My head's in Mississippi

Monday, 29/10/2012 – 137 A.D.

Really not the best day at all, dear readers. We found ourselves camped out in the windowless room this morning, mainly doing admin, but there was also an underlying lack of motivation for getting out and about. We both felt reasonably okay, but not quite 100%. Suddenly I noticed a weird shimmery-kaleidoscope-type thing going on in the corner of my right eye. It wasn’t directly in front of where I looked, more off to the right, but I couldn’t tell if it was growing larger. Possibly it had developed form staring too hard at a white-backed computer screen, I don’t know. This was quite a disturbing sensation, especially as I didn’t know if the shimmery-blur was going to get much larger, but then I remembered that it happened some time in America and faded away soon enough.

Twenty minutes later and I was back to normal, at least so I thought. Then I noticed I had a headache coming on the left side of my head, which became stronger and more focused just behind my eyeball. I dropped a couple of paracetemols, but it wasn’t getting any better and - shock horror – I didn’t have an appetite for lunch…and this was coming up to 14:00! And I had a strange sweat on, despite the aircon whirring away. I wondered if things would improve if we went for a walk, so we headed two minutes down the road to the nearby STA Travel to get a quote on the flight we wanted out of China. While the woman waited for the results to come back, I realised that I definitely was not feeling good and needed to get back to a horizontal position asap. And so we ignored the inflated quote we received and walked the two minutes back to the hotel, at which point mood lighting came on, I got my head down and Tim had a snack, then found himself falling asleep as well. Way to spend an afternoon, guys!

A couple of hours later and I awoke, seemingly feeling better. Appetite had returned, which was fab, and I munched on a few nearby Pringles, or rather the brand of crisps known as ‘Mister Potato’ and its own version of Pringles. Just to check one was on an even keel again, I went for a walk around the block with the iPod, then headed down to the nearby park to test something out. I’d read in the guidebook that if you go and sit on your own in this park around late afternoon, you will be approached by local students wanting to practice their English. So I found a bench to myself, put away the Ipod and waited. Five minutes later and a girl came and sat next to me. Then another girl and a guy arrived and started speaking to me. Next thing I knew, I was swarmed upon by students from all sides, forming a big crowd around me to listen to my supposed words of wisdom! There must have been at least 12 of them, plus one middle-aged tour guide who probably spoke better English than I did. It was a really good experience speaking to these fresh-faced youngsters, telling them all about my travelling, explaining some of the idiosyncrasies of intermediate English grammar, and trying not to make my job sound too boring. In fact, if there is one thing that I taught these future workers of Vietnam then it’s that a good manager does not need to shout at their staff to get them to work. If these kids come to have staff  working under them down the line then those staff will thank me for that one!

I didn’t have my camera, and I’d stayed out longer than planned, so I headed back in case Tim worried that I’d fallen in a gutter and lain there prone (like a lot of the locals, coincidentally). Like I said at the start of the post, the day was a bit of a write-off, but at least the “mini migraine”, if one can call it that, was over. And to celebrate that evening we went out and took pictures of me in the middle of a load of traffic:

Everybody loves a long exposure, don't they?

Civil war

Sunday, 28/10/2012 – 136 A.D.

Things I have noticed from being in Saigon so far:

·         There is a small supermarket close to our hotel. When you walk inside a member of staff immediately comes up to you, picks up a (pink) basket, and follows you around the store. If you’re like me and wave away the need for a basket, they do put it back, but still insist on following you around as you browse. Must be store policy, but it freaked us out. We left without spending a single dong.

·         There are slightly more hawkers here than anywhere else we’ve experienced, the big difference being that they constantly hassle you when you’re eating your meals. Fair enough, when I smile and say, “Thank you, no,” they rarely persist in their efforts to sell me something. However, I noticed that the local clientele are far more rude. When the hawkers come to them they completely blank them, either remaining silent and refusing to look their way, or continuing their conversations with their dining companions without pausing for a refusal. It just looks plain rude and makes me feel a bit sorry for the hawkers, who are obviously poorer than the punters they’re pushing the goods upon. So if I feel so sorry, surely I should go ahead and buy something? 1. I don’t smoke anymore. 2. I don’t like bananas. 3. I already have the regulation two backpacker wristbands on my arm, can’t go for more. 4. Isn’t that enough?

