Leah hrey, Sába̖ai-di̖i.

I spent a day in Banlung recovering from my jungley exertions, before embarking on my voyage to Laos. I had anticipated that it wouldn’t be very straightforward, but the first leg of my journey – the minibus from my hostel to Stung Treng, passed without a hitch, even if I was scrunched into the back with a few chunks of wood and some buckets of something that smelt like wine. I waited in Stung Treng for an hour or so – that listless kind of waiting, with no object, no expectation. Eventually another minibus picked us up, and took us to the border. There, we were met by a lovely man in a white shirt, with a very official laminated badge, who tried to charge $45 for what I knew should have been a $35 visa. Disgruntled, me and a few others decided we’d skip the middle man and do the crossing ourselves. We made it through, narrowly dodging another $2 fee for an unnecessary stamp, but we had to admit a slight concession of an extra dollar on top of the normal fee, because it was the weekend. We met another minibus on the other side, and finally made it down to the dock, where a tiny boat, groaning under the weight of our backpacks, took us out across the river. By this point, the moon was rising in the sky, it’s cool glow softening our weariness. We arrived on Don Det, I secured a single bungalow facing the river – the first private room I’ve booked for four months, and met up with Cèdric and Ana. We sat in a bar on the riverside, watching the rippling moonlight, and a drunken Australian fall asleep in his chair.

The next morning I woke up to the sound of spluttering diesel motors as tiny boats passed my balcony. I hired a bike, and decided to cycle around Don Det. Sleepy farms were just beginning to stir. Water buffalo stared at me vacantly as they ruminated (literally, and perhaps on some of life’s big philosophical questions). Women swung on hammocks, children rode on bicycles, and the overall atmosphere was of a lazy Sunday morning. I later realised that it was Sunday, and that made the whole thing more authentic. I eventually came to a bridge, and crossed over to Don Khon (conveniently not hearing the man I was meant to pay). The dirt track that I was following was deserted, the faint impressions of tire marks in the sand were the only indication that others had been there before. I cycled to an empty beach, my only companion was a man who was painting the wooden shell of his boat a bright royal blue. I spent an hour reading and watching, before heading over to some waterfalls. I inhaled the breathtaking view.

The roaring water was both inviting and terrifying. Fortunately there was no way down, so there was no room for a fatal error in judgement. I then went round to the other side of the island, and stumbled across some more falls, accessible only by a rickety bamboo bridge. Once I’d satisfied my curiosity, I went back round to Don Det, returned my bike (which I’m not wholly convinced was the one I set out with), and spent the evening reclined on embroidered cushions at Peace and Love Bar, playing an elaborate murder mystery game with Ana, Cèdric, and their Spanish-speaking friends.

On Monday I decided, on Ana and Cèdric’s recommendation, to go kayaking. I didn’t really think much about it, but turned up promptly, donned a lifejacket, secured a paddle that still had most of its blades, and teamed up with David and Karen, a couple from the Czech Republic and Austria respectively. Things started out well enough. The Mekong flowed slowly, its wide trajectory occasionally broken by an island of foliage. Soon, however, the course became narrower. Our speed increased as the river picked its way between more substantial islands, changing direction as if it was trying to lose a pursuer. The calm waters became rapids, white spray gushed into our over-laden kayak, dragging us further under water. After an adrenaline-filled almost-capsize we made it to dry land, and visited the falls that I’d accidentally stumbled upon the previous day. We then rejoined our kayaks (we managed to secure a more buoyant vessel on this occasion) and paddled down to open water, where we caught the infrequent glimpse of a dolphin’s fin. By this point the sun was scorching my arms, a dull red began to creep over my skin, tingling as it intensified. I was glad to stop in the shade for lunch (and apply a tonne more suncream). Lulled by a full stomach, we lazily clambered into a sorngtaaou (a truck with benches) and were driven to the magnificent falls at  Khon Phapheng. The water was a mist of white, cascading down rocks that were luminous green at the base, graduating to a sturdy grey at the level the water couldn’t reach. It was unreal, like something out of a film set, and I had to consciously remind myself that what I was seeing was natural, physical, existing.

We then made our way back to the kayaks for the final time, just as the sun was beginning to make its descent. Exhausted, I flopped into a bar, waiting for some sensation or feeling to confirm that I still had my arms.

The transition from Cambodia to Laos has been more subtle than that from Vietnam to Cambodia. The landscape so far has been pretty similar, the people are just as friendly (and have the same wicked sense of humour), and even the bungalow that I stayed in on Don Det could have been on Koh Rong. Cambodia exceeded my expectations, where Vietnam failed to fulfill them. The sheer variety of environments, from the city, to the beach, to the jungle, brought with it a constantly renewed sense of adventure, and a fresh set of challenges. I met some great people (and one terrible one), sat on a lot of interminable buses, and learned how to do nothing. The scars of the recent past are still fresh in Cambodian minds, but so too is the determination to emerge from the ashes, and I really hope that the people can work through the difficulties presented by the current political situation, to rebuild the future that they deserve.

Jungle is massive.

The journey from Siem Reap to Kratie took eleven hours – at least this time I was expecting it. After a slightly sicky bus ride (eternal gratitude to the lady who gave me a plastic bag) I arrived, the Mekong glittering in the late afternoon sun. The hostel was quirky, owned by a young, though extensive family, and set right on the river front.

