sihanoukville and phnom penh

I've just spent the last three days in Sihanoukville on the Cambodian coast. I've come away with a sense of affection for the place, and would even like to return there some day. There's not an awful lot to see and do down there, but there is a lovely undeveloped beach, and the feeling of having escaped for a while from the rest of the world. On my first day I concentrated on relaxing. On my second day I rested. The third day I spent relaxing and resting.

When not gazing at the lush and gorgeous view of Victory Beach from my hotel on the hillside (a view beautiful even in rain), I did manage to do one or two things.

On Sunday, I jumped on a moto, and caught a ride down to the Seeing Hands Massage Centre. 'Seeing Hands' raises funds to empower disabled Cambodians. It is administered by highly skilled blind masseurs and is a great way to wind down.

My masseur was a small and quiet blind woman, whose diminutive figure masked her superhuman strength. At the beginning she asked me 'soft or hard,' and I replied foolishly the latter. When the hour was up, and I was battling desperately to re-establish semi-consciousness, I spluttered, 'thanks, that was great, err, sorry, I mean "aw kahn."'

Another accomplishment was made when I visited the local market and bought some durian fruit. Michael Palin ate durian in one of his travel series, and ever since watching him chomp on the soft innards of the infamous fruit I've wanted to try it myself. Durian is notorious for its offensive smell, and is banned outright in a number of South East Asian public spaces for this reason, but the taste is good and that's why people eat it.

I found a stall stacked with durian and bartered hard with the woman on the stall. After about two minutes, having achieved no discount whatsoever, I gave in and bought an entire fruit (a kilo) for two dollars. I then took it down to the beach and set to work. For the record, I didn't think it smelt particularly bad at all. It did have a slight pungence, but it didn't put me off eating it, and didn't make me want to wretch. I ate about four large pieces until I began to feel sick from over eating. The fruit was soft and succulent, and had a nice but eventually sickly taste. It felt a bit like biting through dough to eat.

Feeling full, I still had about a hundred segments left, so I shared them with the kids on the beach selling bracelets. They duly informed me that the name of the fruit is pronounced 'du-rain' in Cambodia not 'durian,' and devoured the segments faster than Jaws could get through a couple of Amity teenagers.

Yesterday, I caught the bus back up to Phnom Penh to begin preparing to move on to Vietnam (I'm going on Saturday). I've seen everything I'm going to see in Cambodia and it's time to move on.

I'm staying at the Narin Guesthouse, which is located directly opposite the Phnom Penh Maternity Unit. So the street outside is populated with heavily pregnant women, all waddling backwards and forwards. From the balcony of my hotel I can see across to the hospital balconies where Cambodian men pace up and down saying into their mobile phones, 'it's a boy,' or, 'it's a girl,' or, 'it's been thirty hours, and this bloody thing is taking longer than the QE2 to launch.' They all seem very calm I must say.

Today is a pretty easy day. I've got to write this blog (done), and collect my washing. I also need to go and get a new book from the bookshop opposite the Royal Palace, and to investigate pricings for one-way tickets to Vietnam. Bit of an 'administrative' day ahead.

my criteria for selecting hotels

In line with my public service remit, and to be helpful, I've made a list of things to consider, in no particular order, when renting a room in a guesthouse or hotel in South-East Asia based on my recent experiences.

These are the questions I always ask myself before uttering the magic words, 'I'll take it.' Perhaps you would like to consider them too the next time you go away?

concerning the prospective room...

1. When first inspecting the room, is there anything moving apart from the ceiling fan? (Look particularly on the floor).

2. In the bathroom, if there is one, what colour is the water when you turn on the taps? If brown you may want to keep looking. Is there a complimentary off-white stale towel by the shower with which to dry yourself?

3. Is there a television? If so, does it have mad local channels you can watch?

4. Does the bed have sheets, and what colour are they? Is this what colour they were originally?

5. Does the room cost the equivalent of a pint of beer in the UK, or, preferrably, less? If not walk away classing the establishment as 'needlessly extravagant.'

concerning the hotel premises...

6. Hotel layout. How irrational is the hotel? The more irrational the better. This adds character. Weird room arrangements, eclectic pictures on the walls, posters and signs containing badly worded English, are all plus points.

7. Is there a hotel laundry service able to wash, and return, your clothes, in much the same condition as you submitted them, within twenty four hours? If so don't knock it. It's the best you'll get.

8. Does the hotel sign say either 'English owned' or 'Aussie owned' underneath? If so do not proceed. This is a deal breaker. They might as well call themselves 'Xenophobe Guesthouse.'

9. Does the hotel have a collection of books in the foyer containing popular titles in French, German and Russian, but not English. If so, again don't knock it. It's the best you''ll get.

concerning hotel 'people'...

10. Hotel clientele. Do they have dreadlocks? Are they wearing items of clothing which make reference to Bob Marley even though they are white and middleclass? Do they have a guitar? If so do not proceed.

11. Is the entrance of the hotel camped out with taxi drivers waiting to pounce on guests? This can be a good and bad thing, but something to consider.

12. Are the owners and employees as mad a box of frogs? If so, good. More character. The Chada Guesthouse scored highly on this one for me thanks to their certifiable cleaning lady.

