Day 18 (21/12): Sihanoukville, Cambodia

Day 18 (21/12)

I have brought Cadbury's chocolate bars all the way with me to give to friends who live here (it's hard to find chocolate in Cambodia). But, to my frustration and slight horror, as I rustle through my pack this morning, I discover a pesky rat has nibbled through the partition in my (rather expensive) hiking pack. I guess I only have myself to blame. And I'm lucky it's probably repairable. But now I have no chocolate to give Patricia.

I need to find another guest-house to stay the night. I originally only booked four nights with the Slovakians, thinking I will spend Saturday at Serendipity just to get a taste of the party scene. But I went off that idea and asked Alex if I could stay another night.

Yesterday morning as our boat is just about to head out to the islands, Alex, tattooed-chest bare, whiskey in hand, wades up to me, "there's a bit of a shit with the bookings", he says, grimacing with embarrassment and showing his missing front tooth.
"What kind of shit?" I ask.
"We got bookings."
"Oh, that's okay. I only booked for four nights to start with. Not your fault."
"Sorry dude. You can sleep in the hammock, or in the dorm or something."

I like the sound of sleeping in a hammock at the Slovakians' bar, but I wouldn't feel comfortable without my bags locked up, so I book a bungalow 100 metres up the beach.

Away from the Slovakians and their partying ways I am very productive and catch up with lot of writing for this blog.

I get a massage on the beach from a lady I promised the other day (they pester and badger and flirt until you cave in, and promise you'll get a massage). For seven dollars it's supreme.

The sunset tonight is magnificent.

The big orange orb sinks into the horizon, and then the colours painting the clouds change from purple to blue to apricot and orange, and then, the same colour as the sun that has just slipped away, the sky lights up one more time, turns to crimson, and then the palette drains slowly out of the clouds as the earth rolls on, taking these clouds away from the sun's reach, which is still illuminating other, distant skies, skies in Latvia and London no doubt.

Then, a party boat floats into frame, bringing with it European house beats and disco-ball lights. Maybe Otres will soon be another Serendipity. No, it probably will. I'm lucky to have known it as a quiet, lazy stretch of sand, peppered with loners, thinkers, dreamers, lovers, runners, sleepers, and drinkers.

I'm starting to think what one knows isn't at all important, or not as much as I had always thought. I've been spending a great deal of my life acquiring information like it was a precious commodity, like my life and well-being depended on it, and maybe I've dropped my gaze from other important horizons. Just maybe I'm letting myself become Sartre's autodidact. I hope not.

I have one last beer at my original guest-house, and with no ceremony, and barely a nod of a head, I part ways with the Slovakians and their crazy, beautiful entourage.

Day 17 (20/12): Sihanoukville, Cambodia

Day 17 (20/12)

The American and I go on a boat tour today. It's us, a young group made up of Swedes, Finns, a rowdy bunch of Portuguese, and an older French couple (who are not looking too comfortable).

First stop is an island where we snorkle. The snorkling gear is not really up to scratch, and the water murky (I've been spoiled by Vanuatu I think) but it's nice to be in the crystal blue water under an azure sky. We head to another island where we disembark at a gorgeous beach and eat lunch then walk through the interior, guided by our ever-so-cool young Khmer hosts (who are sometimes seen chilling with the Slovakians). On the way back we stop at another island for yet another swim, and by this time the beers and sun and shared journey have all worked to make us more sociable and Scandinavians and American, Khmer and Australian, Portuguese and German are all getting along well. Even the French couple say a few words, but not many.

In the evening, as the Finn plays the German in chess, I read about human migration in National Geographic and marvel at how we're all sitting right here, right now, in this bar in Cambodia.

Day 16 (19/12): Sihanoukville, Cambodia

Day 16 (19/12)

Today I wake in the morning, and for the first time I see the beach, the bay and its islands in a light from a sun behind my head. Glorious.

My calves hurt from the run last night. Being bare-foot meant I consciously had to run on my toes, a good thing, but it's slow going down the steps from the bungalow this morning.

I walk up and down the beach, buy some fresh local lobster from a local woman and get a leg massage from another. She really punishes my calves.

I watch the sunset with my neighbour and we talk with a traveller's passion, as we have since I arrived, about all sorts of things.

I hit the hay early after finishing my book:

I exist – the world exists – and I know that the world exists. That's all.

- Sartre, Nausea

What the locals call lobster

The dirty end of the beach most tourists don't see

Day 15 (18/12): Sihanoukville, Cambodia

Day 15 (18/12)

I sleep until the afternoon. Find something to eat. Bump into my Yankee (as the Finn calls them all) neighbour, and we decide to ride his scooter into town. We gather up the things we need from the centre, and I ask if it's okay to make a detour past Serendipity beach, the most popular beach in Sihanoukville.

We sit down on some chairs on the sand and immediately are surrounded by several beach-sellers.

“You buy bracelet sir? No? How about for your girlfriend? No girlfriend? I be your girlfriend, but first you buy bracelet. Yes?”

They're unrelenting. The only break we get is when they all suddenly hear of something more interesting two bars down from us. About 20 metres away a small crowd is already evident.

“Where are you going?” I ask.
“To watch someone die.”
“What?!”
“Someone die, he drink too much.”

A crowd is gathering around a reveller who had apparently been drinking heavily all morning and had just, well, died. Unfortunately, it took someone's death to give us a respite from the beach peddlers of Serendipity. We finish our drinks and leave for Otres, a place we value even more now. To think all the people who's only impression of Sihanoukville is a bustling beach, jet-ski whines, crappy bracelets, litter, and dead tourists. I'll take bad-arse Slovakians without any hesitation.

I go for a run after sundown and when the tide is low. I run barefoot, I figure it will be good for my ankle which still occasionally gives me strife. The sky still holds some light, and my feet slap on the hard, wet sand which during the day is a shallow sand-bank. Otres is good for running because of its two-kilometre undeveloped stretch between the two ends – well, it used to be developed until something probably faintly dodgy went down and all businesses on that strip were kicked off. My body feels better now than when I ran last, in Kampot. It's harder to get in shape than it is to get back in shape.

