ashamed of myself, as well.

The next day was, you’ve got it, more of the same. Beach, Bayon Bar, a small, insignificant game of scrabble that I am NOT TALKING ABOUT, good times. I thoroughly enjoyed my days on the beach, and one thing is for sure, it won’t be too long before I’m back on the sand.

After my thought provoking sightseeing day in Phnom Penh, I was really glad to bump into Matt, from the boat to Battambang. We chatted over food (after the harrowing day, I was aching for comfort food, so you can imagine my delight when I saw that the Lazy Gecko did both mashed potato AND apple crumble – not together – two of my all-time top comfort foods). We then headed down the road to the lovely Moskito Bar, run by the lovely Eddie. It’s only been open a couple of weeks, but it should do well, for a few reasons. Eddie is a great guy, and makes everyone feel welcome. He’s got a good spot for the bar – right by the lake, which is the emerging backpacker area in Phnom Penh (but not so much that it feels like Khao San Road). Most importantly, though, he makes a drink called a Long Vodka. I used to drink these by the bucketload back in my uni days in Aberdeen, back when my liver was as young and forgiving as I was, but soon realised that you can’t get them outside of Scotland. After a few attempts to talk a barman through making them, I gave up and had forgotten them entirely until I was chatting to Eddie. I had found my mecca.

(For those of you wanting to share my joy, here’s how you do it. Put a couple of icecubes in a tall glass, and add a few drops – just a few – of Angustora Bitters. Swirl the ice round the glass a few times, then throw them away. Put more ice in, a shot of vodka, a large dash of lime cordial, and top up with lemonade. Trust me, it’s a drink of gods and goddesses. You’re welcome).

It’s most definitely rainy season right now here in Cambodia. Usually that means intense heat and sun most of the day, followed by an hour or two of heavy rain in the afternoon. However, it’s being taken to extremes in Phnom Penh, and we had two solid days of the heaviest rain I have ever seen in my life. The road running by the lake is being surfaced (I asked Eddie if it was being resurfaced and he said, “no ‘re'”), so all is mud and, when it rains, the mud gets very deep indeed. We splished and sploshed up to the bar, settled ourselves in, and, several long vodkas later when I left, it was still raining, though the rain seemed to matter less.

The next day, Matt and I decided to go for a walk along the riverfront, such a nice part of Phnom Penh. It actually reminded me of Colombo, as there are verdant green patches of lawn lining the river walls, punctuated by antique lamp-posts – very much in the style of Galle Face Green in Sri Lanka. Stopping for lunch was an experience. Not so much into the customer service at this restaurant – the waitress wrote our order on her hand. To experience the other side of the coin, we ducked across the road for a drink in the Foreign Correspondents’ Club (FCC), a gorgeous, old institute with massive comfy chairs, not-too-extortionate beer, big old ceiling fans, and lots of geckos. Actually, everywhere in Cambodia has lots of geckos, it was sort of comforting to see that the FCC gets them as well. The rain still hadn’t let up, though, and it was so much fun to go wading, ankle-deep, through the puddles, and see the cars and bikes up to their middles in the really deep ones. It’s times like this that emphasises how far Cambodia has to go, infrastructure-wise; the drainage system was just so slow and ineffective that the water took an apparent age to drain away.

After a quick spot of shopping, we headed back to the lakeside, and arranged to meet up later in the Moskito bar, already my local, and it was ace just to be able to say: “Can I have the usual, please, Eddie?”

Matt and I were both heading next to the same place, Sihanoukhville on the South coast, so it made sense to go down together. We’d booked a ticket for the 8am bus (somehow, he seemed less enthusiastic about this than I did), although when I rolled out of Moskito at 3am, having to get up at 6.30am, even I started to question the wisdom – or otherwise – of my early-bird-ness. Still, against all odds, both of us were packed and ready to go and, even though they didn’t collect us when they said they would, which had me virtually hyperventillating, but we made the bus, and the journey – amazingly – passed without incident. Except the film shown on the bus, of which, the less said the better.

So that was my first farewell to Phnom Penh. However, I’ll be passing through there at least once, very probably twice more before I leave Cambodia, so already I’m looking forward to going back. Those long vodkas are calling.

Here are a few recipes from my cooking class. I’d really urge you to try them, they were veh, veh easy and scrumptious at the same time.

If you are observant you will notice that the first recipe, Amok (the national dish of Cambodia) has coconut in it, so I haven’t tried this. However, I know that some of you are wierdos who like coconut, and so I offer this up for your eating pleasure. Enjoy! (You freak).

Fish Amok
NB For fish, you could also substitute chicken, pork or beef (sliced very thinly), tofu, or just vegetables.

1 tablespoon MSG (optional – but you gotta love a recipe that starts with MSG)
1 teaspoon sugar
1/2 teaspoon shrimp paste
150g fish, sliced

200g ground coconut mixed with water (or a can of coconut milk)
50g bamboo shoot – sliced into 1 inch pieces
50g green beans, sliced into 1 inch pieces
1/2 aubergine (egg plant for my transatlantic readers – but don’t get me started on the name)
1 tablespoon curry paste (we made ours – see below – but you could probably use Thai red curry paste if you couldn’t be faffed)
1 tablespoon roasted and crushed peanuts

5 kaffir lime leaves – thinly sliced
1/2 onion
50g mushrooms

For the curry paste, grind up:
20g lemongrass – thin slices
3 thin slices of ginger
2 thick slices of turmeric
8 kaffir lime leaves – thin slices
7 cloves of garlic – crushed
2-4 dried red chillies, de-seeded and sliced
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 small green chillies
Bash it in a pestle and mortar until it’s a smooth paste. This will give you a cardio workout at the same time, so everyone’s a winner.

Put the coconut milk in a wok and bring it to the boil, add the curry paste, shrimp paste, and fry gently for 20 seconds. Then add the fish and vegetables and cook for 5 minutes, or until the vegetables are soft. For a dry Amok, cook until the coconut milk is gone. Serve with peanut and kaffir lime leaves as a garnish.

Chicken Lok Lak
These ingredients serve 1, so multiply up as you wish.

150g chicken breast – sliced
1/2 teaspoon sugar
1/2 teaspoon MSG
1 tablespoon oyster sauce
4 tablespoons oil
1 tablespoon chilli sauce
1 teaspoon crushed black pepper
10 (ten, not a typo!) cloves of garlic, crushed
1 tablespoon tomato ketchup

50g green beans cut into 1 inch pieces
1 small tomato, sliced
1/2 onion, sliced
salad to garnish

For the pepper sauce:
1 teaspoon pepper
1 teaspoon vinegar or lemon juice
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon sugar
1 teaspoon MSG
1/2 teaspoon chopped garlic
2 teaspoons hot water

Mix the chicken with the oyster sauce, tom ketch, pepper, sugar and MSG and leave it to marinate. Put the oil into a wok or a pan over a high heat. Add the garlic to fry until it turns slightly brown. Then add the chicken and vegetables and fry for 2 minutes. Add the chilli sauce and cook for a few seconds. Turn off the heat. Serve it with the vegetables and, if you like, serve it with a fried egg on top.