13. Are fifteen Cambodian women in mini-skirts and boob tubes sitting in the hotel foyer at all times? If so do not proceed - this is not, repeat not, a hotel.

concerning the local area...

14. Local amenities. How far away is the nearest available Mars bar? How much does it cost?

15. How cheap are the local internet cafes? Will they make out you've asked them to undertake a task akin to disposing of a dead body if you ask politely to upload a few photographs from your digital camera?

16. And finally, most important for the end of the day, where's the nearest draft Angkor beer and bar stool? Again, if there are fifteen women in mini-skirts and boob tubes sitting in the bar at all times do not proceed. It is not, repeat not, just a bar.

the legend of ya-mao

'Beach town,' 'port community,' 'fledgling resort destination,' - all describe Sihanoukville, my current home, and Cambodia's premier beach town. However, it is more than these things. It is also a land of strange, and slightly rude, legend...

At the crest of the Oich Nil Pass on National Route 4 dozens of small spirit houses line the road. These are maintained for Ya-Mao, the deity who, many here believe, oversees the southern coastal region of Cambodia.

According to legend, Ya-Mao was the wife of a village chief near Sihanoukville. Her husband was forced by his work to spend months away from her on the island of Koh Kong. One rainy season she grew lonely, and took a Koh Kong bound boat to meet him. On the way the boat was swept away in a storm, drowning everybody, including Ya-Mao.

After her death her spirit proved powerful and, through dreams and spirit possessions, she made it known she was overseeing the southern coast from above, and protecting the fishermen and villagers. In return, she required only their good behaviour and the occasional offering of phallic symbols.

And people do just this. When travelling Route 4 into Sihanoukville, many display 'phallic' bananas on their dashboard in homage, and then offer bananas, incense, and a little money to Ya-Mao when they pass Pich Nil. The offerings are usually made with a prayer for safe travel. The Ya-Mao shrine at Pich Nil is also covered in hands of bananas, and phallic symbols can be seen on the beaches of Southern Cambodia near fishing villages, often in the form of a stick and incense stuck in the sand under a tree. Wat Khrom in Sihanoukville maintains a small but significant temple for Ya-Mao.

Why Ya-Mao makes such a demand is a matter of debate. Some people say that the male phallus was what she was seeking in her ill-fated trip and she still desires it. Others argue that she is angry with men in general, because she died trying to get to her husband, and wants them as an offering symbolising severed manhood. Sidestepping the debate, some more conservative, and perhaps naive, members of the community maintain that Ya-Mao just likes bananas, and that's all there is to it!

Who knows the truth, but now at least the next time you drive through Sihanoukville, and see bananas all over the place you'll know why.

it's raining

I couldn't do much yesterday except stay in my hotel and watch cable TV and read The Day of the Jackal (which I've now finished) because it was raining hard outside.

Amongst other things, I watched the film 'Napoleon Dynamite,' some American wrestling, and 'Larry King Live' on CNN. Still marooned in the afternoon, I went downstairs and helped the guy behind the reception counter re-design the hotel's promotional literature on his computer so that the English was correct.

I had been planning to come down to Sihanoukville (which is where I am now) on the train, the attraction being that I could have ridden on the roof. This had to be vetoed as too risky: my passport and other vital documents could have been ruined had I been on top of the train during a downpour. I'm a bit upset about this.

Instead, I paid a guy to drive me down here in his white Toyota Camry. We arrived at the beach about 10.30am, and I'm checked in at the Mealy Chenda's sister guesthouse, which looks out over the sea. I've just had a delicious meal in the restaurant. But it's still raining, so, once I've checked my emails, I'm going back up to my room to see what's on the National Geographic Channel.

Hopefully, the rain will ease off by tomorrow so I can do a bit of exploring, have a massage at the 'Seeing Hands Massage Centre' (staffed entirely by blind masseurs), and get some durian fruit from the market. Never had durian? You should, it's an interesting fruit as fruits go...

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Durian

further south to kampot

I've been trying to reconcile with myself this morning that I exist now, to my family and friends, only as a computer website. It's an amusing thought in some ways. It's true; but for myself, and a few select Cambodian's, I also exist in living colour.

I'm in Kampot, on the south coast of Cambodia, and have been since yesterday lunchtime. My hotel is called the Mealy Chenda Guesthouse (I'm in Room 13). It sits in the centre of what is a very small town, comprising a few main streets, a market, a river, and a central roundabout. As with Battambang (pronounced 'Battambong' by the way) I love the slow pace and quietness of the town.

I'm not really planning on going anywhere, although a local motorbike driver is lobbying hard to take me to the local sights, at what seems - to me - a very inflated price. His name, which I would like to record, is Mr Bun Lounge. I must remember that name in case I ever need an alias (perhaps after my machine gun activities catch up with me), although in such circumstances my preferred false name would probably be my old favourite: Ryan Noserous.

I've only got nine days left in Cambodia before I move on to Vietnam. I still need to arrange a bus ticket across (one tour operator has quoted me three dollars for a one way ride to Ho Chi Minh City) but this is a formality which will be dealt with in a few days. I will definitely be leaving for country number three on 2 September when my Vietnamese visa kicks in. The ecstasy of a new border control stamp in my passport awaits me.