I finish off the day with a quiet sit-down at the bar with the Slovakians. They have a subscription to National Geographic and New Scientist. Oh my, these guys are great.

Serendipity

Day 14 (17/12): Kampot - Sihanoukville, Cambodia

Day 14 (17/12)

Oh, my Buddha! I discover I've been attacked numerous times by mosquitos, chiefly on my feet. But I don't react to the local mozzies, so the bites don't become inflamed, and I don't itch. But the thought of malaria and Dengue fever faintly remains in a recess of my mind.

It's raining, a lot. For a good eight hours it rains without abating. I pack my bags, sit in the bar area, and wait for my mini-bus to Sihanoukville.

The mini-bus, filled to capacity with French tourists exploring the old colony, takes me past quite stunning mountains. There's no room to read or type, so I listen.

Running home, running home
Running home, running home
Go find another lover to bring a-, to string along
For all your lies, you're still very lovable
I toured the land, so many foreign roads

I'm staying at the quiet end of probably the quietest beach in Sihanoukville (Cambodia's main beach resort) – Otres. Anja and Seb recommended the guest-house I'm staying in, and I am so glad they had room for me (they only have four bungalows and a small dorm).

The place is run by a couple (maybe a few; even at the end of my time here I couldn't quite work out the dynamics of the administration) of Slovakians. Seb was on the money when he said: “They're badarses, but super chilled.”

The place is a bar, on top of which is a room where the owners/friends/tag-alongs sleep (if they don't just fall asleep in one of the hammocks or on the floor of the bar), and four bungalows (just a bed in a grass hut overlooking the beach). The guy who owns it, Alex, says he loses money on the whole enterprise but it's his hobby, a place to chill.

There seems to be a bunch of permanent/semi-permanent people here, but they're never all here at the same time, there are always two or three sleeping somewhere or mingling in the other guest-houses.

Juraj is Slovakian, bald, well-built and healthy, and probably around 40. He serves me drinks for a whole night until I found out he doesn't own the place. "No, I just friend". I think he turned up one day and never left. In the typical Eastern European way, he's a man of few words, always economical in his speech, never says more than he really has to, but always a genuine smile on his face. He's either sitting at the bar, serving behind it, or lying in the hammock reading a book. Oh, and he has a sand buggy which he drives around. Although he told me his name is Juraj, I've heard him introduce himself to other people with another name (a common trait with these Slovakian dudes it seems).

Juraj. "You...pancake?"

There's a German bloke. He just sits around, doesn't say much, plays chess when occasionally someone turns up to play. He cut his foot open on an anchor the other day, so he just stays at the bar the whole time. He has fine taste in music, most of them do. I have no idea how long he has been here, but he keeps his pain meds behind the bar if that is any indicator.

One dude suddenly just rocks up from next door (these guest-houses are all right on the beach) with headphones on, says hi to one of the Slovakians, walks straight behind the bar (the bar is open air by the way) and starts helping himself. I thought maybe he works here. Actually, he's just a Finnish guy who came to stay next door for a couple of nights, met these Slovakians, realised they were on the same wavelength, and has stayed for two weeks with no plans to leave any time soon. He's very intelligent, a real war buff, knows a lot about history, politics, and economics and knows his way around a chess-board. He speaks with a strong Finnish lilt, barely moving his lips, occasionally his bright blue eyes sparkle through the calm exterior. Pretty sure he's potential survivalist material (pretty sure most of these dudes are). He just comes and goes. A real 'piece of furniture'.

A middle aged English couple is staying in one of the rooms, they just mind their own business, chill at a table all day apart from going for walks.

Next to me a young American guy is staying. Very well educated, quite the autodidact. He had feelings something bad was going down in the US, and felt he needed to get away. He's also got survivalist tendencies and likes the odd conspiracy theory. He, like the rest, feels the pressure of the world, and, like the others, self-medicates.

An American girl turns up, dumps her bags, runs to the beach, takes a hundred photos, puts her camera back in her bum-bag (fanny-pack), runs back to the bar, and exclaims to a tranquil Juraj 'I love this place! I'm so happy! A rum and coke please'. Juraij doesn't actually run the place, so she had to wait for the owners, who had gone for a walk down the beach for a beer (the bar is often deserted), to come back so she could get into her room. "I was here two years ago, when these guys were building this place. I know them, I've met them before" she beams proudly. She waits half an hour and becomes irritated: “But I spoke to them on the phone personally'. She's totally in the wrong place. She's a songwriter, apparently.

One of the owners, or at least a manager, I think, is Martyn. I've heard him utter only about five words today. He has these inquisitive, suspicion-filled eyes. I wouldn't be surprised if he is running from something (hell, they probably all are). I find out later he can be jovial and fun and cheeky, dancing in his stool at the bar to Adele or some quite mediocre Slovakian hip-hop (the only one who's music taste I don't like). He doesn't care. That's cool.

Martyn

A Slovakian girl hangs around here too. Can't work out who's girlfriend she is, if at all she is. She knows what's going on, and is the only one to talk to if you want to know actual guest-house information like booking a boat trip or bus. She's got good taste in music, she puts on Wu-tang and Ol' Dirty Bastard – love it.

Alex is the main owner. He looks like a 35-year old Eastern European Shane MacGowan. He's missing a front tooth, wears a peaked cap, and when he's not sleeping in a hammock somewhere, serving beers, or networking up and down the beach, he's sitting at his laptop cranking either Slovakian hip-hop, Brit punk, or Sepultera, always with a lit cigarette, nodding his head to the music. I think he may have had a world-champion boxing belt. He was in Thailand years ago for boxing and just stayed. He alternates between his chillout place here, and living in a hut in the middle of the jungle in North East Thailand. "This is not my main business. On paper, I am losing money here. My main business is in Thailand" and he shows me a Facebook page. 'Survival trekking' in the Thai jungle. Go figure.
"The Soviets were in my country. They came – 'hello' – they went – 'goodbye'. But we are now even more slaves in my country than before, and I don't want to be slave. So I left”, Alex says with a shrug, cigarette dangling from his lips.