You can use beef or pork instead of chicken. The ingredients need to be mixed at least 2 minutes before you fry them.

Beef with ginger
120g ginger, fried until it’s slightly brown
120g beef, thinly sliced
*1 tablespoon oyster sauce
*1 tablespoon soy sauce
*1/2 tablespoon sugar
*1 tablespoon tomato ketchup
1 tablespoon chopped garlic
4 tablespoons oil
2 spring onions, chopped
1 tablespoon MSG

Marinate the beef with the ingredients marked *. Put the oil into a wok, add the garlic and fry until it’s brown. Add the beef and cook for three minutes, add the ginger and stir fry again. Add the chilli sauce, garnish with the spring onions.

Man’s inhumanity to man
Makes countless thousands mourn!

This Robert Burns quote became a resounding echo in my mind on my first full day in Phnom Penh. I’d arrived the afternoon before, and got a highly bargainous (and thankfully bug-free) room at the Lakeside Inn for $3. Early the next morning, I set off with my moto driver to see more of the city – the most poignant of which were undoubtedly to be the Killing Fields and S-21 prison.

My first stop, though, was at the Royal Palace. This seems for all the world like a smaller version of its Bangkok counterpart and, as such, was slightly less impressive. That is relative, though; the palace complex itself is lovely, again adorned with so much gold that it hurts your eyes. It’s manicured and primped to within an inch of its life, and looks pretty stunning. I loved the throne room, with its tall tower inspired by the faces of Bayon, and was amazed by the Silver Pagoda, so called because of its thousands of silver tiles on the floor. This houses a beautiful collection of early Khmer artistry, just showing how desperately sad it was that so much was later destroyed by Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge.

And it was on this topic that I was dwelling as me and my moto driver sped off down a dusty road to the Killing Fields of Cheoung Ek, located outside Phnom Penh. This is the site where the Khmer Rouge, during the years of 1975 – 1979, systematically tortured and executed an immense number of their fellow Cambodians. Exact numbers are hard to come by, but are all hard to swallow, ranging from 1.5m to 3m (out of a total population of 8m). Most of the people, at least initially, who were targeted were teachers, doctors, lawyers, people who wore glasses, writers, people with any contact with the world outside of Cambodia – basically, anyone who was perceived as a threat to the intention to brain wash the population into mindlessly following Ankar (the name taken on by the KR elite). People were encouraged to confess to Ankar their pre-revolutionary lifestyles and crimes, with the assurance that Ankar would forgive them. This, though, merely became an easy way to filter out the first round of the condemned. However, as the killings progressed, it encompassed anyone at all who stood in the way of the KR rampage, and many who presumably didn’t. The judicial process began with a warning from the government. Subsequent warnings would result in being sent for ‘re-education’, a euphemism for torture and execution. Children, teenagers, adults, elderly people – no one was immune to the horrors. As a Buddhist nation, it has been hard for the families of those killed to accept their grief, knowing that the deceased haven’t even been granted the dignity of a proper Buddhist funeral, and so they cannot accept that the dead are peaceful.

Cheoung Ek definitely goes some way towards attempting to rectify the situation. It is now the site of a Buddhist memorial to the terror and the deceased, with a stupa housing some skulls and clothes recovered from the graves. Obviously, not an easy thing to witness, but how vitally important. I’m not often lost for words, but the sight of the skulls piled high took my breath away and moved me to tears. So much more ‘real’ than a number in a textbook.

The graves are situated in a field at the back of the stupa, with signs at each one telling you how many people’s bones were found there. Some have remained covered. It was particularly harrowing to see rags of clothes trampled into the mud, exactly where they were found then the graves were first discovered. Today, it’s an incongruously peaceful place – the very least that these victims deserve, I know – which just makes the terror, the inhumanity, the despicable acts that happened here within my lifetime just so much harder to take in.

Head still reeling from this visit, my moto driver and I headed to the S-21, or Tuol Sleng, Genocide Museum. S-21 was previously the largest high school in Phnom Penh. However, when the KR took power, they commandeered it for use as a prison and interrogation centre during the horror years of 1975-1979. It’s estimated that up to 20,000 people were held here during that time, most of whom had their lives ended at Cheoung Ek. Not by any means a pleasant place to visit, but what made it even worse is that, despite the barbed wire, despite the cells, what it still looks most like is a school, the purpose which it was intended to be used for. The blocks are the same as any high school I’m familiar with. In the front are lawns and gym equipment (that the KR managed to turn into instruments of torture). The sheer ordinariness of it contrasts in the most brutal way with the fact of what happened there. Downstairs were the cells where torture was carried out – so brutal that people died during the course of it – and the iron beds, and clamps to hold people down, were still there. The small brick cells are also in place – the prisoners were shackled, and could see each other but not speak to each other, as there was a KR soldier in situ at all times. The prisoners came from all over the country, and were frequently Khmer Rouge soldiers and officials themselves, accused of treason. Such is the paranoia of evil and brutality. When someone was brought in, their entire family were often brought in as well, and many of the photos on display show women holding children, all of the females having the regulation short hair. While the vast majority of prisoners were Cambodian, a number of other nationalities (including the neighbouring Vietnamese and Thai, but also Australians, Americans, French and British) also suffered here. Outside is a sign, showing the security regulations that prisoners had to follow during their incarceration:

1. You must answer accordingly to my questions. Don’t turn them away.
2. Don’t try to hide the facts by making pretexts this and that, you are strictly prohibited to contest me.
3. Don’t be a fool for you are a chap who dare to thwart the revolution.
4. You must immediately answer my questions without wasting time to reflect.
5. Don’t tell me either about your immoralities or the essence of the revolution.
6. While getting lashes or electrification you must not cry at all.
7. Do nothing, sit still and wait for my orders. If there is no order, keep quiet. When I ask you to do something, you must do it right away without protesting.
8. Don’t make pretexts about Kampuchea Krom in order to hide your jaw of traitor.
9. If you don’t follow all the above rules, you shall get many many lashes of electric wire.
10. If you disobey any point of my regulations you shall get either ten lashes or five shocks of electric discharge.

Upstairs, where most people were kept on a daily basis, is now used for haunting and moving photo displays, about both the victims and their jailers. As drafting into the Khmer Rouge was compulsory for many people, I was intrigued to read their accounts of what happened, although it certainly appears that they are either in denial or unwilling to face up to the horrors of S-21. Particularly galling is the fact that the trials for the Khmer Rouge leaders who are still living (Pol Pot himself died in 1998) still haven’t taken place, despite being promised as imminent for a very long time. How much catharsis can come for these trials is a matter that only the Khmer people can decide, and the very least they deserve is to see these monsters face the country in a trial.

