DAY 1 / 2 (A Long Day's Journey Into Night And Back Again)

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.

Day 3 ANGKOR WAT

The city streets are surprisingly busy as we drive at some speed to catch the 05.30 sunrise. Motorbikes and tuk-tuks make their way through the early morning gloom and street vendors set up their roadside ramshackle shacks for the coming day.

Thierry had chuckled enigmatically to himself when we made known our wish to see an Angkor Wat sunrise, suggesting to me that either he saw this as an unusual request so soon after we'd arrived (or that it was clear to him that this lot were up for anything). We arrive in plenty of time and join a dawn chorus of busy bleary-eyed exciteable sun-worshippers. I know where I want to be to capture the spectacle (I've done the research) and I elbow my way through a united nations of snappers to take my place lakeside. I'd say it was worth it.

On the way back to the hostel Thierry gives us a potted history of the temples and their significance as a crammer for what is to come later in the day. He has an accreditation from the Cambodian government allowing him to work as a guide and has mapped out a thorough and well thought out itinerary. There are many other temples that we might have visited but we were more than happy with the scope provided. Thierry is very knowledgeable and although his English is not always easy to decipher he is very personable, very enthusiastic and appears genuinely pleased that we are interested in his country of which he is clearly very proud. We would recommend him. He can be contacted at chhoengbunthoeurn@yahoo.co.uk

A BRIEF SUMMARY OF THE TEMPLES:

Angkor Thom 

 The entrance to Angkor Thom 

One of the largest Khmer cities ever built, Angkor Thom is 9 sq km with The Bayon at its centre. 

 The Bayon

The Bayon is made up of many towers and stone faces

Constructed around 1200, The Bayon is for the Mahayana Buddhists the symbolic centre of the universe and the empire of King Jayavarman II.

 Bapuon

 The state temple of Udayadityavarman II (also known as The Unpronounceable One...) dating from 1060.

Ta Prohm

Dating from 12th / 13th centuries, the trees that are intertwined with the ruins give it a special atmosphere.

Phrea Khan

Built as a Buddhist university city in the late 12th century, it has a similar feel to Ta Prohm

After a very full day, although we joke about being 'all templed out' and having 'temple fatigue' (it should be borne in mind that apart from one brief, curtailed, sleep we haven't had much rest during the last 48 hours) we've had a fascinating and thorough insight into a people, their history and culture.

The hostel keeps a book compiled by residents that provides tips and useful snippets of information about the area. Chief amongst these is how best to deal with the hawkers and beggars, particularly children, much in evidence around the sites of interest. It is extremely difficult not to engage with the cutest kids aged from about 3, who look up at you with the biggest baleful black eyes and plead 'One dollar, you buy please mister, I go to school please, one dollar.' If you have a beating heart you want to help. It may seem counterintuitive but by paying them you are helping to keep them out of school as the money is passed to their parents who often rely on them as the main source of income.

We are looking for somewhere for our evening meal and the book recommends the Green Star Restaurant, just around the corner from us. The restaurant helps to provide funds for an organisation that helps to keep kids off the street, The Green Gecko Project http://www.greengeckoproject.org/ so it seems perfect - good local cuisine eaten with a clear conscience. The place is run by an Aussie, Dave, who after visiting the country found that he could not go back to his old life. He quit his job to return to help set up the project. He is very proud of his part in turning around many lives; some of his kids winning national education prizes and going to university. His partner is a pretty Cambodian girl about 30 years his junior so things seem to have worked out for Dave. He is full of anecdotes which although hugely entertaining and informative are doing nothing to quell our hunger or quench our thirst. Eventually he offers us the option of a Tower Of Beer (did I mention he's an Aussie?). By now we are up for the challenge. The Tower contains approximately 12 half litres of lager which comfortably see us through the evening. Although the service is shambolic (the main course arrives without rice which is delivered by motorbike 20 minutes later) we feel we have received a further insight into the country and we turn in tired but fulfilled after a day that will live long in the memory.

DAY 4 SIEM REAP

We'd planned to give Thierry the day off today and, laughably, thought that we might hire some bikes to search out a few temples on our own. We have no problem reaching a consensus that after yesterday's exertions this is not only unnecessary but potentially suicidal.

D has succumbed to a bout of travel tum and T notes with some appreciation and no little concern that it is good of her to 'take one for the team'. By the end of the day I would be Last Man Standing, made of sterner stuff.