Before coming down to Kampot, I visited the remaining sites of Phnom Penh, that is, I went to the Killing Fields just south west of the city, and to Wat Phnom, perhaps the most famous Buddhist temple in the city. I may be suffering with temple fatigue, but I found Wat Phnom something of a disappointment. There seemed nothing individual about it, and it needed a bit of repair work doing.

On the evening of my visit to the Killing Fields, I went into one of the tourist bars in the lakeside area, and asked them if they would play the DVD of the the film, 'The Killing Fields.' The waiter I spoke to seemed pleased I wanted to watch it, although the rest of the bar staff groaned audibly at the idea of having it on wide-screen again, for what I expect must be the millionth time. It was a good film, and watching it helped me make more sense of the buildings and displays I've seen over the past couple of weeks.

As is my practice, I checked the film out afterwards on the Internet Movie Database, and was upset to find that the lead actor Haing S Ngor, a man who, like his character in the film, had survived the severe brutality of the Khmer Rouge, and who had seen the death of his wife and baby at their hands, was murdered at the age of 56 in 1996 in Los Angeles by a gang trying to get money for drugs. It is suspected that he was shot because he refused to give up a gold locket from around his neck containing the only picture of his late wife. Life just doesn't let up sometimes when it comes to cruelty.

The notebook friends from work bought me, amongst other things, as a leaving present continues to come in very useful. Every morning I write out what day it is, the date, and then a list of what I plan to do that day. Then just before I go to bed I tick everything I've achieved, and cross everything I've missed. It's been helpful for writing out draft blog entries too, and it's the reason I know today is day number fifty seven. So thanks again guys!

I''m about halfway through The Day of the Jackal. It is good I have to admit, and I like the way the plot is building and building towards the assassination attempt on Charles de Gaulle, but Forsyth is over keen to demonstrate his knowledge of secret services, mercenaries, and spies. This means you get lots of passages which begin with sentences like: 'the French Police splits into eighteen different sub-sections. Taking them in order, the first sub-section is...' It is good though, and the only thing I'd really change so far is the picture of Forsyth looking a smug git on the back.

I was thinking to myself last night about some of the 'holidaying' people I've met so far on this trip, and the fact that most of them must be back home by now, whilst - lucky old me - I'm still out here. Old Will, who I sat next to on the plane out, will have been back in Putney for five weeks now, and his time in Bangkok and Ko Samui must be a distant memory, as he sits behind his traders desk near the Corn Exchange. Similarly, Kieron and his girlfriend (whose name I never learnt) will be back in Newcastle trying to find jobs as solicitors, and the beautiful Shannon from Canada will be back in Alberta looking for work and a new 'apartment.' Perhaps she has found both by now? And yet here I still out here, and with months and months of more interesting people, places, and doxycycline tablets to go.

Funny.

do i feel lucky?

I arrived at the shooting range just south of Phnom Penh at about 10am on Monday morning. Yar, my moto driver, had brought me the fifteen or so kilometres across the dusty roads and out of the city on the back of his Honda 125.

I felt nervous, like I was about to take an exam.

Nobody was about except for two young Cambodians lying in hammocks in the shade. As our moped drew to a stop, the closer of the two got up and started to walk over to me. We exchanged greetings. He then asked me if I would 'like see the menu?' I nodded. He gave me a laminated piece of paper detailing all the weapons and their prices, adding matter of factly, 'I recommend Kalashnikov if your first time.'

I gave him $30 dollars and he handed me an AK-47 machine gun, a magazine containing thirty or so bullets, an army jacket, and some ear protectors. 'Have ever used machine gun before?' he inquired. I resisted answering sarcastically, saying just, 'no, never.'

We went to the target area, a very long thin shed with no windows, rubber tyres stacked at one end with a paper man target just in front. A dim light came through a few cracks in the wall giving a little illumination, but it was pretty dark, and utterly silent. There was no movement from anything.

I was then asked if I wanted to fire automatic, and unload the magazine in a few seconds, or whether I wanted to shoot each of the bullets individually. I said I wanted to shoot the first fifteen or so individually, and then blast out the remainder on automatic. 'No problem.'

Once my jacket was buttoned, and my ear protectors were on, I gripped the gun and touched the trigger gently. I aimed for the paper man at the end of my line of vision. For a few seconds I was too scared to squeeze and fire, but then eventually I pulled my trigger finger back. The blast from the gun was enormous and had immense power. It blasted back at my shoulder. The feeling was deadly. I fired again. And then again. Sparks blew and the burning smell of the discharging bullets filled the air around me. 'Jesus Christ,' I thought. I aimed as best I could but couldn't see if I was hitting the target. After about ten shots I stopped and asked for the gun to be set on automatic, and then let the rest of the bullets fly out in a couple of seconds flat.

When the gun finally stopped I felt a sense of relief, happy to note that I had not blown myself to pieces.

The target was retrieved. I had hit it twice out of thirty, and one of the shots was through the heart. I was given the target paper as a souvenir, and had my photo taken with the machine gun, just outside in the car park.