Alex with his trekking team

These guys seem to have said all there is to say to each other so they don't really speak too much between themselves, unless it's about business, so they just exist in the ebb and flow of beach life. They drink, smoke, sleep, walk, read, play chess, drink, smoke, play some darts, put some music on. I'm loving this place, but I haven't given up whatever they have. I haven't chosen to be lost yet, to leave, to not participate. They're very nice and they give everyone the respect they deserve (even if it's very little). I have a feeling already it's certainly worth the trip for this. The conversations are superb, intense, fun, and erudite, although sometimes verging on alarmist. I'm pondering a lot. Pondering, and ruminating. And what better place to ponder yourself, and the world, than looking out to sea.

Oh yeah, and they have three dogs (well, they're kinda communal dogs with another guest-house), called Adolf, Mossad, and Homo ("Could be homo-sapien, could be homo-sexual, up to you" says Juraj). And one cat "Juraj, what's the cat's name?" Juraj looks at me with a three second pause characteristic of no-nonsense Slovakians and says with a shrug of his shoulders as if it's a silly question – "Cat".

I go with Nick, the American next door to me, up to the top of Otres beach (there's a two-kilometre strip of empty land between the busier Otres 1 and Otres 2 where I am staying). I get my first taste of a beach party in SE Asia, but it's still pretty quiet. I meet an old Italian guy who teaches astronomy in Chile. “Too many clouds tonight. But Australia, be-autiful stars there. You see! Jupiter. She will be closer tomorrow, like that, right up against the moon.”

We go back to the Slovakians, where among the crazy people we feel more at home, more appreciated, than in a bar we were just in. At sunrise I say goodnight to the Finnish guy (I will never learn his name) and the sound of the waves won't wake me up for a while.

Another town, another tuk-tuk

Otres beach from the bungalow.

Day 13 (16/12): Kampot, Cambodia

Day 13 (16/12)

Attempting to fulfil a wish I had last night to go for a run this morning before dawn, I wake at 5.30, and press the snooze button. By the time I'm finally awake, it's seven o'clock, the river is glassy, but out on the road it's hot already and the before-school traffic is already hectic.

I postpone the run. Instead, I ride the scooter to town to take some money out (it's a cash economy here). I know the ATM is at the big-Durian (Kampot apparently produces a lot of Durian. I look forward to my first try of this polarising fruit) round-about, but I soon discover it's not as easy to find as I had thought, and I'm weaving through morning market traffic, and then I'm somehow on the main road out of town. I turn around, and, mostly lost, happen upon the big Durian.

I follow my instinct, and scoot through town, in the general direction I need to go, enjoying the old French colonial architecture. I ride back over the river via the old bridge (put together from the remains of four different bridges) which commands a superb view over the glassy water with cloud-hugged mountains in the background.

In the evening I make good on the promise to myself and finally go for that jog. It's up there with the hardest runs I've ever been on. It's in the mid-20s even after dark, I mostly have to run on the shoulder of the road, still muddy in places from some earlier rain, every now and then a motorbike won't have working lights, and I can feel the recent days of inactivity tightening up my breathing. But not too far from the guest-house it's quiet and serene, and there's really only the odd scooter every now and then, and the fireflies float about me as I take heavy breaths and even heavier strides.

I'm wrecked when I return – but proud I ran the second half slightly quicker than the first – and I jump straight in the river and can't help but see the poetry.

The river has lost its sheen finally, and the wavelets reflect the moon, as if there were fireflies not only floating about in the air, but in the river itself. And a bird in the forest beyond the far shore pecks at the trunk of a tree, resonating. And my temples pulse, and my forehead burns, and the river's flow slowly takes away the heat from my over-exerted body. And the invisible bird hunts for the invisible beetle in an invisible tree. Resonating, resonating, resonating.

It's just me and Sareth in the bar area tonight. Everyone else is either in town or resting. Sareth tells me how he was a Buddhist monk for five years, and recite for me a prayer in sanskrit. And we talk about where he is from, and the history of the country, and what's happening now.

“I don't mind what people do. I'm just a good person. We're all good people.” Sareth says with a big grin. I sleep.

The old bridge. Destroyed by the Khmer Rouge, and patched together with various bits and pieces. Source

Day 12 (15/12): Kampot, Cambodia

Day 12 (15/12)

I'm dreaming of something distressing, a situation where I feel vulnerable and exposed. I wake, still half-glued in the dream, there's singing, a murmur of a song, but it's real and loud, right here. This song is right here, the singer is aware of me, singing to me, about me. It's dark outside, must be very early. The feeling of vulnerability stays over into my partially-woken state, and I scramble for my clothes, my bag, my possessions. I start dressing, packing my bag.

The remainder of the dream falls away and I realise I'm in the top floor of a bungalow in Kampot. Seb and Anja are downstairs. I'm In Cambodia. I'm 26. I'm travelling. There is singing, but it's far away. It's early, I'm tired, and I should sleep some more.

I later understand it's a Khmer wedding, or possibly a funeral, which caused my half-awake psychosis in the morning.

Today Seb, Anja, Seb's sister and her boyfriend leave back to Phnom Penh. I need to be in Kep on the 23rd, would like to see what Sihanoukville is all about, but still decide to stay two more nights here. I like it here so much.

I swim in the river. We go next door for lunch. The party must never stop there. At midday they're drunk already, smashing Milo cocktails, and reliving the antics of the night before.

“Ayyyyyyy! Johnny! How you feelin' brother?”
A blear-eyed, scruffy Johnny drags his feet out of a bungalow and into the bar area, straightening his shirt.

“Yeah, alright mate.”
“You remember falling down the steps onto the pontoon last night brother?”
“Nah, bro. Really?”
“Yeah bro. You were really drunk, and were sitting there, and just fell right back and flat onto your back down there.”
“Haha. Yeah, I don't remember anythin' eh bro.”
“Want a drink, Johnny?”

I wasn't feeling the vibe.

I see my companions off. I am ever so grateful for their hospitality, company, and local knowledge, and just the chance to spend some of my time with them. I've had a ball with them.

I relax in the bar, roughly planning my post-Christmas movements up into Laos.

I enjoy my own company very much and feel comfortable with myself, but sometimes I can't help but think it would be much more satisfying to be sharing this trip with someone else. That's probably a major reason why I write this blog.

