Life on the Delta

I just want to point out before I begin that I'm heavily relying on Chris's blog for this part of the trip. Not that the Mekong Delta wasn't memorable, it's just that so much happened, it's hard to keep straight. So thanks to Chris for being such a disciplined blogger.

Okay, so now I'm feeling like a lazy blogger. But in my defense, I found it hard to write on the road, as all we had was this dysfunctional device (I can't remember what it was exactly, as we ditched it long ago, but it was like a mini-laptop). We had to type on this itty-bitty keyboard which would erase posts if a pinky finger strayed. It was frustrating beyond words. Plus, Chris was always using it for his blog, and I had 50 Shades of Grey to read—so, that's my story. I'd like to say that I've been enjoying the process of catching up, even if three and a half years have passed. It's a good way of challenging my memory and also reliving the experience.

The Mighty Mekong

Some info on the Mekong—it's the world's 12 largest river, spanning six countries (China, Myanmar, Laos, Thailand, Cambodia and Vietnam). The Mekong Delta takes up a large area of Southern Vietnam, emptying out into the South China Sea via numerous tributaries. It would be a crime to travel throughout Southeast Asia and not visit this important river and the communities that rely on its waters.

We signed up for an overnight trip into the Delta region. According to Chris's blog, we piled onto a crowded bus with other travelers one early morning and headed out of HCMC. Our first stop was at a place called Unicorn Island where there was a bee farm. Oh goody—bees. I've had a phobia of them since I once had one caught in my hair when I was younger and went ballistic trying to get it out. Just the buzz of a bee near my ear is enough to send me screaming and running. However, the bees at this farm had no interest in stinging us. We were brought to this place to sample some goodies: honey tea, banana wine, banana and ginger chips. This sampling of things was indicative of our whole 2-day trip—a little bit of everything, but nothing terribly special.

The sun was brutal. I saw tourists were buying traditional Vietnamese hats, you know, the conical straw ones. I might have seen this as tacky, but the locals were also wearing them. And they were practical for keeping both the sun and rain off your head. I knew I'd never be able to pack such a thing in my bag, but I bought one anyway. It provided much-needed shade out on the water, as we rowed through mangrove swamps.

There were six of us in a canoe: four tourists and two older Vietnamese ladies who did the rowing. Nothing impresses me more than the vigor of older Asian women. Any of them look like they could beat you at arm-wrestling. The two elderly ladies rowed our fat tourist asses through the swamps under that hot sun and didn't seem to be struggling. However, they did pass the oars off to us every now and then, though we figured it was just to make us feel part of the experience more than it was asking for assistance.

Our canoe slid through the brown waters between clumps of mangroves, in a line of canoes leading us all to the same spot: a tasting area. More goodies were presented as we sat down at tables. Exotic fruits such as dragonfruit and lychees were put in front of us, along with other fruits we couldn't identify. Some were tasty, and some were not. I enjoyed the mangoes the most, but that's because I'm not very exciting.

We sat across from a charming Aussie chap named Paul, and a Chinese girl named Faye who was perky and adorable. Their smiley ways made the experience that more enjoyable. As we sat trying out all the fruit, a pair of Vietnamese girls came up and serenaded us with "If You're Happy and You Know It." I'm not sure how this was considered a cultural experience, but they were cute in their presentation, and because we were all in good spirits, we tipped them when they passed us a hat.

Oh, what else happened? There were so many little things we tried, and most of them are not worthy of recording. I know that at one point I tried snake wine. There was a huge jar of murky liquid with a rather large snake coiled up inside. A daunting sight to say the least. We were told that snakes used for snake wine are venomous, though the venom dissolves in alcohol. The wine was rice wine, distinctly different from grape wine. The taste is like that of rubbing alcohol, at least I get that sense. A shot glass of the snake wine really packed a punch. Chris wouldn't try it, but I was more adventurous. Yeah—it was pretty lethal, as dangerous as it looked.

We were ushered from place to place, shown how coconut candy is made and how rice wine is distilled. At one point we had the opportunity to try luwak coffee, as we had in Bali. I found the Vietnamese version to be sweeter and tastier whereas Chris preferred the Balinese. Who knew one could form a preference for poo-flavored coffee?

We were taken to another island where lunch was provided. Though we were tempted with culinary delights such as crocodile and snake, we played it safe with veggies, pork and rice. After eating, there was the option to either rent a bike and cycle around the island, or take a nap in a hammock. We opted for the hammock, as the heat was killing us. It was a nice interlude, rocking in a hammock and escaping the sun at its peak.

Our accommodation for the night was in the city of Can Tho. Chris and I walked around on our own that night. Can Tho is very much not a tourist city. We found mostly concrete buildings and traffic on our walk. There were no tourist stalls, and this was nice for a change, though we did dine at a fancier restaurant, one that sold cocktails and really decent pasta, so perhaps the tourist tendencies were strong, as we weren't willing to eat like the locals.

Paul, the Aussie with the smile, had been intent on trying just about any creature he came across in Asia. He was off to a good start in the Delta area where anything and everything was up for offer. We had sat with him earlier that day as he gnawed on rat meat. I think the menu had read "grilled rat.” And that was exactly what he got. Though the fur was gone, the bones were still there, and it really appeared that he was eating rat limbs. It was unappetizing to us, but he said it tasted like—what else?—chicken. Chris and I were less inspired to try out new kinds of meats. In Asia, even pork can seem adventurous when bathrooms are hard to come by.

Rolling on a River

On Day Two of our delta adventure, we boarded a boat and set off down the brown rolling rivers of the Mekong to the floating market. We thought this was going to be ultra-touristy, with boats surrounding us trying to sell us their wares. It turned out that this market was authentic, and had probably been going on for generations before tourism set in. The locals sold mostly produce. They would display what they were selling on tall bamboo poles: carrots, cabbage, yams, beets, bananas, and the like. Most of the boats were small and piled high with produce. The bananas were unlike the kind we get in America; these were short and fat and grouped in bundles like colorful works of art. Some of the boats sold flowers. Everything was colorful and lively, though the pace was slower than I thought it would be. Everything seemed so laidback on the Mekong. Even the driver of our boat was unconcerned with river traffic, steering the boat with his feet while he ate a bowl of pho.

A newly-married couple sidled up beside us in a speedboat. They made no effort to engage us; rather they were there for photographic reasons. The woman was dressed in red lace, so beautiful and elegant, while the man wore a gleaming white suit. They pressed their hands together and bowed their heads, as if honoring the river, while a photographer snapped away on another boat.

Further up the river we saw a man and a bike being transported on a canoe from one bank to the other, rowed by an elderly woman. The bike was bigger than the boat. This struck us as funny, I don't know why. I guess the way the locals view boats is the way we view cars. Being on a boat seemed second nature to them. Me—I would never live on a boat, the way that I suffer from motion sickness. Thankfully the Mekong, though rolling, was manageable. Like the people, the river just flowed and rolled without a care in the world. Though I will add a side-note here that the Mekong is currently being threatened with the building of dams upstream, endangering the livelihood of many who live on the river. Such is the problem with a river which winds through six different countries. Who owns the Mekong? It's an ongoing debate.

We made several other stops that day, but I can't really say what they were. In his blog Chris writes about the making of rice noodles, but I can't be bothered to relate it here. We stopped at another fruit farm where we marveled at the size of dragonfruit and whatnot dangling from trees. Yes, there was no doubt in our minds that the Mekong Delta is fertile and vibrant with life.

