Turtles and Dreams

What a week.  On Tuesday I was floating around in the Caribbean Sea, pretending to be a turtle.  Waves lapped effortlessly over me as I bobbed around, looking at the cloudless sky above, thinking about all sorts of things.  Fast-forward twenty-four hours and I was back at the helm of Maternity Action, having slept my way through the flight home, showered, changed and headed to the office.  

Two colleagues had tidied up, so much so that I thought I was in the wrong office. 

It's amazing what a 'tidy-up' does for a space and the way it makes you feel when you are in the space.  I've spent part of today tidying my room as the amount of junk amassing was becoming dangerous, to the extent that I was considering writing a risk assessment.  I have today found a piece of floor I haven't seen for at least eighteen months.  Most of what has amassed is going on eBay tomorrow - we are nearing the Iceland balance, which is great news - I am confident that we will have raised all the funds by Christmas - (this Christmas to any cynics!)  

There are 6 bags of CDs waiting for me at my parents' house, thanks to those lovely people at 2gether, with whom we jointly fundraise for our youth and community work.  I have a small army of people lined up to help put things onto eBay and process all the CDs.  We have already raised over £750 from online reselling of CDs and tomorrow's lot should bring in a few more hundred.

The rest of the week was filled with meetings and catching up.  I met with my delightful Brownie and Guide leadership teams on Thursday night who are a fantastic group of people, all of whom love Guiding! From the 14-year-old Young Leader whom I have known since she joined Brownies as a timid 7-year-old; to the Leader-in-Training who was a Unit Helper for 2 years, then turned to me and said 'I've realised what Guiding is all about - I want to be a Leader'.

We looked at where we are now, where we are heading and bounced around a lot of ideas for attracting more leaders and thinking about 2015.  As I mentioned before, we really need more Rainbow units locally and nationally.  Running a unit is wonderful - would you consider it? The chance to influence young lives positively, to introduce them to the exciting world of Girlguiding, which will provide skills for life, friendship and so much more.  Have a look here and you'll see what it's all about.  Get in touch if you want to chat about it.

Well that's it from the blog for now.  Thanks for reading - the stats weren't bad - it's been read by at least 4 people who weren't me.  

Remember what I've said - be who you want to be - make it happen - follow your dreams.  

It seems impossible, until it's done

Today was my last full day on this beautiful island.  A land where the searing heat dictates the chilled pace of life; where the people are warm and want you to love their island.  

I spent much of the day swimming, which is not something I usually make time to do.  The Caribbean Sea on the south-west coast is the most glorious, clear water I have seen.  You can't be in there for long, as the sun will cook you, but bobbing around in clear, untainted water, enables plenty of time to think, reflect and unwind.

I have had an interesting few months, since my work situation changed dramatically overnight in mid-September, due to circumstances which could not have been foreseen.  I have been challenged like never before, dealt with things I never expected to be dealing with and learnt a huge amount about myself - how I operate, how to work with and manage others; how I connect with people; how to negotiate; how to deliver that which seems impossible.  I've made mistakes of course - but I draw on that phrase - 'whoever never made a mistake, never made anything'.  

Consider where your strength comes from and draw on that.  Mine comes from my faith and the people around me.  Draw strength from that which drives you. 

Life is all about learning by doing; embracing the experience; using your contacts and making new ones; drawing on your skills, or finding ways of using and developing the skills of others to achieve what is needed; make contacts; grow those contacts; learn from others; grow; develop as an individual.  Self-confidence is key - if you don't think you can do something, then of course you can't.  But believe that you can do it, and you can.      

Life is short - and precious.  Be real about it - embrace how you feel.  Strive to achieve what you want to achieve.  Follow your dreams.

The nearest Coke lids are in Guyana

I've had a few enquiries about yesterday's grapefruit.  As with much of my writing, the title was more captivating than the actuality of what happened.  I really like the occasional grapefruit; where better to savour one than in the sunny climes of this beautiful island, Barbados? That was the aim, but it disagreed and things became messy.