I woke up as the sun rose, and the sound of cars and motorbikes wafted through the open balcony door with increasing frequency. I joined forces with an American girl called Laurel, and together we hired bikes to make the sixteen kilometre journey to Kampi, to try and get a glimpse of some rare Irrawaddy dolphins. The ride was beautiful. We followed the river north, cycling down a tree-lined track past waving children and lowing cattle. The flat landscape stretched out into fields behind the Khmer houses (set on stilts), and a gentle breeze cooled our faces as the sun rose higher in the sky. We arrived at Kampi and hired a boat, which drove us through the swirling vortices of currents out to a shallow bay. We waited expectantly. We soon caught our first tentative glimpse of a fin. At intervals of three to four minutes, the dolphins would expose their smooth backs to the surface, spurting water before sliding back down into the river. Two started playing, chasing each other along the shore. Laurel and I tried valiantly to get a good photo, but the dolphins were too quick, teasing us with their dexterous changes of direction. It was a breathtaking experience, and we returned to the hostel satisfied and pleasantly tired.

The next morning I left Kratie, taking a juddery minivan to Ban Lung. Yes, it is possible to get nineteen people in a fourteen-seater vehicle, and as we tore along the bumpy track leaving a wake of red dust, I couldn’t help feeing very acclimatised to the Cambodian way of doing things. We arrived in Ban Lung just after 14:00. I hired a bike and cycled to the beautiful Boeing Yeak Laom; a gorgeous blue lake set in a crater. It was there that I bumped into Ana and Cèdric, the lovely (and very well-prepared) couple from Marseille. We took my bike back, and then drove to see the Katieng waterfall. It was spectacular; the the water gushed over the cliff in a thunderous sheet, settling into a deep pool below. We swam under the heavy curtain, blinded by the spray, deafened by the roar. We emerged shivering, drove back to town, and had dinner overlooking Kansaign lake.

I got up the next morning and was picked up to start a trek – literally picked up, in a pickup truck. Me, a forty-year-old Australian called Sonya, and a small, quiet lady called Phil all sat in the back, doing our best to swaddle ourselves against the burnished dust that was steadily coating our exposed skin. After an hour of bouncing along, we arrived at Kachoun Commune, where we took a boat down the wide Sesan river to the beginning of the trail. We hiked through the jungle, the vibrant green bamboo acting as a scaffold, propping up the leafy canopy above. Gnarled roots mischievously rose under my feet, and the fingers of low branches snagged in my hair, but after a few hours we made it to the waterfall where we were to set up camp for the night. This is when the first drama occurred. Sonya, experienced as she is in camping in the Cambodian jungle, wanted to stay across the river from the site which Sat (our guide) had intended for our use. She argued that her alternative was more open, less prone to mosquitoes, and had comfier rocks than the place that Sat had chosen. Phil and I were inclined to side with Sat, recognising him as the true authority in the matter, but Sonya was adamant, declaring that if we didn’t choose her site, she would go home. Goodness knows how she planned on doing that, but that’s immaterial. We set up camp, I went for a swim, calm was restored. We had a traditional minority dinner of meat and vegetables cooked in bamboo, and watched the jungle fade threateningly into darkness. Then it was time for the second drama. Sat asked us what the agency had told us would happen in the evening. Sonya mentioned a night walk, but Phil and I weren’t too keen. Sat warned us that if we were to take part, he couldn’t be held responsible if something happened – which Sonya took as a sign of his reluctance to lead us. She muttered something to the effect of “He just wants to get drunk,” very audibly, to which Sat understandably took offence. Sonya had already been moaning about the camp being dirty (which Sat had previously given as a reason for choosing the other site) and about the number of people at the waterfall (there were a few other groups – the falls are not available for private hire). This was the last straw for Sat, who perhaps partially inflamed by a drop of rice wine, launched a tirade at Sonya, calling her the worst tourist ever and a very bad person. I tried to diffuse the situation, understanding Sat’s frustration at Sonya’s degrading slander, but realising that he couldn’t really talk to a customer like that. I failed, and we ended up going to bed at 19:30. Happy New Year!

After a night spent on a rock (my hammock had some issues), I woke up in the dreary light of dawn, having still managed to secure about eight hours repose (I told you, I’m a great sleeper). Tensions were still prickling, when Sonya refused a coffee on account of the fact that the boiling (thus sterile) water, had come from the river. I then had the pleasure, over the next few hours, of hearing about Sonya’s experience “tracking” in “Mainmar”, how “ancient orange” had destroyed all of Cambodia’s avian population, how she had won an international postdoctoral award, how she lived in Bali for two years, how she worked closely with soil, and indigenous tribes, and could speak three tribal languages, and how an NGO should put a drop toilet at the waterfall, and blahblahblah. Eventually I squeezed out a response a bit too sharply, and she shut up. We walked through a rural village, talked, through Sat’s translation, to a few of the local women, visited the cemetery, where Sat explained the minority belief-system, and then sat by the river, watching women rigorously washing clothes, and children playing naked, sliding down the muddy bank. Our boat arrived and drove us back to the pickup truck, back to Banlung.