I spend the bulk of the day relaxing on the veranda looking out on the street below as the Siem Reapians go about their daily business. Many shops and stalls line the street, mostly brick or tin built shacks or temporary taurpalin-covered frames displaying goods, mostly cheap basic necessities; convenience foods next to recycled mobile phones, motorcyle parts. A shoe shop spreads out onto the road where a barefoot 3 year old plays all day as the relentless traffic rushes past. Tuk-tuks, motorbikes with schoolgirls riding side-saddle, lorries carrying teams of labourers to and from their day's work, pushbikes and pedestrians all vying for position skillfully avoiding each other and the lethal potholes. In our time in Siem Reap we will witness some bizarre and reckless behaviour by western standards which will challenge our notions of Health & Safety: a motorbike pillion passenger carrying a large unwrapped unprotected mirror; a motorbike taking a family of SIX out for the evening with the family dog sitting in a basket upfront; a farmer taking a basket of squealing piglets to market in a basket strapped to his shoulders. We witness just one accident when a few schoolgirls are sent sprawling across the carriageway. Thierry is with us at the time and he finds the incident quite amusing - all he can do is point and laugh!

We have a 3 day pass to Angkor Wat ($40 each) and decide to leave late afternoon to catch a leisurely sunset. We agree a price with 'Bob' one of the tuk-tuk drivers lying in wait outside the hostel. A few kilometres short of Angkor Wat the tuk-tuk goes phut-phut as the engine cuts out. Bob mutters a few Khmer expletives. Was I the only one thinking 'Can he fix it?' Bob finds a reserve bottle of petrol and we're off again.

A few yards farther on he calls over to a roadside petroleum sales executive who wanders over with what appears to be an olive oil bottle from which Bob tops up his tank. We were to learn that petrol stations are a rareity; all vehicles top up from roadside stands selling recycled bottles of petrol and diesel.

At Angkor Wat the central sanctuary is the most significant to the Hindus as it represents the centre of the universe. Ladies are required to be appropriately attired and many tourists are turned back by the modesty cops. The rules are very strict. Unfortunately D fell foul of them yesterday and was yellow carded for a flagrant shoulder display. Today she is covered up. But what's this? She's being referred to the officials again. This time it's a red card for a quite cynical display of bare leg. Rules are rules in any language and she's off! Ah well, she's not missing much - it's only The Centre of the Universe after all.

We hang around for some time waiting to optimise photo opportunities as the sun begins to set. (OK, everyone hangs around for me while I wait to optimise photo opportunities as the sun begins to set...)

We finally catch up with Bob and discuss where to go for our evening meal. Bob insists that he must take us to his favourite restaurant which is 'the best in town' and features traditional dancing girls, the Apsara. We decline as we had spotted a really nice restaurant just around the corner from the hostel. Bob is not happy and insists that his choice is better but we are not to be persuaded. Bob drives off in a bit of a strop. Our decision is vindicated as we have a fabulous meal at Viroth's Restaurant in Wat Bo Street, set in pleasant surroundings it's a cut above anything else available in town. You pay Western prices but it's a real treat. The perfect end to the day.

DAY 5 THE KULEN MOUNTAINS

I rise early from my slumbers to check yesterday's footie scores. My boys are clearly not missing me as they continue their recent run of good form with a 2-0 win against Palace. An extra spring in my step as I join the others for brekkie. I note that Bob is already in Reception touting for business. We had been advised that once you link up with a tuk-tuk driver they tend to assume that they've tied you up for your entire stay and Bob takes some persuading that we will not require his services today.

We have agreed a price with Thierry for the hire of an MPV and chauffeur to take us to the Kulen Mountains where King Jayavarman II established his capital around 800AD. Our journey takes us beyond the city into the countryside outside Siem Reap. We drive through many villages populated by rural folk living in their elevated shacks (to avoid the winter flooding); families who live side by side with their poultry and cattle. This is subsistence living, pre-industrial, almost medieval but for some concessions to the modern age - mobile phones, replica branded clothing, cigarettes, the occasional motorbike.

About an hour in we leave the main road and hit a dirt track. The road ahead has been washed away by the recent flooding and there doesn't seem to be a way through. The driver stops to have a word with the soldiers at the side of the road who seem to indicate that they are there to help should we get stuck. Most westerners would wimp out at this point, but the Cambodians have a 'can do' approach to life and we sense they don't want to let us down. After another hour of being flung around in the van and many more 'he's never going to......he has!' moments we make it to Kulen Village just in time - apparently the rule is that vehicles can only climb the single track road before mid-day. After that, it's downhill only! We are met by a gaggle of excitable schoolchildren calling out 'One dollar, shoes mister, one dollar'. Thierry explains that the kids will look after our shoes for one dollar when we enter the Buddhist shrine at the top of the hill. Either you find this irritating or you admire their enterprise. They're nice kids and I incline towards the latter.