·         Certain internet sites are banned here. No, not those kind of sites! But very popular ones nonetheless. The odd TV channel too (alas none showing historical soap operas or playing karaoke!) Being able to walk the streets so freely is one thing, but when I go to log on I have to remind myself that this is technically a Communist country. Which sites are banned? Not telling you – I’ve already said too much!

·         There is a storm coming. You know that big one that hit the Philippines recently? Well apparently it’s heading the way of Vietnam. I would tune into an English-speaking channel to check the weather forecast, but guess what? They’re banned.

Anyway, enough crappy observations, back to today…

The Grayboys woke up feeling reasonably okay this morning. Symptoms still exist, but they’re on the way out. And there were fortunately no roaches kicking around beneath the pillows, sheets or eyelids, so that’s a result. Guess the maid must have sprayed her spray a bit harder when she attacked the room yesterday.

This morning we went to the War Remnants Museum. Sounds a bit naff, doesn’t it? It’s not actually, it’s a very popular tourist destination. Sounds a bit grim, doesn’t it? And you’d be right. This is a museum on several floors detailing all that went on, not just during the Vietnam War involving the Americans, but also the 1950s conflicts where the Vietnamese booted out their French colonial masters, which effectively led to the chaos that followed until reunification was complete (which you heard enough about in yesterday’s blog!)

What immediately hit me was how everything was from the Vietnamese perspective – there were no direct accusations that the U.S. should never have got involved, but massive undertones suggesting that the fault was well and truly with them. And, when I saw the countless photos and souvenirs from the village massacres of the early days, I found myself struggling to remain neutral, though I knew that I wasn’t getting the full picture. But so what? Atrocities are still atrocities, no matter who is wrong or who is right.

Some of the photographs on display really gripped me, to the point that for a few brief minutes I thought of myself in a new career as a foreign correspondent covering wars in far off parts. Then I remembered Smedley, and I came to my senses again. But while viewing the exhibits I was transported far away. However, the most harrowing part was the section showing some of the results of the U.S. dropping Agent Orange – chemical warfare – on the rural population. I had to move quickly through that and took no photos.

In fact, I didn’t take many photos of the whole museum. I hate to say it, but Tim and I agreed that we’re getting a bit “warred-out” at the moment, first with the horrors of Cambodia, now those of Vietnam. We commented as we left that there must be some nicer, happier exports that this part of south east Asia can be proud of, but if there are (and I’m sure there are), then they’re all overshadowed by these damn bloody wars. It’s partly because we are warred-out (terrible expression, I know) that we won’t be going to the Chu Chi Tunnels 40 kilometres outside of town. This is an underground network used by the town’s citizens to escape the bombing and most travellers who come to these parts end up there at some point. Maybe it’s because we’re still a tiny bit under the weather, because we don’t want to get up at 06:30 to drive 1.5 hours out of town, because we’ve had enough of war and all that it’s not good for, or maybe because we just can’t be arsed. Go figure!

The early part of the afternoon was spent in the room at the hotel. This is a room without a window. We had to get out to go…somewhere! Anywhere!

We took a walk west to “District 5”, AKA Chinatown. The plan was to find a Chinese travel agent. We still have to book our flight from Xi`an to Kathmandu at the end of November and the guidebook reckons we might get a better deal if we do it through a Chinese travel agent, i.e. one who handles regular bulk bookings through China. And after a long, sweaty walk, we found what the map said to be Chinatown, though it looked just like the rest of the city. Time to find a travel agent? No – it’s Sunday. They’re all closed. Bugger!

Later that evening, while over dinner in a back alley restaurant, a conversation we were having led me to ask Tim the following question:

“Do you do surreal?”

He laughed the laugh of a man who is feeling the strain but fighting it, and replied with the following.

“Do you do serious?”

I said that I did, then repeated my original question. He said that he did do surreal, but he’s had four solid months of surreal, so it may not look like he does it anymore. Poor lad! But I appreciated his honesty. That may not seem like much of an exchange to you, dear readers, but when you’ve shared a bedroom with someone for 135 nights, you need to know if they do or don’t do surreal. Otherwise you won’t sleep for the 136^th night.