Back in the City

After a long bus ride back to HCMC, we found accommodation down the same alley we had stayed before. However, this guesthouse had air conditioning and cable. We watched HBO movies and shows. lounging in the A/C like complete loafs. We did wonder out from time to time to eat and take care of business. I say business, because I had a tooth that was hurting me. Before I left America for the UK, I had my fillings redone—all seven of them. It had been torture, but the fear of British dentistry propelled me to get this done. Anyway, I thought I was good for awhile. So why was one of my teeth hurting, particularly the tooth that was supposedly dead, sacrificed to a root canal ten years before? There was no tooth left to suffer a cavity, just an artificial cap. So why was it hurting so damn bad? The pain was so severe that it was keeping me awake at night. I thought it was time to get it checked, and from all the smiling tooth signs across District 1, I thought this place was as good as any.

My experience at a Vietnamese dentist was pretty painless. They checked me over, X-rays and such, and told me I was good. Then they gave me a teeth cleaning, which I desperately needed after three years of heavy British tea-drinking. I'm like "Really—that's all?" And they're like "Yeah, you're good" and gave me the thumbs up. Okay, so they didn't see any cavities. Excellent—only, the pain was still there.

I found the Vietnamese people to be docile. They weren't in your face trying to sell you things. They weren't hostile (as I had feared) and they weren't false in order to weasel money out of you. They seemed to just go about their business, and if you were part of that business, then they would do their best to cater to you. There was a quiet dignity about them, perhaps because they were people who had suffered in the past and yet are making the best of the present. There's a lot that can be learned from that.

Though there was that one hawker. When we were sitting outside at a cafe in HCMC, a young lady selling bracelets approached us. I always hated getting meals interrupted by hawkers, so I probably wasn't very polite. I got up to go to the bathroom and when I came back, Chris was fingering some leather straps and smiling with the young girl. We had just bought leather bracelets in Bangkok on our last journey through, so I didn't see the need to buy more. I conveyed this to Chris, and he shook his head at the girl. And boy did she stare daggers into me! She spat out something in Vietnamese, something like "Die bitch!" and hung around glaring at me. I was actually scared of her, the hate was that intense. I thought she might go summon her brother or a group of guys to come beat me up. I guess I forget how important a simple sale sometimes is to people who are struggling. Still, encounters like this were incredibly rare.

We were just at the start of our trip through Vietnam. All in all, we'd be in Vietnam for a full month. Though this gave us lots of breathing room to move around in a single country without worrying about visas and border crossings, there was a larger trip ahead of us to ponder. Our return home loomed, and that was a still a huge question mark. What does one do when they're essentially homeless? We had to sort that out. 

Saigon

Now comes the part in the trip where I pretended to be Canadian. I’m sure I've done this elsewhere on my travels. After all, who feels hostility towards Canadians? I've never heard anyone chant "Death to Canada!" I remember Chris telling me that during the Bush Administration, many American ex-pats in the UK would claim Canadian citizenship, probably as a way to avoid rants and unwanted debates with Bush-haters. Luckily I came over to Britain in 2009 and didn't experience any such harraunguing, as everyone was still aglow with having Obama in office. I don't care about Obama's critics; I find he's been great for foreign relations.

It turns out none of this matters. American, Canadian, British—all are welcome in Vietnam, as long you have money to spend.

On our first taxi ride in Ho Chi Minh City (once known as Saigon), we were scammed. As on most long-distance bus rides, we were dropped off in some obscure section of the city and had to catch a taxi to the tourist district. Up until that point, we had no problems with taxi or tuk tuk drivers. We usually negotiated a price beforehand (and I was finding that I was very good at this), and handed the agreed amount over at the end of the journey with a tip. So it kind of threw us to catch a metered taxi. Having arrived in a new country, we were thinking this was the norm. So we trusted the meter. First lesson learned—do not trust metered taxis in Vietnam. Our short ride cost us about the same amount of money a black cab ride would cost in London. I can't remember the figure now, but I remember it being outrageous, especially for Southeast Asia standards. We didn't argue with the taxi driver, as it was our own fault for trusting the meter. After all, how can the meter lie? It wasn't worth an argument so we handed over the money and tried to walk off the shock of departing with such a large amount of cash.

Fortunately the area we had been dropped off in was excellent. District 1, the backpacking district, had that bustle that you expect in Asian cities. But it was the bustle of the city mixed with bars and good restaurants. The street we were on was lined with rows of the little red stools that are ubiquitous in Southeast Asia. You could grab a drink and sit on the street and people-watch. In fact, this was the only place I had seen set up specifically for people-watching.

The first line of business in HCMC was to find accommodation. The prices were higher than they had been in Cambodia, and as we had just lost a huge chunk of money to our cab ride, we were choosy. The guesthouses were located in buildings that were both narrow and tall. That meant there were one or two rooms on each floor with lots of stairs in between. We found an adequate, though spartan, room in a guesthouse located down a narrow alley, away from the hustle and bustle of the street. This suited us, as we were surrounded by locals who were going about their daily lives. The bottom sections of buildings were open (perhaps because of the hot climate), and we could see into businesses and homes, laundry being hung and noodles being eaten and such. Oh yes, wherever you looked, noodles were being eaten. We seemed to have entered into the noodle capital of the world.

Pho is probably the national dish of Vietnam (I say probably because I'm too lazy to look it up). I've heard it pronounced all different ways; it doesn't really matter, all that needs to be known about pho is that it is wonderful. For breakfast, for lunch, for dinner—it's the meal that works any time of day. I think it's because pho is quite bland, especially compared to other cuisine in Southeast Asia (though chilis can be added to make it hot). Noodles and broth and lots of fresh herbs. It's the herbs that really appealed to me. Chris was more about the pho than I was, maybe because I found it hard to eat with chopsticks. At almost every restaurant, he ordered the pho whereas I mostly ordered fresh spring rolls. These were unlike anything I had encountered back home. The rolls were thin, almost transparent, and held fresh veggies and herbs. Nothing was seasoned, though sauces were provided for dipping. Overall, we found ourselves impressed with Vietnamese food as it was simple, fresh and satisfying.

Memories of War

The main tourist sites were within walking distance from our guesthouse. Crossing some really busy streets (not an easy task in HCMC), we came to a lovely park where the locals were relaxing on a Sunday. It was hard to believe the chaos that once existed here. Nobody seemed to mind that Saigon had fallen to the Commies. In fact, nobody looked bothered living in a communist country. Vietnamese flags were everywhere—a single yellow star on a red backdrop. I found it strange to be in a communist country, and yet it seemed no different than the other countries we had visited in Asia. I'm no political expert, so I may be mistaken in even calling Vietnam communist. Socialist, yes, along with China, Cuba and Laos, in that they are all single-party socialist states. What's the defining factor between socialist and communist? Is it how much control the government has over the economy? I'm sure this was all discussed with Chris at some point, but I don't remember. I knew that we couldn't access Facebook while we were in Vietnam, but it was nice to take a break from social media. I was trying to wrap my head around the fact that I was an American in Vietnam. And it felt great to move around freely without even a glance from the locals.

While walking through the park, we came across Boy Scouts at play. I say Boy Scouts because they were dressed like Boy Scouts, but they were engaged in more patriotic activities. Commie cadets—that's what we called them. They played games, like the wheelbarrow, only a Vietnamese version of it, while a leader was shouting in Vietnamese. We weren't sure what was going on. After snapping some photos (there didn't seem to be a ban on cameras anywhere) we continued on to the Reunification Palace.