We walk up the cobbled stone hill lined with stalls selling trinkets, tat, Buddhas and food. We pass broken beggars with outstretched hands, one-legged war veterans, possibly landmine victims.










 We reach the shrine and hand our shoes over to the kids who have great fun playing with T's hat and glasses.

The kids wave up at us as we look down from the shrine of a Buddha carved into the rock. We return, collect our shoes and hand over our dollars. Smiles all round.

On the way back I take a few pictures of one of the beggars, a dignified, well-presented man in his 50's and give him a dollar for his time. I'm uneasy at the transaction. At worst I am exploiting him, at best I'm helping him to get by.

We begin the descent, stopping off at the waterfalls where I almost come unstuck walking through the river in search of a winning shot.

We complete the long tortuous descent in our by now battered van ('You know the nearer your destination the more you're slip sliding away...'  Paul Simon) and stop for lunch at a large warehouse selling the most ornate, exquisitely carved furniture that has a cafe drawing in the crowds. It's a popular stopping off point and we suspect that Thierry and his fellow guides are being rewarded for safely delivering us tourists as they tuck into their free lunches. A surprisingly articulate young Cambodian comes over to discuss the merits of a guide book he's hoping to sell. Usually these fellas are not armed with sufficient language to put up much of a fight when you spurn their advances but this one voices incredulity that I might not be interested in his book that he is selling for 'one dollar' when the cover price is $27.95. I agree that it is a quality product and realising I'm losing the argument and keen to tuck into my grub I reach for my wallet and pull out a dollar. 'No, no eleven dollar!' By now I've convinced myself I want the book and we agree on $10. I wonder what the Khmer is for 'stitched up like a kipper'.

We move on to Bantei Srei, a temple in a peaceful isolated setting containing some remarkable decorative carving in pink sandstone and dedicated to the Hindu god Shiva.

On our way back to the van T is offered the same guide book for a dollar. 'I'm going to buy it!' he announces gleefully. I'm not best pleased, casting some doubt on his parentage. No surprise, it turns out to be the same scam but he does manage to claim victory by agreeing $9. Nevertheless, two foreign mugs for the price of one. Although it is a good read...

We drive on to Phnom Krom, a bustling riverside village to climb the steps to the temple. As we climb to the summit we can see the extent of the recent flooding.

The grey skies part and we witness a spectacular sunset much to Thierry's delight 'I bring you sunset, look!'

Before going back to the hostel Thierry insists that we must visit a special restaurant where the dancing girls the Apsara are performing! We're too tired to argue and anyway by now we have full confidence in Thierry's judgement. Disappointingly it turns out to be a magnet for coach party tourism; overpriced all-you-can-eat stodge in a vast arena. We spot Thierry and the boys tucking into another meal but we're not resentful, the boy deserves it. We're leaving for Battambang tomorrow so it's time to say goodbye to Thierry who has provided some great experiences that will remain with us. It's a surprisingly moving farewell as he thanks us again for taking the time to visit his country and 'helping so many people'. It's all quite humbling.

DAY 6 SIEM REAP TO BATTAMBANG

It's another bleary eyed start this morning as we load up the backpacks to catch the boat to Battambang for 7.00. The ruthless efficiency of the party autocrats determines that we are first on the scene and we sit and wait for our fellow passengers. And wait. And wait. It's past 8.00 before we leave. The quality of the boat is not great but we are led to believe that we will be transferred to a bigger craft at some point during the journey. I'm not convinced.

Lake Tonle Sap is the largest freshwater lake in South East Asia and at this time of the year at the end of the rainy season it is at its fullest. There are many small partially submerged islands and an abundance of treetops poking through the surface. During the coming summer months the waters will subside and the lake will shrink dramatically in size allowing the lake communities, mostly Vietnamese, to carry on with their lives. For now however they are marooned and appear to survive by fishing and trading with the passing boats.

As soon as they hear the boat the kids rush out and wave, shouting 'Bye' as we pass.

After a while we move out into the open lake and the scenery becomes fairly monotonous. The ageing plastic seats are sweaty and sticky and the journey is pretty uncomfortable. From time to time we are consumed by acrid fumes from the overworked engine. There is no sign of the promised transfer.

After 3 1/2 hours we stop for a break. The fresh food at the island store may look appetising, more so as we had no time for breakfast before we left and have survived so far on Pringles and water, but there are not unreasonable doubts about potential contamination. There is clear evidence that the river provideth and the river also taketh away. The available WC is literally that - a closet perched above the water where an audience of enthusiastic fishes await.

