Phnom Penh

Genocide! get yer genocide! That stuff is big in Phnom Penh. We join the hoards to trapse around the killing fields and the S-21 prison/death camp. Both of which are deeply harrowing, but thankfully not the circus we had feared; only the one, small souvenir shop. It’s pretty hard to choose a ‘most shocking aspect’, but the sheer scale of the killing fields really cut me deep, if you’ll pardon the pun. It’s tiny. No more than one acre, and still scattered with pieces of clothing and human bones from the 40 (out of 120) odd mass graves that remain disinterred. The simplicity ranks as number two. Unassuming wooden signs describe the attrocities committed here with complete, unwavering objectivity; i.e, ‘The tree against which children were beaten to death’. There is no need for flowery adjectives. Adolescent skulls with bamboo sticks still lodged in their eye sockets speak with a gravitas that Ian Mckellan can only dream of.

It is all a far cry from the weed-smoke-filled backpacker ghetto where we are staying, which is seemingly full of British six formers, the sort of which talk in such an affected and over serious fashion about what little politics or communist philosophy they know. Most of them haven’t a clue about Cambodian history, as we learnt from many an over heard conversation.

The Boeng Kak lakefront is also the sweatiest place I have ever been. Our room has no windows and every surface is covered with linoleum, which does nothing to alliviate the humdity. The thermometer on our guesthouse veranda says it’s 38, which indicates that our room is atleast 45 during the day. Hence it is off limits until around 11 each night. That leaves nothing to do except play pool on the veranda with our fellow sweaty travellers, thankfully none of which are as described above. Further entertainment is provided by Chilly, the son of the guesthouse owner, and his Cambodian mockney accent. Chilly on football; ‘I fwuckin wove it mate’. He naturally supports Man U.

Siem Reap and Angkor

Our VIP coach to the border doesn’t arrive at our hotel. Instead an old man on a moped pulls up, shouting , ”Cambodia! Cambodiaaa!”. ”This is us”, I tells The Kelly. We run after him as he leads us to the coach, which has decided to stop in the middle of a roundabout. The journey to the border is painless, although we get increasingly dumbfounded by the niaevity of our fellow travellers. Some of them don’t even know what the Cambodian currency is, let alone an exchange rate. The everso helpful tour operator is only to happy to rob them blind. After scaring them silly with tales of corrupt border officials he then charges them twice the going rate for their visas.

The border officials were indeed corrupt, and lazy and stupid. They all take lunch at the same time, thus closing the border for 45 minutes. It wouldn’t have been so annoying if they hadn’t been eating at their desks. Even we had to concede an extra five dollars on top of the twenty we should have paid for our visas, but then we got an air con taxi to siem reap whilst all the suckers on the coach paid the same for some rust bucket of a bus that took twice as long.

On first impressions Cambodia appeared much like India; the poverty, the litter, the dust, the aggressive bargaining and the worst roads in the world. Siem would shock us to our very core.

It was so clean and shiny and smiley and cheap. Everyone is so friendly and even the tat-selling children are hard to hate, especially with such lines as, ‘but sir…is onwee one dowaar”, accompanied by eyes the power of ten puppies. Ten puppies on a gingham tablecloth in a wicker basket no less.

Angkor Wat has long been on my ,’Yeah done that. It was rubbish’-list, and it didn’t disapoint. It was rubbish. All the other, less famous, temples were far better. Amazing even.

Angkor Wat

Can we go now?

Bayon

Ta Phrom, AKA, the Tomb Raider one. Angelina Jolie’s done alot for this country.

More Ta Phrom
Preah Khan