Man’s inhumanity to man makes countless thousands mourn. Mourn we must, and may these souls rest in peace. Perhaps the thing that we can all, every one of us, do in their honour is to ensure that we will fight against injustice wherever we see it because, you know what? Things like this are still repeated today, in every corner of the globe. Rwanda, former Yugoslavia, China… I could, sadly and obviously, go on. For the sake of our fellow humans, please, let it stop right here, right now.

Booking the boat from Siem Reap to Battambang was a little bit of luxury. Or that was the plan, anyway. It cost three times as much, and took double the time, of the bus, but I’d heard amazing reviews of the journey, which goes down through the immense Tonle Sap lake. Good job, really, that the scenery turned out to be so lovely and fascinating, because the journey itself was very, very long and the boat was very, very crowded and had a propensity to break down very, very often. When we boarded the boat, it was just a group of foreigners on – a girl who looked like she was teaching in Cambodia, a German lady who I chatted to for a while, three other Brits (who I would later know to be Lucy, Julie and Mark), and a Canadian guy (Matt, although I didn’t get to know his name that day – our paths would later cross elsewhere in this country. There you go, a little bit of suspense to ensure you keep reading!) For a while it was just us, with the three guys who were sailing the boat. I suppose our first clue for the journey to come was when one of them picked up his saw, and started taking away chunks out of the bottom of the boat. Turned out there was another layer of wood underneath, but still, not the best way to get your passengers’ confidence levels up. With my track record for jinxed journeys, I felt guilty for not warning my fellow journeymen that we were likely to run into some trouble along the way. And we soon did.

Just after we passed our first set of floating villages – an amazing, surreal world where people carry on complete lives on the river – including shopping, going to church, and schools (wouldn’t like to know what detention is like there – treading water for an hour, maybe?), our boat slowly ground to a halt. There was much Khmer shouting and discussion amongst the three boatmen, until the youngest one – presumably the Cambodian Boat version of an office junior – stripped down to his underwear (small, tight and dark blue, for those of you who are interested in such details), and plunged into the filthy water. It was a bit disconcerting, to say the least, but after a bit of fine-tuning involving a sledgehammer and a new propeller, we were on our way again.

We started making multiple stops in the floating villages for people to get on board, and pretty soon the boat was full to capacity and was sitting low down in the water. The seats were wooden slats and, with no room for manouvre either way, I soon lost all feeling in my bum, back and legs. Obviously this wasn’t enough for some people. A local woman nigh on pushed me further up the bench, almost onto Mark’s knee (wouldn’t he be the lucky one), so she could LIE DOWN on the full-to-capacity bench. I did my best British tut, but shuffled up away from the scary lady anyway. I didn’t trust her not to haul me overboard plus (and this is what scared the bejeezus out of me), her toenails were really long and filed to a point and painted scarlet. I wasn’t getting anywhere near those bad boys, and was glad that her head was nearest to me. Be grateful for small mercies is my mantra. A teacher who I was talking to gave me half of his corn for breakfast (what? Stop looking at me like that, he pushed it into my hand, it’s not like I asked for it or made my ‘pitiful and hungry’ look in his direction. Much). Actually, it’s amazing here how the people are so willing, nigh on delighted, to share what they have, despite having so little by Western standards. Lovely people. Despite filling up on the corn, we stopped for lunch – every journey here, even a 2-hour one, involves a lunch stop. My kind of travelling – where most of the locals and I, the German lady, and The Person I Would Later Know As Matt (TPIWLKAM) (Hereafter shortened to ‘Matt’) ate rice and an unidentified but tasty meat.

The boat broke down again, and this time the poor junior didn’t even bother to strip down – he just plunged right in, and dove right under the boat for minutes at a time. Something to do with it belching out black smoke, but, on reflection, I’m kind of glad I didn’t fully understand what was going on. At any rate, I was soon distracted by a mini battle that was occurring opposite me, with Matt and a couple of locals; the battle of the awning. The boat had awning down both sides that was originally rolled up, so we could look at the view, but kept getting rolled down by presumably sun-and-scenery-weary locals. Matt was undeterred, and kept pushing it back up. Brave. I kept looking at the scary toenail lady next to me (now with her feet resting on my backpack), and decided to keep stum. They could have done some real damage.

Eight hours after we set off, we floated into Battambang, the second city in Cambodia, although it’s smaller – much, much, smaller – than my hometown. We were beseiged by moto drivers (the local taxis here are motorbikes), and, for the sake of an easy life, I got in a minibus going to one of the hotels. I was shown a room there but, for the sake of principle (also known as “cutting your nose of to spite your face”, a trait in which I excel), I decided to go to a different hotel down the road. After dragging my backpack up three flights of stairs, I didn’t have the heart to go back down, even though the room was, frankly, a hole. Still, it had a tv. And nylon, bug-infested sheets. A treat indeed!

The next day, I hosed off the bugs, and set out for a cooking course I had booked the day before. I haven’t cooked (apart from a similar course in India) since I’ve left, and I’m really, desperately missing it – it’s such an entrenched part of my daily routine that it’s yet another highlight of the temporary nature of life on the road. I’ve enjoyed Khmer food since I’ve been here – it’s similar to Thai, only far, far less spicy, which means that you can taste the other flavours, such as lemongrass, garlic, and ginger, unrivalled by too much chilli. That was where I met Lucy, Julie and Mark who were on the boat – they’d also booked on the course. We chose three dishes to cook (I’ll post the recipes at a later date), and were then taken to the market to buy the ingredients. To me, it seemed how shopping should be done – our guide went to different stalls for most of the ingredients, even though most things were sold in most places. The cooking went down a storm and, I’m happy to say, it was delicious – despite being full to the gills, we ravenously ate everything we cooked. In fact, we were so absorbed in the eating that we didn’t notice Lucy’s camera being stolen from right under our noses. This then led to a distinctly unpleasant couple of hours in the police station for her, and, more annoyingly, the loss of photos.

To cheer ourselves up, we went to some bar whose name escapes me, but involved some kind of lake, or river, or water, in the title. Our reason for going was that Angelina Jolie hung out there when she was in town, but she must have been too busy with the baby because she never showed. Not that she’s even in Cambodia at the moment, but, y’know, she could have got a craving for one of the fabulous burgers and chips they sold there, and instructed her personal pilot (or better still, Brad) to take her there.

After that, it was back to my bugs in my bedroom to watch the football – thanks for all the email updates on the scores, by the way – and off to sleep. I’d decided to head off the next day to Phnom Penh, as Battambang wasn’t really grabbing me – not much charm to it (although I do know some people who loved it), and I’m learning now not to hang around for the sake of it. I only woke once during the night, and that was when something – god knows what, but it was bigger than, say, a mosquito – was crawling on my hand in the night. I shook it off, and knew I had definitely made the right decision to leave.