Enough about all that.  Yesterday was Zippy's final day with us, so in true adventurous style, we drove her all the way to the top of the island, to a place called St Lucy, via Holetown and Speightstown.  I was variously driving and failing to navigate.  Sometimes I would look at the map. without actually reading it; that's a problem.  At one point, I lost the sea.  The conversation went like this:

'Where's the sea gone?'
'It's that side!'
'But it was the other side just now!'
'We're on an island - it's on every side!'

St Lucy is the northern-most part of the island and there is a cave they call 'Animal Flower Cave'; a natural lagoon created by the Caribbean Sea and Atlantic Ocean merging together.  I didn't fancy going into an underground cave, instead preferring to watch stupendously powerful waves crashing onto the rocks beneath with such graceful strength.  The juxtaposition of power and beauty created a staggering impact on the landscape.  

In other news, I have today sold a snowman and a 'paint your own' tea-set.  There is just a tiny bit of fundraising left to do for the recent Guide trip to Iceland, hence an abundance of items on eBay and six bags of CDs awaiting online re-sale to those delightful people at Music Magpie, Ziffit and We Buy Books; we are fundraising in partnership with the delightful people at 2gether shop in Chislehurst.  If you want to get rid of your CD collection, let me know, and I shall take it off your hands with pleasure.  Likewise, postage stamps - Christmas is coming - and that means: postage stamps.  If you are so inclined, cut used stamps off  the envelopes, divide them into two categories - 'UK' and 'all other', then next time you see them, give them to me! Or perhaps you have a few items you want to get rid of, which I could eBay - let me know! Storage space is nil though - my room, which is also my office, my living space, my wardrobe, my work space, already looks like a cross between a left luggage office, a junk-shop and a scrap-yard, so send me pictures and descriptions of large items.  

I was about to go off on a hunt to find a Coke lid; if you know me, you will know that I collect these from wherever I go in the world, with a view to eventually doing something useful with them, when I get round to it.  They have the name of the country where they are bottled printed on the side, making them unique little keepsakes.  I was about to go exploring, when I got chatting to Carol on reception, who informed me that the nearest Coke lids are in Guyana, which is 4-hours away, at the top of South America.  Ho hum.

Wrestling with a grapefruit

Feel the fear and do it anyway.  So says my friend Sally Kettle, who does remarkable things, like rowing across the Atlantic with her mother, as one does (or doesn't).

Feeling the fear and doing it anyway has become a bit of a mantra.  I felt the fear today when I drove Zippy the Chevrolet up a vertical incline on the way up from the coastline.  My foot was flat on the gas and Zippy was gurgling.  If I take my foot off the gas, Zippy will plummet backwards; that would not be good.  Zippy obliged and we made it up a very sharp incline, in one piece.

My map-reading skills were tested to the limit, as I have none.  I usually just follow my nose, but if someone is driving, and relying on me reading a map, that's a problem.  

Yesterday I went to somewhere called Bath.  It was quite dissimilar to the Bath you may be familiar with.  There were no large Roman pillars or actual baths.  There was a stunning coastline, with waves crashing against it.  Bath is on the east coast of this stunning island.  I munched my picnic lunch with a picnic bench filled with cute, if feral, kittens.

The next leg of the journey was to Bathsheba.  So we did.

Fast-forward to this morning and I had the honour of visiting the Barbados Girl Guide HQ, thanks to Grace, who is the Chair of WAGGGS Western Hemisphere Region.   I met Grace in Hong Kong in July 2014, at the WAGGGS World Conference when I was part of the UK delegation, then again in London in Oct 2014 when the WAGGGS World Board were in town.  We met again at the baggage carousel at Grantley Airport.  Grace picked me up this morning and we drove to Paxhill, which is the HQ, which is used for regular Guiding meetings, as well as trainings and events.  Guiding came to Barbados in 1918 and so they are thinking about how to celebrate their Centenary.  