Soon after we continue on our way we have a near collision with a passing craft as both parties appear to be asleep at the wheel. One of our fellow passengers had asked her travel agent if this journey was safe; if there was any chance of sinking, to be told 'It's difficult to say!' We are learning why.

The riverbanks become more populous the closer we get to Battambang with clear signs of the effects of the recent flooding. Many of the shacks are partially submerged and it is clear that these people have suffered. They are living life literally on the edge and will always be vulnerable to environmental and economic change and cannot rely on the authorities to help them out. The kids appear immune to all this and are desperate to catch our attention. They wave and smile with the widest grins and the whitest teeth. In the main the adults display a weary disdain as we pass by. Who can blame them? Recording their plight makes me feel uncomfortably voyeuristic.

We finally arrive at Battambang after 6 1/2 hours. We are delivered to our hotel by the inevitable tuk-tuk and are greeted by our host. The hotel is a gated residence, disconcertingly protected by tall security gates and razor wire, a legacy of Khmer Rouge rule. Our host is an interesting guy. For reasons that will become clear I will not reveal his identity; we know him as 'Crazy'. He has a strong French accent and for him everything is 'cray-zeee'. We learn that Battambang is a crazy city, that Cambodia is a crazy country, that the Khmer Rouge inevitably were crazy and that the current administration is corrupt and includes former Khmer Rouge officials. Now that is crazy.

Crazy refers to himself as a 'jungle baby'. He was born during the Khmer Rouge years. His parents were hiding out in the forests in fear of the regime and he tells us he survived  by sucking on suger cane when his mother's milk failed. The family eventually escaped to France where Crazy was brought up. He always planned to come back to Cambodia and reached an agreement with his family to run the old family house as a hotel. He gives us a great insight into the recent history of the country and he is quite pessimistic about its immediate future, convinced that there is a high probability of further conflict in the coming years. He is scathing about the current regime and makes it quite clear that he has to be very circumspect about who he discusses such matters with as the government does not permit dissent. He tells the story of a relation of his who interviewed a party official, penned an unflattering portrait and was given 24 hours to leave the country.

We ask him how despite the appalling recent history and the continuing privations the Khmer people are so welcoming and friendly with no apparent signs of resentment. He responds with a question: 'Is there an English word for dignité ?'

DAY 7 BATTAMBANG

Daybreak brings with it a cacophony of sounds. The cockeral tunes up bang on 5.00am and sets off the dogs who alert the Buddhists that it's time to announce the start of the celebrations to herald the end of the rainy season and the start of summer. This is to last for 3 days.

One of the motivating factors for coming to Cambodia is to help out at one of the village schools just outside the city, where Chris spent some time teaching a couple of years ago. The school is part of the Khmer New Generation Organisation (KNGO) a charity which raises funds to support the education of local children www.kngovolunteer.org

D, T & S take a number of classes. I assist and take some photos to help to publicise the cause. Over 3 hours we have 6 classes of kids ranging in age from about 4 - 16. It is an exhausting afternoon but the kids are friendly, polite, curious, attentive and good fun to be around. The teachers are all volunteers, some former pupils, and are committed to helping the children achieve their ambitions and move out of poverty. When asked what they want to be when they leave school, we hear the same ambitions that you might expect from any kids in the West - teacher, nurse, doctor, engineer, lawyer. The precarious nature of funding and the huge financial obstacles to getting a university education will sadly mean that the chances of many of them achieving their ambitions seem pretty remote. More so since Sun Saveth, the leader of the school, indicates that there are insufficient funds to continue beyond next February. It is a sobering, if life-affirming experience and we leave determined to do something to help the school survive.

Post-script
Good news! Julia's firm, Lindleys Solicitors, based in Bristol and Clevedon, www.lindleys.net have volunteered to make the school their charitable cause for the next year and will raise funds and publicise the cause to their clients. This will help to secure the future of the school in the short term. We'll be making donations to the school in lieu of Christmas presents this year. If you can help in any way please visit the school website. Ok, Appeal over...

DAY 8 RURAL BATTAMBANG

Cockerals, dogs and Buddhists. The alternative, discordant dawn chorus. 5.00am. Give us a break!

Crazy has plans to take us out into the villages today to sample rural life in the countryside beyond Battambang but we endure a tropical storm over breakfast and assume that our plans for the day will be curtailed. Crazy dismisses our concerns 'This rain, it's cray-zeee. But it will stop. 20 minutes.' Twenty minutes later the sun is shining and we're on our way. We are joined today by our fellow guest and Crazy compatriot Jacques Fantastique. For him everything is 'fantastique'. He is in his mid-sixties, recently retired and on a solo trip around South East Asia. He's in good shape for a man of his vintage, although it has to be said that his tight bicycle shorts are not a good look. Far from fantastique in fact.