This was a significant site for Chris, who knew a lot more about Vietnamese history than me. I have to note here that I don't remember learning anything about the Vietnamese War in school. Sure, my high school history teacher (I forget his name, but he's a legend) went on about the protests and movements made against the Vietnam War in the U.S., but the war itself—nope, I don't remember being taught anything. Strangely enough, Chris had studied it in college, along with other facets of American history. This is why Chris knows so much more than me about my own country. This is probably indicative of all American students. Okay, side note over, we bought tickets for a tour of the palace. Once through the ticket booth and gift shop, we could wander around the grounds. A tank was on the scene to remind us of the event that had happened on April 30, 1975, when Saigon fell. A tank crashed through the gates and the palace was overtaken. The Republic surrendered and the Vietnam War was over. The Americans had left by this time, and the overtaking of Saigon was inevitable. Though the "reunification" wasn't without its problems, the country seems to have moved on. The new generation appears to be more interested in making money than the do in making war. For this, Vietnam has done well economically, far ahead of Cambodia and Laos.

Still, the Vietnamese will not let you forget about the war; at least the winners won't. After visiting the Palace, which had been frozen in time when overtaken on 1975, we continued on to the War Remnants Museum. I had read that this museum was hard-hitting with grisly photos and tales of the atrocities committed by the South Vietnamese and American armies. Yes, this was one-sided, as atrocities were committed on both sides, but still, it was eye-opening. There is nothing that can really justify a photo of a GI smiling while holding up the mangled corpse, or the victims of My Lai where villagers, old and young alike, were massacred, where infants were killed in the arms of their mothers, and women were gang-raped and mutilated by American soldiers. You can call this display "propaganda" against America, but the camera doesn't always lie, and these things actually did happen. If this was propaganda, then it did have the desired effect on me, as I went from one photo to another with such a blaze of disgust and anger. Again, I'm no political or historical expert, but I can still formulate an opinion on the things I've read and observed, and I think it was a terrible misstep for America to have entered into a civil war in Vietnam, especially under the premise that they were helping the South Vietnamese. The way I see it, it was about containing Communism in Asia, as Communism was the number one threat during the Cold War. Just as they didn't win again the Communists in Korea, they couldn't stop the Communists in Vietnam. And is Communism really the thing to be feared? Looking at Vietnam today—not really.

The Vietnam War was a senseless war with many lives lost—most of them Vietnamese. Not only was there the human cost of lives, but the environmental cost as well, as the Americans destroyed much of the country through their bombing campaigns. They were intent, as Curtis Lemay put it, to "bomb "them back into the Stone Age." They used chemicals to destroy both forests and crops. The use of the toxin Agent Orange was the most damaging, as it not only destroyed ecosystems, but it had an impact on human health, causing deformities and cancers. A whole section of the museum is devoted to the impacts of Agent Orange, and perhaps this was the most disturbing section, looking over photos of the innocent victims, many of them grotesquely deformed. To know that the U.S. was responsible for this is hard to swallow.

It is impossible to walk through the War Remnants Museum and not feel anger. Yes, I felt anger towards America, but also anger for war in general. Carl Sagan's Pale Blue Dot comes to mind when considering the futility of war:

"The Earth is a very small stage in a vast cosmic arena. Think of the rivers of blood spilled by all those generals and emperors so that in glory and triumph they could become the momentary masters of a fraction of a dot. Think of the endless cruelties visited by the inhabitants of one corner of this pixel on the scarcely distinguishable inhabitants of some other corner. How frequent their misunderstandings, how eager they are to kill one another, how fervent their hatreds. Our posturings, our imagined self-importance, the delusion that we have some privileged position in the universe, are challenged by this point of pale light." Carl Sagan-The Pale Blue Dot.

Carl Sagan—always the voice of reason.

A Journey into the Unusual

We signed up for a day tour from HCMC. This included the Cu Chi Tunnels and the Cao Dai Temple. The former I knew a little bit about (tunnels dug and utilized by the Viet Cong during the war), the latter, absolutely nothing. We boarded a bus with young backpackers and headed northwest, out of the city. Our guide appeared to be a retired Vietnamese school teacher who continually quizzed us, throwing out questions such as "What is the 5th largest river in the world?" Nobody on the bus knew the answers to any of his trivia questions, but at least it made the journey fun.

My main interest in the tour was to visit the tunnels, to go along with the whole war educational experience. I found it odd that we were going to some temple. Even stranger, it was some religion we had never heard of: Caodaism. I mean—what is that? Turns out that Caodaism is mainly a Vietnamese religion, with over 6 million adherents. It's a blend of Taoism, Buddhism, and Catholicism, though it's hard to find any of these aspects in their worship. The symbol of Caodism is an eye. Yes, that's right—a giant eye. Reminiscent of Freemasonry or Illuminati or Lord of the Rings, I find this symbol to be slightly creepy. The main temple in Tay Ninh is called the "Holy See" which sounds very Catholic, but I'm guessing that it pertains to the giant eyeball staring down from the altar. It's hard to make an eyeball look loving or benevolent, even with a nicely arched eyebrow, and the whole vibe I got from the Cao Dai Temple was that of a cult. Enter the adherents, all dressed in white, to really give the religion a cult-like feel.

Though I wasn't sure why this temple was on the tourist route, I appreciated how we were allowed to observe a religious service. They didn't ask for money or donations, in fact, none of the worshipers engaged us at all. They merely tolerated us, or waved their hands at us when we tried to take a picture. One of the quirks in this temple—you could take photos, but only of the adherents. Try to snap a shot of the Eye of Sauron and you'd have a stern-faced Caodaist waving for you to stop. We tried to be as respectful and stay out of the way. We were ushered up to a balcony where we could watch the service. And what a service it was! A strange band struck up on on a balcony adjacent to us. There were instruments that I've never heard before, which made the music bizarre and otherworldly. Of course there was the dong-dong of bells and gongs, as this comes with all religious ceremonies in Asia. Worshipers in white moved in lines below us, moving to incantations from the chorus on the balcony. Symmetry seemed to play a role in the service, as the rows had to be perfectly aligned. Designated members of the church moved through the rows, adjusting adherents as they went along, even if it was just an inch in order to keep everything in perfect formation. This was certainly interesting. I have never seen a religious service so synchronized. Three Dongs—the adherents knelt in unison. Three more Dongs—the adherents prostrated themselves to the all-seeing eye. The music went on, with bells, stringed instruments and chanting, rising and falling and mesmerizing all who stood there looking on. We snapped pictures and recorded sections of the service, trying to capture the bizarreness.

I'm not a great advocate of religion, as I've seen firsthand the harm that it can do, so I'm probably sounding harsh in my assessment of this experience. I think perhaps it's because the adherents seemed so hardcore, and frankly, miserable. Not a smile or an ounce of joy was found in that temple. Still, different aspects of religion appeal to different people, and this no doubt filled the needs of those worshiping there. The service lasted about half an hour, then we tourists filed out into the bright sunlight and wondered what exactly we had just seen. It was like watching a religious service on another planet, it was that weird. But that's what travel is about, exposure to new things.

We continued on to more familiar territory (of the mind anyway). The Cu Chi Tunnels. Though there are tunnels virtually all over South Vietnam, these are the most tourist-oriented. These tunnels were dug by the Viet Cong, or the National Liberation Front (also known as Charlie by American troops). Mostly made up of peasants, they were industrious buggers, digging through the dirt like moles and creating all kinds of havoc. Initially underestimated by America at the start of the war, they were the proverbial thorn in the side of the U.S. army. Not only did they move weapons and other supplies through their network of tunnels, they placed booby traps in the jungle to maim and kill American soldiers. Some of these booby traps, though rudimentary, were really nasty, as demonstrated for us. Pits with spikes to take a leg or a foot, or a board with an arrow to spring into the face—yowch. They didn't have the force that the U.S. Army had, still, they had their devices.