Then we left the compound. It was about 10.30am. Then I relaxed.

down by the mekong

Friday: to the Royal Palace, the Silver Pagoda, and the National Museum. All three attractions are like miniature versions of their equivalents in Thailand, but none disappointment. I very much liked the calm yellow and white of the buildings in the Palace, and noticed that they kept the use of Buddha statues to a minimum.

During the day I managed to learn more about the King of Cambodia, Norodom Sihanouk, who I think bears a passing resemblance to Yoda from Star Wars. A six times married, octogenerian, film-maker, who's produced more kids than a couple of hamsters in the mood; he makes quite a contrast to his accountant-like Royal equivalent in Thailand. He also lives in China, not Cambodia, and abdicated a year ago (for the second time) causing a constitutional crisis, and is now known as the 'King Father.' Here's a link to his personal website which is very popular but makes very little sense:

http://www.norodomsihanouk.info/

Check him out you must.

Saturday: a general wander of the streets and then on to the Mekong Bank, the post office, and finally to Happy Herb's Pizza by the riverside. I had a large pizza and then went back to my hotel for a long lie down. The meal itself was notable primarily because the waiter spilt a can of coke over my groin as he was bringing my food over. Didn't look good. While I was chomping away I noticed 'Mr Bean' on the restaurant television. People were pointing, 'Mr Bin, Mr Bin.' He seems to be very popular.

Sunday (today): to the Independence Statue, and Tuol Sleng Museum (of genocide). The latter was chilling. During reign of the Khmer Rouge (1975-79), Tuol Sleng High School was turned into the largest detention and torture centre in the country, and thousands were sent to their deaths from here, and a good many were killed on the premises whilst being tortured for information. It's an eery place to visit, even in the afternoon sunshine. The kids classroom's are divided into tiny wooden cells, the gym equipment has been made into a make-shift gallows, and barbed wire is strewn all around the buildings and outer walls.

What has shocked me most is learning that bullets were deemed too expensive for murdering 'enemies of the revolution,' and so soldiers began slowly bludgeoning victims to death on the killing fields with iron polls and knives; the victims murdered often for something as simple as singing a song, wearing a pair of glasses, or speaking a foreign language.

The museum side of things is pretty bare, but to very good effect. In every room are either one or two torture devices and/or displays of black and white ID photos of the several thousand murdered from here. Some of the faces look defiant, some look frightened, some tearful, but for the most part they look blank, emotionless, and resigned. There is also an exhibition of paintings drawn by a survivor in one classroom. They're not very good, truth be told.

Finally, and changing subject: I want to keep a record of all the books I read during this trip so here is an update. As I've already mentioned I've been through The Hitch-hikers Guide to the Galaxy and The Comedians, but since then I've also read The Green Man by Kingsley Amis, and have just started reading The Day of the Jackal by Frederick Forsyth.

phnom penh

Day 50. Just arrived in Phnom Penh, the capital city of Cambodia, population 1 million. I'm checked in at the No.9 Guesthouse, Lakeside area (Room 4). My washing's gone in, and I'm now officially out to lunch.

Bad news. My Lonely Planet has sustained some minor water damage at the base. I've got no idea how. On the upside it gives character - makes me look like I've been on the road a while. Looks like I've lived a bit, and could be a prompter for some tall stories while waiting at bus stations: 'yeah, that stain on the spine's from when I was snorkelling with sharks in 'Nam. I was wrestling a great white when...'

The bus ride down here was peculiar in that it took the stated travel time, and the bus had good air-conditioning. We whizzed all the way down on well maintained tarmac (I was wrong in my previous blog to say that all Cambodian roads are unsealed).

A mother and her toddler sat next to me at the beginning of the journey, and the toddler took something of a liking to me. This was manifested primarily by it slapping me repeatedly and then squealing. The mother seemed powerless to put a stop to what I feel amounted to GBH, and no other passengers came to my aid. Thankfully, before I was beaten into a coma, the mother and her androgenous child were turfed out of their seat by an old lady who had boarded the bus at our first stop (she was the rightful seat holder).

When we arrived I jumped in a Tuk Tuk and headed for the No.9 Guesthouse, which is ten on ten. It's a complex of wooden huts sitting on stilts out and across Boeng Kak Lake. The view from the veranduh is calming and peaceful, and the lake is heavily covered in lush green plant life.

No.9 is a hippy-ish sort of a place. The hotel clientele are the same crowd of long haired, roll-up cigaretters I was hanging out with in Ko Pha-Ngan - funding their trips on their student loans and the money they would have spent on a 2007 Glastonbury weekend ticket. I've little doubt that when they visit the 'Killing Fields' in the next couple of days they will find some way to blame American Imperialism and the Bush Administration, even though the massacre took place under the banner of Communism back in the days when George W. Bush was just a failed Texas businessman flitting between alcoholism, bankruptcy, and drink driving charges.

I've already seen one of their number with a bloody guitar. Sent a shiver down my spine. If there's any 'Stairway to Heaven' in the communal area after eleven I'll be making a written complaint to the hotel management.