Crazy keeps his own tuk-tuk retainer who seems to be permanently on call. We are taken to a Buddhist shrine at Wat Samrong Knong which includes a monument dedicated to those that perished under the Khmer Rouge. More than 10,000 died in this area and the ground beneath us contains the remains of many who died in this particular killing field.

A section of the memorial bas-relief with its chilling message

Today this is a tranquil, spiritual place where the novice monks hang out. Most Cambodian boys will spend time learning the traditions and taking their vows. It all seems fairly informal, a bit like a scout camp and the boys are in good spirits celebrating the start of summer.

We move on and stop off at a number of villages where local craftsmen and women (in Europe they'd be 'artisans' but that's perhaps too much of a bourgeois concept to be relevant here) produce a range of goods including rice paper, incense sticks and portable ovens made from recycled tin and clay; we visit a boat manufacturer, a vineyard and a fish products farm where we endure a full-on assault on the nostrils and don't dwell too long. These people are incredibly industrious and innovative. The workshops are mainly family concerns and in some cases there appear to be three generations helping out.

During the day we have long discussions with Crazy who is clearly committed to playing his part in ensuring a better future for his country. He tells us that 58% of the population are aged 17 or under and they are likely to have different ideas about how the country should be run from that of their parents. The current generation according to Crazy have grown up so used to being told what to do that they don't feel they have any control over their lives. The Cambodian Peoples Party has a base in every town and village and there are roadside signs everywhere making it quite clear who is in charge. Although ostensibly this country is a democracy under a constitutional monarchy Crazy claims there is little sense of empowerment amongst the people but as the rump of the old Khmer Rouge leaders pass on a better educated and better resourced new generation will demand a greater say in the country's future.

On a lighter note Crazy recalls some guests saying how they like to party and quite fancy a disco; they've seen the signs around the town and wonder if there's any chance of getting an invitation to the people's party. (We don't know if they were Brits but...)

We are on schedule to get to the Crocodile Mountain in time for sunset. We drive along a track taking us through the ricefields that is suspiciously quiet. We are in fact the only vehicle on the road. We soon learn why. We should be used to it by now but it's heart-in-the-mouth time again as we plough on through the rich red mud. T suggests that 'it was probably like this in Passchendaele'. As we are tossed around from side to side  I'm calculating how far clear of the tuk-tuk I'll be able to jump if I leap out before we hit the ground. I'm not sure how, but we do eventually arrive at the foot of the Crocodile Mountain and begin the ascent to the inevitable Buddhist shrine.

We drive back in the dark, fortunately along a well maintained highway. Crazy et Fantastique join us for dinner at the local Bamboo Train Restaurant. Crazy is keen to have a game of pool so we agree on a Wales v France tournament which Wales wins fairly comfortably. Fantastique admits that he hasn't played the game since he did his national service in the 1960's but any victory against the French is to be celebrated. Particularly after recent events at the Rugby World Cup.

DAY 9 BATTAMBANG TO PHNOM PENH

Why Buddhism Is Not For Me.

Imagine the sound of the world's worst pub singer in a search for enlightenment after 10 pints of Guiness accompanied by his best mate on the bongos. That's the sound of the monks at 6.00 am this morning. I'm not convinced that this is likely to bring me inner peace. Nevermind a state of Nirvana, I am now in a state of extreme agitation and decide I might as well get up. Hommmmmmmmmmmm!

Today we say our fond farewells and our au revoirs as we leave Battambang for Phnom Penh. Crazy has arranged a taxi for us. If this sounds a bit extravagant for a 4 - 5 hour journey, the cost works out at less than a tenner each; not much more than the price of a taxi home from town after a night out.

I realise early on in the journey that this is probably the only road between Battambang and Phnom Penh, Cambodia's first and second cities. For such a strategically important road you might expect it to be well maintained. Not a bit of it. After a while the road deteriorates markedly. It is littered with potholes, not the type you might expect after a particularly bad winter back home; no, the type so big you might expect to disappear down one at any moment. Clearly our driver who has shown signs of impatience and an eagerness to get us to our destination in record time will have to adapt to conditions. He opts for the Playstation approach. In order to avoid the hazards he zig-zags across the carriageway, treating oncoming vehicles as fellow competitors. And he is clearly determined to win through to the next stage. To succeed as a driver in this situation all you need are nerves of steel and a horn. As a passenger, the belief in a beneficent god and a reserve pair of underpants helps. Sitting behind the driver I determine that the ploy for overtaking is to look for the merest hint of a gap and go for it. And if there is no gap pull out anyway in the belief that one will appear. I recall Crazy telling us that life expectancy in Cambodia is 45 and reflect that I am on borrowed time...