Rodriguez sings through the speakers here in Kampot, by this river.

So I set sail in a teardrop and escaped beneath the doorsill
Cause the smell of her perfume echoes in my head still

Cause I see my people trying to drown the sun
In weekends of whiskey sours
Cause how many times can you wake up in this comic book and plant flowers?

One of the staff pulls out his hammered dulcimer and starts playing Khmer folk songs.

After the chaos of Siem Reap and Phnom Penh, I'm really enjoying my time here by the river. But there's a compromise involved in this lifestyle; it's easy to forget you're in another country, complete with an incoherent language and a near-alien culture to yours. Do I want this? For now I think I do. There's still time for the stress, the chaos, the misunderstandings, arguments, and missed buses. For now, I'm going to drink beer, lie in a hammock, and listen to Rodriguez.

At the table next to me, the travellers – some bragging about all the places they've been and how long they have been on the road – remind me how travelling does not necessarily open one's mind, or make one more knowledgeable about the world. They spend a lot of the night drinking, talking about drinking, explaining drinking games they know, telling stories about drinking. They play a form of celebrity heads.

“Mohammed the prophet?! You mean, like, the boxer?”

“Margaret Thatcher. Like, the Queen, right?”

Anyway, I can't talk. I'm the one lying in his hammock, writing down notes, playing the odd game of Solitaire, too shy to approach anyone tonight.

Sareth saves me from my anti-social people-watching ways. He just plonks himself down next to me. “Hey buddy, how are you doing?”

We talk about Cambodia and about the Khmer people. Much more entertaining right now than drinking games. I like Sareth, he's a gentle soul.

By the river in Kampot

This champ came around selling his own palm juice

Day 11 (14/12): Kampot, Cambodia

Day 11 (14/12)

Poor Anja, had a bit of a rough night last night. First, she's awoken by an unusual noise which turns out to be puppies mucking about after somehow sneaking into the bungalow. After a failed attempt at evacuating them, they find their way back in, then an old Khmer man stumbled around the room trying to round them up. After falling asleep again, she's woken by Seb and Martin post-skinny-dip, drunker than they should be, trying to find their respective beds in their birthday suits.

So, I'm hungover again, just like the Saturday before. But it was worth it for the hip-gyrating on the dance floor.

It's a slow day for obvious reasons. I've wanted to try and maintain some sort of fitness regimen while here, but it's not easy. Today I really feel like a health kick, and we eventually motivate ourselves enough to rent three bikes and go for a ride. We've waited too long, and it's the hottest part of the day. The sun bites, and the bikes are shite – no brakes, no gears.

We go 15 minutes one way, find a dead end, and ride back. So much for a health kick. We ride the scooters into town to a good ribs place Seb knows, then we're drinking beers on the deck over the river and I'm feeling just as unhealthy as yesterday.

A longboat picks us – and a few French ex-pats – up for a sunset and firefly cruise. Sareth, a very affable member of Samon's staff, comes along with us and chucks a case of beers in the boat with us. Lightning cracks and thunder rumbles in the distance, I haven't seen an electrical storm in a while, and it's spectacular. It starts to rain, which means the fireflies aren't as active. Nonetheless, we still see a handful of them, flashing green in unison in the branches hanging over the slow-flowing river.

With Anja in Kampot

Day 10 (13/12): Kampot & Kep, Cambodia

Day 10 (13/12)

We're staying at 'Samon's Village' a short drive out of the town of Kampot, right on the river. This was Seb and Anja's second choice because the guesthouse next door was booked out. Wonderful serendipity: we've found a place even better for us. Next door is ex-pat owned and has a party scene, Samon's is Khmer-owned, is quiet and tranquil and very friendly. We're staying in wood and grass bungalows which are set in a garden of coconut palms. The bar juts out over the river, and the opposite bank is undeveloped.

We hire scooters and make the half hour ride out to Kep (where I will be spending Christmas). I quickly get used to riding the manual scooter, and the road isn't too shabby as far as Cambodian roads go, and it's a pleasant ride with little stress. But as an Australian guy we meet later in the evening can attest, it's very easy to get injured on one of these scooters, so I am always cautious.

Kep is known for its seafood, especially its crab. We eat crab looking out over the water in Kep. I had never eaten from the shell before now. It's superb.

Kep used to be the resort town in Cambodia, but has gone very quiet. Sihanoukville is the new Kep. You can still see the derelict old French colonial villas dotting the hillside. I didn't take any photos but I will be sure to do so over Christmas.

Back in Kampot, it's around 5 pm, and the fishing boats chug along the river out to sea to fish all night. The bar provides a great view of this. They all go out together, like cavalry to battle, or tanks through the streets.

We head next door - to 'Bodhi's' - to drink long necks on the pontoon. The bar fills up quickly and it's heaving, and people dance, and scream, and drink, and smoke. The others go to bed, Seb and I stay up a bit longer, gyrating our hips on the dance-floor and probably scaring a few people off.

We swim in the river before bed.

Day 9 (12/12): Siem Reap - Phnom Penh - Kampot, Cambodia

Day 9 (12/12)

I catch a bus to Phnom Penh this morning. One of my hotel's desk staff is on the same bus so I can rest easy as I don't have to deal with the stresses associated with catching intercity buses in Cambodia.

The sign promises a lot – toilet (no), cake (nope), cold towel (nu-uh), dvd-tv (yes, but it's playing Khmer karaoke from a VHS), 'safety-driving' (the jury's out).

Someone's brought fermented fish onto this six hour bus journey. Nice.

Khemara, the guy from the hotel, is very camp and I think he may have a little crush. But it's innocent, and he even buys me a dumpling for lunch at one of the stops we make (one stop just at the side of the road involved the whole bus unloading and everyone emptying their bladders wherever they could find a free spot).

I'm listening to Astral Weeks as rice fields stretch out either side of the bus on this straight, straight road.

Could you find me
Would you kiss-a my eyes
To lay me down
In silence easy
To be born again

I'm out of cash. Siem Reap cleaned me out. I can't even afford a plate of tarantulas at a rest stop.

I got a home on high
In another land
So far away

"Martin, Martin!" Khemara wakes me. "We stop. You need to go pee-pee?"