The jungle trek was a very bizarre experience – very enjoyable in and of itself, but I did, at times, feel like I was on I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here. Over the past few months I’ve developed an overwhelmingly positive attitude. Late buses, long delays, crappy dorms, stepping in crap (literally), persistent illness, dodgy food and getting ripped off are all things that no longer faze me – I don’t even get frustrated, but on the trek I discovered that there is still a limit to my patience. On the boat back I tried to think about how I should have dealt with my troublesome companion, and I didn’t really come up with an answer. Ultimately I guess I shouldn’t have got annoyed, but I’m never going to be a person who sits silently when she sees something wrong. I’m putting this down to life-experience, and am grateful for the exposure of this limitation while I’ve still got time to rectify it. I know I’ll never get on with everyone, but I can’t let someone’s negativity infiltrate my sunshiney bubble of happiness. Here’s a picture of us pretending that we’re friends. Let’s leave it at that.

Missedmas.

On Christmas Eve I arrived in sweaty Siem Reap (after fulfilling my tradition of watching The Muppet Christmas Carol on the bus) and immediately regretted my choice of hostel. It was nice; clean, shiny, quiet, but a bit too quiet. I peered into the void that was the atmosphere and asked myself, “Where are the people?” Despondent, I wandered around town and got something to eat (a surefire way to elevate my spirits). On my return, I saw two guys sitting outside; Alaskan Maurice and Columbian Oscar. I eagerly thrust my company upon them. We sat outside talking for hours, until it got dark. When it got dark, it stayed dark – the hostel was suffering from a power cut. Brian, the carefree and utterly inept Aussie who owns the place, cheerfully informed us that he had no idea when the power would be back, but that last time this happened, the outage lasted ten days. The utter hopelessness of the situation was hilarious – we likened it to a reality TV show, wherein a group of strangers with ornate personalities were forced into a pressurised situation to see who would crack first. We took everything in our stride, had a couple of beers, and by the time we left for Pub Street the lights were back on – Christmas was un-cancelled. We met up with Manuel, another sassy Columbian, and Andrea, a friendly Swedish girl, and danced into the early hours – it made a change from Midnight Mass.

We got up bright and early on Christmas Day – really early – 4:50, and with three hours of sleep obfuscating our consciousness, piled into a tuk-tuk headed for Angkor Wat. We arrived just as the temple was emerging from the shadows, and watched as the milky dawn spread across the sky, gradually revealing the most famous silhouette in Cambodia. We then explored Ta Prohm, the location used in Tomb Raider. Primordial trees grasped the ancient stone, the roots falling like a web over the rocks, squeezing the temple tightly in an arboreal embrace. The early morning light created a mystical atmosphere, the sound of birds and cicadas the only thing able to penetrate the heavy hush that sat over the site.

We then separated into two groups – Maurice and Andrea went back to the hostel, Oscar and I embarked on the Grand Circuit. We spent the next nine hours flitting from temple to temple, clambering over the uneven stone in thirty two degree heat. I had a disappointing Christmas Dinner of chicken and pineapple, and we eventually crashed mid-afternoon, glad to return to the cool marble of the frosty hostel. I spent the remainder of the day Skyping family, who savoured every detail of their delicious festive preparations, and proudly showed me the gifts they’d received (none of which were from me – sorry guys, I’ll bring you back some tourist tat). It was at this point that I checked my bank account, and for the first time in four months discovered an augmentation rather than a diminishment. I thanked everyone profusely, and zealously began plotting out another month or so of travel. I went to bed pretty early, watching Love Actually as my eyes began to droop. It had been a good day, but I would have given anything to teleport home, just for twenty four hours.

Boxing Day was, conforming with another tradition, recovery day – but on this occasion it was fatigue rather than overeating that was the root of my sloth. I slept late, had a leisurely breakfast with Manuel, and just sat in a comfy chair on the terrace, watching the day pass. In the evening Maurice and I went to see an Apsara show. The gorgeous costumes and enchanting movements transported us to an ancient time. The beautiful women flexed their fingers back in elegant arches, stretched their hyper-extended elbows, and seamlessly transferred their weight as they walked across the stage, to give the impression that they were gliding. The dancers were a reification of the images we’d seen carved in the stone of the temples. Their balance and control was breathtaking, and it was only when the dance was over that our hypnosis was broken.

The following day I cycled back to the temples, accompanied by Justin, an American teaching English in Korea. We made an early start, but were disappointed to find Angkor Wat already groaning under the feet of hoards of tourists. We visited the tranquil faces of Bayon, and the Terrace of Elephants and Leper Kings, but at this point the heat got too much, and we cycled back to town.

It’s been a strange Christmas. This has been the most difficult part of my trip so far, and while I’ve had a good few days and met some fantastic, generous people (thank you), it wasn’t like being at home. I missed the build-up, the anticipation, the excitement, the joy, the gratitude, and the love of Christmas, and while I was able to speak to friends and family, I wasn’t able to feel that magical festive sensation. You never know how much you appreciate these things until they’re absent. This is a lesson learnt – I’m not going to miss another Christmas.

Busy in Battambang.

Battambang is really quite far from Sihanoukville. After thirteen and a half hours spent on buses, passing endless scrubby countryside and listening to lilting Cambodian karaoke hits with bewildering videos, I arrived at the hostel, exhausted and sore from sustained confinement. I slept well (as I normally do) and in the morning got a tuk-tuk to another hostel to meet some girls that I first became acquainted with on the bus from Kep to Sihanoukville. Together we made our way to the famed Bamboo Train – a comical motorised raft of bamboo, set on a single track, which is periodically dismantled when there’s a ‘carriage’ coming the other way. We chugged along at considerable speed, jolting rhythmically over the misaligned rivets, before arriving at a strip of tourist shops, and chugging back – the abortive futility of the track an obscure metaphor for Cambodia’s attempts to rebuild its future with the ‘help’ of NGOs.