You might call that last paragraph Gallows Humour. In all seriousness I have no idea how we made it to Phnom Penh. As if to emphasise how we had ridden our luck, as we drove through the city we had a puncture and had to hire a tuk-tuk to take us the last 100 yards to the hotel.

After settling into our rooms (kettle, cups and saucers, English tea - how civilised!) we decide we need some down time. So it's off to the Genocide Museum.

The museum is on the site of a Khmer Rouge torture camp known as Section 21, previously a school, which they seized on taking power in November 1975. I won't go into the appalling details here but one statistic stands out: of more than 20,000 documented prisoners only 14 survived, of whom only 2 are alive today. And we had the opportunity to meet them both after our tour. Chum Manh and Bou Meng somehow managed to avoid the slaughter as the Khmer Rouge murdered any remaining prisoners when the Vietnamese liberated the city. Bou Meng was able to avoid the worst of the torture due to his skill as an artist and he was commissioned to draw flattering portraits of Pol Pot. It seems incongruous that these brave men regularly return to the site where they suffered and witnessed the suffering and torture of others, but they rely on the proceeds of the autobigraphies they have written to get by. The place that almost destroyed them now sustains them in their old age.

It is now dusk and we return to the hotel which has a rooftop restaurant overlooking the noisy, crowded bustling city. We had been warned to be wary of the city at night. A meal and a few drinks on the cool terrace looking out on the madness below is a great way to end the day.

DAY 10 PHNOM PENH

After the Khmer Rouge had extracted the forced confessions of their prisoners at S-21 they sent them 15km north of the city to be executed. The extermination camp is known as the Killing Fields of Choeng Ek. The audio guide provides a chilling insight into the events that took place here and includes personal testimonies of people who suffered under the regime. One of these tales is particularly poignant for us and is from a mother whose baby was born during the period of her enforced labour in the fields. Without adequete nutrition she was unable to provide for the baby who died. She still grieves for the loss of her child who would have been the same age as our friend Crazy. 

The remains of nearly 9,000 people have been recovered here but many more victims still lie in the ground. The policy is not to disturb the site any further and not to remove any items that are uncovered by the tropical storms that occur during the rainy season. Consequently, as you walk around the site you may witness the disturbing site of clothing and often teeth that have found their way to the surface. But this is today a tranquil place and plays an important part in, as the Guidebook says, 'keeping the memory of the atrocoities committed on Cambodian soil alive and is the key to building a new strong and just state'.

Just one concern about a very informative and insightful if unsettling experience - the site has been privatised by the government and presumably therefore is run for profit. This shows a typically callous disregard for the welfare of its citizens and effectively sanctions profiteering from genocide. Can you imagine Auschwitz-Birkenau being sold to the highest bidder?

Skeletal remains often rise to the surface of the mass graves

On a lighter note, these lads appear at the perimeter fence to show us a couple of fish they've just caught. 'Hey mister you take picture look, 1-2-3 SMILE! One dollar!' Cheeky young scamps. (Yes of course I paid)

To compliment the morning's events we take our lunch back in town at the Foreign Correspondents' Club where the journalists in the Killing Fields film were based and where much of the footage was filmed. This is a throwback to a bygone age, of Boys Own adventures, of derring-do; very colonial, very 'Our Man In Phnom Penh'. T is inspired and reckons he might have liked to have been a foreign correspondent. Well he's got the hat, that's a start...

After tiffin we take a late afternoon consitutional along the waterfront promenade, hobnobbing with the natives and taking tea at the Titanic Tearooms alongside the river. We walk around the French Quarter and reflect how little of the French legacy remains in the country. A lot has happened since they left town. Independence gave rise to a corrupt monarchy which gave rise to a corrupt military regime which was replaced by extreme communism which has produced an unsatisfactory benign totalitarian state. You have to ask what these lovely people have done to deserve so many varied forms of mis-rule.

We look out on the confluence of the Tonle Sap River and the Mekong as the sun sets and we hatch a plan to one day travel up the Mekong in search of Marlon Brando's insane renegade rogue Colonel Walter E Kurtz (Cue 'The Ride of the Valkyries'...)

We tuk-tuk back to the hotel in the dark as the locals head out for the evening.