My mother is a wonderful woman.  Apart from raising two intelligent, charming, and astoundingly good-looking offspring (so I know at least Michael is on my side in this post), she is talented and can turn her hand to pretty much anything she wants to do.  With one notable exception.  For the 29 years I have known her – and, I would imagine, at other times as well, she has a complete inability to ride a bike without falling off.  One of my favourite times was at Centre Parks, when we were younger, and like the devoted children we were, Michael and I only stopped laughing long enough to take a photo.  Apparently as well, on her recent trip to China, the same thing happened.

Well, those of you who are fortunate enough to have met both me and my mum know that we look like a version of “Send in the Clones”.  We act like it, too.  So I guess when I hired an electric bike to take myself round the Angkor temples for a day, I should have seen it coming.  The day was going so well, as well…

Jessica and Matt had left early that morning, so I was on my own for the day, and decided to make the most of it by getting an electric bike.  It was the best of all scenarios, really – I would have the independence of my own transport, without the pain and suffering of riding a push bike in temperatures approaching 40 degrees.  Electric bikes, if you’re unfamiliar with the concept, look like normal bikes except they have a battery unit on them which powers it.  You can pedal if you desperately want to, but really, who wants to?  They have a top speed of around 20 mph, so you pootle along in quite a sedate fashion.

I wobbled along the road (OK, these things take some getting used to), and made my first stop at the Aki Ra Landmine Museum.  This is a fabulous, important institution that educates about landmines, campaigns for their full ban worldwide, and supports young people who have been directly (and indirectly) affected by this blight on civilised society – including funding some of these young people to go to university and have something approaching a ‘normal’ life.  I might write further about landmines in a later blog, but for now, I’ve put a link to Aki Ra’s site on the right, please take 5 minutes to read it and see what we can do.

So, once I’d been there, I set off for the temples.  I intended to actually re-visit the ones we’d seen the day before – they are so huge, and varied, that I think I could have visited them 100 days in a row and never grown tired of wandering and discovering their hidden treasures.  I’d charged up my camera battery, and wanted to get some of the shots I’d missed the previous day.  Giving Angkor Wat a miss until later, I headed off to Ta Phrom, where the trees are coveing the crumbling temple, and to Bayon, the one with the faces carved into every wall. 

It was getting pretty hot, so I sought refuge in a cafe, and then headed out to find my two postcard girls.  The temples of Angkor are overflowing with local, insanely cute children, all selling you postcards, and pretty much anything else you would care to buy, all for “One dollar” (You get used to hearing that cry all day long).  I’d promised two of these girls (one of whom was called, seriously, Spidergirl – is that the coolest name in the world, or what?), and found all the children in a circle under a tree, paying rapt attention to a teacher.  I was intrigued, and stayed to listen for a while.  Apparently, they were having ‘politeness’ classes as to the best and most appropriate ways to deal with tourists, including approaching them in groups no bigger than three.  I was told later that the classes also take in wider social topics that these children might not normally have access to, such as AIDS awareness (vitally important in a country such as this, where unfortunately prostitution is rife, usually – as in most cases – amongst the most weak and defenceless in society).  Spidergirl spotted me, and, after class, came over and I bought her postcards, along with one set from her friend, as well.  They also gave me (and they insisted, before you start rolling your eyes in disgust at my freeloading) two bracelets.  I’m not THAT much of a scav, and I tried to give them back, but they insisted, without pressing me to buy anything else.  They waved me off, with an admonition to be careful on my bike.  If I had only heeded their warning.

Going back home, I realised it was Siem Reap rush hour, and the traffic going both ways was busy – I was getting overtaken constantly, as the battery was getting low, so I was going about 12 mph.  I’ve mentioned before about crazy Asian traffic, and this was no exception.  Suddenly, a guy swerved in front of me, I panicked, and the bike veered off to the side.  I hit the kerb with a thwack, and did a most spectacular Starsky & Hutch style catapult right off the bike.  Some lovely people stopped to see if I was ok, and I did that thing where you grit your teeth and smile through your tears and cry, slightly hysterically, “NO!  I’M FINE!  NO PROBLEM!  NOW, YOU BE ON YOUR WAY!”.  I limped back on to the bike where, to add pain to injury, the battery had just died a death, so I had to cycle the rest of the way back to town, leg bleeding, and feeling like I wanted to cry (admittedly, more from the ego bruise than anything else). 

I had to look at my leg myself – the medical advice for Cambodia is “get back to Bangkok”, which I thought might be a tad excessive for a cut leg, so, with virtual advice from my lovely medical relatives and friends (CL and JP take a bow, and a big thankyou), had a go at patching it up.  Let’s just say I’ll never make a nurse but now, thankfully, it looks like it’s well on the road to getting better.  I might end up with a huge jaggedy scar, but still, think of the sympathy I’ll get.

Understandably (well, for me, anyway – I do like to dwell on these things), I woke up the next morning in somewhat of a grump, feeling most ‘woe is me’.  Cycling round that day was out of the question, and I didn’t want to particularly splash out on a tuk tuk just for myself – my budget is quite tight here in Cambodia – so I’d pretty much written off my last day at Angkor.  Dejected,  I went to a lovely cafe for breakfast, and that is where my day took a massive turn for the better.  As I was on my way out, I looked up to see a lovely familiar face – my old friend (well, in travelling terms, anyway) Brad, who, with Michelle and Gary, I spent a great week with all the way back in India.  I couldn’t think of a more welcome sight. I knew he’d be in SE Asia at around the same time I was, but didn’t know that Cambodia was on his itinerary, so it was pure fluke that we were in the same place at the same time. It seemed to be a case of that marvellous serendipity that’s following me around. We spent a couple of hours just catching up, then decided to get a tuk tuk together and head off for more sights of Angkor.

Angkor Wat was our first stop, which was great for me, another chance to recapture some of my lost photo opportunities from the day of the dead battery, and then we went on to some of the lesser-known and lesser-visited temples, including a stop at a monastery with a huge (although very shiny and new) Buddha, where we ended up chatting to an interesting monk who was telling us about life in the monastery. He was older than us – I’d guess in his 50s – and had only been a monk for a year. I love the culture clashes that seem to go with these monks – you see some on the internet, some with mobile phones; this guy smoked a roll-up as we chatted.

Our final stop was another steep temple, facing Angkor for the sunset and, although there were a few other people up there, it was nowhere near as crowded as the first sunset I’d seen at Angkor. Equally as entertaining and as distracting as the beautiful falling light were the beautiful children who crowded round us, enticing us to buy their wares. We ended up playing games with them, especially numbers games, and speaking about our countries – most children know some basic facts about a lot of countries, presumably gleaned from one tourist and then used to impress others. A typical encounter goes something like this:
Child: “Where you from?”
Me: “England”
Child: “Capital is London. One of four countries all together – England, Northern Ireland, Scotland, and Wales. Population of England is 51 million”.