Our fab driver, DJ, took us back into town, where we wandered through the soporific market and past faded colonial buildings to a bizzare little shop owned by a Canadian/American/Australian expat, whose primary business is making curtain tassels, but who is also a food writer and soy sauce expert. We followed his recommendation for lunch, and then got back in the tuk-tuk to go to the Killing Caves. The calm of the mountain at Phnom Sampeau belied the horrors of its past. We climbed up a road that gradually got steeper as the flat countryside spread like a puddle at its base. We reached a temple, adorned with vivid murals of scenes from Buddhist theology, and then followed a narrow path down to the cave. My stomach sank as we descended, the eery calm sitting heavily on our consciences. We reached the bottom, and beheld the two bone-filled stupas, bearing the pitiful remnants of some of the victims who died there. When the atmosphere got too much, we left the cave and stumbled down the mountain, just in time to see a relentless stream of bats begin to flow out of a crevice in the rock. A thin film of screeching was barely audible, as the tiny black dots flowed uniformly out of the cave, dissipating occasionally at a tuk-tuk horn, but soon reassuming their positions. We stood in awe, wondering how so many hundreds of bats could fit in one cave. They’re pretty small, maybe that’s how.

When the stream had slowed to a periodic drip of bat, we left the caves, driving over to the Phare Ponleu Selpak Circus – an organisation set up to teach underprivileged children performance skills and creative arts. I had low expectations, not having heard anything about the project, but I was pleasantly astounded by the daring acrobatics, concentrated strength, and humourous slapstick. My heart was in my mouth when a fire-dancer dropped his baton, and there were times when it seemed like the tumblers wouldn’t be caught, but if anything that added to the whole experience. The enthusiasm and enjoyment of the teenage performers was unfaltering; the musicians joining in the hearty laughter of the audience. It was a great night, and I was exhausted when I finally made it back to my bed, the dancers and acrobats still swinging through my head.

I was up early the next day to go on a bike tour of the villages surrounding Battambang. I met my guide, Chan Reas, and after it transpired that I was the only one on the tour, we set off. We passed local markets, yellow rice fields, and even a couple of unexpected mosques, as we chatted away, questioning each other about cultural traditions, religious beliefs, and future aspirations. We visited a few local producers who made noodles, rice paper, dried banana, rice wine, and rice cakes, and then went to smell the biggest fish-paste market in the city, but these pitstops were ancillary, only serving to temporarily disrupt our conversation. We returned thirty two kilometres later, swapped Facebook details, and said a reluctant goodbye.

After a brief rest at the hostel, I was driven to Nary’s Kitchen, were I’d signed up to a cooking class. I had been a bit disappointed with the one I did in Hoi An, so thought I’d have another go, and I’m so glad I did. Toot took me and Reva, a girl from Seattle, to the market, where we saw the familiar collage of vegetables, wriggling fish, and slabs of meat, but in addition we saw how coconut milk was made by squeezing the grated white flesh through a machine. We then returned to the kitchen, where over a period of a few hours we stiltingly managed to create fried spring rolls, fish amok, beef lok lak, and a coconut banana dessert. It was utterly delicious, and my sense of achievement was much greater on this occasion, the class having been more hands on. My chances of success in recreating my masterpieces is also greater, because I could take the recipes home with me in a book. I returned to the hostel stuffed and knackered, and reflected that maybe I’d been a bit ambitious in trying to squeeze Battambang into two days. It’s a lovely town, with a prescient and active expat community, but a well-retained charm. I’ve been very busy after my lazy beach-mongering, but it feels good to be moving again, and to feel like I’m making good use of my (not very constrained) time.

It’s all gone Koh Rong.

I arrived at the pier in Sihanoukville, only to be told that the boat was delayed due to strong winds. Unperturbed, I sat with two Swedish girls and waited for more information. An hour later the boat arrived, and we strategically chose seats in the middle to avoid the worst of the spray. The journey started out well enough, but we soon got caught in the ravages of the winds. The boat rocked from side to side as the four-metre waves surged beneath the hull. We were offered plastic bags as the sickly smoke from the diesel engine seeped on deck, making the irregular movement of the boat almost unbearable. My stomach skipped as the waves nonchalantly tossed us in the air, the propellers occasionally losing contact with the water, and all the time I was counting the minutes until it would be over. We mercifully arrived a couple of hours later, and me and the girls managed to get a bungalow to share. We were later joined by Jessica, who Louise knew from home, and a couple from Marseille that the former had met on her own horrific boat journey across the water. The six of us divided into two beds, and because of the intensity of our ordeal, the fresh sea air, or a couple of glasses of wine, we all slept soundly.

The next day we got up refreshed, to tackle the one-hour hike through the jungle to the esoteric Long Beach. The path was easy enough to follow, minus a few humongous boulders and shaley inclines, but we made good time and soon arrived on the other side. The beach isn’t really esoteric at all – it is, as the name suggests, very long. It’s just the difficulty in getting there that renders it almost uninhabited. We were relieved to reach the cool water and rinse the sweat off our shining faces. We bobbed in the turquoise waves, unable to comprehend why more people wouldn’t make the trek. After a while we decided to walk to the small village at the other end of the white sand. We walked, and walked, and walked a bit more before realising the scale of the task we had undertaken. The harder we tried to make progress, the more we felt that we weren’t moving at all. After about an hour we crumpled into a small restaurant on a pier at the opposite end of the beach, greedily devoured some amok, and had a little nap in some soft round cushions. Semi-revitalised, we managed to summon the courage and strength to get back to the top of the beach, and find a boat to take us home after the sunset. At the moment I’m watching sunsets like other people watch the six-o’clock news, but I’ll always appreciate their beauty. Once the sky had turned an inky black, we stepped into the water and were able to see phosphorescent specks of plankton glittering in the water like stars. It was beautiful.