After dinner we went to a place we’d earmarked earlier, name of the Boston Sports Bar. They were advertising the Merseyside Derby at 20:30 and there was no way we were going to miss that. Shame the linesman missed the fact that our third goal was CLEARLY ONSIDE  - DO YOU NEED GLASSES OR WHAT, MATE????

And relax…

From out of nowhere

Saturday, 27/10/2012 – 135 A.D.

GOOOOOOD MORNING, VIETNAAAAAM!!!

Oh come on, you knew I’d have to use that at least once, didn’t you! And once and once alone it shall be. In fact, neither myself nor Grayboy #2 felt much like yelling anything out this morning. Timbo is still feeling pretty yucky-crap-rundown-whatever, and I myself am not a million miles behind him. I guess we’re both suffering slightly from four months continuously on the road but, although we should slow down here and there, I know it’s nothing serious, despite the croaky voice and bunged-up nostrils first thing in the morning. It’s nothing that a couple of mugs of Morrisons’ Max Flu Strength won’t fix.

But we had more important things to worry about than namby-pamby ailments. After returning to our room from an okay-ish breakfast, we packed a few things up in advance of the maid coming in to clean the room. Nowadays we don’t leave anything behind that isn’t locked away. Suddenly Tim yelled and jumped back a few feet. No, he did not cry, “Good morning, Vietnnam!” I forget his exact remark, but he followed it up with, “Take a look at what’s under my pillow!” It was this:

Yep, the second cockroach attack of the trip! Back in Townsville, Australia, we’d dealt with one scuttling across the floor, but this one was sitting there and doing very little apart from twitching its tentacles. The scary thing is we had no idea when it crept behind Tim’s pillow – since we’d gone to breakfast? Sometime in the night? Before we’d even arrived in the hotel? However long the blighter had been there, it had taken the chance to crap all over the sheet. This would never have happened if they’d given us a superior twin room, rather than a standard!

In a breathtaking movement, Tim threw away the pillow and trapped Roachy under the small bin that came with the room. Then he went and told reception, who sent up Miss Maid to play the role of exterminator. She laughed, picked up the bin with Roachy still inside, and took it somewhere. Yeah. It’s not that we are afraid of killing a cockroach, we were more trying to make a statement that it should not have been there in the first place! Reception said that the room had been fumigated before we arrived, so that might explain why the thing wasn’t moving very fast. At the last place it was ants on the wall, here it’s a cockroach under the pillow, so what’s next – a praying mantis under the toilet seat???

[Just like at the Travelodge.]

We went outside. The weather was pleasantly warm, mainly due to the grey clouds above, but anything other than scorching is fine by us. Our first order of business was to book ourselves onto a couple of sleeper trains that will get us across this long, thin country – the first from Saigon to Da Nang, the second from Da Nang to Hanoi. The entire journey from Saigon to Hanoi takes at least 30 hours and the trains have the reputation for being the slowest in the world. Therefore our intention to stop halfway along at Da Nang had originally been to break up the journey, but the more we thought about it, the more we liked the idea of staying there. But that comes later and for now we headed down to a small shop to the west of the Central District. This place acted as an official ticket agent for the national railways, saving us the hassle of going all of the way to the station. The woman-without-smile revealed that there were a couple of bottom sleeper berths available on the trains we wanted, but we would have to pay in cash. That meant a trip to the nearby ATM to each withdraw 2 million dong. That’s about 60 quid.  

Not yet ready for lunch, we went to walk along the river…which was pretty rubbish, at least the part we found ourselves at. It was also very full of rubbish, and Tim was able to pick out the corpses of a rat and a small dog. There was also a guy in a tiny boat cruising along and picking out any bottles he found floating by, presumably for some kind of recycling payment. I suppose the grey clouds overhead didn’t help make the view any more pleasant, but it was clear that the standard of living over the other side of the river was considerably lower than the side we were on, but that usually seems to be the case when it comes to rivers running through cities.

The Vietnamese take their lunchtime very seriously and pretty much everything stops for at least an hour in the middle of the day. I like that. Come 13:00 the Reunification Palace was open for business again, though it was gone half past by the time we found it. Strange really, given that it’s such a massive structure surrounded by extensive grounds slapbang in the middle of the city, but we are technically under the weather here.

