A very dark place

When staying in Phnom Pehn there are two places almost every tourist visits: the S21 detention centre, where thousands of Cambodians were detained and tortured during the reign of the Khmer Rouge until they gave acceptable confessions. Inmates would eventually be transported in a truck 15km south west to the infamous killing fields (the second tourist destination) where they would be brutally murdered and thrown into mass graves. Both are popular tourist destinations, perhaps due to how recently the atrocities occurred and also because of people’s morbid curiosity with war and death.

We decided to risk using our legs and walk to S21 from our guest house along scorching boulevards and congested side streets intercepting heckles from moto drivers wanting to help us get out of the heat and make a quick dollar. Walking seems to go against Phnom Pehn’s religious use of motorbikes and tuk-tuks and the disappointed drivers looked at us like we were crazy.

S21 was a school prior to being turned into a prison and if you ignore the barbed-wire topped walls surrounding the grounds from a distance it could still pass for a Cambodian school, minus the children. The paint on the walls has now faded grey and stained with rust and there are no sounds of laughter from the playground. In the main courtyard of the school is a large wooden frame, formally a chin-up bar for the pupils, that was used to suspend torture victims from with their hands and feet bound behind them whilst their heads were dunked into filthy water.

The first of the school buildings we entered had large classrooms each empty apart from a single metal bed frame used for torturing important political prisoners. Box cases for bullets were left on the floor: to keep scorpions and spiders in to administer poison to inmates. Spilt blood had left dark stains on many of the floor tiles. On the top floor of the building the plaster on the ceiling was peeling away from the roof as if the building was trying to tear itself down.

The second building had its rooms partitioned into tiny cells barely big enough for a person to lie down in. At the end of the corridor a bat infested stairwell spiralled up to the next floor, hundreds of winged rodents swooped and cackled peering down at visitors. Some of the rooms were filled with photographs of Khmer Rouge soldiers, most in their early teens, while others housed pictures of inmates of all ages, most looking scared and some near death.

After a couple of hours we were done with S21, it is such a sad place it is difficult to do it justice in writing. We headed out for some lunch when it began to spit with rain. Within 5 minutes the spiting rain had become a monsoon so we dived into the nearest restaurant. The heavy rain went on for over an hour and managed to flood most of Phnom Phen creating deep puddles in some places. The following day the government were accusing the rubbish collectors for not doing their jobs and that the drains were blocked with rubbish (true) and the rubbish removal company were blaming everyone but themselves.

Once the rains eased off we took a tuk-tuk through the deep puddles to the Killing Fields. The place is out if town in a leafy suburb of Phnom Phen next door to a bustling junior school. A large concrete pagoda has been erected in the centre of the site housing hundreds of the victims’ bones and fragments of their clothes that have been excavated from some of the mass graves. We walked round the site past graves that had held up to 450 bodies. Bones and clothing were coming up through the soil as rain waters were eroding the earth the bodies had been buried in. The clothing fragments were still vivid with colour making it feel very recent. A large tree stood before one of the mass graves where it is said that executioners would smash babies heads against it and then throw them into the pit. This is typical of the killing that went on at this place, all extremely brutal most adults were beaten over the head with a stick and many were buried alive. It is a very dark place.

Mini Jungle Trek

After going around the Hill Station, we ventured on a jungle trek. It was excellent.



We saw a particularly good wild animal, sitting on a branch: a chameleon...

Boknor-regis, a resort like no other...

We were dumped rather unceremoniously in the outskirts of Kampot, the driver of the minibus perhaps fed up with my increasingly unsubtle references to how awful his CD of Khmer synth ballads was. Despite the inauspicious arrival, we found Kampot a quiet, friendly sort of place and easy to navigate once you know the landmarks: a Total garage and several conspicuous roundabouts with strange plaster-cast effigies in their centres. Kampot’s claim to fame initially was for production of the world’s finest black pepper. These days pepper does not seem to be such a big deal. The biggest draw for tourists is a visit to Bokor National Park. At the summit of its highest peak is an abandoned settlement: Bokor Hill Station. It was built as a holiday resort by the French at the beginning of the 20th Century, allowing sweaty colonialists to cool down for a few days. The small town had everything they needed: a post office, police station, church and an enormous casino. After independence in 1953, the King added a nightclub and a hospital, but once the civil war and ensuing troubles started, Bokor’s purpose changed dramatically. Holiday makers were swiftly replaced by first the Vietnamese army and then the Khmer Rouge, who used the station as a place to torture and kill tens of thousands of people.