It was at this point that we acknowledged our growing concern for the absence of our boat. We found the guy that had sold us the tickets, but he was clueless. By now we could only distinguish shadows in the darkness. We paced up and down the sand like agitated lions, our impatience trickling into anxiety. We formed an action plan of phoning the hostel and getting them to find us a boat, but just at the last moment, a light began to grow brighter as it drew towards us. It was a large cargo boat, dropping off supplies for the bar. After some confusion it transpired that this was indeed the boat to take us back, but only after we’d helped unload – we happily complied, glad to expend out nervous energy. The size of the boat meant that it couldn’t get very close to the shore. This posed a new problem, given that many of us had electronics in our bags, and couldn’t swim out. This was solved by the use of a large tub half filled with water, which six of us could sit in at a time. The locals and Cèdric hauled us out to the boat, where we gratefully scrambled up to comparable safety. The waves gleefully toyed with us along the way, but by this point all we could think of was getting back. After an age, the lights of the main beach welcomed us back to civilisation. We celebrated our return with an Eighties Night, held at the bar where we were staying. I bumped into the London lads (there’s no such thing as goodbye) and we all danced into the early hours, until the power was cut off.

The next day was reserved for recovery – we were locked in a hazy cycle of eating and sleeping, which had the potential to be perpetual. The only excitement was the brief disappearance of my flipflops. I found them an hour later on the feet of a Cambodian guy that works at the bungalows – excellent detective work if I do say so myself. Our boat left at 10:00 the next morning. We were slightly surprised to find that our vessel was doubling as a rubbish truck, appointed to take a mountain of sprawling black sacks to the mainland for disposal, but we shrugged this off as a “classic Cambodia” moment, and found a spot on the deck. It was actually quite nice to sit in the sun, until two monstrous waves crushed over the side of the boat, engulfing us in their watery jaws. At this point we moved to the back, preferring the smell of decomposing waste to the threat of wet valuables. After two hours we reached the mainland, but not the port that we had anticipated. We patiently hauled ourselves into some trucks, and once seventeen of us (plus bags) had been slotted in (Cèdric forced to stand, clinging to a metal bar above his head), we made the short journey into town. We were too late to catch a bus out, so resigned ourselves to a night in Sihanoukville, but to cheer ourselves up, we caught a tuk-tuk to Otres to watch that sunset one more time. Leaving Otres gave me the same sinking feeling that I had on the morning that I left Oxford. These two sentiments should have been diametrically incomparable, but they weren’t. I guess it’s always hard to leave somewhere you love, no matter how long you’ve been there. We walked down to the hippie-commune-market, but didn’t stay long. Ana had sunstroke and I was grating myself away, failing to abstain from scratching the plague of bedbug/sandfly bites that I’ve sustained over the past few days. We returned to Sihanoukville, where I discovered that the charger for my tablet and phone was broken, and went to bed.

Cèdric saved the day again in the morning by waking me up after my phone alarm failed me (for obvious reasons). We said goodbye to Olivia, made it to the bus, and went as far as Phnom Penh, where Ana and Cèdric, and I parted ways (after I had been kindly furnished with a replacement charger, by the most prepared travellers in the world). A few niggling inconveniences have started to occur, but considering I’m nearly four months in, that’s to be expected. The good thing is they can be resolved. I have a new charger, industrial bite cream, and the drive to keep going. At the moment I don’t need much else.

Beached.

A minibus arrived two hours later than anticipated to take me to Sihanoukville. I’m learning some travel tactics, like to take the front seat when available – you have more space and benefit from the air-conditioning. As we drove through the countryside I felt really comfortable – and not just because I had lots of room. A sense of reassurance, acceptance and peace infiltrated my thoughts, as I admired the green fields and the small villages – for no ostensible reason. We arrived at our destination, where I immediately took a tuk-tuk twenty minutes down the coast to the secluded beach of Otres 2. I’d heard negative reviews about Serendipity, which is closer to the centre, so decided to stay further out. I’m so glad I did. I arrived at the hostel, which is right on the beach, and watched the sunset with a couple of Dutch girls, and a group of cheeky London chappies that I’d met briefly in Kampot. Their witty rejoinders glistened with hilarious similes, impossible metaphors, polished one-liners and impenetrable slang – their linguistic acrobatics made my head spin.

In the evening we all piled into a tuk-tuk (having negotiated the price with a game of “Rock, Paper, Scissors”) and headed to the Night Market. It was unlike any other that I’ve visited. We passed through a fairy-lit archway, into a small square bustling with people. It was a festival, run by a commune of expats. Gourmet food stands offered Italian sausage, French baguettes, wood-fired pizzas and chocolate fondue. A spoken-word performer, an acoustic guitarist, and a didgeridoo coterie all offered their talents to the audience, who were sat captivated on reed mats. We drank cocktails as we took in the bizarre scene in front of us, admiring the outlandish calibre of our comrades (one of whom wore a pineapple on her head), and getting sucked in to the intoxicating ambience. We eventually went home, and I fell asleep in an open dorm, listening to the waves crash on the beach below.