My personal favourite, though, and one I’m dying to know how it entered the lexicon, is:
“England – lovely jubbly”. Maybe Del Boy passed through Angkor one day.

After sitting and watching the sunset, and again marvelling at my good fortune to see Brad just when a friendly face was most welcome, we headed off to see some Aspara dancing (traditional Cambodian, usually involving highly decorated dancers making slow and precise movements), and – the real reason why we went to this place – an all-you-can-eat buffet. Not having eaten lunch, we filled our boots.

At the end of the evening, Brad and I said goodbye (for the second time!), and I limped back to my hotel room, but this time I was smiling. Maybe my genes aren’t so bad, after all.

As soon as we got to the guesthouse in Siem Reap, we had a much-needed shower (I know ladies don’t sweat, so suffice to say I was glowing like a carthorse), and arranged a tuk tuk to take us to the Angkor Wat area, just in time for sunset.  I bought a three-day ticket, while Jessica and Matt got a one-day, but, because of the lovely ticket arrangements, we were able to go in after 5pm, and start the ticket the next day.  A free sunset, if you will! 

Our tuk tuk driver, Pauly (to be fair, we don’t know if that actually was his name – we heard them shouting that to him at the hotel, so it could have been the Khmer word for “wash the dishes”, “walk the dog’, Ï’m glowing like a carthorse in this heat”, or even a nickname – Sweetcheeks and Lovebuns were our favourite possibilities; he did tell us his name, but we were so taken to calling him Pauly that we sort of forgot it), dropped us off at the base of the hill leading to the on-high temple of Phnom Bakheng, which was the most popular place to watch sunset.  The climb was pretty steep, which made it even worse to be overtaken by grannies.  In my defence, it was still scorchio even at that time of day, and I soon regretted taking the trouble to change into clean clothes.

Once we got to the top of the hill, we were faced with another climb – this time it was up the (in)famously steep steps that surround many of the Angkor temples.  Each step is literally just a few inches in depth, but the steps themselves can be up to about a foot high.  People were clinging on going up there, and miraculously we got to the top without any scrapes.  It amuses me to think of the same scenario on a Western sight – I actually can’t see it lasting too long, I think maybe pressure from insurance companies and so on might lead it to change as it becomes more and more entrenched on the tourist map.  It will be a shame, though.

Once up there, we joined the heaving throngs.  Yes, it was a popular place – but, as I’ve said before, I’m learning that things are often popular for a very good reason.  The view down to Angkor Wat, 1.3km away, was unobscured, and it looked particularly beautiful in the evening sun.  The other people ranged from monks, taking in the sunset and meditating on Buddhism and whatnot (or, as I suspect, up there for the photo opp – they seem to love having their photo taken), to Japanese tourists who put themselves in every single photo, to sheer stupid people.  We saw one mother, encouraging her son (aged about 10) to write on the stone of the temple (albeit using another broken-up rock), and explaining “Back in those days, they didn’t have pencil, so this is how they wrote”.  She told him to write, seriously, “Alex was here”.  Which was particularly strange, seeing as his name was James.  Honestly, though, would it have been too hard to explain without a practical demo?  Unfortunately, this would be the first in a series of stupid people we would encounter at Angkor – fortunately, all of them managed to amuse us no end.

We watched the beautiful sunset, and managed to stumble back down the hill before it was completely dark – there are no lights to guide the way!  We completed a great day by eating at the same restaurant that Mick Jagger frequented while he was in town (I’m not commenting on his – alleged – miserly ways but the average meal in there cost $2).  This was after we stumbled down a dark alleyway trying to find it.  Much to the amusement and confusion of the Cambodians down there, I think.

Another insanely early start heralded the next morning, as we wanted to see the sunrise over Angkor, so we left at 5am.  I know.  Even at that time, though, it was pretty warm, and we knew we were in for a scorcher.  This was Matt and Jessica’s only day at Angkor, so we planned to hit the ‘Big three’- Angkor Wat, Bayon, and Ta Phrom.  We wandered up to Angkor Wat, the largest religious monument in the world, and definitely got the spine-chill moment.

So, in the style of Jennifer Aniston (the irony of that will become apparent later), here comes the history bit – concentrate! And for this, I’m near on quoting LP, so no plagarism claims, please.

The temples of Angkor, capital of Cambodia’s ancient Khmer empire, are the perfect fusion of creative ambition and spiritual devotion.  The Cambodian God-kings of old each strove to better their ancestors in style, scale and symmetry, culminating in the world’s largest religious building – Angkor Wat.  The hundreds of temples surviving today are but the sacred skeleton of the vast political, religious and social centre of an empire that streched from Burma to Vietnam, a city that, at its zenith, boasted a population of one million when London was a scrawny town of 50,000.  The houses, public buildings and palaces were constructed of wood – now long decayed – because the right to dwell in structures of brick or stone was reserved for the gods.  The Angkorian period stretched from AD 802 to 1432, during which time the temples were built.  Power eventually shifted elsewhere, though, and the temples were ‘lost’ over time, and subsequently ‘rediscovered; by the French in the 1860s.  This, however, is something of a misnomer – when the French explorer stumbed on it, it included a wealthy, working monastery with monks and slaves.  Not so much lost, then, as not publicised.

Since then, war not withstanding, it has been firmly on the tourist map – one of the old hotels in Siem Reap counts celebs such as Jackie Kennedy and Charlie Chaplin amongst its previous guests.  The Khmers are justifiably proud of this national treasure, and it appears on the flag, on the currency, even on the national beer.

As we wandered up to the mighty Angkor Wat, my camera battery died, with its impeccable sense of timing.  In a way, it was a good thing – it left me completely free to enjoy the splendour of Angkor in all its glory.  It’s a momentous, magnificent building – St Peter’s eat your heart out – full of seemingly unending corridors and nooks and crannies.  Walking through the centre, we passed galleries of bas-reliefs, a gallery of a thousand Buddhas (now sadly depleted to just a few), and passed a few sets of the aforementioned insanely steep stairs (we would climb them later in the day).  After circumnavigating this, we were all feeling peckish, so headed for a noodle breakfast.

Next stop was Bayon, a temple where hundreds of faces carved into the rock spy on you wherever you go.  There are a multitude of theories to explain this one, the most common being that there is every face for each of the ancient provinces of Cambodia.  It’s hard to decide whether the faces are smiling, benign, or spy-like.  I suppose ámbiguous’ is as close as I’ll get to describing them!  We spent ages clambering round this one.  It really is a child’s dream playground – all these rocks, and no-one stops you from climbing on them.  Marvellous stuff, and I hope it stays that way despite the inevitable onslaught of tourism.

We were lucky enough to get some parts of the huge Angkor Thom to ourselves, so managed to feel like some ancient explorers.  It sort of spoiled us to be in such a deserted area, considering how congested the rest of it was. We were also completely disorientated because of the early start – we kept looking at our watches, expecting it to be mid-afternoon, and would find it to be about 8am. 