I am always inspired to spend time with international Guiding friends and to hear about Guiding elsewhere.  The challenges of retaining girls in Guiding are so similar worldwide.  I talked about how sad it makes me when a girl leaves Guiding because she is 'doing so many activities'.  I can guarantee that none of that plethora of activities will provide the diversity of opportunities which Guiding provides, where every individual girl is valued for who she is, regardless of any other factors.  By all means, embrace other things, have other interests, but Guiding can underpin all of those interests.  I look at my own Guides - this term we have been on a unit trip to Iceland (after raising £10k); been to the Big Gig; been to the House of Lords for a debate - one Guide made her promise in the House! We have been on a Jack Petchey trip to Thorpe Park; the senior patrol have written and delivered their own 'Go For It' and are now writing the next one - a SnapChat challenge! Another senior Guide is preparing a series of meetings as part of her Baden-Powell challenge.  We have also been on national TV dispelling myths around young people's disinterest in politics and campaigning.  One of our own Guides spoke at a Region event called 'Explaining Campaigning' about how she, at 14-years-old, launched her own campaign and took on the Home Office.

All this has happened because of Guiding and the way in which it builds the confidence of young people, enabling them to embrace who they are, build on their skills, develop new ones and ultimately, challenge themselves.  That is what Guiding is all about.

If you're not already involved, get involved, as it will change your life.  Whatever time you have to give; an evening a month to do some admin; a fundraising brain to help run an event; accounting expertise; good with social media; spreadsheet genius; time to shop for a unit; weekly availability to help run a unit? What about volunteering to lead a unit? What an opportunity! We are acutely in need of people who want to run Rainbow units particularly.  I know, I know - you work, you have a brood of children, pets, relatives, plus you have a thousand other commitments; but try Guiding.  It will enable you to give what you want to give and help you to be who you want to be.  Whatever you can give, it will be embraced: www.girlguiding.org.uk/interested - go on, have a look.  Be inspired.

I know what you're thinking - what about the grapefruit? Wait and see.

The Mango of Doom and the 1951 Refugee Convention

In 2001, I had four driving lessons.  Then I hit a house.  If you're going babysitting, driving your parents' Mondeo into the front room means you won't get asked to babysit again. Take it from one who knows.

A year later, I failed my first driving test before I'd left the car-park of the test centre, but I went ahead and did the test, receiving two more 'majors' due to unfortunately placed bollards and cyclists.  Fast forward twelve years, two cars and 10-years no-claims bonus and some might be surprised to hear that I spent this morning driving a zippy Chevrolet around the island of Barbados.  I drove along windy island roads beside the sea; I drove along an (unexpected) dual carriageway; I even drove through the centre of Bridgetown! There is no hiding the fact that Zippy is a hire car; all hire cars here have an unmistakable 'H' as the first letter of the registration.  Aside from the occasional tail-gater, which, to be fair, you get in Plumstead, the good people of Barbados were very tolerant of this first-time island driver.

At one point, I was driving behind a bus, which stopped periodically, as buses tend to, mainly at bus-stops, but also sporadically in the middle of the road.  I realised that you know when the bus will stop because a limb - usually an arm or leg - appears out of the side door, then it stops suddenly.  

I once lived in Uganda, in 2004, studying African Christian Theology, as one does when doing a theology degree; the way to get a 'matatu' (local minibus) to stop was to shout 'MAAASOWWWW' - I never found out what that meant, but the locals did it, so I started doing it too and it worked every time.

I wandered up to the bar last night, to refresh my g&t.  A woman I had chatted to earlier started talking to me.  She asked me what I did for a living.  I told her that I ran a maternity rights charity, because that is what I do. She looked blank.  I started talking about our two strands of work - advice and information for pregnant women; and supporting vulnerable migrant women, like refugees and asylum seekers.  Well - that was it.  She went off on a Daily Mail-style rant about how the UK is at capacity and all these people are coming over here and taking our jobs.  I obviously had to set her straight.  I proceeded to explain the difference between someone who is an 'asylum seeker' and someone who is an 'economic migrant'; the two - as you will know, I hope - are very different.  I went on to explain how the UK actually hosts a tiny proportion of the world's asylum seekers and that the majority of refugees seek refuge in a neighbouring country, for obvious reasons.  I went on - 'someone who is seeking asylum is seeking refuge from persecution.  We have a duty of care to humanity, under the 1951 Refugee Convention, to which the UK is a signatory'.  