The next morning I made the spontaneous decision to go with the group to Koh Ta Kiev – a small island just off the coast. The boat dropped us off in paradise. Coral Beach was bedecked with hammocks, pontoons and cushions, where you could sit and lose all concept of time and reality. The French couple who own the place are chefs, and plied us with gorgeous salads, fresh tuna, and addictive mojitos. We played volleyball, swam, napped, talked and laughed until the stars peeped out of their velvet cloak. I fell asleep watching the twinkling lights from the safety of my hammock, unable to accept the Elysian reality that I’m living.

Another morning passed imperceptibly on the island in a haze of sunshine and sea, but after lunch it was time for us to return to the world. We reluctantly got on the boat and arrived back at Otres, where we moulded into the beach and watched the sunset – to be honest reality still felt pretty far away.

The following day Nina, Anne, Theresa and I felt like it was time to be a bit more active, so we took the hour-long walk along the beach to Sihanoukville. As the waves splashed our ankles we began to notice the brilliant serenity of Otres 2 fading into the more resort-like Otres 1, with its beach bungalows and wide choice of restaurants, before completely discolouring into the smelly, scummy beach of the ironically named Serendipity Beach. Tacky restaurants and grimy bars boasted western food and drinks deals, exhaling the stale aroma of alcohol and urine, as their patrons gazed blearily out of the shadow. We got to the town, made some purchases, and got out as quickly as we could. It was a relief to return to our paradise, and I couldn’t help pitying the people staying in Sihanoukville, when Otres is only a little way further up the coast. I spent my last night gazing up at the moon from my bed, battling with the desire to stay in paradise, and the compulsion to move on.

I can definitely say that I’ve relaxed over the past few days – to the point where I’ve found myself sinking away from purpose, obligation, and reason. Beaches are more enjoyable when you have people to hang out with, and I’ve loved being part of such a fun-loving, ever-joking, belly-laughing group. It was hard to say goodbye, but even harder to believe that we won’t cross paths again.

Learning to relax.

Kep is a sleepy seaside town thirty minutes away from Kampot. I took a minibus to the ‘centre’, and on this occasion deigned to let myself be transported to the hostel. After a couple of attempts I managed to rent a bicycle (I’ve learnt that if someone says something isn’t possible, available, or close by, it usually is) and cycled past a kitch crab statue to the beach.

I bought a coconut, and sat supping its milk as the fine sand blew into my hair and eyes. After recovering from the mortification of asking a complete stranger to put suncream on my back, I started to chill out, alternating between Victor Hugo’s ‘Les Misèrables’, and brief naps. I find relaxing extremely difficult, especially on beaches. I pedantically time how long I’ve been lying on each side, so as not to burn unevenly, and I spend a lot of time thinking about how I should be enjoying myself, but really how I’m very hot, and sweaty, and sandy, and self-conscious, and worried about leaving my stuff unattended, and burning. After a couple of hours I gave up and cycled to the crab market. Shacks of corrugated iron were daringly poised above the impatient waves, teasing them with the inevitability of eventually tumbling into the briny depths. These unassuming shacks were in fact restaurants; I resolved to try one out. In the evening I returned with my friend Chiara, who I met while canyoning in Dalat. We watched the sunset from the pier, and then had a beer as the sky transmorphed through a kaleidoscope, eventually tiring and melting into darkness. When we were unable to contain our anticipation further, we went next door to try the local specialty – crab with Kampot pepper. Presented with two gargantuan plates of crustacean, we sank into heaven with every bite; the subtle flavour of the meaty crab augmented and improved by the perfectly balanced sauce. We couldn’t have been more content.

Fully satisfied, we walked back into town – a necessity that was rendered more exciting by the absence of streetlights. The universe exploded into view, like a glass shattered into a billion pieces. The stars seemed to roll over our heads, as if they were being shown on a projector; they seemed impossibly bright, and impossibly close. We eventually reached civilisation, and the light pollution forced the zenith back into obscurity. We hailed a tuk-tuk, and got back to a hostel, where a very French party was beginning to flicker into life. I’m an expert sleeper, and managed to maintain unconsciousnness through most of it. I was occasionally roused by a particularly enthusiastic chorus, but otherwise remained peacefully oblivious.

The following morning I took a boat to the confusingly named Rabbit Island. There are no rabbits, and it’s not shaped like a rabbit, but maybe there is some esoteric reasoning behind its appellation. The tiny boat deposited us on the sand, and I quickly found a bungalow in which to drop my things. The flimsy bamboo walls revealed furtive glimpses of the sea outside, and of my own personal hammock swinging in the breeze. I met a French group, and managed to persuade Cècile and Sarah to join me on an intrepid circumnavigation of the island. We stumbled over jagged rocks, fought our way through clinging ferns, and waded through squelching kelp to find a deserted beach, occupied only by a couple gathering their fishing nets. We swam in the shallow waters, awestruck by beauty and solitude. We returned from our sojourn two hours later, and I spent the rest of the day swinging in a hammock, until a dusky pink strip descend on the shoreline, plummeting us into darkness.

I woke up at six, and swung mechanically as I watched the sun begin to peep over the jungle, and the island flicker into life. A family of playful puppies sat with me as staff swept the sandy pathways and replenished the empty drinks cabinet. I decided against taking a morning boat back to the mainland, and instead worked on my ‘beach-relaxation’ skills, which are visibly improving. I got back to Kep in the evening, and enjoyed a delicious vegetable curry with some expats (picking up a few local tips at the same time), before chilling out in the hostel with some more Gallic travellers – I’m speaking a lot more French than I’d anticipated; at least I’m using my brain in some capacity.