In another place
In another time

More than 60% of Cambodia's population works in subsistence farming. The seemingly endless rice fields make for a pretty landscape, but, just as I felt in Ireland, the stark prettiness is at the expense of forests that used to cover this country and are falling every day with no sign of halting.

And i'm wondering if I ever felt the pain

The bus trip takes over eight hours. Van's helping me get through it.

You've gone for something, and you won't be back

Seb's sister and her boyfriend are over to visit and they were all kind enough to invite me on their trip down south to Kampot. Before we take the car down there though, we go to the Chinese noodle place and have dumplings and noodle soup, and Tsingtao, and that wonderful, spicy dipping sauce and watch the guys hand-pull the noodles, and all is good, and I eat just enough. I'd been hoping I could come here one more time.

All five of us squeeze into a taxi (same price as a bus) and in the darkness, telling fart jokes, we scream towards Kampot and its soothing waters.

Day 8 (11/12): Siem Reap, Cambodia

Day 8 (11/12)

The first day at Angkor was hectic – you watch the sunrise with everyone else, and they pretty much do as you do, follow the same route, and there are scores of people around you all day. And where there are crowds, there are the locals pestering you to buy their souvenirs and refreshments.

Today, I wake up a little later, but it's still early and cool, and Sam takes me to a temple a bit further along the usual route taken by visitors. I'm at Preah Khan, and, to my surprise, there are very few people here and the locals haven't set up shop yet. The light is gorgeous, the air is cool, the birds are singing in the forest, and finally I can gaze at these remarkable temples without distraction.

Admiring these temples, I'm inspired to visit Aztec and Mayan sites in Central America, make the trip to Petra, Machu Pichu, see the Taj Mahal, and even road-trip it to Brewarinna, New South Wales believe it or not (its Aboriginal fish traps are "possibly the oldest surviving human-made structure in the world").

But, soon enough:

"You buy postcard sir? 10, one dollar. One, two, tree...."

"You buy scarf? Only 2 dollar. With Angkor Wat temple on it, see? I got new one for you in plastic. I have no sale yet today, sir. Please help open my business, sir."

I now won't judge people who come back from their trips with piles of junk – only the strong-willed can get through this gauntlet without opening their wallet.

"You think about it sir. Go see temple, think about it. Then come look in my store, I remember you."

I've never felt more like a tourist. The tourists I've judged, the ones with cameras around their necks, in reef sandals, navigating their way around tourist sights.

Sam takes me to a few more temples. They're all awe inspiring, but I'm getting tired, and I feel I can't invest as much energy and concentration into them as they deserve. We drive about half an hour north to another temple. I relish the opportunity to put my feet up, listen to some music, gaze over the countryside vista.

Sam takes me back to the hotel. I say goodbye to him. After a nap and a swim I head into the centre of Siem Reap.

The hotel staff tell me to go to 'Pub Street', a busy mecca for tourists. Why locals think all tourists want to do touristy things and eat western food is beyond me. But I do like people-watching, so I wander about a bit, find a local eatery a few blocks away, and call it a night.

"You eat, sir? Good food here. Look at menu, come sit down. You eat here, yes?"

I'm so exhausted, can't wait to head to the coast tomorrow. Angkor is a must-see, but I won't be rushing back in a hurry.

Day 7 (10/12): Siem Reap, Cambodia

Day 7 (10/12)

Up early, 5 o'clock, and Sam takes me to see the sunrise at Angkor Wat, the most iconic and popular of the temples at Angkor. It features on Cambodia's flag.

It's immediately obvious this is the main attraction in Angkor. Well, the main attraction in Cambodia really. I walk along the path over the moat, through the gates. It's dark. The temple in the distance, at the end of the avenue of palms, is but a silhouette.

"Hi! How are you sir?"
I can't see his face. I can't see anyone's face it's so dark.
"Ah. OK, thanks."
"Best place to see the temple at sunrise is from the left. Go left from the path, because the sun rises from the right."
"Alright. Thanks."
He's walking next to me down the path, but seems friendly.
"I'm not guide, I have a shop. If you want drink or breakfast later. Come to me. I have shop number 1, my name is Tiger Woods, cause he's number 1!"
"Ah, OK"
"Bye sir. Remember, number 1, Tiger Woods!" and he leaves me to walk on towards the temple.
I hear behind me "Hello madam. How are you? Best place to see sunrise is from the left..."

I go to the left - like Tiger Woods told me - and find a spot near the edge of the lily pond in front of the temple among a continuously growing throng of tourists and an ever increasing hum of movement, chit chat, and the clicking of cameras.

I won't deny, what is happening in the background there, the silhouette of the temple slowly changing, the reflection emerging among the pink waterlilies in the pond, the details of the temple appearing on the facade - a temple which was described by a 19th century French explorer as "a rival to that of Solomon, and erected by some ancient Michelangelo. [It] might take an honorable place beside our most beautiful buildings...[and] is grander than anything left to us by Greece or Rome". In itself, it is sublime, and I feel honoured to be standing here taking in its increasingly-illuminated beauty. No wonder all these people are here.

But among the snaps of cameras, the background noise, and the supremely unwarranted flashes ruining our night vision (do they think the flash on their 60 dollar point-and-shoot is going to illuminate a 10-storey temple 100 metres away? Like football fans not turning off their flash in an enormous stadium), as the sun rises, not only the ancient relief of Angkor Wat comes to light, but so do the tank-top sunburns (mine included), fisherman's pants with elephant motifs, silk scarves sold to tourists who weren't told they needed to cover their shoulders, and Angkor Wat t-shirts flogged at the entrance (worn by one guy loudly proclaiming to his friend in an american accent 'god, this place is destroyed, it's sooo touristy').

There's almost a music festival vibe here. No one really knows each other but are sharing and participating in a common interest. They dress almost as if they were at a music festival, except the band t-shirts are Cambodian beer tank tops or Angkor Wat shirts, the festival costume are the sarongs, beads, and silk scarves. Nothing they would wear outside of this context. South East Asia on the backpacker trail is like one big Maffesolian neo-tribe.