Our next stop was the fabulous Ta Phrom.  Instead of being restored completely, like other temples in the area, this is being left as it was when it was re-discovered.  It’s swamped by huge trees – in fact, in some areas, the trees appear to be swallowing the temple, their huge, mighty roots coursing over the stone bricks and showing at one glance the power of nature over man.  This was actually part of the sets for ‘Tomb Raider’;if you’ve seen the film, it’s the scene where Angelina stops to pick a flower, before plunging through the floor; if you’ve not seen it, I wouldn’t bother if I were you.  Not exactly a classic (and who needs Angelina when you can see a pic of me in the same spot?  Eh?  EH?)

At Ta Phrom, we were lucky enough to witness three further acts of stupidity by tourists.  All of them genius, in their own special way.  The first was a young American guy, being shown around by a guide.  First of all, he announced to everyone that the wooden walkways we were tramping about on (the floors are quite uneven) were original.  From 1300 years ago.  Despite the fact that every other wooden structure nearby had rotted, these wooden walkways (and goodness me, they looked remarkably clean and new and, well, straight) were original.  Then, the same guy came out with a classic.  He listened sagely to his guide explaining the meanings and symbolism of the temples, and managed to summarise centuries of religious fervour in one sentence:

“So, what it all boils down to, is, it’s cool”.

Eloquent.

Outside, in one of the courtyards, an older guy (I think he was German) actually picked up a hammer left behind by some of the restoration crew, and started banging on it with a stone.  When the guards asked him to stop, he shouted that they’ll have to speak louder, as he was deaf.  Maybe with all the hammering.  His guide intervened, and then turned to us, and explained that it wasn’t a very good idea to take a hammer to the stones.

“Well, yes, what with it being an ancient wonder of the world and all that”, I agreed, which sent Jessica spluttering into her fist.

The final idiot at Ta Phom was a guy who thought for some reason it would be a good reason to climb up some rickety old wooden scaffolding (there’s lots of this about – some parts of it are quite unsafe), and seemed surprised to be called down from the roof.  We left him there, on the ground, but staring up at the roof, in quiet contemplation of his nemesis.

We were getting quite tired by this stage, even though it was only mid-day – a combination of the early start, the heat, and the considerable walking and climbing we’d done already that morning.  We decided to stop for a long, lazy lunch, and then spent a couple of hours in a shady spot at Angkor Wat, looking out over the ancient monument, and spending some time in a very interesting conversation with a tour guide, who, amongst other things, was telling us that the vast bulk of the gate ticket profits from Angkor go to not restoration or even upkeep, but instead to a private oil company.  No, I couldn’t see the connection either, but just imagine how much good they could do with it – schooling for the many children who live on and around Angkor, restoration projects, a museum perhaps, even sponsoring some university places for local people to study archaeology, and therefore learn how to preserve their own heritage (university fees are about $200 per year – and in a country where the average wage is $1 or $2 per week, it’s no surprise that most children never make it to university).

Once the heat had died down, we headed back for a final exploration of Angkor, including a complete circuit of the massive bas-reliefs on the first level, and a climb up the ladder-like steps up to the top.  Wonderous indeed.

And it was on our way out that we heard the absolute gem of stupidity.  It was another young American guy, speaking to his guide, and asking the immortal question –

“So, Angkor Wat – this is famous, right?”

Yep, sonny, it’s famous alright.  And with very, very good reason.

“To travel is better than to arrive”.  So said someone, once (I want to say Robert Louis Stevenson, but I’m not 100% sure, so don’t quote me in an exam).  Whoever it was, they have obviously never made the journey between Bangkok, in Thailand, and Siem Reap, in Cambodia.

As I was only in Thailand for two days, I didn’t have a copy of the Lonely Planet (other listings magazines are available), my cheapness overriding my desire to be organised and know what’s where at all times.  Instead, I’d gone into a bookshop in Hong Kong and frantically scribbled down a few crucial details about Bangkok.  Luckily, though, I’d splashed out and bought a copy of the LP for Cambodia, seeing as how I’d be there for a month – that would take a lot of scribbling in the Hong Kong answer to WHSmiths.  I was mooching through the back of the book when I came across a boxed section entitled ‘The Scam Bus’.  This basically warned me about a bus that was operated by the unscrupulous folks on and around the Khao San Road, in Bangkok, and would charge a ridiculously low price for the bus ride all the way to Siem Reap.  This definitely was too good to be true – the snags started happening when they charged you nearly double for you Cambodian Visa, then they drove veeeery slowly once over the border, so you would only arrive on the outskirts of Siem Reap after dark, when you would be deposited at an (expensive) guesthouse that was in cahoots with the bus company, and by which time you would be too tired, disorientated, and intimidated to try to find anywhere else to stay.  However, being the worldly-wise person that I am (stop laughing), I decided, no touts would take me for a foo’, and would do it the local way.

Which meant getting up at 4am, to leave at 4.30am, to get the 5.30am bus (that would take “about 4 to 5 hours” – nothing like certainty, eh? – to get to the border), to beat the hoardes crossing the border about lunch time.  No problemo, I am and always have been an annoying morning person, even here in the tropics.  Even in my sleepy state, my negotiating head kicked in – a sign I’ve been in Asia a while – and I managed to convince a taxi driver to use his meter to take me to the bus station.  Slightly annoying when, on arrival, he didn’t have enough change (a likely story), and I ended up paying the price he’d quoted me anyway.  I was too tired, and too keen to get out of Bangkok, to argue.  Although I did have the satisfaction of dropping my 16 kilo backpack on his foot.  Oops.

Getting a ticket was fine, no problem, and I managed to get to the bay where my bus was due to leave from.  A group of guys took it on themselves to have a barney about which bus I should get on but, because all the buses and bays were numbered, and all buses had destinations on in English, I did my best to assure them I was fine.  And I was!  The bus pulled in, I got on, had a great seat, fell asleep…no problemo.

Shortly before getting to Aranyaprathet, the Thai border town, the bus pulled over and an Army guy, dressed in full gear, carrying a gun (I think – although I had just woken up and it’s possible I imagined it – at any rate, he was the sort of person you would expect to be carrying a gun) and, bizarrely, a dentist-style face mask, got on, and started checking people’s id’s.  He literally hauled a few people off the bus, although I’m not sure why, and asked me for my passport.  Whereupon he started asking me a few amusing questions, and I had to bite my tongue not to give sarcastic answers – it’s the sort of situation that should have been serious, but for many reasons, managed not to be.  He asked me, while he was holding my passport, what my name was (there’s a chance he couldn’t read English, although he could speak it, albeit in a muffled fashion through his mask).  Resisting the urge to point out he was holding my passport and therefore had the information, I just said “Suzanne” rather than my full name.  He also asked me where I was going.  Again, I resisted saying “Aranyaprathet, it’s long been my desire to see this nondescript border town”, so I just said “Cambodia”.  “Why?”  *Bite tongue, must bite tongue* “Holiday”.  He gave me a menacing look and handed my passport back.  Not entirely sure what happened there.