Well - that was news to her.  I persisted; 'If your life and that of your family was in danger because of your religious beliefs, political affiliation, or something similar'  (I thought it would be too much for her to get into the specifics of what membership of a 'particular social group' means) - wouldn't you flee if there was any opportunity? I proceeded to explain some of the stories I have heard from midwives working with women seeking asylum; the unthinkably horrific situations women are fleeing; the things they have experienced in their often young lives; family members murdered; sexual violence; exploitation.    

I don't think she's going to speak to me again.  But sadly this epitomises attitudes of many members of the public.  And it's the tabloids which feed this scaremongering. 

It's dinnertime now, and I've remembered that the 'mango of doom' hasn't yet made it into the blog.  But actually, there isn't a lot to say.  A mango fell out of a tree on the way to breakfast; three steps further forward and there could have been a disaster.

Goodnight all.

Walking in a winter wonderland

I am programmed to write in Trebuchet.  Now, why might that be? Other fonts just don't feel right.

The music piping out into the communal area where I sit blogging for you now, is disconcerting.  In the space of a few minutes, whilst I've been reworking my latest poetry commission, we've gone from 'Walking in a Winter Wonderland', which methinks is unlikely in this part of the Carribean, ever; to everyone's favourite band - 'Take That' of course - singing 'Back for Good', then, without space to draw breath, there was a classical rendition of 'Ave Maria'; what is going on? We've now shifted to 'Santa Baby'.

The bar is gradually filling up with people who have been cooking in the sun all day and are starting to look like shrivelled-up prunes at various stages of composting.  There is a man wandering around who proudly told me this morning that he had been to Barbados forty-two times in his life.  Why on earth would you do that?! I didn't say that exactly, I just smiled sweetly, when inside I was thinking that he should perhaps try somewhere else.  Bognor Regis is lovely at this time of year.  Oh whoops - his wife just came up to me and asked if I was here on a working holiday - just because I'm frantically tapping on Baby Asus in the bar whilst most others are curling up with a cocktail and a bunch of their new-found holiday friends.  I explained that I was a prolific travel blogger (!) and was about to show her, when I realised that I just wrote that bit about her husband needing to get out more.  Whoops.  Oh, the perils of observational blogging - it's a dangerous occupation!

The day began in the morning, as they generally do, with a leisurely breakfast, muesli smothered in a custard-like yoghurt concoction and delicious fresh fruit.  A hundred tiny wild birds flit around the covered area where guests sit for meals.  The birds look so cute, until you see them defecate into someone's breakfast.  

There is a glorious beach five minutes away, so I wandered there and sat under a tree, then worked on a poetry commission for a friend.  The poetry business - www.SublimeRhyme.co.uk - has had to sit firmly on the back-burner for the last few months, so it felt good putting a commission together.  First indications from the client are positive, so I think after a spot of re-working, it will be ok.   

That beach is called Pebble Beach, not that there are any pebbles to be seen.  Oh, the irony.  Most places here have at least three different names, which doesn't make for confusion at all.  There is a tiny food-shack called 'Cuz' which is allegedly highly recommended on Trip Advisor.  I was chatting to a lady about it earlier - 'I don't like the way they put fish and bread together', she profoundly stated.  I stopped myself from saying 'don't you remember the story? I don't think Jesus fed the five thousand with a bag of chips.  I think bread and fish are the way forward; have you never had a tuna sandwich?' But that's what I was saying inside.  

I do like this little hotel.  Carol on reception says that she has definitely met me before, when I last came to the island.  Well, that's clever, as I have never been here before.  The place is so small that the staff quickly learn your names and ask how your day is going - you wouldn't get that in those globalised nearby high-rise giants that are the Hilton and the Radisson.  

