If the prospect of the trip was daunting it was made easier by the knowledge that my role in the planning was limited to checking I had enough memory & batteries before grabbing my camera and turning up. Our travelling party fortunately includes more than one member who revels in the planning & organisation. T & D are keen. They say strange things like 'I do love maps'. Weird. Some serious control-freakery going on if you ask me.
The departure lounge is pregnant with anticipation and no little excitement as T, the aeronautical stress engineer, salivates at the quality and dimensions of the aeroplane wings.
S meanwhile is displaying the boundless curiosity and enthusiasm of a young pup straining at the leash. Under normal conditions good enough to win trophies for talking, she is now proving herself to be an Olympian. M sees the journey as a means to an end and is obviously not in touch with his inner bird being a grumpy old curmudgeon, refusing to submit to all the wonderstuff. It's a unusual dynamic, but it works.
However, as we walk up the gently inclining walkway onto the upper deck and look around the very well upholstered accommodation to be greeted by a bevvy of Singaporean beauties my spirits rise. Answering the call of nature I enter the fragrant and spacious WC bedecked with flowers to attend to my ablutions. On exiting I am met by a friendly hostess. Things are going just swimmingly. Until she informs me that actually the Economy Class loos are at the rear of the plane. I might have objected, if she hadn't been so disarmingly and unfeasibly glamorous.
So we take our places in cattle class, anticipate a 12 hour ordeal and make plans for DVT and insomnia. As it happens, it's the most comfortable flight in a state-of-the-art Airbus 380 whose seriously impressive and most excellently stressed wings are the size of an Easyjet plane. T's chest swells with pride. After a 45 minute delayed departure the winged beast thrusts into the air with such force that even the fractious infant a couple of rows ahead is momentarily stunned into silence. Apart from the challenges set by the Gents, where due to the angle of the sloping ceiling we the underclass are required to be extremely well-endowed or to be suffering from dwarfism (unqualified on both counts...) it is a remarkably comfortable journey.
The 45 minute late departure from Heathrow nags at us through the sleep-lite long hours as day turns into night and back to day. We have only 55 minutes to make the connecting flight from Singapore to Siem Reap. Fortunately we land ahead of schedule. We grab our bags and charge off in the direction of Terminal 3 at the wrong end of one of the world's largest hub airports, hoping that our luggage is following us at the same pace. After a mad dash (an Insane Bolt) we arrive breathless with moments to spare and board the babybird to Siem Reap. During the flight I strike up a fairly tortuous fractured conversation with the young Cambodian in the next seat, during which I gather that he works for Bosch and has been on a training week in Singapore. Although he's had a university education he claims to be so poorly paid that he cannot afford a house so "No girl marry me. Still single. Bad thing" (I think "Not so sure. Perhaps no bad thing. Perhaps you lucky man...") And anyway, his income is needed to support the greater family. Apparently Cambodia provides little in the way of social provision for the unemployed, sick and old so the family unit tends to stay together to look out for each other.
At Siem Reap International Airport we are required to purchase a tourist visa on arrival. This relatively straightforward arrangement apparently requires a dozen uniformed men to process. Our passports and visa applications are passed down the line as each official scrutinises our documents and looks up suspiciously at the passengers lined up before them (think firing squad). We are led off nervously for fingerprinting to complete the process.
Our man from the Siem Reap Hostel is waiting to greet us with his "Thomas Debbie" sign. He takes one look at us and says "Oh. I expect young people". We walk over to his tuk-tuk (think motorised rickshaw). "Oh, he says, I only expect two peoples. Sorry". We sit crammed and cradling our backpacks in the 90 degree heat for the mile or so journey to the hostel along the busy dusty roads where the Cambodians seem to have adopted a policy of self-regulated anarchy, the only protocol being a loud blast of the horn to let others know you're coming through. It does nothing to ease our nerves to see that the roads show signs of extensive damage following the recent flooding. Sandbags line up along the heavily pitted roads which are repaired by the simple but surprisingly effective method of delivering half bricks to fill up the holes and sending in a steamroller to crush and level. Job done. Up to a point.
We had noticed the flooding over a wide area of the countryside as we flew in. Many small outlying villages have been submerged with just the rooftops showing and the single access road cut off. By contrast Siem Reap seems to have got off relatively lightly.
We arrive at the hostel and it surpasses our expectations. We knew we had not bought into 4 star luxury but this place has many things that a stuffy and sterile hotel would not have. There is an easy, relaxed and friendly ambience and the accommodation may be simple but it is comfortable and the staff are friendly and efficient. The guests are, it's fair to say, mostly of a younger demographic but we'd like to think that we have introduced an element of sophistication, experience, wisdom and moderation into the mix. There is music playing constantly in the lounge / pool area; mostly pretty cool hippy dippy West Coat ambient stuff. Fleet Foxes seems to be the default sound. We suffer the occasional English public schoolboy gap-year Jonny loudly relaying tales of jolly japes and ginger beer-fuelled scrapes, and the inevitable American Idiot. But I think we're coping well.
We meet our guide for the first time in the evening. Buntheuon breezes in all smiles and bonhomie, greeting us all individually with a double-handed handshake.
He's the sort of bloke you take to immediately - friendly, anxious to please and to pass on as much information as it takes to put you at ease. He asks how 'Mister Chris' is (he was Chris' guide around Angkor Wat a couple of years ago) 'Mister Chris very handsome and always happy like you!' Blimey, he's looking at me when he says this - not a compliment I can recall having had previously. But I'll take it. He surprises us a bit (and amuses us a lot) when we ask how to correctly pronounce his name 'Oh you just call me Thierry!' Presumably after Thierry Henry and in recognition of his love of football and a nod to the French colonial legacy. Confusingly we are to learn of his great devotion to Man Utd. often staying up all night to catch Champions League games. T suggests that 'Wayne' might have been a better choice (you cannot imagine a more unlikely Wayne).
Thierry agrees to join us for our first meal out. We explain that we want to find a local restaurant for local people serving local cuisine. Thierry leads the way while we tuk-tuk in behind. We fetch up at his favourite restaurant a few kilometres away. He orders for us, taking into account our foolish request for something 'spicy' which causes him some amusement. 'But you are Europeans!' The courses keep coming until we can take no more. A confusion with the order means that there is enough grub left over for Thierry and our driver to take home doggie bags ( 'les sacs des chiens' ) for their families. If this is une scam petite, well gallic shrugs all round, the bill only comes to 22 dollars so we are all happy.
As we plan to see the sunrise over the temples at Angkor Wat tomorrow and haven't had any sleep for 36 hours we retire to the hostel where The Bright Young Things are still poolside, still drinking.
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