They also had endurance, stamina and tenacity. They would have to have these things to exist in these tunnels for any amount of time. While it's true that most things in Asia are Asian-sized (clothes, airplane seats, the ubiquitous Asian stool, etc..) these tunnels went beyond the normal tiny. Some passages were so narrow that one could only crawl on hands and knees through them. Though this doesn't communicate much in words, to be in one of these tunnels is quite another experience. Though the Cu Chi Tunnels are 75 miles in length, there are only two sections where tourists can experience them. Of course, they've been modified to accommodate tourists, wider and higher (twice the size of the original tunnels) with lights glowing in intervals. Oh yes, and there are also escape doors if the experience proves to be claustrophobic.

I had the attitude that I would traverse these tourist-friendly tunnels with ease. After all, there was nothing really to fear. It was like a haunted house in a theme park—fear is only in the mind. And yes, I thought it would be fun. So we were left to it with our guide waiting at the end for us. One-by-one, our group descended into the tunnel. There was one guy in front of me. I could see his hunched figure up ahead as I followed at a comfortable distance. I was thinking it wasn't too bad. The intermittent lights really helped, though they seemed to taper off the further in we went. There were bends, and areas where the tunnels sloped downward, which was a little daunting, as it was dark and you couldn't tell what was ahead. Even though you knew you were safe, you couldn't convince yourself entirely. Chris was at my back, but I was too hunched over to communicate with him. There came a burst of light ahead and I breathed a sigh of relief. It was an escape door. The guy ahead of me went "Fuck this, I'm out of here" and took the stairs up to the door. Feeling brave enough to push onward, I went past the door, only to find a set of stairs that went deeper underground. Claustrophobia kicked in big time and I backed up to the escape door. Chris was right behind me. One-by-one, each member of our group popped out of that escape door. We hadn't even gone a fifth of the way! It really makes you appreciate how badass the Viet Cong must have been, living in these tunnels for weeks, even months at a time.

There were all kinds of classrooms set up at the Cu Chi Tunnel attraction. It's a good educational center for those interested in war tactics. In the background, we could hear the pop-pop-pop of gunfire, as there was also a shooting range on the premises. Similar to the range in Phnom Penh, one could fire AK-47s and other such weapons. But after all this war education, the desire to fire another gun was totally lost on me.

We headed back to HCMC, the fair city of Saigon, with some new experiences tucked under our belts. We found ourselves thankful for the bustle of the city, where we could buy a drink and sit and people-watch, and for the moment, not have to contemplate the horrors of war. This American in Vietnam—I felt privileged to even be there.

The Killing Fields

We were about to journey into the dark heart of Cambodia. With this, I mean the dark, haunted past of Cambodia. For this I had to brace myself mentally. This was not the ancient past to be studied in the the annals of history. The atrocities committed weren't done to, and by, generations which have already come and gone. The purges—the genocide—had happened only 30-35 years before. Survivors, even murderers (many of them having been children at that time) were still alive. The wounds, though largely healed, still remain.

 

Chris has a soft spot in his heart for the Cambodian people. He's well-schooled on the complexities of their country. He's read books and has dug deeper into the causes and effects of the Khmer Rouge under the leadership of Pol Pot. "The Killing Fields" is his favorite film, as it had a profound impact on him from a young age. For anyone who hasn't seen it, "The Killing Fields" is a film (adapted from a book of the same title) about two journalists (one American and one Cambodian) who were working together in Phnom Penh when the Khmer Rouge took over. Though some parts can be hard to stomach, I challenge anyone to watch that last scene without shedding a tear as Sydney Shanberg and Dith Pran embrace. It's definitely a film worth watching.

 

I have to admit that Southeast Asian history is not my forte. Not by a long-shot. In fact, I'm heavily relying on Wikipedia to double-check my info as I write this. In an attempt to offer a simplified version of Khmer Rouge history—here goes. The Khmer Rouge was a party formed in 1968. Though it has been in existence as recently as 1996 (which is hard to believe) it was the ruling-party of Cambodia from 1975 to 1979, the time period of the Killing Fields—purges, ethnic cleansing, and mass executions. Ruled by Pol Pot, and driven by Marxist ideology, the Khmer Rouge sought to turn Cambodia into an agrarian society. Civilians were removed from cities and put into agricultural communes. Purging their country of anything modern, cities were gone, as well as schools and hospitals. Anything that was deemed foreign was eradicated. Foreign correspondents were driven out of the country, though Cambodian natives were not allowed the option to leave. Those of Vietnamese and Chinese ancestry were targeted for execution in an attempt to "purge" all foreign influence. Intellectuals were seen as the enemy. Anyone with an education was as a threat to the revolution and thus must be exterminated. Even the wearing of eye-glasses was seen as "bourgeois" and anyone wearing them risked being killed. The Khmer Rouge went so far to change the calendar to "Year Zero." Just like any totalitarian regime, they were delusional to think that their country could withstand such extreme measures for the "betterment" of society. By end of their reign, over 2 million people had been killed. Many died due to starvation, disease and overwork. It is estimated that half of those who died were murdered. Mass graves are found all over Cambodia, telling of mass executions. Those sites are called the Killing Fields, though I associate the genocide as a whole with that title.

 

That is some heavy stuff to contemplate on a snowy morning in Juneau. Even writing this I'm taken to a dark place. The only consolation in all this is that Cambodia is now a lovely place. The people, for the most part, have made peace with this past. Just like when we visited Dachau, I believe that it's important to visit these places, no matter tortured their history is. I feel it's our obligation as citizens of this planet to learn both the good and the bad side of human nature. We must learn the bad in order to recognize it and fight it in society.

 

With this in mind, we headed to Phnom Penh.

 

GI Jane

 

A tropical storm had whipped up and was flooding the city streets. We stepped off the bus and into several inches of water. The tuk tuks were lined up and ready for us. A driver grabbed my bag and without much discussion, we were on our way. To where? We weren't entirely sure.

 

Our first impression of Phnom Penh was chaos. Perhaps it was because of the rain which was coming down in buckloads. Thankfully the tuk tuk had a canvas rain cover. We couldn't see much, though we could look through a tiny flap in the side. Traffic was insane, and being stuck in a tiny little tuk tuk was somewhat unsettling, especially with our driver who seemed to be drunk, or inexperienced, or both. He almost crashed us several times. It was probably good that we couldn't see much.

 

We came to a tourist strip, judging by the billboards for guesthouses and beer. Hadn't we seen this a million times before? We figured this was as good as we were going to get so we paid up and grabbed our bags. Our room was clean and adequate, located on the second floor with windows looking out onto the lobby. We would be staying here for several nights.

 

Right away we reserved a tour to see the Killing Fields. Though there were around 20,000 mass graves found in Cambodia, the one at Choueng Ek, located 11 miles outside of the city, is the one from which the name "The Killing Fields" is derived. Close to 9,000 bodies were exhumed at this site, most of them prisoners from the nearby Tuol Sleng prison. We signed up to visit the prison as well. There was another stop on this tour that we didn't necessarily want to take, and that was a shooting range. It was part of the tour package, and we didn't know what we were going to do about it. Chris had passed on the opportunity to shoot an AK-47 when he had come this way before. I didn't know how to feel. I’d never shot a gun. How did I feel about guns? Not too great. I'm not exactly what you would call a gun-enthusiast. Still, the idea of shooting an AK-47—I had to think about it.