The following morning I visited the local market, on the recommendation of the expats. I had noodle soup for breakfast, with diverse meat-parts that rendered every mouthful a surprise. As I was walking back to the hostel I saw an old pier, constructed of mismatched planks that shifted tauntingly under my weight. A group of young girls laughed at my instability, before taking my hand and offering to share their breakfast. They posed for the camera, laughing as their hair blew into their faces. Then it was time for me to leave.

It’s been a very chilled few days. I like the ambience of Kep a lot – it feels very authentic. The absence of WiFi, herds of cows crossing the road, and children playing with kites made of plastic bags have made me feel a lot more like an active observer than a traveller – which is really what I want to be. I’m learning to slow my pace, and to enjoy the luxuries of time and leisure, but it does feel unnatural – even after three months. My next stops are also going to be beachy – perhaps after a bit more practice I’ll be able to relax like a normal person.

Kampot calm.

I was glad to escape the chaos of Phnom Penh after an intense few days. We rocketed through the flat countryside, which was occasionally punctuated by the slender form of solitary coconut trees, heading south to Kampot. I arrived in the early afternoon, and as usual was promptly accosted by a swarm of tuk-tuk drivers. My reaction to this is always quite defensive – probably unnecessarily so, but regardless, I defiantly refused assistance and started walking (be-backpacked and boiling) by the river. About fifteen minutes later I arrived at my hostel, drenched. I apologised for the sweat dripping off my nose onto the receipt for my dorm, dumped my bag, then meandered back into town, grateful for the absence of my burden. I walked past dilapidated colonial buildings, the yellow prison cowering behind rusty barbed wire, the cinema boarded up, shedding its peeling paint. The pace of life here is much quieter. The endless flow of Phnom Penh motorbikes has been replaced by the occasional solitary buzz, melting into silence as it flies out into the countryside. As I walked down the sun-blanched alleys, people watched me from their shaded hammocks. One old woman grinned at me toothlessly as she extracted sugarcane juice, stutteringly churning her heavy iron handle. I did a few circuits of the town, with a pitstop at Kampot Pie and Ice Cream Palace (yes, it was as glorious as it sounds) before heading back to the hostel to submerge myself in the pool. I had a relaxed evening in the bar, taking full advantage of the shockingly good Western fare, and the sugary cocktails. Mercifully I remembered my Grandad’s birthday, so had a homely Skype session, before benefitting from a luxurious sleep in a double-non-bunk-bed – the kind that dreams are made of.

The following day I was collected by a minibus, which drove us the short distance to Bokor National Park. As we wound up the mountain, the sea became visible, stretching away from the mainland until it lapped the shores of the islands just off Kep, and even the Vietnamese-owned Phu Quoc, which was a silhouette in the distance. From our vantage point we could see the flat land carved geometrically in to golden rice fields nearing the harvest, and aqueous salt plains, glistening near the sea’s edge. The wind deafened us as we looked out, whipping our hair across our faces, and keeping us cool under the hot sun.

We then visited the Popkokvil Falls, where water reddened by iron cascaded down in sheets. Temporarily sheltered from the wind, it was now the sound of gushing water that rang in our ears. We dipped our feet in the cool water, trying not to slip on the rocks worn smooth as ice by incessant pounding. Afterwards, we scrambled back up to the minivan, which took us to the ‘Ghost Town’. Built in the 1920s, the Bokor Palace casino, church, school and police station were abandoned after they became the site of conflict between the Vietnamese and the Khmer Rouge. The windowless structures gawped at the vistas below, having succumbed to the ravages of graffiti and lichen. A peace had settled on the place, which may formerly have been just as vibrant as the new casino complex that has been built just down the road.

We were driven back to Kampot, where we had a couple of hours to use to our benefit (never kill). I thought I’d try a blind massage. I had mixed feelings about the concept, recognising it as profitable employment for the masseurs, but equally aware of the potential for their exploitation. I thought I’d see for myself. I was taken into an air conditioned room and offered some cotton pyjamas. The masseur was then guided in and began to feel for the position of my body. He then began to work into my densest knots, applying a firm pressure that manipulated the muscles and tendons connected all the way along my arms and back. He clearly knew what he was doing, and I emerged feeling very stretched and clicked, though still confused about whether I approved of the idea. I then rejoined the group to board a small boat that would take us downriver. The sun set as we slowly chugged along, the sky awash with pink, blue and yellow. The palm trees presented an exotic skyline, bordering the rippling silk of the water. Once darkness had set in, we began to imagine we were seeing sporadic flashes of candescence peppered among the trees. The glow of the fireflies faded in and out rhythmically, like my favourite setting on the Christmas tree lights. I disembarked shrouded in a warm sense of calm, completely relaxed by our immersion in nature. I had dinner with a lovely Dutch girl called Lisa Marie, and we listened to some terrible live music before sharing a tuk-tuk back to the hostel, where the luxury of my room was augmented by me being the solo occupant of the dorm – a phenomenon that I haven’t enjoyed since Datong, about two months ago. Bliss.

Tam biêt, Sua s’dai.