And all the while we're all ignoring the poor Khmer guy, forced to flog shit at the temples because he's not allowed to work his land here at Angkor, laminated-menu in hand asking 'you want hot coffee? Breakfast? Come to my shop, number 007, my name is James Bond".

"Piss off James Bond, I want to view one of the great monuments of civilisation through my viewfinder so I can show my friends and family at home wonderfully underexposed photos as evidence I was here."

Okay, maybe I'm being too cynical and I could also be guilty of being a bit of a hypocrite (nothing new) and selfish (as charged), but all of this really makes it hard for me, and everyone else, to enjoy this moment as I think it should be enjoyed. Why don't we stand in mute reverence of this sublime monument for a couple of hours, hands (mostly) off our technology? Be moved, feel humbled and contemplative. Please.

"Hot coffee sir? Breakfast? Shop number 8, my name is Lady Gaga."

The sun has risen enough for me to decide to walk on over to the temple itself and explore and marvel at its 5 million tonnes of quarried sandstone and thousands of square metres of intricate carvings. It really is - in this word's true sense - awesome. And I spend a while walking through its corridors, clambering up its steep steps, and gazing upon the bas-reliefs, full of stories of conquests and battles, and mythical Hindu sagas.

"[Angkor Wat] is of such extraordinary construction that it is not possible to describe it with a pen, particularly since it is like no other building in the world. It has towers and decoration and all the refinements which the human genius can conceive of." - António da Madalena

A man appears from a recess, lit incense sticks in hand. He passes them to me as if giving a gift.

"For your good luck sir."
"Ah, thank you."
"Here, put them in this pot", he gestures to a pot of sand at the foot of an orange-cloth draped Buddha.
He shows me how to bow three times to the Buddha "for your good luck".
He then flips open a silk napkin, under which are two 10 dollar bills.
"For the monks, they sleep and pray here and need donations."

Goddamn! Another scam!

I put down one dollar and quickly leave. I find these incense-givers in every temple, catching the vulnerable and gullible. One more scam on my list to watch out for.

I choose not to eat in temple grounds, where it's overpriced and aimed at tourists, but where the tuk tuk drivers and monks eat. It's 7.30 in the morning and there's a big group of locals, tuk tuk drivers waiting for their customers to come out of the temple, and monks, watching an old Jackie Chan film on one small old cathode-ray television. All laughing. I am too.

"You need a guide for the temples, sir? I've been working here many year. I can tell you all about the temples and the carvings. Not all the information in the books sir. Just a little bit of money, help out my family sir."

Sam takes me around to the next stop on the 'must-see' Angkor route, Angkor Thom, once the capital of the Angkor kingdom. Here I find the temple of Bayon, with its famous serene faces, bathed in golden sunlight this early in the morning.

"Guide book to the temples sir? 3 dollar. No? It has all the information in here, sir. OK. For you, 1 dollar."

Here, sitting out the back of Angkor Thom, looking over the pool constructed many centuries ago for the leader's wives to bathe in, I get a glimpse of serenity, the first since, well, I can't really remember, not for many months at least. Birds are singing in the forest, and briefly there's a short halt in the stream of visitors.
Then, an English girl tells her friend as she blindly walks past the 900 year old temple behind me, 'I bought a white t-shirt, but it went yellow, can you believe it? I had a purple t-shirt I could have worn here, but I left it in the hotel!" Her friend laughs at this.

I need to find peace and quiet, too much noise and chaos so far. But I had to see these temples and I'm glad I've come. But I can't wait for my sojourn down to the seaside, might even consider going to a temple for meditation at some point on my trip.

On I go. It's hot now and Sam's waiting to take me to the next stop.

Many tourists from all over are here (in fact, the number is considered to be dangerously unsustainable when it comes to the conservation of the temples). Not just young backpackers, but big tour groups from China, Japan, South Korea, even Russia. I tell you what, Chinese, Japanese and Koreans give Russians and Latvians a run for their money when it comes to ridiculous posing for photographs. I think Russians beat them all by a nose, though there's not much in it.

The Russian-speaking Khmer tour-guide waves a Soviet 9th of May flag around so he doesn't lose his group. Ummmm....yeah. OK.

I walk through the 'Tomb Raider' temple, as the locals call it when talking to tourists. The temple features huge, majestic trees almost as if living in unison with the temple, but the trees are ever so slowly taking over this man-made monument, roots spreading further out, grasping and heaving the stone blocks carved by hands which have long turned to dust. The tree cover creates a cool micro-climate here, and the forest birds sing.

The trees and their cool relief make me think how it's such a pity (to put it mildly) that Cambodia recently has systemically deforested most of the country.

I also marvel at the amount of man-hours gone into quarrying, transporting, carving, and contructing these temples. I am no fan of any form of superstition or religion, but it truly can be amazing (but mostly disastrous) what humans are capable of when fueled by faith and superstition..

A boy - he looks maybe 3 or 4 years old - comes up to me, tugging my sleeve. "Here, sir, you buy postcard? Look, postcard. of temple. Ten for one dollar. One dollar. Look, one, too, tree, fooour, five, six, seven, aight, nigh, ten."

I walk past a folk group of landmine victims. There's one out the front of many of the temples.

I notice many people riding rented bicycles from temple to temple. I had read it was possible, if not a little tiring. But I would have saved a lot of money, and I hate the feeling you get when you know you've been ripped off, it's hard for me to shake. Bloody Ra told me it was near impossible to see the temples by bike. I'm calling bullshit on that.

Almost every single block of stone features intricate carvings, figures, faces, creatures. I keep on getting reminded why this place has become touristy, these temples really are magnificent.

After one or two more stops I'm templed out for the day, and my patience is wearing very thin what with all the peddlers and hawkers and kids tugging at your arm and women walking with you for 5 whole minutes trying to sell you a scarf.

Sam takes me back to the hotel, I have a splendid afternoon nap (it's only just past midday but I've been at the temples for seven hours), and a swim - the first, I realise, in about five months. How I missed swimming.

I go out for dinner, there's a middle-aged Australian man with a tattoo on the top of his head. He's dining with his very young Khmer wife and her child.

Cambodians do as Latvians do, with a huge choice on their menus, of which they're only good at making two or three really well. You just have to know whats worth ordering, and, of course, I rarely do.