 

The tuk tuk met us the following morning. We were taken down the dustiest, most chaotic roads we had encountered in all of Asia. This was the Asia I had envisioned, with truckloads of chicken cages and families on motorscooters and tuk tuks galore. There were no lanes, rather there were rivers of traffic within rivers of traffic. It was a gorgeous ballet of dirt and humanity, moving against each other, then with each other, and in spite of each other. It was beautiful, despite the cacophony.

 

Like a chewed-up wad of gum, our tuk tuk got spat out onto a more modern highway. We began to cruise along, and the breeze felt awesome. We passed another tuk tuk sporting two completely knocked out Western girls. One had beautiful, long hair which was splayed everywhere. I dubbed her "Sleeping Beauty." Our tuk tuk driver shared words with the other driver. They were both laughing. "Too much to drink!" he shouted back to us in English. And where were they heading? Oh yeah, the shooting range. Great, two girls who were sleeping off a hangover were being taken to shoot guns. Perfect.

 

We could hear the gunfire from the parking lot. Already I was nervous. It was gunshots in rapid succession that really got my heart pitter-pattering. How many atrocities had been committed with these semi-automatic rifles? I can only associate that sound with the mowing down of human beings. Weapons designed to take out as many lives as possible should not be something desirable to hold.

 

Still...

 

Upon entering the indoor range, we were offered a menu of death. We could launch hand grenades. We could fire rockets. We rubbed our chins, contemplating our options. Well, there was only one option for us, the one everyone came for. The AK-47.

 

I was more into it that Chris. I'm all about new experiences. Shoot a gun—I could cross that off my bucket list (easier than skydiving). The cost was quite high so Chris and I decided to share 30 rounds.

 

We had to wait for a range to open. The POP-POP-POP was echoing throughout the concrete building. I could imagine frenzied screams to accompany the rapid-fire shooting. Maybe it's because of the movies I've watched. Maybe it's because of the events I've watched unfold on TV—war footage, school shootings, terrorist training camps. A part of me really despises these death machines, the glamorization of them, especially being so close to the Killing Fields.

 

Still...

 

There was a photo opt, to hold rifles and pistols and pose like a bad-ass. Chris wanted no part of it. However, I played around with the idea of being GI Jane. A helmet, pistols, and a round of ammo draped around my neck—I looked like the poster girl for the NRA, which is funny really, as I despise anything that image conveys.

 

Still...

 

I think I looked hot. In my tight tank top and hiking boots—hell yeah, I was GI Jane. Sort of. The guns were heavy and impressive. So much power to be wielded. I can see (though not support) why so many people love their precious guns. Power. That feeling that nobody can mess with you.

 

A range opened up and our turn came. Chris went first. He wasn't enjoying this experience at all. With his shaky hands he didn't do too well. I stood taking pictures, trying to capture the perfect shot. At one point I took my earmuffs to tell Chris was a stud he was. I then forgot to put them back on, and POP-POP-POP—it was too late. Great, more hearing damage to my already damaged ears. What the hell, I was blind in one eye, I may as well be deaf too.

 

It became my turn. I had fifteen rounds. The two instructors set me up, making sure that the gun was against my shoulder and wouldn't recoil into my face. They told me, "Fast fast" as that was supposedly the best way. But I wanted to do well. Years of Duck Hunt on my Nintendo had prepared me for this moment. I fired off a few rounds. It looked like I had hit my target. The instructors said I had done good. Indeed, I felt pretty on-point. A natural. I did what the instructors recommended and fired off a few rounds in a row, this is where the POP-POP-POP noise, the sound of lunatic shooting, comes from. It was satisfying, I'll give you that, the feeling of shots being fired in rapid succession. But 15 rounds go by really fast when shooting in that manner and before I knew it, my time was up.

 

It was an interesting experience. I wouldn't say I regret doing it. Semi-automatic weapons will never be something I stand for, despite what the GI Jane photos say. But for what it was worth, it was memorable. To have something so powerful in your hands, even for a moment, is quite amazing.

 

Faces with the Numbers

 

After being revved up from shooting guns, we were brought to the Killing Fields. It felt wrong, but this was our tour itinerary. Perhaps they found if tourists visited the Killing Fields first, nobody would want to shoot guns afterwards.

Choueng Ek is actually a peaceful site. It used to be an orchard, and indeed, there are still many lovely trees there. It is now a memorial, with a Buddhist stupa erected in the middle, with rows upon rows of skulls. We were left to wander around, though we were set up with an audio, self-guided tour. This was a nice way to do it, so we could take our time and absorb the info as we went. The site is sizable with paths that lead off into groves of trees. The sun was shining and the birds were singing. It was hard to picture this as a scene of terror, but the marked pits were enough to stop us from enjoying our day. These pits had been the mass graves for victims of the Khmer Rouge. Just looking over my pictures now I see a pit where they had exhumed 166 bodies without heads. We found out on our audio guide that the weapons were quite rudimentary (bullets were too costly). They would decapitate victims with blunt, rusty objects, even using sharp bark from a tree. It was no swift death for the enemies of the revolution. Also, we found that child soldiers were used as the executioners. This is hard to fathom, but brain-washing of children in such regimes is not uncommon.

Not all the pits were marked and fenced off. As we made our way across fields, we'd find signs saying "Please Don't Walk Through the Mass Grave!" Though they excavated most of the bodies, some are still showing up. After heavy rains, some bones or bone fragments still find their way to the surface.

As if these things were not horrifying enough, we found that enemies of the revolution included children and even babies. There was a fenced-off site with a giant tree called The Killing Tree. Here is where soldiers would smash the heads of babies against the tree trunk. It makes no sense, but perhaps in the demented minds of the Khmer Rouge, children could grow to be enemies, just like their parents. Better to weed them out. It boggles the mind how a government could turn against their own people in such a manner. Were they trying to lower the population of Cambodia? All in all, about a fifth of the populace was killed by the Khmer Rouge, making it one of the worst genocides of the 21st century.

The stupa was open so we walked through. There were seventeen floors of skulls, neatly placed on shelves, to observe. Some of the skulls were cracked, some shattered, and some very small. We tried to honor each one as we walked through.

All this death—and for what? It's easy to ask that question when visiting any memorial. I can only hope that as humankind progresses, we can put atrocities like these behind us. I also hope that we can do all we can to recognize the evil that exists in society—paranoia, xenophobia, fundamentalism, intolerance, bigotry... the list goes on. We should do all we can to avoid such senseless, pointless hate.

A lady was selling flowers outside the stupa. Chris and I each bought one and laid it with other flowers in front of the memorial. Despite the stories we had heard, there was a sense of peace at Choueng Ek. Hopefully the Cambodians have made peace with this past. It's encouraging to know that the government urges its citizens to visit The Killing Fields. The adage "Those who do not remember the past are condemned to repeat it" rings true.

Perhaps a more haunting site is that of Toul Sleng Prison, also known as S-21, now a Genocide Museum. Consisting of cement buildings, it used to be a high school. Of course the Khmer Rouge shut down schools, so it's only fitting that they had turned this one into a detention center where they imprisoned and tortured their "enemies." Toul Sleng means "Hill of Poisonous Trees," and indeed, it does leave a poisonous taste in one’s mouth. As many as 20,000 inmates had been imprisoned here and had been sent to the Killing Fields. As we walked around the premises, we found out who these prisoners were, their black-and-white photos lined up on the walls for us view. As many women as men had been imprisoned, young and old alike. Some of the women even had babies in their arms. All have a haunted look in their eye.

Torture and interrogation had been commonplace at Toul Sleng. Waterboarding was practiced, as well as The Gallows, where inmates had their hands tied behind their backs and hung from a rope. If they lost consciousness, their heads were dipped into a jar of filthy water which would momentarily revive them. These methods were used for interrogation so that the "enemies" could name family members or other such enemies of the revolution.