Anyway, the border town was indeed nondescript, although I was set upon by a million touts offering me a Cambodian visa as soon as I was off the bus.  I’d done my research and knew there was a visa office just through Thai passport control, so I shook them all off.  Passport control was no problem – although, for the first time ever, I had my bags searched.  Well, I say bags, they didn’t check my backpack (thank goodness – nothing dodgy, but I’m carrying that much stuff it takes me an hour to wedge it all back in again), but just my handbag, and the main part of my small day rucksack.  Effective!

So, on to the Visa office for Cambodia.  Again, research had told me that the charge for a visa-on-arrival for Cambodia was $20 US.  (Incidentally, Cambodia pretty much runs on US Dollars.  The real currency is the riel – pun not intended – but for various reasons that will no doubt become apparent in my blogs while I’m here, it’s not the most stable country or, therefore currency, so US Dollars have taken over.  And so many things are at the flat rate of $1.  I’m determined to make a list of ‘things I can buy for $1 in Cambodia’.  And won’t that be fun reading for you?!).  There are no ATMs in Cambodia, so I’d changed my Thai Baht into dollars in Bangkok, except a few hundred, and I had my $20 all ready to hand over.  I filled in the Visa form, and some guy who was hanging about and trying to look official said “That’s 1,000 Bhat”.  I didn’t need to do the conversion sums – I’d been in Asia long enough to smell a big, stinky, corruption-fragranced rat.  I asked,

“I thought it was $20?”

“No, 1000 Bhat”.

“Well, I don’t have enough Bhat, I only have dollars”.

“There’s a currency exchange place at the next window” (And I’m sure they’d have given me a dandy exchage rate, as well)

“Well, I want to hear the man behind the counter tell me I can’t pay in dollars”

“OK, pay in dollars, but you will wait 2 hours”.

By now I had managed to work it out.  At the current exchange rate, taking 1000 bhat was taking about 200 bhat extra per visa.  Take into account the hundreds of people crossing the border each day, well, they were onto some sweet little sweetners there.  Still, I hadn’t got up at 4am in order to be taken by a foo’ by some Visa guy.  So I drew on the reserves of patience I built up in India, smiled sweetly and said,

“That’s fine, I’ll wait.  I have no better place to go”.

He wasn’t happy but still, I had my integrity!  I’m no foo’.

It was galling, certainly, to see the people who’d paid the 1000B get their Visas immediately, while the overstaffed, underworked people in the office did absolutely diddly squat with mine, but I wasn’t going to pay up.  I got talking to Jessica and Matt, an American couple who were in the same situation – refusing to pay because of the principle, although, admittedly, as the clock ticked on, it got tempting to give them the money.  But we held tight and, after 45 minutes wait (1 and a quarter hours for them), result!  Three fresh and shiny visas.  At no extra cost.

It was the first time I’ve walked across a border on foot, and got strangely excited – and yes, there’s really a big archway with “Kingdom of Cambodia” written across it.  Through Cambodian immigration, which used an impressive amount of stamps, and we were off to negotiate a taxi to Siem Reap, which is where they were headed, as well – sharing a taxi made sense.

Once across the border, the poverty of this country was immediate, and obvious.  Thailand is such a wealthier country than its neighbour, and it shows.  The lack of infrastructure here, the terrible roads, the amount of children in various stages of undress you see running around – the similarity with India struck me straight away.  Fortunately, because I’d been to India, the culture shock was less difficult to swallow than if I hadn’t been. 

The taxi, as we’d read and expected, cost $40 between us, which was fair, so we set off along an appalling road to Siem Reap.  Allegedly, according to the Lonely Planet writer who lives here, there are rumours of an (unnamed) airline paying an (unnamed) political party a bribe not to sort the road out.  Makes sense.  Imagine riding a bucking bronco for four hours, in high-30s temperature, and you’ll be close.  No wonder our car tyre gave up and was flat, about two-thirds of the way there.  To be fair, Jessica had warned me that on the last three car journeys she’d made in developing countries, the car had got a flat tyre.  Add to this my good luck, including my ‘let’s repair the petrol tank with banana leaves’ experience in Sri Lanka, the burst tyre was only to be expected. 

Still, on the bright side, the delay didn’t last too long (even though it was on a horrible stretch of dirt road), and, even better, I had my first taste of a Clif Bar, as generously donated to the cause by Jessica and Matt.  All I can say is, import these to the UK now!  They are gooood.  Imagine squishy peanut butter, mixed with museli, and…ok, I know I’m not selling it very well, but trust the well-educated palate of someone who eats centipede and dog.

We got to Siem Reap in about the time we were told it would take (a few hours – fortunately the rains haven’t really started here – then, the journey can take all day), and we were surprised at the amount of development going on here, mostly of the huge-hotel-frequented-by-tour-groups type.  Still, admittedly, with Angkor Wat on their doorsteps, the largest religious structure in the world and maybe a world wonder (I’m not sure – if someone could find out for me, that would be great – what do you mean, google it?  I’m paying for this internet by the minute, people!  You google it) – good luck to them.  The town still feels small and navigable, and I like it a lot.  We got rooms in a charming old colonial-style guesthouse, and headed straight out for the sights.

So yes, maybe there is a lot of fun in travelling, but arriving certainly isn’t too shabby, either.

My early-morning flight from Hong Kong would get me to Bangkok for late morning, as Thailand is one hour behind China.  This was great news for me – I already had my hotel booked, so managed to get through the airport with no problems, and despite taking over an hour to get from the aiport to the city centre – Bangkok is a huge, sprawling city – it still gave me the afternoon to have a look round town.  I was only going to be in Bangkok – in Thailand, for that matter – for a day and a half, so I wanted to make the most of it.

But boy, was it hot.  The heat hit me like a slap in the face with a burning log when I got off the plane.  And not in that good “Ooh, I’m on my holidays” way, instead in that “Oh wow I really have no energy and maybe I can take a little nap right here on the runway” kind of way – I haven’t experienced heat like it since Mangalore in India, and had forgotted what it felt like.  Still, undeterred, I dumped my bag in my room and set right out.  I was staying near (but not on) Khao San Road, the biggest backpacker place in town, and this was immediately obvious – literally everywhere I looked there were young white people – it was hard in this area to see any Thais at all (apart from working in the 24-hour bars and restaurants).  It was sort of fun, but I could have only coped for a couple of days, maximum – not really my sort of place.  It was much more fun to get out and about in the city.