It was cold and overcast as we arrived, and very quiet. The shells of the buildings are still mostly intact and we pushed our way through overgrown paths to explore dark passageways and decaying rooms. It was an oddly eerie experience, and jolly French ex-pats felt very far away, as the buildings’ more recent history cast an oppressive atmosphere.

The most complete building is the casino, later the Bokor Palace Hotel. We tramped into its cellars, ballroom and many other rooms, each one filthy with every window smashed in, every door missing and every wall smeared with stains and scarred with bullet holes. Horror movie chic at its finest. At its rear side is a 1km vertical drop straight into the jungle below...

It was a fascinating place to visit, but it looks like its future looks uncertain. Plans are afoot to create a 5 star resort and golf course on or very near the site, a not hugely appropriate memorial to all the people who died there, we thought.

So far our extended holiday has consisted of temples, forts, towns and more temples, yet there is only so much crumbling stone, dust and ancient artefacts that the combined attention span of Laura and I can tolerate before wanting to kill each other and the smart arse tour guide. For this reason we decided to take a trip to the seaside with, the promise of zero culture and just a dusting of crumbling stone.

We arrived at a town on the south coast of Cambodia called Sihanoukville, aka the Costa del Cambodia. It somewhat lacks the glitter of its Spanish counterpart, but rather oozes with litter and bars blaring out exquisitely tuneless Khmer Karaoke.

The bus came to an abrupt stop in the centre of Sihanoukville tipping us out of our unsecured seats like a dumper truck driven by a drunk. If Megabus get wind of this ingenious way to stuff more victims into their old busses the UK may not be worth returning to. Forget seatbelts, a few nuts and bolts would have been nice.

With a tip off from a nice tuk-tuk driver we found a room just off the beach front. Naively we had been led to a carbon copy of the Slum Dog Millionaire film set complete with tandoor oven and open sewers. Yet tired from travelling we put up with the favela and headed out to get our first swim of the holiday. The sea off the coast of Cambodia is incredibly warm, so understandably it’s a popular attraction with the backpacker crowd and locals alike.

Wading through seafaring crisp packets and water bottles we were immersed in bath-like waters and splashed all the stress of travel away, soaking in the last of the evening sun. It was heaven, until some interfering jelly-like creature decided to maul my bicep. I was lucky to come away with just the sting: maintaining my dignity I limited my whining to just 10 minutes.

A skanky beach and infested shores was not exactly what we were expecting, however there was another way. The guide book suggested heading to one of the many beautiful islands just an hour away by boat, some equipped with shacks and clean beaches. The next morning we miraculously woke up without alarm clock – perhaps the smell of effluent? We lugged our bags on to the small unbalanced boat and were joined by a quartet of Aussies all of whom still managed to smoke without break and improve on their far superior tans despite their hangovers.

After some half hearted snorkelling we found the beach where we planned to stay for the next couple of nights. Our beach hut had a stunning view over the calm clear waters framed by two very tall palms and a ragged old hammock on the veranda - soon to become well aquatinted with my backside. As ever, hunger took over our thoughts so we strolled down the beach looking for edible flotsam and beached jellyfish, but as if luck would have it a bar appeared before us. It was run by an English bloke who immediately informed us that the generator was broken and that the bar would not be open for business. He was heading to the other side of the island for a BBQ and suggested we did the same.

It was beginning to get dark when we set off for the BBQ passing through a narrow track cut through dense jungle, careful to avoid inch ants crossing the path when eventually we came to a crossroads. A sign said ‘No Entry’ with an arrow pointing left, so we took the right hand path down towards the beach and the smell of burning charcoal. As we got nearer, we passed a family of goats and then a roof to the right covering 4 very large guns mounted on wheels. This heavy artillery seemed different to the cannons we had seen at all the old forts in India, roughly 500 years different.

Two boys manning the barbeque noticed our detour and were quick to inform us that we had just walked through a Cambodian military base and suggested only half-jokingly that soldiers would now be after us. The sight of deadly weaponry in such idyllic surroundings is a stark reminder of how recently Cambodia was at war. In fact the last 18 US marines to die in the Vietnam war were killed just one island away from where we stood after a botched mission to recapture an American container ship.

Happy Birthday Martin & Rob!

Enjoy some baked birthday bananas:

Love Joe & Laura xxxxx

Woks & Amoks in Battambang

We’re not quite sure why we ended up in Battanbang. The guidebook tells us that it’s Cambodia’s second largest city, urges us to admire the lovely French colonial architecture and strongly recommends the bamboo train - a small self propelled cart which travels along the regular train line. Part of the fun (they tell us) is that when an actual train comes along you jump off and quickly dismantle your bamboo vehicle. No thanks. What we actually discovered upon arrival here is that Battambang is somewhat of a one horse town, lacking Siem Reap’s generous helping of Angkor razzle-dazzle

In spite of our dubious first impressions, we dutifully went to look at the French Colonial architecture. It’s a bank now, painted marigold yellow. Somewhat desperately, the guidebook also heaps praise on the four faced clock tower. The four faced clock tower is made of concrete, is about 15 years old and filthy. And 3 of the faces don’t have hands.