Previously known as the Independence Palace (and curiously still named that way on the map the hotel gave us), the building is a classic symbol of the Republic of Vietnam, i.e. the south, before the North unified the two countries into the Socialist Republic that exists to this day. It interested me that once the North arrived and took power they pretty much forgave everyone who had previously been a supporter of the South and they all lived happily ever after. Such a contrast with the Cambodians next door! Anyway, let’s not go there again. When the North did arrive it was in the form of a couple tanks crashing through a side gate into the palace. And here’s a replica of the first to arrive (the James pictured is the genuine article and not a replica):

The Reunification Palace is a great example of 1960s architecture, commissioned by the former despised dictator who died before it was completed in 1966. Virtually all of the rooms have been left as they were discovered by the North Vietnamese after the previous occupants had exited by helicopter, and there's a eerie, timewarp feel to the place. A bit like going to your grandparents house...if your grandparents happened to be high ranking government officials. 

On the various floors of the building were rooms that mostly seemed to be used for important meetings, or to, errr, store telephones. On the very top floor was a dancefloor, bar and casino, but this wasn't obscene luxury. The only entertainment in the bar area appeared to be a set of dominoes! Outside was a replica of the helicopter in which the last occupants of the building abandoned ship house...

...and down in the basement there was lots of ancient equipment and maps that were used to direct the war effort. It was also a place to stay safe in case bombs were dropped and, given that there was the odd bed dotted about here and there, have a kip if constantly tapping out Morse code became too tiring.

Despite being an excellent example of 1960s architecture, the building had been abandoned before aircon was invented, so it was pretty hot, which didn't do much for our mildly unwell conditions. We had considered taking in a museum before the evening arrived, but instead we decided to crawl back to the hotel to rest up. Tonight would definitely be a dry night. Oh, and speaking of the word "crawl", we were keen to check that Roachy's mates hadn't come looking for him...

Holiday in Cambodia / Still in Saigon

Thursday, 25/10/2012 – 133 A.D.

Fortunately no Bangkok-style hangover this morning! But we were fed and watered by a little after 10 and into a tuk-tuk to get to Mao Tse Soung Boulevard. Yep, it was time to pick up the visas we dropped off four whole working days ago. Had the Chinese accepted us into their lands? What would we do if we were rejected? And would we cry? Here’s the answer…

Success! 30 days roaming had been granted, so long as we enter their realm before January 2013. Not a problem, guvnor, just let us get Vietnam out of the way and we'll be right over.

Not a great deal went down for the rest of the day. We’d planned to visit the Royal Palace which is only a two minute walk from the hotel. It was closed. For the last five days we’ve seen people dressed in the mourning colours of white and black making their way to what was the king's official residence. The week of mourning ended two days ago, so we thought it would now be open to the public, but alas no. Instead, we passed pilgrims sitting outside and still paying their respects.

And I guess I should finish with some closing observations of Cambodia before leaving the country. It's tragic that the main visitor draws in this land are the ruins of a once great civilisation that crumbled centuries ago, and the brutal legacy of the Khmer Rouge, but you can't understand the current state of the country without acknowledging these things, particularly the last one. There are 2 - 3 currencies in use, no local buses or national passengers trains, few old buildings of grand design, barely any monasteries left, more dust on the streets than in the entire Sahara and you're not supposed to put paper down the toilets, yet they still have a vastly superior internet service to a country like Australia. The people are incredibly polite and friendly and even in the most downtrodden parts of town you don't feel under threat. In many ways I found it similar to Thailand, but with less of an infrastructure and therefore less tourists, but the fact that there are less tourists made me prefer it to Thailand! If they give it ten years, rebuild the railway line, encourage tourists like crazy and stop their officials asking for that extra 100 baht at the border crossing, they just might do okay here. The fact that I knew barely anything about the place before setting out on this trip gives me a huge buzz. It was always going to be the most rough `n` ready leg of the Asian journey, but I think we coped with the baking hot Cambodian hospitality just fine. 

And would I come back here? Maybe in the long term, but for now simply spin your Best of Lynyrd Skynyrd LP, listen to Freebird, and the lyrics of that song will tell you all you need to know.    

Friday, 26/10/2012 – 134 A.D.

"Saigon...sh*t: I'm still only in Saigon..."

