Next Stop: Cambodia (And you will stop, frequently and without warning.)

Next on the list was a little old place called Cambodia. Not to be confused with Cameroon, Cambridge or Camberley. Although saying that, all of those have a history of civil war too. Check it out.

The usual dramas ensued. On crossing the border we were subject to the, expected, few dollars 'administrative' [read: bribe] costs. This was actually fine, as the feller who took this off us on the Cambodian side was a nice enough chap.

The bloke immediately before him charged us $21 to stamp a form, even after we'd pointed out to him that his stamp actually said '$20 PAID'. This was cheeky, but forgivable. It was the fuckers on the Laos side, twenty minutes before we even got to the border that took two dollars a head just to look at our passports that took the proverbial biscuit and dumped it in a cup of hot, milky piss.

Once inside the rumbling box of lead dreams that was our 'minibus', the third different one so far that day, we set off across the border and into the wet and wild landscape of Northern Cambodia. 

On our freedom fighter bus, which randomly had a massive stencil of Che Guevara on the passenger door, were the three lovely Irish girls from Mayo that we'd met on the 4000 islands, two Israeli lads called Gil and Zion, and a host of other characters that we would be spending the next few days with.

After only another hour or so we stopped again to change buses in Stung Treng. We got out, had the fried egg sandwich that has become a staple part of our diets, and awaited our 54 seater luxury coach.

After an hour there were still only the two minivans that looked like toasters on wheels.

I made the fatal error of actually getting to the front of a queue, meaning that our luggage was put on top of one of the minivans first. Unfortunately, our bodies were on the other bus. This meant that the next six hours, on top of the physical grievance of having two people to each seat, was spent worrying if we'd ever see any of our worldly possessions ever again.

Some worldly possessions we wouldn't ever see again were Helen's 1.8kg book, my measly little book and note pad that I'd been jotting down notes in for this blog, and the life-saving pillow. All of these articles were left underneath the table when we set off and we only realised about 30 miles down the road. 

Helen was not too impressed - but she has got the same book at home in a more manageable paperback edition, which I believe is being flown out with her mother to meet us in Australia. Hoo-fucking-rah.

One thing to note was on top of the bus with our gear was also a moped, strapped in vertically, that was being ridden by a Cambodian man smoking a cigarette. I would give an arm to have a photo of it to prove it - and may be able to get one. Perhaps even without losing my arm. He went for six hours hanging on to the moped and the side of the van. Mentalistic. [Here we are! And no limbs lost. Ed.]

Getting out at our final destination of the day, a town called Krachi, Javier the Argentinean guy who had been sat behind us realised that his bag wasn't on the bus. I told him that ours were on the other bus too and not to worry, but he insisted that he'd got in the same bus as his bag. A bit of a kafuffle carried on and he stormed around looking for something - God knows what as the other bus was still 30 minutes away - and I waited patiently for our bags.

When the other bus did turn up, with his bag, I got it off for him and told him I'd found it. Did he say thank you? Did he balls. I told him it was that kind of attitude that has previously allowed the British Government to fire bombs at random vessels without any kind of international reprisal.

The hotel that we had been deliberately dropped off outside of was charging extortionate amounts for smelly little rooms, and Helen and I organised some sort of consumer power by saying they have to drop their prices or we'd all go somewhere else, better to have a full hotel at half the price than an empty one.


Despite this logic there was a German or Dutch or something girl that refused to get in on our mass veto and nearly ruined it for everyone. So I gave her my most 'what the fuckpiece are you playing at?' look and turned away, shaking my head and holding my face like my dad used to do when I was playing shit on a Sunday.

Makes Cambodia look like Kansas

That evening we had a walk round Krachi, which was a really interesting place. The view across the Mekong River was incredible and it was one of the most beautiful sunsets I've ever seen. Gay. 

We sat on the bank of the river watching fishermen come and go. This was another one of those moments that I realised I was moaning and worrying too much. There are pressures when you're backpacking, and it occasionally gets a bit hairy. But look at this and imagine that you've got another nine months of travelling the planet trying to find places as pretty.

Later on we went to a restaurant on the corner of the market. It was funny as it was run by a Kiwi, had Vietnamese staff, served western food and played Cuban salsa in the middle of Cambodia. Globalisationalismistic.

Once we got into Siem Reap the next afternoon, about a day later than expected, and after having been left in a random service station without a bus and without being told what we were meant to do for an hour and a half, we were set upon by the usual horde of tuktuk drivers. 

One lad grabbed my attention, and my arm, braying that he would take four of us ANYWHERE we wanted for just three dollars. Smelling a rat the size of Roland and not half as witty, I agreed wholeheartedly.

We told him the name of a hostel that we had read about in the bible and, like a rat up a drain pipe, we were off. (Sorry, I think I have rats on the brain - I'm writing this in Nha Trang in Vietnam - the rats here are so big that Splinter from the Turtles is on the computer next to me.)

At this point I must stop to apologise to Bai, our driver, as he'll obviously be reading my blog...

This lad couldn't have been much older than fourteen. We were following the Irish girls in convoy when he pulled over to the side of the road to fill up his tank with a bottle of sprite filled with petrol. He asked me for the money for the petrol. I told him to fuck off and that was his job to fill it. He failed to explain that the money for the petrol would be our fare, but at this point my thoughts were still that we might wake up in Belgium with our kidneys chopped out.

Despite our fellow passenger Aidan, a black toenail-varnished Irish weirdo, saying that 'In dees toipes of siduations I usually juss pay dem', I didn't give him any money and instead told him to hurry up and catch up with the tuktuk in front. Aidan had, despite his wisdom, also failed to mention that I'd be paying his fare anyway.

When we arrived safely at our destination, we found it fully booked. The tuktuk drivers suggested a place, and, with an 'Oh yeah, you know somewhere do you? What a surprise...' tone of voice we agreed to go and look at it.

In some kind of rubbish 80's American sitcom style moment it actually turned out to be literally the nicest place we've stayed in since we've been away. Plus it was cheap as fuck, had the incredible name 'Aroma Daily' and the best part of all - there were about 45 huge alligators in the back garden. 

(Not many cats for Helen to rescue around here...)

I'm going to try and embed a video too - but not sure if it'll work. Tap this. If you've got sound, whack it up. It's only about five seconds long.

Sorry if it doesn't work.