Montezuma has sniffed me out. It was bound to happen.

I'm a hypocrite, I know.

Relief in one of Angkow Wat's galleries.

Angkor Wat

Bayon relief.

One of the faces of Bayon.

I was told in excited tones by every Khmer person this is where Tomb Raider was filmed.

Day 6 (09/12): Phnom Penh to Siem Reap, Cambodia

Day 6 (09/12)

I'm up early again. This time not to beat the midday heat, but to make it to the boat which will take me to Siem Reap. I'm heading there to see the temples of Angkor, a UNESCO World Heritage Site and what most visitors come to Cambodia to see.

I arrive at the boat terminal.
"Do you have someone to pick you up at the other end sir?"
"Ah...no. I was planning on just taking a tuk-tuk."
"Boat is outside of Siem Reap, sir. Tuk-tuks don't come out unless ordered. You can book one with us, sir."
I take his word for it and buy a $3 tuk-tuk ticket and am assured a driver will be at the other end to pick me up.

So, the boat is a Soviet-style hydrofoil which thunders up the Tonlé Sap - "the largest freshwater lake in South East Asia" - and arrives in Siem Reap about six hours later.

Inside the boat, the vinyl seats are predictably uncomfortable -I'm learning to cast away any preconceived ideas about what to expect here - but they allow passengers to lie on the roof and sit on the front of the boat as it speeds across the water.

The guidebooks did warn me: "The boats in no way meet international safety standards".

I take in a huge expanse of water, dotted with waterlilies, and the numerous floating villages of Tonlé Sap slide by. I get a nice wife-beater burn as a souvenir of the trip.

Six hours of water, a great deal of water, six hours. It becomes mesmerising, meditative, soporific sometimes.

I write this note in my book:

I'm moving. I'm by myself. I'm moving, carving through this water. We're moving. The air enters my nose, my lungs. I drink it in, in deep gulps. I'm moving, I'm by myself. I'm moving.

For the first time in a while I'm happy.

We arrive at the closest point the lake gets to Siem Reap. Ra, my tuk-tuk driver, is there, holding a sign that reads 'Mr. Martin'.

Ra has superb English for a Khmer, and especially for a tuk-tuk driver. He finds me a hotel. Then he tells me:

"You see, sir. The three dollars you paid my boss, I don't get any of that. It would be great if you gave me some business, take me as your driver for the temples."

We talk about where he can take me, how long I will need and he offers me a price.

I should have done my research, it's my own fault; I don't haggle and agree to the first price he offers. "Very reasonable I think" he says. I should have spent two minutes to look at what the going price is for a tuk-tuk driver for two and a half days at the temples, but the lack of internet over the past few days meant I travelled to Siem Reap blind. Turns out I agree to about 20 or 25 dollars more than I should (and that kinda money travels far in this part of the world). I have a feeling it's too much, but I'm tired, I don't feel like shopping around for drivers, and the deal-maker is Ra's fantastic English - I figure he can educate me on the temples while he drives me around. He is to pick me up later this afternoon to take me to see the sunset at the temples.

Another driver is there to pick me up.

"Mr. Martin?"
"Yes."
"I'll be taking you. Mr. Ra can't make it"

On the way to the temple I realise; the shifty Ra has outsourced his job to a mate, and pocketed the difference.

I'm such a fool.

I buy a three-day pass, and Sam, my new driver (with terrible English mind you), drops me off at the base of the mountain on which sits Phnom Bakheng, a favourite spot for tourists to watch the sunset over Angkor. The temple itself, over 1100 years old, is remarkable:

The temple sits on a rectangular base and rises in five levels and is crowned by five main towers. One hundred four smaller towers are distributed over the lower four levels, placed so symmetrically that only 33 can be seen from the center of any side. Thirty-three is the number of gods who dwelt on Mount Meru. Phnom Bakheng's total number of towers is also significant. The center one represents the axis of the world and the 108 smaller ones represent the four lunar phases, each with 27 days. The seven levels of the monument represent the seven heavens and each terrace contains 12 towers which represent the 12-year cycle of Jupiter. According to University of Chicago scholar Paul Wheatley, it is "an astronomical calendar in stone.

At the base, in my tank top, I'm told I need to have my shoulders covered if I want to go up out of respect for the sacred monument. Shit. I start to think I've wasted the evening, the trip, the extra money I agreed to with that sneaky Ra.

No need to worry, one of the numerous opportunistic peddlers of crap at the base of the mountain is happy to part with one of her "authentic Cambodian" scarves for a lovely rip-off price. What am I to do?

I rush up the mountain, flanked by three other big Australians, all draped in brightly coloured scarves.

The sunset is gorgeous. But after having done some more research, I would go to a less popular temple next time to see the sunset, just to avoid the crowds of snap-happy tourists ("such a hypocrite" I hear whispered).

Hydrofoil selfie.

Temple/scarf selfie.

Day 5 (08/12): Phnom Penh, Cambodia

Day 5 (08/12)

We've left Seb to sleep in. Anja and I have taken the bikes to the other side of the river. We're up early. The mornings here are gloriously cool, a time to get things done before the incapacitating heat of the afternoon. With a clamour of Khmer motorcycles we cross on the ferry and don't ride too far before we pull into a market.

If you travel by the main road out of town, Phnom Penh sprawls for many kilometres, with no real feeling the city ever ends. Yet, a five minute ferry ride across the river will plunge you immediately into rural surrounds, complete with horse and cart, dirt roads, wooden huts on stilts, and a market pleasantly devoid of tourists (except us, of course).

Breakfast for the two of us, made on a small camping stove in front of our eyes, and two ice coffees – of course – costs little more than a dollar in total. Anja buys me some sticky rice with banana and coconut (divine), which comes wrapped in coconut leaves.

The day still hasn't heated up and we ride along a back road, avoiding potholes, but enjoying the rural scenery and the kids yelling out 'hellooooooo' with excited waving of hands.