The prison has been left as it was found in 1979. Because of this there is definitely a haunted feel to the place. All those eyes staring out—you want to look at each face in each picture to do them justice, to remember each one. Out of the 20,000 inmates at Toul Sleng, only 12 survived, which means that each face we looked at was now most likely that of someone murdered. By sharing their stories, by memorializing them with their faces, there is some solace in knowing that these victims will not be forgotten.

On the Lighter Side

Alright, I can crawl out of that dark place now. Even writing this it's been somewhat of a dark journey. But it's good to be reminded of these things. It's easy to forget them in every day life. How petty our problems are. I need to gain perspective when I'm stressed in traffic or or having trouble with a paper for school and ask myself—is it really so bad? And the answer is always, always: No, it's not so bad. So shut up and quit complaining.

Back in our tourist haven of bars and guesthouses, we shook off some the horrors from that day in Sharky's, an American sports bar. Well, a sports bar with a twist. I immediately felt at home walking into the upstairs bar as I used to frequent sports bars quite a bit back in the day. In fact, being away from America for so long (don't forget that I lived in Britain for three years before this sojourn around the world) to see neon Budweiser signs and to hear classic rock blasting was so nostalgic I could have cried. Except for the Cambodian prostitutes and old fat white guys. That part was kind of icky. But the drinks were good—so good that we stayed for a few and even ordered loaded potato skins. Our entertainment was sussing the dynamic of each couple sat around the bar. Though the hot young girls were laughing and flirting, as soon as their date looked away or went to the bathroom, they truly look disgusted. Chris had come to Sharky's on a previous trip with an ex-girlfriend and had been propositioned by a prostitute when his then-girlfriend had gone to the bathroom. It didn't happen this time around. Perhaps Chris and I looked too much like the married couple.

The next day we decided to head down to the Royal Palace. The tuk tuk drivers were persistent. According to them, legs and feet weren't meant for walking. Why would anyone want to walk when you could take a nice tuk tuk? We broke so many hearts in Phnom Penh, and in Asia in general, when we decided to walk somewhere.

The walk was exceptional. As our guesthouse was only a few blocks from the Sonle Tap River, we naturally headed that way. There was a riverwalk with all kinds of activity. To my delight, a group of locals had gathered to do aerobics on the waterfront. They were lined up and moving in sync. I wasn't sure who was leading them, but they were doing quite simple exercises. I joined them for a bit, hopping and skipping and waving my arms. Nobody seemed to mind me, though I skidaddled after awhile. I wasn't sure if it cost money to join the group. I thought it was a good idea, to get everyone to come together to exercise. And in such a pretty setting. I wish America would do things like this (or do they?)

The Royal Palace—I couldn't tell you a thing about it, other than we couldn't get in. We stood in line in the heat only to find that my wrap was not enough to keep me modest for such a site. They insisted I buy a tourist t-shirt. Having seen too many temples to count on our journey thus far, we weren't ready to buy a t-shirt just to see another one. So we got our tickets refunded and headed down to the waterfront once more.

Chris had wanted to visit the Foreign Correspondents Club, or FCC, which is a restaurant/bar located on the third floor of a gorgeous colonial building. With high ceilings with swirling fans and an open veranda which looks over the river, it is breezy, airy and comfortable. As soon as we sat down and ordered our overpriced drinks, we knew we'd be there all afternoon.

The FCC was like a mecca to us. Chris, of course, associated it with the journalists who had gathered here during the Vietnam War, swapping stories while smoking and sipping gin & tonics. The place did have a certain flare to it; you could envision the important groups of people gathered here. It reminded me of the time we visited Rick's Cafe in Casablanca. Chris and I had sat at the bar in that iconic room, drinking ridiculously overpriced drinks in order to be part of the scene, but the experience was well worth the price. Especially when the barman is a professional and treats you like a VIP. Priceless.

So we sat there at leisure and watched as a storm moved in over the great swath of water where the Sonle Tap meets the Mekong. Traffic honked and hummed below us. It was like being in the peaceful eye of a storm. The FCC rates as my favorite place in Phnom Penh. I would love to revisit it some day.

We secured our Vietnamese visas and our bus trip to Ho Chi Minh City. Once again, everything was falling into place. All that was left to do in Phnom Penh was to sit and drink and pass the hours. Thankfully the bars in our section of the city were outdoors and great for people watching (there were also some very seedy bars, named Horny Bar and such, but we steered clear of those). As we sat outdoors, hawkers would come around and try to tell us stuff. One caught our attention with a stack of books. Yes, these were bootlegged copies of famous novels (meaning they were copied, not printed), which was probably illegal, but dirt cheap just the same. We replenished our supply of paperbacks for the next part of our journey. One of those books we purchased was, of course, “The Killing Fields.”

Temples and Tuk Tuks

It was our longest train ride yet, from Butterworth (outside of Georgetown) to Bangkok, almost 24 hours. We had secured sleeper bunks and the train was modern so the journey was quite smooth. Lots of the usual—reading and napping.

Bangkok was beginning to feel like home at that point. How many times had we circled back here? Khao San Road was familiar to us, so much so that we really had really search over the place to find anything new and exciting. I remember that there had been a lot of rain and rats were out in the streets, sometimes washing up dead in the gutters.

Bangkok served as a brief layover on our way to Cambodia. We obtained Cambodian visas, which involved a lot more paperwork and hassle than the other countries we had visited in Southeast Asia. At this point in our travels, the whole point A to point B was becoming predictable. Shuffle the tourists between countries or cities without the tourists having much interaction with locals. We were catered to, so much so that the adventure was taken out of the process. I had pictured hitchhiking our way through places, riding with chickens and cows and whatnot, but a lot of the time were were merely herded together with other backpackers and dropped off at tourist spots in the cities. It started to feel repetitious.

Our entry to Cambodia was not without its headaches. First we were packed with a bunch of backpackers into a small van (and I'd like to note that this was totally not my preferred mode of travel, squished into a middle seat with sweaty young backpackers; my claustrophobic ways are strong in such situations). It seemed to take us forever to get out of Bangkok, the sprawling city that it is. The van driver was the worst I think I've ever encountered, heavily tapping the gas pedal in intervals, ensuring enough bursts of momentum to cause me nausea. Then there was the matter of being scammed, as Chris had come this way before, visiting Cambodia not once, but twice before, and he was on to them all, sniffing out scams left and right. My attitude was like "Fuck it, if they ask for a stamp, just pay for it." I was tired of sussing out if we were getting screwed over or not. Til this day, I'm not sure if we were scammed or not at the Cambodian border, but if we were, then so was everyone else we were with.

The strip of land between the Thai border and the Cambodian border was like some sort of no-man's-land. Lots of cement and barbed wire. It was a bit intimidating walking that stretch. The guards were a touch scary as they looked over our passports. We were entering a land haunted by the memory of the Khmer Rouge regime, one of the deadliest history has ever seen. The atrocities that were committed in this country defy comprehension. Perhaps that was on my mind as I nervously avoided eye contact.

The whole border process took several hours. Why it was such a hassle I have no idea. So many backpackers pass through this point, you'd think they'd make it more convenient. There was a lot of waiting around. Fortunately we were able to catch a bus without much fuss. This had been one of our main worries, as we had been told by guides that we should take a taxi to Siem Reap (an expensive option) or risk waiting for a bus to fill up, which could take hours. Perhaps this was another way to scam us. In truth, the buses filled up fast and before we knew it we were on our way.