Phnom Penh motorcyclists: Born To Be Wild

DAYS 11 -15 LAZY BEACH

We leave Phnom Penh this morning at 7.00 to drive to Sihanoukville on the south coast to catch the boat to Lazy Beach, on the island of Koh Rong Samlom. We are picked up from the hotel in a new Hyundai people carrier, a major advance on the Arkansas Chuggabug that delivered us to the city in such an entertaining manner. There is to be no repeat of the Battambang - Phnom Penh Wacky Race.

As we leave town it's interesting to note the banners crossing the highway declaring 'November 13th National Sanitation Day'. One day late for us unfortunately. Without going into detail (as far as I'm concerned there's been far too much gratuitous bowel banter in our time here; some members of the party liberated perhaps by their professional insights appear to a laymen like me to be borderline obsessive) the change of diet allied with tap water described in a holiday forum as 'Traveller's Poison' has taken its toll on one or two of our more colonically challenged gutless wonders. Sorry, sympathy quota clearly exhausted.

The 4 1/2 hour journey is remarkably incident-free, the driver being by Cambodian standards quite competent and by Western standards merely reckless. No livestock, farmers or small children were harmed during the making of this journey; as far as we're aware.

Sihanoukville has developed as a popular tourist destination in recent years and has a number of popular beaches. It is seen as an alternative to the more developed areas of neighbouring Thailand but is perhaps in danger of developing too rapidly itself and potentially spoiling its relaxed charm. The Lazy Beach resort (if you can call 14 beach huts a 'resort') is situated on one of a dozen islands in the Gulf Of Thailand off the Cambodian coast and is 2 1/2 hours away by boat. It can be reached in 40 minutes apparently but our quaint little vessel is a tad pedestrian. Judging by its appearance it is clearly a veteran of many trips around the Gulf. Its long no doubt distinguished history does little to assuage T's concerns however. After all, it only has to sink once. And you don't need to be an Engineer with a heightened sense of intrinsic safety values to question the seaworthiness of our decidedly tired looking boat.

We chug-chug along for a couple of hours before our worst fears are realised and a tropical storm blows in. The tarpaulin shutters are rolled down to afford some protection from the rain. The life jackets hang from the rafters (I quickly calculate the number available and wonder if it will be possible to share...) and I mentally 'bagsie' one of the newer ones. The swell throws the passengers into each other's laps in an impromptu 'meet and greet' session. Fortunately we are within reach of our destination and the island probably provides some protection from the worst of the storm. We are grateful to finally pull alongside the jetty, damp, shaken and not a little stirred.

We are greeted by Chris, one of the two partners in the business, and are shown to the reception / bar area for a welcoming drink. As we sit and wait for our bags to be brought in and generally acclimatise, a real humdinger of a storm kicks off and we take stock of our good fortune to be safely on terra firma.

The island of Koh Rong Samlon is owned by the Cambodian Navy (we learn that, bizarrely, the Cambodian Navy doesn't actually have any boats!). Chris and his partner were able to use family connections to secure a short lease to establish the business. He was working in London when he got the call 'I've found an island!'. Four and a half years ago he packed his bags and hasn't looked back. One look around this place and you understand why.

Our hut.

We walk along the beach and take in the island's lush primeval splendour. The crashing of waves and the relentless high pitched drone of the cicadas is all that breaks the silence. The resort consists of 14 beach huts each sleeping up to four with a shower (cold) and a toilet (manual flush - barrel of water with pan scoop) complimented by an item colloquially referred to as a 'bumhose' which has a limited appeal to those with sado-masochistic tendencies and toiletting obsessives. We have a veranda at the front with his and hers hammocks from whence books are read, small talk is spoken, journals are written, regular naps are taken and the world passes by effortlessley in a lazy haze.

We have regular visitor, a large Gecko who we name 'Gordon'. He appears when you least expect it, mostly at night when he makes his presence known with an eerie high-pitched call and a sudden dart. A visit to the bathroom in the early hours is best avoided. Gordon and his family seem settled in our little hut as evidenced by the stock of small eggs tucked in behind the cladding. Which is nice. T & S have their own Gecko, Colin, who has been blamed for gnawing away at Nurse S's copious supply of snake oil and holiday pep pills. This is mentioned to Chris who rather enigmatically says 'we'll call it a Gecko shall we?' hinting that the culprit may be of the genus Rattus. I suspect he's also paid us a visit as there's a bit of rustling in the early hours. Russell will sniff out any food scraps and requires us to be scrupulously clean about the place. All part of the castaway challenge...