- Martin Sheen speaking the first line in the film Apocalypse Now.

Nope, we weren't in Saigon yet, still in Phnom Penh, but not for long. The alarm went off at 06:30 and in our minds we both yelled, "Ouch!" I've got a bad case of the Qatar [SIC] and Tim has a sore throat - the kind that you could get off school with for a whole week. Seems strange that these two conditions have come on after we've been staying still in the same place for five whole days, but there you go. The Road works in mysterious ways.

Yep, it was back onto every south east Asian's favourite bus service - the good old Mekong Express! They picked us up from our hotel at 07:30, a hotel which had been okay (great location), but not nearly as good as the one we had in Siem Reap. Oh well, swings and roundabouts, isn't it? And a little worrying to have the maid come bursting in just as I was about to have a last wee to check if we'd drunk anything from the mini-bar. Given the local ale prices, fat chance!

It was billed as a six hour trip to our next port of call, and crossing the Cambodian-Vietnam frontier about halfway along the route. This time I had the aisle seat so the tassels dangling from the top of the window didn't bug me and I had a bit of legroom, almost tripping the attendant as she strode up and down the bus, collecting passports and handing out snacks. Once again the Mekong staff were well organised, checking that we had the appropriate visas before setting off, lest we end up stranded in no man's land with luggage and tears. In fact, the whole border crossing was pretty straightforward - we all alighted the bus to be exit processed by the Cambodians, then grabbed our luggage and had it scanned through at Vietnamese immigration, as well as getting the stamps on our passports. When my bags went through the machine the border guard was on his mobile phone and not even watching the screen. Then we got back on the bus and, in my case, fell asleep again. Wot no looking at the scenery of a new country? Nah - it's just the same as the last one.

The approach into Saigon took a long time - already I could see this place was far more built-up than Phnom Penh. It may not be the capital of Vietnam, but it is the biggest city. Tim calls it Ho Chi Minh City, but it will always be Saigon to me, and not just because of Apocalypse Now. In fact, if you want to split hairs about it (you probably don't, but I do), the metropolitan area as a whole is officially called Ho Chi Minh City, but the central part of it, where our hotel is located, is still known as Saigon. And if the locals calls it Saigon, then by Mekong I'm going to call it Saigon. Harrumph. 

We arrived in Ho Chi Minh City just before 16:00, shooing away the taxi drivers hanging around because we figured it was easy enough to walk it to the hotel. Pulling out the straps on our rucksacks and heaving them onto our backs, it was a flashback to the old days when we regularly trekked for kilometres at a time to reach our destinations. Ever since cheap tuk-tuks have been available, we've become soft, and we can't afford to let that happen, because that's when one gets the sore throats and the guitar [SIC]. 

Our hotel is called Ha My 3. Ha My's 1 and 2 are just down the road, and they're all pretty much of a muchness. The receptionist smiled and said that they would keep our passsports behind the desk until we checked out. Really? Is that standard policy in Vietnamese hotels? If so, we're going to be in trouble come Hanoi because we need to submit them for our India visas! Nyeargh, we're knackered now, let's worry about that later. The room was okay, but windowless again, and I swore from the booking reference that we should have had a bath tub. Never mind, for now we just need to kick back on the ultra soft beds and watch a bit of south east Asian television, which is either historical soap operas, complete with Samurai swords and big droopy moustaches, or karaoke channels. Strangely enough, I can't decide which I like / hate most. 

With a windowless room, you have to go out at some point, but our efforts to find somewhere to eat suffered from First Night Syndrome, i.e. it's dark in a strange city, you've got a crap map from the hotel, and you're working with a new currency and need to get your head around the value of things. The Vietnamese currency is the amusingly-named "dong" and there are approximately 33,000 dong in one British pound. When we went to a cash machine and withdrew 300,000 dong each, we felt like millionaires...until we realised we had close to a tenner in our pockets. Plus you get charged 20,000 dong for every withdrawl you make - doh! Like I said, First Night Syndrome (FNS).