Chris had inundated my thoughts with tales of dirt roads and abject poverty. I expected the worst as far as our commute to Siam Reap. However, a lot had changed since Chris' last trip to Cambodia. The dirt road was now paved and the bus was modern with movies and music videos flashing from a screen (though that in itself was not a good thing). It was obvious that tourism had made a huge impact on the economy. This could be both good and bad. Good in that we would enjoy a lot more conveniences in our travel, and bad in that a lot of the adventure was taken out of the experience.

The bus dropped us off outside of Siem Reap. From there we took a tuk tuk into the center. The sun had gone down and we were shooting along in the dark, which was quite a thrill with all the lights flashing by. Billboards abounded, along with large, upscale hotels on the outskirts of town. Somewhere in the dark we knew that Angkor Wat was looming. Just knowing it was nearby was giving me a tingly feeling. I felt like a kid on their way to Disney World—but not just yet.

Our guesthouse was more than satisfactory. Located a block away from the night market, which was part of triangle of streets which formed the downtown, it was ideal. A party atmosphere hung in the humid night air. Our guesthouse even had a nice outdoor sitting area where we could sit and enjoy drinks. But Chris and I were too tired from our long journey to venture out and instead crashed in our room.

The Guilt Factor

In the light of day, the streets of Siem Reap were crawling with tourists and beggars. Instead of being in school, kids had taken to the streets to beg. Chris had such a soft place in his heart of these children and engaged them in conversation. I was not as charmed by them. When refusing to give one little boy money he glared at me and called me a bitch. And there was a barefoot girl hanging out on a corner holding a baby in her arms. "No money," she told us. "Food for baby." And we believed her. How can one turn away from that? She said that the baby needed milk. Seemed easy enough, we would buy milk. She took us into the nearest shop to an aisle with baby formula. She asked us to buy this huge thing of baby food which cost a ridiculous amount of money. "That's not what we had in mind," we told her. "Then give me money," she said, holding her hand out. We realized that that had been her intention the whole time. How many tourists had she brought into this shop, and then cornered them, insisted that they give her money? The ladies at the shop counter looked unfazed as we left. They probably saw this a dozen times a day.

Still, the children were adorable. It wasn't their fault that their country had been through so much. Chris and I visited a children's hospital. Though we didn't get to meet any of the children, we were shown a video showcasing the plight of Cambodian children. Needless to say, it really pulled at our heartstrings. Despite the influx of tourism, Cambodia truly is a third world country where children die everyday from preventable diseases. This was an opportunity to give to the hospital with a clear conscience, away from the scams of beggars on the street.

After the children's hospital, we hired a tuk tuk to take us to the War Memorial a few miles outside of town. The cost of admittance to the museum was high at $5 per person. This is a lot of money in Cambodia, but we felt this would be an educational experience. Indeed, it was. There were no other tourists around, so we got our own guide. I don't remember his name, but he was missing an arm, so our heartstrings were plucked immediately. The museum was outdoors and featured things like tanks and helicopters and landmines. Not real landmines, but an example of what they look like. It's to be noted that Cambodia still has 8 to 10 million landmines from three decades of war. This was a sobering thought and a reminder not to be running through any fields.

Our guide had a very soft voice, but was engaging as he drew us into his stories. We weren't entirely clear about his story, how he had lost his arm. He told us that his parents, who had been villagers, had been killed by the Khmer Rouge, and he was made into a child soldier. Fighting under another regime (not the Kkmer Rouge) his arm had been damaged and amputated with a wire. It was hard to understand whose side he had been on, there were so many sides and the good and the bad were not always clear.

The tales of torture and death were a lot to take in. Chris and I walked around and touched things like Khmer Rouge scarves and helmets, wondering who had worn these and what their fates had been. Photos of victims were hung, and we tried to do them justice by absorbing them into our minds. This museum had the appropriate impact on us. Though Angkor Wat was nearby, there is so much more to Siem Reap than the temples. The horror of the Khmer Rouge and warfare infiltrated the whole country; it was only right for us to contemplate this a bit before we moved on to Disney World.

We didn’t expect to be asked for a donation at the end of the tour. We figured the entry cost would cover our guide's presentation. But here he was asking for more. Chris pulled some bhat out of his pocket and offered it, but our guide just shook his head in an offended way and said, "Too little." My heartstrings were not plucked at this; in fact I was quite agitated. "Just put it in the donation box" I told Chris, and we left. That had left a sour taste in my mouth. We were tired of being seen as walking dollar signs. Why could none of these encounters seem genuine?

Back in town, Chris and I went to find some grub. The restaurants were all outdoors, We sat on the street and ate noodles, watching the girl who had scammed us earlier use her spiel on passing tourists. Quite the little scam artist. You couldn't really blame her though. Everyone's just trying to survive in the third world.

The Land of Temples

We had bedbugs in our room. I knew this because the telltale bites were forming on my arms. We went to bed early in order to rise early to catch the sunrise at Angkor Wat. Sleep was an elusive thing as I felt bugs crawling across my face. Not ideal.

I had been waiting so long to see Angkor Wat. Back when I was a teenager, I saw these crumbling ruins surrounded by jungle in a book. At that time, Cambodia had seemed as elusive as the moon to me. I couldn't imagine that anyone could actually go there. Angkor Wat resided in my mind like a vision of Eden. I never actually thought I'd get to see it one day. But here I was, right on the threshold of something so massive and magical—I should have been beside myself with excitement. Indeed, I tried to muster it up as we waited for our tuk tuk driver at 4 o'clock in the morning. He was late and I slumped over with tiredness. When the tuk tuk driver arrived, he didn't seem like he was in good shape himself.

Sunrise at Angkor Wat (the main temple) is quite the thing. Everyone wants to capture that perfect moment. The crowds had gathered in the dark by the entrance, looking out over the giant stretch of grass towards the silhouettes of towers which were steadily emerging in the gray light. A hum of energy pervaded. Chris and I found a seat and watched as tourists around us set up their cameras. This was supposed to be the main spectacle, on par with watching The Rolling Stones take the stage at a concert. We waited and we waited, and then we waited some more. Since the sky was overcast, it was impossible to pinpoint the time of sunrise. In a slow progression, the tourists took their cameras down and dispersed. Sunrise at Angkor Wat had been anti-climatic.

But still, Angkor Wat is Angkor Wat, and it simply cannot disappoint. The temple, which is situated on a large square of land surrounded by a moat, is immense. There was no crush of tourists once we entered the temple. Chris and I lingered at leisure and snapped pictures without photobombing tourists. The ruins are quite intact, even though they date back to the 12th century. The artwork is intricate, carved into the walls. Lot of naked chicks with their boobs out. This makes sense, at it was originally a Hindu temple (and we all know how those ancient Hindus loved erotic artwork).

Coming back to our tuk tuk, we found our driver sleeping. He really didn't look well. Still, he seemed apologetic and started cycling to the next temple. It turns out that Angkor Wat is the main temple in a huge temple complex. There are so many temples that I cannot make sense of them. I'm looking at a map right now and I still can't figure out where we went. The roads between temples were long, passing through fantastically carved gates, and lined with elephants transporting tourists.

We came to another temple, this one much smaller. This one had the faces. Yes, the faces! I had seen them before and are a symbol of Bayon, another famous temple in the Angkor Wat area. Because this temple was small, we had to share our space with other tourists. These were mostly Asian, and although I risk sounding racist here, I will admit that Asians (and by this I mean, Chinese, Japanese and Korean) are my least favorite kinds of tourists. I say this because they have to take a million pictures of everything. And you can tell that the pictures aren't even going to be good. Why a husband would want to take a picture of his dower-faced wife in front of a garbage can, I will never know. So yes, they are annoying like that, taking up space. It's hard to get a good shot without an Asian in them if they are hanging about. But anyway, despite the annoyance of tourists, it was fun to ramble among the faces. The passageways through the temple were rambling enough to make you feel like you were on some kind of adventure, even if that meant waiting for a line of tourists to make their way down a ladder. Yeesh!