They produce silk and silk products in this area and we pull into one of the 'silk villages' in which a whole family works, from the nurture of the worms to the looming of the silk. A lovely lady shows us her silk worms, Anja tries her hand at the loom, and we spend the best of an hour looking through their gorgeous scarves, for which they have a great eye for colour coordination. I limited myself to buying just one, plus a traditional Khmer krama which I hope will fulfill several duties over my trip - protecting me from the sun, and as a sweat rag.

While we rifle through the scarves, we eat green mango with chili salt. Not a bad combination.

It's getting hot now, and we ride back, this time another way, with a different ferry. I try the sugar cane drink they make on every corner here. Too sweet for me, really. We ride through an ethnically Muslim area (around 5% of the Cambodian population is Muslim). It's getting really hot now, and the dust is sticking to us, and the cars rush past.

We seek a short respite in an old Chinese temple, and I realise for the first time just how busy and hectic this place is. You need to experience peace to realise you quickly get used to chaos.

In the evening, when things cool down, Seb takes me to his favourite Chinese noodle joint. It's quaintly dodgy, with plastic chairs. Just the way I like it. They make the noodles by hand right here out the front of the restaurant. I leave the ordering to Seb – we get fried noodles, dumplings (of which I will daydream about for days to come), fried beans (once again, daydreams), and barbecue skewers, washed down with a Tsingtao long-neck. What makes it so much better are the condiments: a dipping sauce made from chilli-heavy chilli oil, rice wine vinegar, and soy sauce. I don't fear any unnecessary hyperbole when I say; best Chinese I have ever had.

We visit Anja and Seb's friend/neighbour, an English girl, who's having a dinner party. Two of the guests are long-distance cyclists. One, an Irish man, has ridden from Turkey, through central Asia, into China, and has made it this far with an idea to ride onto Australia. The other, a German, has ridden from his home country, down through Turkey, Iran and Iraq (both places I now want to visit, the way he talks about Iran and Kurdistan leaves a great impression), Pakistan, all along the coast of India, Tibet, then flew to Thailand, up into Laos and down into Cambodia. It seems he has no real intention of stopping just yet, and speaks with no exaggeration of plans to ride Australia, the Americas, and Africa - “as long as I keep enjoying it, I won't stop”. The presentation he gives us, with pictures and videos, I dare say inspired us all a little to see more of the world. www.onemanonebikeoneworld.com

At the market.

Buying sticky rice.

Silk worms.

Silk scarves.

Mango with chili salt.

Chinese temple.

Day 4 (07/12): Phnom Penh, Cambodia

Day 4 (07/12)

Hangovers in this climate really suck.

Coconut water helps. Possibly my favourite hangover drink.

Seb takes me to the cinema, if only for the air conditioning. We watch the second Hunger Games film. Forgettable.

The best part of the day is finding a Korean photo-booth in the arcade in the mall. I'll post the photos when I get them scanned. You'll want to see them, trust me.

Day 3 (06/12): Phnom Penh, Cambodia

Day 3 (06/12)

Today I visit the Tuol Sleng genocide museum in Phnom Penh.

The site is a former high school which was used as the notorious Security Prison 21 (S-21) by the Khmer Rouge regime from its rise to power in 1975 to its fall in 1979. Tuol Sleng (Khmer [tuəl slaeŋ]) means "Hill of the Poisonous Trees" or "Strychnine Hill". Tuol Sleng was only one of at least 150 execution centers in the country, and as many as 20,000 prisoners there were killed. - Wikipedia

This is an intense place, of course. I walk through the four buildings there, through the rooms where prisoners were crammed like sardines, interrogated, tortured, and murdered. For those with a strong constitution, read the section in the Wikipedia article regarding the torture that took place here. What happened here, unfortunately, is not unique. Things I know about prisons and torture under other regimes come to mind - The Soviet Union, Nazi Germany, Pinochet's Argentina.

I'm getting more used to the hectic nature of this place, to the tuk tuks, the bikes, the dust, the street-side sellers of stir fry noodles, coconuts, pork rolls, sugar cane juice, iced coffee, fried limpets (I still haven't been brave enough to try these), and so on. 

My devices suck, and where I'm staying there's no internet. I'm wary of taking my computer out with me due to stories of bag snatching in Phnom Penh, and I'm not the kind of person to go to a cafe or bar just for the wifi. So, I just find out now Mandela has passed....ah, the lack of news you get while travelling. All these catastrophes and 'significant' news stories you would normally hear about, read about, think about, and talk about, go by without you ever noticing. I'm not sure if this is a good thing or not. In the short term, I can do with a break from the worries of a sometimes seemingly broken world. In the long term, I'd rather be informed about these things. Mandela's passing means nothing to these tuk tuk drivers, the street sweepers, the coconut sellers, nor me right at this moment, if I'm honest. Sorry Madiba, bro.

I'm planning my movements within Cambodia for the next two weeks. I had planned on seeing Vietnam, but I've decided to leave it for another trip. It was too ambitious of me, and would have stretched my time too thin, to see Cambodia, Laos, Thailand, AND Vietnam.

No stomach rumbling yet. Maybe thisis  another case of preconceived ideas of a country, or region, which are quite untrue, or more untrue than they actually are. I was worried about safety, crime, food poisoning, fraud, stitch-ups - none of these are really any more cause for alarm than most places you would travel (although, I'll report back at the end of this trip about this). As is usual when you travel, you're worried and afraid of what is unknown to you, and the more you understand a place and its people/culture/practices etc. the less scared and worried you become. I actually felt more unsafe in terms of being accosted, and crime and so forth, in Paris, than I do currently in phnom penh. True. Physical harm may be more of a threat here, just from the lower standards (or complete lack) of OHNS – tangles of wires, motorcycles driving on the wrong side of the road, babies on motorcycle handlebars – the threat from people seems to be much less than in most European capitals.

Seb and Anja take me to a Khmer BBQ with a group of other ex-pats. Superb! The grilled meat is magnificent, I get sloshed in the process, and I learn a new fantastic dipping sauce/

Khmer BBQ dipping sauce:

salt

LOTS of ground pepper

fresh lime juice

garlic

Thank me later.

Tuol Sleng. Where 'special' prisoners were kept and tortured.

Pol Pot. What a champ.

The Khmer Rouge had a morbid, yet fascinating policy of photographing every single victim... 

...including children.