Haven't had a chance to explore Phnom Penh yet. I'll start on this tomorrow. My itinerary for the next few days is to visit: the Royal Palace, the Silver Pagoda, the National Museum, Tuol Sleng Museum (site of the main Khmer Rouge extermination camp), the Killing Fields of Choeung Ek, and perhaps a few more Buddhist temples and the city centre, time permitting. I hope that over the next week or so I can learn a lot more about Cambodia's recent and bloody history - Pol Pot, the Khmer Rouge, 'Year Zero,' and the brutal death of millions. Like visiting the Bridge over the River Kwai I imagine it will be absorbing but very, very sobering.

battambang battaboom

Battambang is Cambodia's second largest city. Having been here for twenty four hours I'd say it's no larger, geographically anyway, than my home town Lowestoft. It's a little less pretty than I'd imagined, because the roads are too widely spaced, making everywhere look a bit empty and out of proportion. And the town is dominated by a central indoor market which has been built in a style which would fit in well in any of the blandest concrete cities of the former Soviet Union.

However, it feels more 'Cambodian,' and that's a good thing. The pace of life also seems to be nice and slow - which is great, and the people are friendly enough. My hotel have not even bothered checking me in - they just gave me a key to a room and said not to worry: 'you look like good guy.' I could walk anytime without paying and no-one would know. I won't because they have flattered me with trust.

I caught the boat here from Siem Reap yesterday. A very slow but sure journey. The longtail boat chugged through old fashioned river villages, full of riverside bamboo huts on stilts, across Cambodia's largest lake - the Tonle Sap (which stretched the horizon when we first floated into it), and then along narrow waterways of a national park, until eventually seven and a half hours later we arrived in Battambang.

Being among the last to board the boat there was no seating left for me, so, with a few others, I climbed up onto the roof of the boat, and sprawled out on the tin top. A great novelty at first, although rather uncomfortable by the sixth hour.

I'm staying at the Chhaya Hotel (Room 230) in the town square. It's notable mainly for its bland non-descript design, and the effort which the architect has taken in poorly positioning the windows, doors, and general asthetics of the building. My room has a television which has been helping me get in touch with Cambodian rap, soap opera, and karaoke.

To be honest, I'm thinking of cancelling this trip so that I can use my remaining money to adopt as many Cambodian children as possible. They're more beautiful than any of the temples here, and I keep feeling I want to take them back to England and look after them Angelina Jolie style, or at the very least lay out for their schooling and clothing for the next eighteen years.

Not practical I suppose.

Strange fact: 50% of Cambodia's entire population is under fifteen years old (because of the Khmer Rouge genocide). You can kind of sense this as you travel around. Kids are everywhere, and there are a fair few young adults, but you rarely see an old person.

the temples of angkor

I've just spent three days touring the temples of Angkor, the massive complex of 12th Century Cambodian temples built by the mighty Khmer back when they dominated South East Asia, and years before Cambodian history turned sour.

The temples are many and cover a very large area - some are up to twenty kilometres apart - so I employed my own personal motorbike chauffeur, Lak, to take me here, there, and everywhere. I'd have been nowhere without him. He's done the most brilliant job.

It's all been fabulous. A trip highlight. But now I'm utterly exhausted. Here's a brief summary of where I've been:

Day 1: spent the entire day just at Angkor Wat and Angkor Thom. Angkor Wat, as I mentioned in my previous post, is the largest religious building in the world so it took some time to wander around. Angkor Thom, the ancient city beside it, took almost as long. Within Angkor Thom I visited: The Bayon, The Baphuon, the Terrace of the Elephants, and the Terrace of the Leper King. At the end of the afternoon, at Lak's suggestion, I climbed the hillside of Phnom Bakheng and watched the sun set over Cambodia. It was glorious.

Day 2: did some serious temple visiting. Amongst others, I visited, walked round, mauled and marvelled at, the temples of Ta Keo, Ta Phrohm, Preah Khan, Preah Neak Khan, Pre Rup, Sras Srang, Banteay Kdei, Thommanon, and Ta Som. Ta Phrohm was my favourite for the day. It's a 12th Century Mahayana Buddhist temple which is in a semi-derelict state because the jungle has grown into, and over, it over hundreds of years. The roots of the more mature trees have slowly grasped, strangled, and crumbled the temple in places. It looks like something out of Indiana Jones.

Day 3: got up at 4am to watch the sun rise over Angkor Wat. The sky was cloudy so this didn't turn out to be as spectacular as I had hoped, but it was still nice to wander around the place a second time. After, we rode out to the outerlying temples of Angkor such as Banteay Srei and enjoyed the peace and calm of the monuments.

The best thing about this whole experience has been spending three days with Lak. He's been friendly, informative, kind, humourous, and never pushy, tetchy, or inclined to put the hard sell on me to spend more money. We've talked about the temples - their function and meaning, his life in Siem Reap, the Khmer Rouge (his father was a Khmer henchman), the life and rituals of Cambodian Monks, landmines, his thwarted desire to go to university, my fear of heights (some of the temples are a significant climb), rice production, my route plan through Vietnam, visas, and many, many others things besides.