FNS continued as we tried to find somewhere to eat, heading for the river and finding ourselves in the plushest part of town. We passed the opera house for chirssakes! Goodness knows how many dong made up a meal in those parts! We only read one menu and shied quickly away. And so we ended having a bit of a walky-walk, but a walky-walk in Saigon involves crossing roads. Now, I know how much I went on about the ker-azy traffic in Phnom Penh, but given that Saigon is much closer to a metropolis , it's even more extreme. Vietnamese people cross the road very slowly. The trick is to boldly go one small, but brave step at a time and let the million-zillion motorbikes heading your way see you and swerve around you. If they beep, you step back. If a car comes, it doesn't need to beep, you just step back anyway. And as for buses, well, get back the way you came, pronto!

We eventually found somewhere to serve us up some decent Vietnamese cuisine for the right price. Well, I say "Vietnamese cuisine", but rather perversely we both ordered Singapore-style noodles. And as you can see from Tim's face, he loved every minute of it!

Vietnam...the 11th country so far on this trip...I'm happy to still be in Saigon. 

Money talks

Wednesday, 24/10/2012 – 132 A.D.

Now then, if you loved yesterday’s post at the Genocide Museum then you’re just gonna be oh-so-enamoured by our trip this morning to The Killings Fields! The two sort of go hand-in-hand, with most tourists visiting both in the same day, but we’re not like most tourists. First off we had to find a travel agent who could book us onto the Mekong Express to Saigon at the end of the week. That wasn’t too hard at all. Then we needed to find a tuk-tuk driver who would take us the 15 or so kilometres out of town to The Killings Fields. That was even easier. A $13 round trip was a pretty good price as well.  

The Killing Fields outside of Pnhom Penh are called Choeung Ek and they are the most famous, but there were hundreds of such sites all over the country. Victims were brought here by the lorry-load for swift executions and then buried in mass graves. When you buy your ticket you get the audio tour as standard, which is fine because it allows you to walk around the site at your leisure, listening to the commentary from survivors. And I had thought that the stories of bones, teeth and clothing seeping up out of the ground after heavy rains was a little far-fetched...not at all, as it happens. 

[The main "stupa" or monument to the victims. More on this later, particularly what's inside it.]

[There are pits like this all over the place.]

[You wouldn't think a sign like this would be necessary, but unbelievably I saw one bloke do it without realising what he was walking on.]

[Mass grave in which 450 bodies were found - the largest at Choeung Ek.]

[The lake at the far end of the site. There are more mass graves beneath it, but the decision has been taken to leave them undisturbed. It's a strange sensation to sit besides such a quiet, tranquil body of water and then suddenly remember what it contains.]

[As mentioned earlier, bits of bone, teeth and clothing that have risen up from the earth.]

[The grisly contents of the  stupa.]

[The contents just go on and on and on.]

I'll spare you the descriptions of some of the even more extreme behaviour that went on at Choeung Ek, because I think you've had enough. While standing in the stupa and quietly lost in thought, I had to do a double take at the guy standing next to me. It was Duncan, a fellow traveller who we'd met on the train from Surat Thani to Bangkok. I didn't know that he was planning on coming to Cambodia - small world. Well, sort of - if you come to Phnom Penh, chances are you'll end up at Choeung Ek at some point. In fact, I like the way that there isn't a massive amount of things to do here - you leave feeling satisfied that you've really experienced as much of the city as you could, rather than with regret for those things you never had time to see.

Come the afternoon we had some free time, so it was decided we should have a What Carcass Moment. I realised that previous What Carcass Moments often involved Tim going off to do something and me staying back at the hotel to chill. Therefore I decreed that today I would be the one to go off and leave him to...chill, I guess. Thing is, I didn't really have anywhere definite to go! But What Carcass Moments are always a great excuse to wander round the city to some top tunes on the Ipod. And whereas many people may not regard it as a top tune, there's something enjoyably surreal to witness the dusty chaotic Phnom Penh hustle and bustle while listening to Unchained melody. Strange choice, I know, but in this context it somehow worked. 

I went to the travel agents to pick up our bus tickets, then headed off to the large Central Market. There was plenty of stuff on offer, but it's not the same without a wingman to distract the stall owners and give you a bit more peace as you browse. One thing I did pick up was some apples - been a while since I've had `em, don't think they grow `em around here because they're not the cheapest fruits on offer. To round out the afternoon I headed to the north of the city to check out Wat Phnom, i.e. big temple on the city's only hillock, then went to meditate beside the river, which is quite a pleasant strolling spot late in the afternoon when it's out of the direct sunlight.