Carlisle Bay doesn't sound that glamorous, but it is not the Carlisle that we know.  It is a beautiful sandy beach stretching for miles.  Some sun-drenched guest said it was half an hour away, but one sun-drenched half hour is about ten minutes for me.  I strolled along the pure white sand, past shacks selling beer, then sat under another tree and polished off the poem in my notebook, writing a few observational bits to convey to my faithful blog-readers, assuming you are there.  Yesterday's statistics suggested that at least four independent people had logged on and read this, so thanks if you were one of them.

There is a lot of history here and I plan to go and investigate, then convey it to you, so that we can all learn something of the Bajan (means the same as Barbadian) history.

So stay with me and I'll write more soon.  Happy days team.

The time has come

The time has come.  I have left the country.  Not long term, you understand.  As I unerringly blog, sipping a dodgy glass of house white, I am serenaded by a piped out ‘Sleigh Ride’ by Leroy Anderson; fans are spinning; variously shaped members of the largely Great British public surround me, with the melodic buzzing of eloquent green frogs and geckos creating a unique and beautiful vocal back-drop. 

They call this a ‘holiday’; this allegedly is a time where people do something called ‘unwind’, read things they call ‘books’, do something known as ‘relaxing’.  It’s not something I’m overly familiar with, or which comes naturally to me, but they tell me it is a good idea, so, my friends, I have come to… Barbados.

I spent the night in an airport hotel, ready for the morning flight.  The hotel was so close to check-in that it may have well have been in check-in.  I practically slept beside the baggage drop.  The check-in process was remarkably more straightforward than my last check-in experience in Reykjavik, Iceland, which involved 22 tired young people, 6 tired adults and a group of overly unhelpful Icelandair staff. 

I breezed through security, disappointed not to be asked if I was over 16 (see previous blog) and into a WiFi-enabled airport lounge, where I munched a croissant, sipped glorious coffee, whilst making a plethora of work phone calls and firing off e-mails to try to ensure that everyone who needed a reply, had received one, prior to me jumping on an 8-hour flight.  The other morning, I went to have a shower; when I looked at my phone after my shower, I had 54 new e-mails.  I hasten to add that I was in the shower for a normal length of time, before you think I may have been in there for a week.

I boarded the flight and my eight hours of slumber was punctuated only by offers of ‘chicken or beef’ and ‘tea or coffee’ from friendly air-hostesses.  Good old BA.   None of this ‘£7 please’ when you order a sip of wine.   (see previous blog from April 2014).

There’s always a hint of anxiety when awaiting one’s bag.  When I flew back from Iceland with my delightful Guide unit in October, one of the bags was put on the wrong flight.  I still cannot fathom how that happened – ’28 bags? Let’s put 27 on one flight and 1 on the other!’ – but anyway, my bag took its time to appear.  But I was not fussed.   What’s the worse that can happen? It’s on a different flight – it’ll be here tomorrow.     

There I was, quietly awaiting my bag.  I scanned the other people awaiting their luggage; suddenly, my eyes fell on… someone I recognised! That’s right! It was Grace Critchlow, Chair of the Western Hemisphere of WAGGGS whom I met in Hong Kong in July 2014, then again in Sept 2014 in London when I had dinner with the WAGGGS World Board and the Chairs of the World Regions! Grace had been in London (for the weekend!) interviewing potential Chief Execs for WAGGGS.  In case you don’t know what WAGGGS is, it is the ‘World Association of Girl Guides and Girls Scouts’, the movement which spans 146 countries and 10 million members worldwide.  I was privileged to be part of the UK delegation to the WAGGGS World Conference in Hong Kong earlier this year.  I’m hoping to meet up with Grace on Thursday! World Guiding is truly wonderful. 

The arrival into Grantley Airport, Bridgetown was smooth.  It is a tiny airport, with one runway, three baggage carousels and, well, that’s it really.  A taxi brought me to the small, locally-run (none of this multinational corporate malarkey) hotel, where I am now happily blogging, still serenaded by green frogs and geckos.

Keep reading for insights into what I get up to here.  Sleep well all. 

Walking in the Air

Greetings to you, faithful followers.  Before I tell you all about my long journey back to reality, may I warmly thank you for your diligent commitment to reading this.  In the last 3 weeks, this blog has been read in 10 countries, by upwards of 800 people.  Bless Google analytics, and bless you.