In view of our reluctance to be killed on a railway line, we decided instead to enrol in a Kymer cooking class. Smokin’ Pot is run by an entrepreneurial Cambodian called Vannack. At 27 he’s already set up a restaurant, cooking school and is 2 days away from opening a hostel. On top of this he has been married for 10 years, has 2 children and has grown an extremely impressive moustache.

First we picked the 3 dishes we’d be making: hot and sour fish soup, chicken amok and stir fry beef with basil leaves. We walked together to the market to buy the ingredients, including the snake-head fish which was plucked, still slithering, out of a shallow box and bonked on the head and scaled in front of us. We also picked up some fish paste – made of fish bits and salt which have been left to ferment for up to 2 months. Joe was aghast at cooking with such a pungent seasoning, but bravely resolved to eat whatever it went in.



Back at the school the first task was to make the paste which serves as a base to 90% of Khmer dishes. Sat outside in the sunshine, we used enormous cleavers to slice and chop chillies, lemon grass, lime leaves, garlic, turmeric, ginza then smooshed the whole lot together with a pestle and mortar, adding salt and sugar. With the paste made, we prepped the veg: snake beans, aubergine, pebble-like mushrooms and morning glory. Vannack was bemused to learn that we don’t generally eat morning glory back home – rightly so, because it’s actually very tasty.



All the dishes were cooked speedily in a smokin’ wok and intriguingly the secret ingredient in all of them was water. Vannack revealed that Joe’s meat had been cut better (mine was ‘too chewy’) but thankfully he judged my paste to be superior. Predictably, even though we missed breakfast, eating 3 main courses in the space of 2 hours took its toll and we waddled back to the hotel for a well earned (sort of) kip.

Siem Reap (Thailand Destroyed) & Angkor Wat

We arrived in Siem Reap and were dropped off by our overly keen taxi driver at the cheapest guest house we could find in our Lonely Planet (or as T-Shirts in the local bars like to mock it ‘Losers plan it’, which has a striking similarity to the original logo). A young boy who seemed to be running the hotel took us to our room where we noticed a tiny gecko on the door frame. The boy cupped the gecko with his hand trying to catch it but only managed to catch the tail which was left wriggling in his hand whilst the lizard escaped up the wall out of reach. The boy then left us to our own devices, leaving the gecko’s tail on the floor as a parting gift.

The kind hotel boy suggested we head towards Angkor to watch the sun go down from a temple high up above the other ancient buildings in amongst the jungle. We weren’t too sure, but then when he said that there was free entry after 4.30pm, we were in.

Our tuk tuk pulled up at the gates of Angkor where we pulled faces for the camera taking pictures to go on our tickets for the following days entry.

Back in the tuk tuk we pootled along the quiet jungle roads past gangs of small monkeys wrestling in the dust and monks wrapped in orange robes carrying incense gifts for the Buddha statues. The driver came to a stop at a main tuk tuk waiting station and told us he would meet us in a couple of hours. We set off by foot up a path towards the temple, the bright red dirt clinging to every drop of sweat on our feet and all the way up my legs giving us impressive foot tans. I was careful to look out for landmines although I suppose these touristy places have been well cleared by now.

At the top of the path we found the temple thronging with visitors and a few elephants taking a break from their 9 – 5 jobs ferrying the fat and lazy up and down the path. The temple was an impressive sight, guarded by large stone tigers some with body parts missing from their long and hard lives against the elements. On each side of the temple tourists were scrabbling up steep and narrow stairs providing a picture of trembling knees and knickers to passers by below.

We clambered to the top to catch the sun as it began to make its way closer to the horizon. It was still hot and the climb was thirsty work, but all I could think about was going for a leak. It would appear that the Buddha does not have a bladder as there was no sign of convenience facilities in the temple, just stone carvings and towers. I ran back down the steep stairs almost tearing a new hole in my flip-flop and briskly wandered towards the forest again looking out for landmines that may have been forgotten about.

Feeling much relieved that I’d not blown a foot off I made my way back up the temple stairs to meet Laura. We sat and enjoyed the sun slip behind a cloud forming a golden crescent and turned the sky pink and yellow. Tiny swallows swooped around our heads snatching dragon flies out of the air lit up by the dying sun and the light reflecting off surrounding lakes like giant mirrors.