We settle into a regular daily routine of answering the cicada dawn chorus, walking the 10 yards to our early morning dip in the already warm ocean, taking a late breakfast / early lunch, sleeping it off in the hammock, taking another dip, sleeping it off in the hammock, perhaps going for a little walk, taking another dip, sleeping it off in the hammock, taking a light tea perhaps followed by another dip, sleeping it off, catching a spectacular sunset before taking supper and quaffing a few sherbets. Food is available in the restaurant / bar all day and is exceptional. The cuisine is Asian, perhaps toned down slightly to accommodate Western tastes. The portions are too generous for us and we frequently share one meal between two. Fresh fish can be ordered a day in advance. It's a rare experience to see your supper arrive in the boat, watch it squirm and wriggle and catch up with it within the hour as it's presented to you on a plate. Now that's fresh! The white fish referred to by Chris as 'Sweet Lips' is cooked to perfection, its soft succulent flesh melting in the mouth.

The price of the food is reasonable, an average main course (fresh fish excepted) is about $6, a can of beer is $1.50, a glass of wine $4. We run up a daily bill of between $40-$50. This is added to the $40 per night charge per hut and payable in cash at the end of the stay. The bar is the hub of the island and a lot of time is spent there reading, relaxing and socialising so there is an imperative to spend money. It helps that our evenings are generally curtailed as the days are so packed with heady self-indulgence that by 9.00 we're whacked and ready to turn in.

Guests come and go - the average stay seems to be 2 / 3 nights - an eclectic mix of French, Germans, Norwegians, Irish, Brits, Eastern Europeans, Kiwis & Aussies. People are generally friendly, sociable but not imposing, with a shared appreciation that the majority see this stay as an opportunity to get away from their normal routine and to have time to themselves.

We do however have a close call with a couple on the first night. I'd clocked the tubby squeaky-voiced little Aussie when we boarded the boat and took an instant dislike to him for having the crass insensitivity to wear a T shirt with a macho military motif. We've just settled into our comfy chairs in the bar for a quiet read before dinner when Sheila pipes up 'D'you guys fancy a game of caaaards?' My heart sinks. One false move now could have grave consequences. D, because she's a nice person and naively always sees the good in others smiles benignly and moves to join them. I sit rigid, staring blankly into my Kindle and working on an exit strategy. I look up with a disengaged stupid half grin, hopefully implying a kind of friendly indifference, a slight aloofness, as they regale D with their travel tales; how they've done the Killing Fields and the Genocide Museum (as presumably they've 'done' the Nazi concentration camps, clocked the Mona Lisa, had a few tinnies on the Great Wall and wept openly at Gracelands. Tick box tourism. You can travel and never leave home.) The longer they go on the more my faith in the restorative qualities of this tropical idyll is compromised. I'm struggling with the urge to interject with sarcasm, purely as a defensive strike. I know this won't be helpful but it won't be my fault. Just as I'm about to implode after Sheila praises Thatcher for having 'balls' the T & S cavalry arrive and I find an excuse to join T at the bar. As I walk back to the hut after our meal I pass Bruce 'n' Sheila's place. They've placed a huge Aussie flag on their veranda. I rest my case.

The Aussie aberration aside, the guests are fully aware of their good fortune in fetching up in this wonderful place. My favourite exchange is with a Brit on my way to breakfast one day. 'Morning' I say, 'Morning' he says, and looking back after he's passed, 'Another day in paradise...' Nothing more to be said. In advance of the holiday both T and me voiced doubts about how well we would cope with five days of inactivity, both suffering from a low boredom threshold and a nagging guilt and suspicion of the merits of idleness. D & S had no such doubts. On the fourth morning I have a bit of a wobble at the thought of another day without structure or any apparent purpose. It passes. On balance, although D says she could stay here 'forever', my restless soul tells me that three days is probably the optimum stay. It's been a great way to collect our thoughts after the intensity of the preceding 10 days and to reflect on events.

Goodnight Lazy Beach...

Day 15 and the boat taking us back to civilisation leaves at 8.30am. This is the start of the 48 hour journey back to the place we call home. A trip Palinesque in scope, it consists of a boat to the mainland, taxi back for an overnight stop in Phnom Penh, a flight from to Singapore where we take in a city tour during the 10 hour wait to catch the 13 1/2 hour flight back to Heathrow, then up the M4 stopping off at Bath and onto the land formerly known as God's Own Country.

It's not possible to adequetely sum up the last couple of weeks in a few short pithy words, so I'm not going to try. I'm done, all blogged out! Making these notes was an attempt to capture moments and moods and experiences in a way that even a good photo can't always match. (There, I've said it.) Clearly it's my interpretation of events; others may have seen certain incidents events and situations differently. One thing we'll all be agreed on though - that was one cracking holiday!