It was our fourth out of five nights in Phnom Penh...time to go out and party! It had been far too long since Bangkok, but ping pong shows were definitely not on the agenda tonight. In fact, we didn't really know what was - at the end of the day we may well just go out for tea as normal and have a couple extra beers before going back to the hotel to watch the karaoke channel with milk and cookies. But first it was time for something a bit stronger, and I was overjoyed to find a place doing Indian cuisine, in particular my favourite dish, chicken madras. And it wasn't bad, though nowhere near as hot as I've had in Southport. 

We moved north beside the river, stopping off at a couple of the places that are frequented by the few Western tourists in the city. I wouldn't really call them bars, more like restaurants with a bar-like feel. However, come 10:30 and we found ourselves wandering back towards the centre of the city. Here all of the places had flashy neon lights outside and women squeezed into dresses three sizes too small shouting across the road at us to enter. To enter the bar, I should clarify that. Plus they all seemed to offer rooms for the night. Yep, these were the so-called "hostess bars" where the single male punter is made to feel extremely welcome. Don't get me wrong, there's a sliding scale here, ranging from bar girls paid to serve drinks and talk to customers (and nothing more), all the way to those girls who'll give everything to a paying customer. The problem is, it's difficult to tell from the outside of these places if they're the okay kind where you can have a drink and a laugh, or the ultra-seedy sort where you'll be dragged upstairs before you can say "Cheque, please!" 

It was getting to the point where we'd walked past the same venues several times, much to bemusement of the tuk-tuk drivers hanging around, and an early night was beckoning (without the milk and cookies). But we're English, and we're up for an adventure, so we figured we'd minimise the risk and go back to the place we ended up eating at the first night. This was the Golden Sorya Mall where there were all kinds of bars scattered around an open warehouse-type setting. We'd had a bite to eat at the safest spot near the pavement, but now we ventured deeper into the complex.

It was a hostess at the Sorya Beergarden bar who attracted our custom. Why? Can't really remember, but probably something to do with happy hour prices. We took our seats at the bar, which was more like a long, bendy, neon-lit table. In general, the punters sat one side, the hostesses on the other. Oddly enough, once we'd ordered our jug of beer, a chap who worked there was the first to strike up conversation. We really weren't fussed about talking to him, especially as it seemed a little strained. When we asked him which football teams he liked, he said Barcelona and Chelsea. Upon looking round the mall a little later, we saw that the two TV screens were coincidentally showing the Barcelona and the Chelsea games. Good job they weren't showing  Yeovil against Darlington as we wouldn't have believed him for a moment!

Anyway, the dude soon departed and a young hostess called Thavy took his place. She at least seemed genuinely interested in what we were talking about, but at the back of my mind I still couldn't be sure if it was just all part of the service. I should point out that Thavy was was wearing the white T-shirt which is standard regalia of the bar staff, whereas those girls who I got the feeling were the hostesses-who-go-where-most-other-hostesses-won't, if you'll pardon the expression, were dressed in mufti. Very tight mufti, in most cases. Anyway, Thavy came and went as the night went on and we learnt a lot about why she worked there, the hours she did, the scary place she worked at before, how she wanted to go to Canada to visit family, how she wanted us to teach her the minimal French and Spanish we knew, etc. Just a nice girl, at the end of the day, nothing more than that.

During a moment when it was just The James and The Tim left to their own devices to talk among themselves, I suddenly felt an elbow in my back, followed by a couple of hands squeezing my shoulder blades. Upon turning round I saw a middle-aged woman who, I'll tactfully say, may have had a hard life. My initial reaction was that she wanted me to buy her a drink and etc., etc., etc., until we get into extremely censored territory. Well that wasn't going to happen! So as I politely said, "Thank you, no," a thousand and one times, she eventually got the message, feigned a sulk, and walked away. A few minutes later we saw her across the bar giving a massage to a zonked-out bloke who'd barely been able to hold his drink. Turned out she was just a masseuse, nothing more, giving on-the-spot massages to the patrons for a buck. And I have to say that she may have only done my back and shoulders for a few seconds, but she certainly knew what she was doing! Back in Thailand, Longtip had advised us that if we do go for massages we should go for the older, experienced masseuses. We'll have to see about that one another time!