It's going to be another early start tomorrow. At 6am I leave by boat for Battambang. I hope I can see a bit more of the 'real' Cambodia here. Next stop after this, in about three or four days time, is the capital: Phnom Penh.

Finally, to note, the computers out here are of a similar age to the temples, so connections are slow, and, in particular, it is taking me an age to download my most recent photos. I'm posting them up as quickly as I can but it's going to take me a while to get through the backlog (this morning it took me an hour just to get four photos on the site - something which would normally take me about two minutes elsewhere).

hello from cambodia

I'm pleased to say that I've made it into Cambodia safe and sound. This message is being sent from Siem Reap near Angkor Wat. It's a lovely hot day, the sun is out, and so are the locals. It's utterly fantastic to be here.

The journey from Bangkok yesterday was a lot of fun; an experience. It took 13 hours by bus. Bangkok to the border towns (Aranya Prathet in Thailand and Poipet in Cambodia) was a simple speedy air-conditioned bus ride, but once into Cambodia itself I felt like I had entered a different world (and time).

'This is the sort of place I came out here to see,' I thought to myself, not knowing quite what to make of things, or how to feel about the strangeness of Cambodia.

Cambodia is much less developed than Thailand, and it is immediately obvious.

The first thing that's really struck me is the quality of the road networks. There are no tarmac covered roads - anywhere - just pot-holed red soil tracks. Most of the time it is impossible for vehicles to go above twenty kilometres an hour, and what would be a short journey takes five, six, seven hours.

It's small: geographically, and in terms of population.

There's more obvious poverty, and the country's turbulent recent history is evident in big billboards which read, 'turn in your guns.'

The landscape is very different. The north-west is flat and open, at times reminding me of the East Anglian fens, but with scattered palm trees. Calm rice paddies stretch endlessly towards the horizon, moving with the wind. It's very simple and very beautiful. There's the green of fields, the red of the road, and the blue of the sky.

About six hours into the Cambodian leg of the journey, as my bus began the slow process of overtaking a heavy goods lorry, I felt the same sensation a tortoise must feel when overtaking a snail. We made it to Siem Reap in the end, rolling into town early evening, and all things considered the journey could have been worse.

Having woken up here this morning, refreshed, and having taken a look around, I'm very taken with the local area. The town centre is distressed, beautiful, and developing fast. There are well spaced tree-lined boulevards surrounding the centre, and there's a river running down the middle. Down these streets and by this river walk busy Cambodians, ready to smile and talk if you make eye contact.

I'm taking it easy in the town today and tomorrow I plan to begin a three day assault on Cambodia's biggest attraction - Angkor Wat, the largest religious building on Earth.

Full name: Kingdom of Cambodia
Population: 14.8 million (UN, 2005)
Capital: Phnom Penh
Area: 181,035 sq km (69,898 sq miles)
Major language: Khmer
Major religion: Buddhism
Life expectancy: 52 years (men), 60 years (women) (UN)
Monetary unit: 1 riel = 100 sen
Main exports: Clothing, timber, rubber
GNI per capita: US $380 (World Bank, 2006)
Internet domain: .kh
International dialling code: +855

visas

Day 40. I wish they'd ban acoustic guitars from this continent. There's always some European 'traveller' with dreadlocks, or a beard, playing 'blowin in the wind' (badly) somewhere in the background. Makes me want to shout, 'get a job and a haircut hippy.'

Anyway, today I am a man. I have 3 new visa stamps in my passport. I collected it earlier this evening from Noi, my Bangkok tour operator, who has made all the arrangements for me.

I sat in front of her desk at about 6pm Bangkok time, praying she hadn't screwed up my instructions, or lost my only means of exit from Thailand. At 6.01pm she handed me back the small maroon book, and said joking, 'look at the visa, they beautiful, now you go to your hotel, and play with your visa.'

I'm not quite sure how to play with them, but I will be going back to my hotel to sit and stare at them adoringly after I've finished writing out this blog entry. The Cambodian visa is lime green with a hint of pink. The Vietnamese is a kind of peach colour with a blue border and white underborder. And the Laos is a kind of mysterious purple with a crest on the left hand side, giving it the slight appearance of a lottery scratch card. Signed respectively by Ngon Syvatha, Nguyen Trung Kien, and Intha Wongphachanh, I'm very pleased to have them in my possession, as they permit my passage in a slow anti-clockwise loop through South East Asia until early November - first Cambodia, then Vietnam, then Laos.

You may be wondering why I'm not just getting these visas on arrival at the border crossings of these countries? Well, anyone who knows me will be aware that I prefer to be pre-organised in such circumstances, but there have also been other reasons.

Vietnam: visas cannot be picked up on the border - arrangements must be made before arrival. You also have to specify the dates you will be in, and leaving, the country. In the case of Laos, which I definitely want to go to after Vietnam, border crossings are not always consistent, and it is recommended you get a visa beforehand. So I have. There is no fixed date on when I have to use it. Just after I'm finished in Vietnam. And Cambodia: well I'm going there in a couple of days and I thought I might as well get it out of the way.