I write now, on what feels like a giant laptop, after tap-tapping on the delightful Baby Asus for more than two weeks.  It's like being at the cinema.

I am safely back in Plumstead, SE18, where things are remarkably similar to how I left them on July 3rd.  I am now in the process of picking up all the threads of my existence, and plaiting them back into some sort of normality.

I know what you're thinking - 'you've only been gone a short time, what's the matter with you?!' 

Granted, it is a relatively short time, but I have been in multiple worlds, in multiple settings, in multiple countries in that time.  In case you missed where it all began, I was part of the Girlguiding UK delegation to the WAGGGS World Conference - the official UK delegation blog is here.  This was a wonderful and profound experience, where I met up with old friends, made new ones, attended all sorts of sessions on important topics within Girlguiding, such as spirituality, gender, Fifth World Centre pilot and many more.  We went to spectacular events, such as the opening and closing ceremonies, then (wo)manned a stall at International Evening, where participants could have their photograph taken in the now world-famous Girlguiding taxi.  As a delegation, we helped make decisions to shape the future of WAGGGS and the 145 Member Organisations, as well as heard about the work of our very own Europe Region and World Board.  We celebrated with Nicola Grinstead, who was elected World Board Chair.

This was one world - a world of joy and friendship, laughter and fun, ideas and vision.

I then glided into the next phase of the trip, to Vietnam and Cambodia - read back over the last few blog entries to get the picture, if you didn't already.  One minute I was watching the superb Vietnamese water puppet theatre in Hanoi; the next I was cuddling a Vietnamese baby on a 33-hour train journey from Hanoi to Ho Chi Minh City / Saigon; the next I was crossing the Cambodian border, then learning about the horrific regime of the Khmer Rouge; then I was in the air again, bound for Siem Reap and the UNESCO World Heritage site which spralls across the whole area.  Back at the guesthouse, I was sipping ice-cold beer in bars whilst blogging about the day, occasionally chatting to people who look like they live in hedges.

Now, I am back in my bedroom / office / storage space, whatever you want to call it, having unpacked everything, opened my post and had a good sleep, working out what I really need to do before real life resumes in the morning.

I boarded the Hong Kong flight from Phnom Penh, which was unremarkable.  I started reading a book by a survivor of the Khmer Rouge campaign, so was engrossed in that; suddenly we were in Hong Kong.  The book is called 'First they killed my father' by Loung Ung.  It's biographical and told by a child, who is 5-years-old at the start of the book.  Her simple language and childlike tone paints a solid of picture of the happy life she and her family enjoyed in Phnom Penh, before the family and all other city dwellers were forced out of the city and to rural areas. 

I haven't finished the book yet, but it filled all of the hours I was awake.  I can lend it to you when I've finished it.  It is a tragic story of loss, but also of hope and courage.  I think that anything one can read about history is useful, particularly recent history - it starts in 1975, when you may well have been around.

Having spent the entire World Conference living in the Regal Airport hotel, I felt quite at home landing in Hong Kong again.  My connecting flight to London wasn't for another 10 hours, so I'd arranged to meet up with World Conference friend Jess who was also transitting there.  

Without thinking, I happily queued up in the 'transit' queue and was about to go through security again, when I suddenly thought - can I actually leave the airport if I go to the transfer lounge? I asked an angry Chinese worker if I could leave the airport if I went this way; she was just angry.  I suspect she had personal issues which might be affecting her performance at work, but didn't like to bring this up.  

'Can I leave the airport if I go this way?'

'No leaving flight-deck up.  Go, flying', came the crystal clear reply.  Awkward.  I started to explain that I had to return to the airport hotel to collect most of my clothing.  She wasn't having any of it.

Another woman approached.  She was wearing an ID badge and a uniform, so was obviously trustworthy, (unless she'd locked the true worker in a cupboard and stolen their uniform and badge); I was prepared to take the risk.