Unintentionally (although, I will of course take credit for it), my trip to Bangkok coincinded with the national celebrations for the 60th anniversary of the King’s accession to the throne.  Yep, he’s been a King for a looooong time, and these guys seemed pretty royalist, and happy to party.  Which was good news for me!  They’d come up with a great idea as well, whereby everyone bought a yellow t-shirt to show their support.  This was slightly confusing at first, when it looked like a uniform, but after a while I was just used to it (although it did take me back to my Lourdes days, when us Youth Service people had to walk about in yellow t-shirts).  I think it’s a marvellous idea though, and I think all us Brits should have waled about in Union Jack t-shirts on QEII’s birthday.  Actually, on second thoughts, that would have made us look like a nation full of Costa Del Sol lager louts.  Which might have been even funnier.

Bangkok public transport is frustratingly limited to the east, and north-south parts of the city.  No help when you’re staying in the west.  However, they do have a regular and cheap ferry boat service (yep, more boats – glutton for punishment?) that run on the river that crosses the west city.  These boats don’t hang about, though, and involve daring leaps onto the moving boat from the moving gangplank, on to a boat that’s about to pull away.  You feel like James Bond for a few seconds, until you look over and see a granny who’s just pulled off the same move with much more aplomb than you.

I headed down river to the Royal Palace (does what it says on the tin), and the Temple of the Emerald Buddha, which are basically on the same complex.  Being used to Indian temples, I’d thrown my sarong in my bag in case I needed to cover my shoulders (I was wearing a vest top and knee-length shorts).  However, this wasn’t enough coverage, and would have been disrespectful in this temple, so I had to hire a sarong skirt (which was ok), and a lovely sky blue polyester man’s shirt to go over it.  Apart from the grave fashion error (those colours clashed!  What do you mean, it’s about respect and not about how I look?), it added another layer of clothes (man-made fibres, to boot) in the already scorching heat.  Reader, I was not at my most fragrant.

Still, it was worth it.  The temple and palace complex is dazzling.  It was a real joy to see the bright colours, and very distinctive Thai architecture.  How clearly it highlighted the fact that I wasn’t in China any more.  There were so many sloping rooves everwhere, and the colours… wow.  These people like their gold!  Gold leaf covers every temple roof, every statue.  It looks like an explosion in P Diddy’s jewelry box.  Reflecting the midday sun, the light it throws off is breathtaking.  Add to this the bright jewel-colours used to enhance the gold, well, just beautiful.  I saw the emerald buddha (which isn’t actually emerald at all – can I get my money back?), and wandered through the Royal Palace complex, which was just great.  It was especially interesting to see it being set up for the influx of VIPs over the next few days (including the aforementioned QEII), to celebrate with the king.  We were still able to wander around, which I really liked – it’s hard to imagine the same thing happening somewhere in the West.

I’d had enough temples, heat and polyester for the day, so I handed my dripping rented clothes back, headed back up-river to my hotel, and hit the pool.  Yep, it’s a relatively budget place, but the Rambuttri Village Inn has a rooftop pool (makes up for the narky staff, maybe?).  I donned my bikini and dove in, soaking up the last few rays of the day.  I got talking to the lovely and tres beau Sebastien, who hailed from Marseille, and he told me about the Thai version of Party in the Park, happening that evening, so we decided to meet up post-swim and head down there.

But first, the important business of eating!  Sebastien, being a true French homme, was as much as a foodie as I was, and, more to the point, being from Marseille, loved fish as much as I do.  We spotted some delicious-looking red mullet on a street stall, so ordered two of the biggest (naturellement) and some Singha beer to wash it down.  We got on like a maison on fire, and had much fun speaking a garbled mix of French and English that no doubt would have been unintelligable to anyone listening in.  He was horrified to discover that I, apparently, speak French with a Parisien accent (not surprisingly, considering the length of time I’ve spent in Paris over the years), and corrected this by training me in the sing-song Marseille accent – and, although I was loathe to encourage him to drop his French accent for speaking English, did my duty and taught him a few good Mancunian phrases.  My vocabulary of French swear words also doubled over the course of one meal (don’t worry mum, it doesn’t count if it’s in a foreign language).

Full and laughing, we wandered up to the public park where the party was happening.  And it was fun – if ever so slightly odd.  My favourite sight was three giant cinema screens, showing three different films (one period drama, one Will Smith gangsta-type thing, and one cowboy Western), but all the screens were right next to each other, and each was blasting out the soundtrack at ear-splitting decibel levels.  Still, the Thais were happily sitting and watching their film of choice – and no doubt they saved time by catching up on three films at once.  Taking multi-tasking to the extreme!

We spent ages watching a peculiar sport that neither of us had ever seen before, but seemed to be really popular in Thailand.  Two teams of about six men each gathered in a circle and, using a small, bouncy ball (that also seemed to be a bit weighted, like a bean bag), played a group version of ‘keep-up’, but aiming to get the ball in a net, high above their heads.  Basically they seemed to be using every part of their body except their arms, and there were some really spectacular back-flicks and balletic high jumps.  Completely bonkers, but good fun to watch.

After this, we went for a wander down Khao San Road, aka Backpacker Central of South-East Asia.  It was Sebastien’s last night in Thailand, and my first (of two!), so we both wanted to have a nosy.  It was interesting, but didn’t really encourage us to hang round.  There were quite a lot of people there who seem to have been in Thailand far too long – sporting dreads and hippy clothes (who would then open their mouths and speak with such an incongruously posh accent that you just knew they were called Tarquin and were spending the summer away on Daddy’s money).  Still, each to their own, and, just as that’s not for me, no doubt they wouldn’t enjoy what I’m doing.  Different strokes, and so on, Wilson.

We found a cool bar that wouldn’t have looked out of place in Manchester (apart from the cockroaches – we only get those in the dodgy parts of Manchester)(and no, before someone makes the obvious joke, that isn’t everywhere in town), and toasted a new friendship.

Sebastien was leaving the next morning, so we had breakfast and wished each other bon voyage (me with an invitation to Marseille and Courcheval in my pocket, he with an invitation to Manchester – boy, did he get the best deal), and I headed off to buy cheap drugs.  No, stop thinking that, you depraved creature, I was going off to a chemist to buy my malaria meds for Cambodia and Vietnam.  Because of the fabulous buy-anything, anyime, anywhere culture in Bangkok, I could get tablets that would have cost me about 50 pounds at home for 180 bhat – about 2 pounds 50.  Baaaaargain!  And no malaria, to boot!  Doesn’t get much better than that.

I had an insanely early start the next morning – up at 4am for the early bus to the Thai/Cambodian border, so I grabbed a chicken kebab and a portion of pad thai from a street vendor, packed, and headed off to my bed.  And how delighted I was to find that my aircon wasn’t working (I tell you, it’s a good job that hotel has the pool, otherwise they’d have virtually no redeeming features), so sweated my way through the night until I had to get up and head for Cambodia, a country I was really, really excited about visiting.