[James is relieved to have escaped the dodgy massage...]

[...but this guy wasn't so lucky.]

Things were rocking in the Sorya Beergarden and the Grayboys were in good moods, with enough entertainment around to keep us going for a few hours. When we initially arrived there had been a decent mix of clientele, but as the night wore on it was basically just us and the blokes-of-a-certain-kind. These guys were mostly smashed out of their heads and the drool on their faces was visible as the girls pretended to flirt with them and tried to look touched when they were bought a rose from the passing child selling flowers. I got the feeling that, with so much inebriation around, things could turn ugly at any moment, not that we had anything to worry about - we're English and we're well `ard. Besides, there were some black-shirted security guards hanging around near the entrance, although most of them looked about 15 and barely taller than the hostesses in their heels. At one point trouble did break out. We didn't understand why at the time, but Thavy told us later that one of the blokes-of-a-certain-kind who was with a hostess-of-a-certain-type went and kissed the sister of said hostess. And hostess went ballistic. Heels came off, fists came out, and the two of them went at it like wild beasts. The security guards piled in to help separate them, but they only succeeded in getting them to either end of the bar, where they still shouted at each other and traded insults. A few minutes later, one girl grabbed a glass and prepared to launch it (thankfully her friend grabbed her arm) and the other grabbed a glass ashtray to lob (thankfully her friend held onto the ashtray). We were sitting halfway between the two of them and if either missile was launched inaccurately then we may have got our drinks paid for free (but not our hospital bill!) The fracas ended when bloke-of-a-certain-kind picked up his hostess, put her under his arm and walked out of the mall with her!

[The long and lonely walk to the Gents - keep your eyes open and your pockets closed!]

One thing all of these hostess bars have is a pool table - the old-fashioned kind where you can simply take the balls out of the pockets for a new game without having to stick any money in. Judging by some of the skillful shots these ladies were playing, they've obviously got quite a few games under their designer belts. It's  one of the ways for the customers and the girls to break the ice - have a light-hearted game of pool (and keep it light-hearted when you get beaten by the girl!) I'd been talked at by one of the more louder mufti girls, called Bowpar [SIC], who demanded I get my name down on the board for a game. Okay, what the heck, I may not have my specs with me, but I've got enough Angkor inside me to feel competent. And so I took to the table and took on a hostess whose name I did not catch for the England versus Cambodia international classic. And England won! Get in!

Unfortunately Cambodia struck back when Bowpar came to the table and beat me. But only just. And she got quite lucky with some shots. And I was distracted by something shiny in the distance when I potted the white. 

The evening was rounded out with a couple of games of doubles - me and Bowpar against Tim and Thavy (my team wins) and then me and Bowpar against Tim and unknown hostess (again my team wins, much to younger brother's chagrin). There was a bit of confusion over the rules, especially the one where you're supposed to nominate which pocket you pot the black in and you lose if it goes in another one, but who cares, it's only a game. Which my team won. And, if you're reading this months down the line, Tim...MY TEAM WON!!!

By now it was gone 02:30, and the place closed at 03:00. Not only did we not want to be around to see what happened at that point, we also had to get up early to get down the Chinese embassy next morning. And so we went to pay our bill and get going. As we were leaving, Thavy came over (no sign of Bowpar and the others) and asked if we could keep in touch via Facebook. It surprised me, but pleasantly, and we were only too happy to. It's good to have made a friend who's a local and not another fellow traveller. She's going to Ho Chi Minh City at some point soon - I forget when exactly - but no doubt we'll have moved on from there by then. We're always moving on from somewhere!

Walking back through the streets of Phom Penh in the early hours was very strange; they were absolutely  deserted, bar the odd tuk-tuk driver offering us things I should not repeat. Such a contrast to the daytime when everywhere is teeming with people and vehicles. And such contrasting experiences today - The Killing Fields in the morning, the hostess bars in the evening.When we reached our hotel the shutter had been pulled across the door. For a brief moment we thought we'd have to return to the Sorya Beergarden and find a hostess with her own place to stay the night with. Then one of the staff who'd been sleeping behind the desk poked his head up and let us in. Damn!