Being biased, Noi was wrongly of the opinion that my Thai visa insert (various blue shades with inset Royal crest) on an earlier page was the most beautiful. I set her straight. Although it is a looker, it is the Vietnamese which is the Jordan amongst the page three girls.

hanging out in pattaya

My visit to Pattaya got off to a bad start on Thursday. On reaching the city limits my bus knocked down a young woman riding a moped at a traffic junction. Luckily, she wasn't seriously hurt (she did cut open her hand though), and a police officer came over and sorted everyone out. We stopped in a layby for about 20 minutes while the girl was checked over, and the policeman took statements.

My first impression of Pattaya is that it's a hedonist paradise, and not a cheap hedonist paradise either. Pattaya seems to have been an early developer in Thai tourism, and sits now rather bloated by its small but attractive beach. You can't move an inch without being propositioned by a bar girl, or a conman ready to relieve you of your hard earned savings.

My trusty Lonely Planet had no suggestions on finding any budget accommodation here, suggesting instead that travellers just splurge on a nice hotel and put it down as a treat. I was about to take this advice when I noticed a cheap looking place, and an old woman calling, 'we have room, 200 baht.' This was music to my ears as I'd been almost resigned to paying at least 600. After a quick inspection I accepted her invitation. The hotel is called 'House Breeze' and I am inhabiting Room 022, which is decorated in a contemporary style (circa 1963). It's big and - bonus - has its own bathroom, a luxury to which I am increasingly unaccustomed. The double bed has a large blue blanket on it, in the middle of which is the yellowed outline of an iron left to sit too long.

Having unexpectedly saved several quid on my room I went out and blew it on an hour long Thai massage. I like Thai massage because it is based around acupuncture and the location of pressure points. It's also a pretty vigorous form of massage: your arms and legs get bent all over the place, and your back is bent and clicked.

Psychologically, it makes me feel I've got my money's worth if I get beaten really badly.

In the massage parlour they were playing traditional Thai South American pan pipe music, and later an album which I suspect must have been called 'Piano Moods.' I think one of the tracks on this album may have been the theme tune 'The Incredible Hulk.' The massage was very, very good.

I've also been to the cinema to see a subtitled Thai film called 'Koyteryeum' which I think means 'see how they run.' The best way I can describe it is a being a horror/comedy. The basic plot is that a ghost of an aborted foetus haunts the town of the monk who fathered then abandoned him.

It's a classic tale really: boy meets girl, girl gets pregnant, boy abandons girl, girl has an abortion, boy becomes a monk to seek redemption for his acts, ghost of aborted foetus comes back from the spirit world to haunt monk and the townspeople where he lives, monk confronts ghost, ghost reveals that he is the ghost of the monks aborted son (in front of every-bloody-one), monk hugs ghost, ghost says 'that's all I ever wanted Dad,' and ghost then returns to the spirit world. It's as simple as that.

The most strange bit is at the end of the film. After the dust has settled one character says to another 'at least we don't have to worry about any more ghosts of aborted children,' and as he says it about 50 appear hanging in a nearby tree. Everybody screams and then one of the foetus's runs at the screen and says to camera, 'think about these poor suckers next time before you have an abortion.' Then the film ends.

It sounds a bit odd granted, but apart from that tacked on bit of moralising at the end I thought it a good film worth watching.

pattaya today

Wondering what's going on over here in Pattaya? I've been here since Thursday afternoon and this is what's been revealed to me in the local paper: the Pattaya Post. The word on the street. Or rather, the word on the soi...

Hold the front page: the big news in Pattaya is that construction plans are afoot for a skyscraper which, if built, will be the ...wait for it... 20th highest building in the world. Bruno Pingel, Chairman of Siam Best Enterprises says, 'this one building will change the whole image of Pattaya.' I doubt it will do his bank balance any harm either.

In 'Legal Corner,' lawyer Ponthep Werachon offers valuable advise on how to make a last will and testament under Thai Law. Unfortunately, his article is sub-headed 'Part Two' so it's probably pretty pointless reading this unless you've already been through 'Part One.'

Page 17: The Peak Chinese Restaurant is presenting a month of varied ostrich meat dishes.

Bizarrely, there is a full page article about farting on page 20. Titled: 'Go ahead - fart your heart out,' it is supposed to be a humourous look at the art of wind passing. It's mostly banal although it does tell you a little about the historical reception of farting through the ages such as, 'the Roman Emperor Claudius decreed that "all Roman citizens shall be allowed to pass gas whenever necessary,"' and, 'in the mid-1800s flatulence took centre stage.'

In the classified ads, I note that, for those who want it, a crocodile farm is for sale on Ko Chang for 5.5 million baht, with a 'huge beautiful' house thrown in. I think my own policy on being close to animals which are capable of eating me is fairly well known, but if you want it go for your life.

In the personal adds, Colin asks for a 'lady wanted to work with me part time in the UK to learn and teach tantra (spiritual sensual massage) and be my girlfriend. Interviews on my next trip to Pattaya. I'm young (58), a life coach, lots of fun, spiritual, and a non-smoker. Email: funcolin.'