Another month has passed, another visa has expired. Vietnam has been very easy to navigate, thanks to the well-establised tourism industry, but I don’t think that this is necessarily a good thing. There hasn’t really been a situation where I’ve been challenged. Everyone speaks English, everything is easily available, and everything works pretty much as it should. It seems perverse to see this as a negative, but I think the ease of travelling this country has a downside in that it seems to attract people that like to be comfortable. Ho Chi Minh boasts multiple KFCs, Burger Kings, McDonald’s’ and Pizza Huts; it would be entirely possible never to dip into a pho or crunch a bahn mi. In light of this, Vietnam hasn’t really felt very foreign. I’ve been surrounded by other travellers whose foray into the local culture begins and ends with bia hoi (fresh beer), and whose idea of a busy day is one that starts before the hostel breakfast is closed. I’m fully aware that this sounds a bit snobby, but I just think that it’s a massive shame that people are missing the gems that are on offer, even if they are set in the tarnished silver of a package tour.Trekking in Sapa, cycling in Hue, canyoning in Dalat and windsurfing in Mui Ne were definite highlights, partially because they were incompatible with the interests of hungover laze monsters. I’m not saying that it’s stupid to drink when you travel, I’m saying it’s stupid to let drink limit your travel. Nevertheless, it’s a testament to Vietnam that it can cater to the multifarious tastes of the tourists who visit, and I’m sure that everyone is able to tailor an experience to suit them, or else to experience a tailored suit.

I hopped on the bus at 08:30, and was pleasantly surprised by the wide leather seats, the cool air-conditioning, and the passable WiFi. After a couple of hours, we arrived at the border, Moc Bai. We scanned our bags, then stood in a confused huddle. After about thirty-five minutes, our passports were handed back to the guide, and we went through to the Cambodian side. This also passed without incident, although we were slightly concerned as to why we were leaving our passports with the guide, and getting on the bus without him. We stopped five minutes up the road for lunch, during which time the driver got a call saying that there were problems with four of the visas. All five western people were herded back to the border on motorbikes, myself included. It soon transpired that those who had e-visas needed to be photographed and sign something. I just got a visa at the border, so had a bit of a wasted journey, but it made things exciting. We finally arrived in Phnom Penh just after 16:00. I employed my first tuk-tuk, and forced my society on a group that I met at the hostel. We had a lovely evening walking by the river as the sun was setting, and I enjoyed my first a mouk, before a much-needed sleep.

The next day I went downstairs and met Anna and Katharina, and together we set out to see the sights. We wandered down to the disappointing Knotted Gun Monument, then came back along the river, stopping for lunch at the ‘Friends’ cafe, set up to offer Cambodian street-children skills and employment. Feeling satisfied in our bellies and hearts, we split up. Katharina and I visited the National Museum, which is filled with artefacts taken from Angkor Wat. The detail of the sculptures was magnificent, and I can’t wait to experience the grandeur of the temples themselves. We then sweltered over to the Royal Palace. I didn’t realise that it wasn’t just religious sites that you need to cover up for in Cambodia, so I was sweating even more, wrapped in my black raincoat. The palace was heaving – it was almost like being back in China. It took us a couple of attempts to understand why the Silver Pagoda is so called (because of the silver tiles that pave the floor, but that are mischievously obscured by a red carpet), and to take in the beauty of the Buddha statue that contains 9584 diamonds. We filed past various stupas and shrines (so in hindsight maybe it was a religious site after all), before accepting defeat and dragging ourselves home.

Later that evening Katharina and I went to the night market. I’m ashamed to say I purchased another terrible traveller t-shirt – the kind that I formerly resolved never to buy. It was the easiest bartering I’ve encountered so far, the saleswoman promptly accepting my first offer, and with a sense of achievement, and regret at not starting lower, we sat on some mats nibbling on street food, watching locals and foreigners alike flow through the narrow alleys, looking for a bargain.

This morning Hannah, Freya, Rebecca and I hired a tuk-tuk together to visit the Killing Fields at Choeung Ek; one of the three-hundred sites in Cambodia where Pol Pot ordered men, women and children to be killed and buried in mass graves. The audio guide carefully led us through the site, offering a touchingly personal narration of the horrific events that occurred there only forty years ago. The peaceful orchard and fluttering butterflies belied the horrors of what lay beneath the earth; bones and rags continuing to be exposed in the soil by the rains. We walked in silence, taking in the sickening information being presented to us. Four people remain on trial for crimes against humanity, but many have escaped retribution through death by natural causes, including Pol Pot himself. Twenty-thousand people are thought to have died at Choeung Ek, and in total three-million Cambodians were wiped out – over a quarter of the population.

With these figures still ringing in our ears, we visited the Tuol Sleng Prison, where many of the people who died at the Killing Fields were detained. Countless photographs were displayed, some people wide-eyed with fear, others with their eyes closed in pain. Many looked broken, resigned, defiant, scared, numb, but some smiled. The naive innocence of children was the hardest thing to witness. One mother even held her newborn baby in her arms. We filed through the narrow cells and read the miraculous testimonies of the seven survivors, before heading back to the hostel to reflect on what we’d seen.

Phnom Penh has been a haunting introduction to Cambodia. In many ways, it doesn’t feel like a capital city. Piles of rubbish are strewn across the streets, paths are broken or inaccessible, thanks to platoons of parked motorbikes, and poverty seems to be more common than affluence. But it isn’t as loud or brusque as Ho Chi Minh City. The history of this city is etched in the memories of those who lived through its horrors, and that gives a very distinct character to the place; it is eager to move forward, whilst keeping the past painfully visible.