As we sat watching the evening unfold it was difficult to stay in a fixed position as the stone of the temple was still hot from the rays of the sun, yet we thought nothing of it. It was only once we got home that it turned out that the hot temple stone had actually partially cooked our behinds. The best way I can describe the result would be for you to imagine our cheeks seared like a loin of pork ready for the oven.

Joe’s Thailand Massage Review

Options:
1. Get massaged by you girlfriend.
2. Get massaged by a small Thai man.
3. Get massaged by a school of fish.

Option 1 is always a good, although if you ask too many times girlfriend will get bored and feel used.

Option 2 is guaranteed to leave you feeling bruised, slightly concerned that the Thai man has been too close to places only your girlfriend should go and covered in a slick of cooking oil.

Option 3 – The fish don’t use their lovely soft fins to gently sooth your aches and pains, they bite at your feet for as long as you can take it. It’s like putting your feet into a bath tub full of miniature piranhas all fighting each other for the finest morsels your toes can offer.

Massage Time

After a night time foot massage from hundreds of small hungry fish surrounded by shrieking Americans we decided to get up the next day, have a nice relaxing breakfast and then get a proper Thai massage.

We stumbled out of our sweaty non-air conditioned room and on to the Koh San Road, picked a place at random to get some fresh pineapple and a coffee and watched as a stray cat stole food from an offering on a miniature Buddha shrine.

Breakfast arrived and the pineapple looked like the bright yellow colour it normally has had drained out of the flesh some time ago. The grey fruit tasted bitter and the coffee was worse than undiluted fish sauce. Unable to eat or drink, we told the waiter we weren’t happy and didn’t want to pay. After a few minutes of argument I agreed to give them the equivalent of £1 for their troubles and we began walking towards the exit. As we left I felt something hit the back of my neck. It was a plastic ashtray – come missile, followed quickly by another which smashed onto the middle of the Koh San road thrown by the restaurant owner screaming obscenities. The owner was clearly unused to such harsh criticism.

We made our way up the road looking to see if the crazy woman was still hurling abuse, but she had retreated back into her hole and we were safe. Near the end of the road we found a stall selling fresh fruit and falafels where we finally got some bright sweet pineapple, delicious!

Now Mission Breakfast was complete, we made our way to one of the many massage parlours. I was told that some of them have games of Ping Pong to entertain the tourists, but after the morning’s action it was just the massage we were after.

We found a lovely place off the main road with a peaceful atmosphere and friendly staff. Our feet were dirty from being on the run so a lady scrubbed them clean as if I was a grubby child. From having fish peck at my feet and now a lady scrub them in the space of 24 hours – totally amazing! Although any more scrubbing and the bones may begin to wear through.

The actual massage was ubёr relaxing. We were both dressed in silky knickerbockers and lay side by side as mature Thai women used every part of their not insubstantial bodies to press, crush, rub and maul us.

By far the best part for me was the head massage. Strange as it sounds, having my skull pummelled by a Thai woman’s strong fingers led me to a state not far off ‘blissed out’.

Now that we are both fully relaxed it is time for the Malaysian GP and a few beers!

Protests and Prawns: Welcome to Bangkok!

Unable to participate in whatever electoral debates and intrigues are going on back home, we today had the perfect opportunity to get in involved in some Thai politics. A few streets from Koh San Road (the gaudy yet obligatory destination for untrendy Western travellers such as ourselves) we came across an enormous encampment of protesters, covering a whole complex of streets. They were mostly wearing red and were fully set up with tents, stalls sound systems - a party political conference in Blackpool this was not.

We got in amongst it, trying to decipher their message and aims. The few posters written in English were largely quite general ‘Stop Corruption!’ ‘Dissolve the Government!’ but occasionally amusingly concise:


Finally we found someone who could speak enough English to fill us in on what was going on – a rickshaw driver dressed proudly in a red top, red cap and wearing some badges. He explained that the red shirts believed that the Government was corrupt. Their demands were that the Government be dissolved and democracy restored.

Despite the unrest suggested by these remarks, the mood was upbeat – more like a festival atmosphere than anything else. Many of the protesters snoozed on the pavements or clacked their clackers enthusiastically to the music and speeches being relayed by loud speaker every few metres. Even the riot police were taking it easy, sat in the shade taking pictures of girls sashaying past. There was a lot of eating going on and stalls lined the streets selling everything from fried squid to knickers.

In spite of the protest’s proximity to Bangkok’s busiest tourist area, we didn’t see any non-Thai people for the duration of the hour or so we mingled through it. Koh San road is like a bubble of Eastern trinkets and Western fashion crammed between guest houses and bars memorising tourists into venturing no further.