Tatiana from St Petersburg, adds, just below Fun Colin, that 'I'm looking for business partner in Thailand.' So confident is she in her appeal that she discloses neither what the business is, or when the partnership might commence.

Page 54: Go Go Bar 'Catz,' a narrow and intimate den in the Covent Garden Complex, 'now boasts a raft of chrome pole molesters and is consequently as busy as the best joints in town.' Classy.

And finally, in his film review column, 'Sight and Sound,' reviewer Justin Trousers has resisted the temptation to go and get his name changed by deed poll for another week in favour of doing a write up on American series 'Curb Your Enthusiasm.' Trousers gives it the thumbs up, saying 'it's cynical, self-deprecating stuff and I love it. There are five seasons and I have already relished the first three.' I've only seen two episodes, but I agree it does seem to be very, very funny.

So that's about the size of Pattaya. If you want to learn more about the people of Pattaya, and what makes them tick, you can access Pattaya Today yourself: http://www.pattayatoday.net .

sukhothai

Day 35. Just got back from Sukhothai. They did have the internet as it turned out, and many other things besides, but last night I was too tired to blog anything.

Sukhothai didn't disappoint, and made a charming change of pace from being couped up in big chaotic Bangkok. The weather was cooler than I've experienced over the past 5 weeks, and that was a welcome relief.

Sukhothai, which means 'dawn of happiness,' was the first Thai capital. Established in the 13th Century it remained the capital until it was superseded by Ayuthaya a couple of hundred years later. Didn't get burnt down or invaded, it was just the victim of quicker progress further south. Lot's of original buildings from the city remain.

During my day there I went first to the Ramkhamhaeng National Museum to do a little research and then hit the compound containing all the ancient temples and monuments. Like most of the museums I've been in here, I found plenty of Buddha statues, and not much explanation of what anything was, other than labels printed with statements such as: 'A Buddha.'

After the museum, knowledge now in my possession, I proceeded to the religious ruins themselves. You name it Sukhothai has it. Your Wats. Your Chedi. Your Stupas. Even a Praang (of Hindu origin).

The site covers a few square kilometres so I hired a bicycle outside the entrance to get me around. It took me a couple of hours but I got through: Wat Mahathat, Wat Sri Sawai, Wat Sa Sri, The Monument of King Ramkhamhaeng, and a couple of other Chedi that caught my eye as I did my rounds. Time was also added by my cycling out of the compound and getting temporarily lost.

If you ever make it Sukhothai way, I'd like to suggest you go to the Chopper Bar and Restaurant, which is where I retired to in the evening. The Chopper Bar has a motorbike theme to it, but they also have lots of large pictures of Che Guevara, inappropriately surrounded with American flags, on the walls. Not sure why he's up there with all the Harley's? Perhaps because of 'The Motorcycle Diaries'?

The Chopper Bar and Restaurant is eclectic, unsual, and friendly, and that's what's good about it. It's staff are cut from the same cloth.

I'm still thinking about my visit now, more specifically about the lovely but slightly mad waitress who served me. She - a pretty Thai woman - came over and gave me a menu. I took it and said, 'hello, can I have a coke please?'

'Yes, ok,' she replied, smiling sweetly, 'and what you like to drink?'

'A coke,' I said again with a feeling of deja vu.

'Some water or something? Water?'

'Co - ca - Co - la?' I said slowly, but not rudely, adding, 'could you give me a minute to look through the menu?' She nodded in the affirmative, so eager to please. No coke came.

The evening went on this way, everything I requested or asked about was confused or mixed up, but in the nicest possible way, and by the most well meaning person. The confusion wasn't down to the language barrier, she spoke English well enough, and I was having a bash with a bit of Thai. Trust me: there was just something about the way she went about things, almost Basil Faultyish, which made things get worse and worse and more and more confused. Like Basil, she refused to admit that things were going completely wrong, and plugged on and on relentlessly, only adding new layers to our confusion. I wish I could go there this evening so she could screw up my order but I'm back down here in the heat.

Anyway, this is all extraneous information. Stats. Hotel No. 7: was the J and J Guesthouse, Room B7, Sukhothai. Hotel No.8 tonight: is the Bella Bella Guesthouse on Thanon Rambutri, Bangkok, Room 301 (not Room 103 - which I spent about 20 minutes trying to unlock before realising that I was holding the key ring upside down). I can't handle it in the Chada Guesthouse on Khao San Road anymore so I've retired somewhere quieter, nearer the river, and more appropriate for a man of my dignity and stature i.e. 3 quid a night.

Also, have finished all four books of The Hitch-hikers Guide to the Galaxy and I've started reading The Comedians by Graham Greene. I'm hoping to knock it off pretty quickly, so I can exchange it locally for something about Cambodian history.

Finally, before I forget him forever, I'd also like to note that on the 7 hour bus journey back down here today I spent about 6 hours and 55 minutes being talked at by an American man from Phoenix, Arizona, about international imports, Cambodian insurgency, traffic police in Arizona, and 'King of the Hill.' If I am quite frank I spent about 6 hours and 54 minutes wishing he would shut up, and let me get on with chapter 5 of The Comedians. Have already forgotten the poor fellow's name but would like to note our brief meeting nonetheless.