That was a terrible night's sleep; I only found relief from the stomach cramps when lying on my side, but then on my side I started feeling nauseous, so I'd turn onto my back again, but my back muscles were aching, plus my joints hurt, and I was always conscious not to move around too much because Marissa and Patricia were sleeping in the same room. To make things real nice, I felt feverish too.
As I lay there unable to sleep in the early hours of the morning I – ever the hypochondriac – read about the early symptoms of malaria and dengue fever. The symptoms seem to fit the bill, as all webmd.com searches seem to, and I'm worried about getting seriously ill in Cambodia because no-one, I'm told, wants to get seriously ill in Cambodia. All the guide-books and authorities recommend flying to Bangkok to get treated if hospitalisation is required.
Well, there's not much I can do while still in Kep, so I push my anxiety aside as best I can, see Patricia and Marissa off, thankful for the time spent with them this Christmas, and wait for my bus to Phnom Penh.
I'm ever so frustrated my computer is still broken. I was really enjoying writing up my blog posts. I still jot down notes every day, but I miss the stream of writing I get from sitting down with the computer. I figure I won't get the chance to get it fixed, and I have been told its not worth it until I get to Thailand, which will only be in the first or second week of January.
There are mainly locals on this bus, which makes for a change from my previous journeys. But this means that the bus cruises the back-streets and country roads of Kep province, honking and picking up people every so often, so it's a good hour before we even leave the town. Why do they have to advertise incredibly underestimated arrival times for these buses? I'd be much happier if the poster read “Kep to Phnom Penh. Will take five hours, probably won't even leave on time, don't expect any less”. At least be honest with us.
I pay six dollars for this trip and it looks like the locals are giving the bus driver something closer to two or three. Everywhere you go, every service that's provided to you, there is a local price and a foreigner price. Six dollars is still cheap, and god knows their economy probably needs our extra contribution.
As my computer is still broken, my i-Pod remains ever-loaded with Paul Kelly, Van Morrison, and Tool.
From St Kilda to Kings Cross is thirteen hours on a bus
I pressed my face against the glass and watched the white lines rushing past
And all around me felt like all inside me
And my body left me and my soul went running
Out on the highways and the by-ways all alone
I'm still searching for, searching for my home
Up in the morning, up in the morning out on the road
And my head is aching and my hands are cold
And I'm looking for the silver lining, silver lining in the clouds
And I'm searching for and
I'm searching for the philosopher's stone
Shine on forever.
Shine on benevolent sun.
Shine on upon the broken.
Shine until the two become one.
Shine on forever.
Shine on benevolent sun.
Shine on upon the severed.
Shine until the two become one.
There is a lot of rubbish on the side of the road, in the roadside ditches, in the irrigation canals, everywhere. The farmers are still cutting this rice harvest, but most of it is behind them, the grain of their labour drying on ground-sheets along the road and in their yards. Sickle in hand, krama on head, the Khmer people toil bent-backed in their rice paddies under the hot sun as I rattle past in my bus.
As we get closer to Phnom Penh we pass large prison-like compounds, complete with giant iron gates and razor-wired walls; garment factories filled with Khmer, toiling here at machines instead of in a field. The garment workers have been at the heart of recent protests, a sad state of affairs.
In Phnom Penh I pull my pack out from under the bus and inspect it. It's dusty from this trip, and scuffed, stained and slightly frayed from wear and tear. It's certainly not the clean, new, untarnished pack I bought in Aix-en-Provence nearly exactly a year ago. It's seen some miles, and accompanied me to a handful of wonderful places. Here's to many miles more with this pack.
I'm on the back of a motorbike, rolling in second gear through the centre of Phnom Penh looking for a guest-house. I have a shortlist from a brief scan of the net, but they'reall full. I settle on a 12-dollar-a-night dive, with stained walls, open stinky drains, and street noise. But there's a lock on the door, and I'm only here one night.
I had nearly entirely forgotten my earlier malady, which, by now, seems to have subsided. My guts are still worrying me, but no more fever or aching joints. I was really very worried there for a while, considering a trip to the doctor, but my anxiety is now old and forgotten.
I go for a walk and have a couple of beers and people-watch. Here you have a small hint of sex tourism; older western men with neck tattoos, parched skin, rat-tails, bulbous noses and other signs of a life of excess, holding hands with young Khmer women.
Despite the street noise, the stinky bathroom, and a knot in my stomach, I sleep well.
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