We visited one more temple after that, and this was the one with the giant tree roots. Ta Prohm. This was perhaps my favorite temple, as the trees had taken on a life of their own, determined to reclaim the jungle. I'm not entirely sure why the trees were so aggressive at this particular temple, but they provided great photographic opportunities (complete with Asian tourists—damn). Roots like elephant trunks draped over walls and roofs. I wonder how much longer it will be for the trees to completely take over, and for the temple to disappear into the mists of time.

Our tuk tuk driver seemed eager to get going. The whole thing felt a bit rushed for us. But we were tired so we didn't want to drag the whole experience out too much. It must have been 10:00 in the morning and we were on our way back to the hotel. On one of the back streets of Siem Reap, our driver stopped to puke. We felt bad for him. It looked like he was suffering from a massive hangover. He seemed like a nice guy though so we tipped him well. We then retreated to our room where we slept through the heat of the day (after changing rooms—no more bedbugs).

Living Large in Siem Reap

One of Chris' friends got in touch with him. John and his pregnant wife were in Siem Reap the same time we were. We agreed to meet up for a drink. Refreshed from sleep, Chris and I were ready to hit the town. Even if there wasn't much to the town, there was enough to keep us entertained for a night out. We first hit the Red Piano, a bar owned by Angelina Jolie. The drinks there were a bit more expensive than the other bars, but at least it was swanky, and lord knows it had been a long time since we had done swanky.

From there we continued to another bar where cocktails and beers were consumed. It's to be noted that I only drank beer out of necessity, as beer isn't really my thing. The cocktails in Siem Reap were fab, which meant that I was getting pretty tipsy. I felt bad that John's wife couldn't drink. She was heavily pregnant and sipped water all night. John and Chris were pounding Angkor beers and catching up. This was the second workmate of his to meet up with us on our travels. My goodness do those Brits like to travel.

Somehow we had found our way to a Ladyboy club. I'm not sure if this was intended, or if the drinks had swayed us. John wasn't feeling well. He and his wife hadn't been traveling as long, so they were still sensitive to Asian cuisine. They didn't stay long at the Ladyboy show, but Chris and I saw it through to the end. And may I say—I loved it. The owner was Australian and gay. That could have read as perverted, as these Ladyboys were on the young side, but he seemed like an alright guy. The Ladyboys really seemed to enjoy what they were doing. And they looked fabulous. Cambodians are attractive in general, with striking facial features. Their cheekbones are to die for. Most of the numbers were dance routines, but some of them were comedy. The comedy was nothing short of genius, with Ladyboys in bad wigs and intentionally bad makeup. One number was a Ladyboy with a short dress and a pantyhose with a line down the front, as if she were showing her minge (yes, I adopted that word from Chris). Lipsyncing the song from Pocahontas "Colors of the Wind" and tugging down at her dress—she reminded me of a drunk Tina Turner, and I don't know I say that, as I've never seen Tina Turner perform in such a manner. Anyway, the comedy was genius. We were in stitches. I think it was the hardest we laughed on the trip. It was a great way to end our time in Siem Reap.

The Man with a Stick

Cambodia is a small country, still it seems to take forever to get between places. Our next destination, Battambang, took an eternity to reach, but perhaps that was because of the videos being played on the bus. We were riding mostly with locals. Apparently the locals adore music videos while they travel. The music was blaring. If it had been anything remotely good I would have considered it entertainment, however it came across more like torture. Played continuously, it was on par with Chinese water torture. I can still hear it in my darkest of nightmares. The videos weren't much better with terrible soap operas being played out in cringe-worthy ways. That ride couldn't have ended soon enough.

Battambang is a large city which is less touristy than Siem Reap. There were no beggars in the streets. Instead, it seemed like the whole place was down to earth and didn’t cater too much to tourists. Chris and I loved it, as it was laid-back and we could walk the streets without being hassled. There’s some good food to be found in Battambang, from the old French bakeries to trendy cafes such as the Gecko Café, where to my delight, Mexican food was served as well as something closely resembling a frozen mojito (sans alcohol). Battambang provided some essential down time. Our hotel room was spacious and had a vague French colonial feeling to it. It was a great place to relax.

For a day we hired a tuk tuk to take us around the area. One of our destinations was the bamboo train. Our travel guide insisted that it was something not be miss. We had no idea what to expect. All kinds of images can come to mind when hearing "Bamboo Train." We were taken down a very dusty, bumpy road to the middle of nowhere. We were then taken to a lone railroad track. Our "train" was something like a wooden crate laid on top of wheel, like something children constructed. We were the only tourists. A woman and and a child hopped aboard, and then a guy started the engine and we were off. It was quite a thrill, moving so close to the ground, feeling the vibration underneath. We got up to a good speed, and at that point it felt more like a roller coaster, flying over bridges and such. Chris and I loved it.

At some point in our journey, we noticed another train coming at us. As there was only a single track, that meant we were at an impass. But no. We were instructed to step off the train. Then our conductor began to disassemble our train car. It was a swift process, taking no more than a few minutes. Once the other train passed, the car was put together and we continued on our way.

The end of the line was a village. Children surrounded us, but they weren't begging. Instead they made us jewelry out of blades of grass. They didn't ask money for them which was very refreshing. We bought a drink and sat there as a guy made friends with us. He spoke good English, telling us his story of the Khmer Rouge. He was bare-chested, sporting a long scar on his chest. Chris was intensely interested in his story, asking him all kinds of questions. So impressed Chris was that he asked to pose with him for a picture. I would like to say that this man was not telling his story to pull at our heartstrings. It seemed he genuinely wanted to share his experience.

As we drank our bottles of Fanta, the children set off makeshift petrol bombs. None of the adults seemed concerned that the children were playing with such dangerous toys.

There was no pressure to buy anything else, and soon we were back on the train heading back in the direction we had come from. There were waves all around as we pulled away. What a fantastic experience.

From the Bamboo Train we were taken to a temple in the hills, Phnom Sempeau. The day was extremely hot. We had the option to take a motorbike up to the top, but we decided to slog it. Bad idea. The climb nearly did us in. Still the views were good from the top, though the temple itself wasn't that big of a deal. The thing that stuck with me the most were the caves with the shrines. Though these were religious, they also carried the horror of the Khmer Rouge. One of the caves was called the Killing Cave, because so many bodies had been dumped there. There were paintings outside of the cave which depicted some of the horrors which had taken place there. Again, such a beautiful setting. It was hard to believe this had been such a different place just decades before.

Our tuk tuk driver earned his wages that day. He took us all around the countryside. On the way back to Battambang we came to a roundabout with a giant statue of a dark chap holding a big stick. Our driver parked the tuk tuk long enough to tell us the story about the town. The story goes that a long time ago, there was a farmhand who possessed a magic stick. With the help of his stick, he became king. Another king looked to take his place, but the guy with the stick didn't want him to get it so, according to legend, he threw it in the river. And it's never been found. The name Battambang literally means "Lost Stick."

Indeed, there was a little bit of magic to be found in Battambang. There was nothing outwardly showy about it, the way Siem Reap was, with all the wealth from tourism. Rather it was close to the real Cambodia, both rural and city. The people were genuine and some of the nicest we had encountered on our travels. Because of places like this, along with Chris, I had fallen in love with Cambodia.