She ushered me past the angry woman and I headed for immigration.  I filled in a quick form, then went through to find Jess waiting for me! How exciting to see a familiar face, who had been part of the World Conference experience! 

We went back to the hotel and Frances Yip, Head of Housekeeping, duly delivered on the clothing front.  I was happily reunited with most of my clothes.  

Jess had been travelling in Vietnam, so we spent hours sharing our travel stories - tuk tuks, motorbikes, cooking lessons, language, revolution, the Khmer Rouge - the ten hours flew by as we talked and talked, sipped coffee, munched baguettes, then hunted around for postcards.  We said goodbye and I pootled along to my gate.

I met a man called Pete from Manchester, who was heading home for his daughter's wedding next weekend.  He's got 4 children - two boys and two girls; the girls are identical twins.  He works most of the year in Vietnam and China, doing something with sofas, but I'm not sure exactly what.  He read me the poem which he's written to read out at the wedding.  I'm sure his daughter will like it, although I have to say, I didn't.  I didn't lie to him though - I smiled and said, 'Aw, I'm sure she'll love it', though having seen it, this cannot be guaranteed.  I'm sure it won't matter anyway - the divorce rate is 50% these days.  

I hopped onto the plane and found myself surrounded by red t-shirt clad teenagers who were coming to London on a study tour for 3 weeks.  I had a window seat, as I always do, (so that I can see the care bears sitting on the fluffy clouds).  I chatted to the girl next to me.

'My name is Helen.  What is your name?'

'Gorky'.

'Gorky?'

'Yes, Gorky', she assured me.  

'Right', I said; 'is this the flight to Bulawayo?'

'Yes', she assured me, nodding profusely.  

I'm not sure if you've been on a flight recently, but there's a setting on the individual screen where you can watch from the camera which is underneath the plane! It's very exciting and is second only to actually flying the plane.

I was intent on sleeping, so wrapped myself in blankets, put my head down, and dozed for the first nine hours, read my book for two hours, then we touched down in London Heathrow!

I was amazed that my trusty rucksack had made it all the way from Phnom Penh to London, via Hong Kong and a 10-hour wait.  I will never understand how these airport transport systems work - it's genius and can only be managed by magic.

I tired of the people faffing about their baggage at reclaim; one particular woman was catastrophising about the luggage not coming through; 'just be patient', I wanted to say to her; 'your bag will be there somewhere'; but I didn't.  I just collected my bag and scurried through the 'nothing to declare' channel.

What have we learnt? Do useful things.  Travel.  Mix with the people who live there.  Remember that their lives are different to yours.  Travel is a privilege which many people will never enjoy. 

Respect the people you meet, even the idiots.  Respect the history of a place.  Don't take photographs at genocide sites.  If you're not sure what to do, consider what Jesus would do.  Whether or not you buy the 'son of God' malarky, you can't deny that he was a good bloke who treated people with love and dignity, regardless of who they were.  So don't bargain too hard; give to people who are clearly in need, but be sensitive; you might be better to make a donation to a local charity when you get home.

Be culturally and religiously sensitive, whether or not you believe in the religion you are visiting e.g. don't wear hot-pants and a strappy top to a Buddhist temple - be yourself, but be respectful. 

Be savvy.  Act on your instincts.  I trusted Stone immediately - look people in the eye and decide if you trust them.  If you don't, then make an excuse and find someone else.  Use your contacts - I can give you Stone's number (he's got business cards and everything); and Ti's number for Siem Reap; so if you're heading to Cambodia, let me know.

Above all, be safe.  Don't give personal details.  In Ghana in 2002, I gave my actual address to all sorts of people, then came home to a load of letters from the Home Office citing me as a referee for visa applications.  Don't do this.

You may have noticed that when I was travelling, I never gave exact details of where I was staying, until after I had left.  There was a reason for this.  Don't make yourself vulnerable.  Don't worry about bending the truth to protect yourself - as mentioned before, I often have a 'husband' waiting for me wherever I am heading, as it saves a lot of hassle and questions.  Yes, of course I shouldn't have to, but it makes sense.  

Ultimately, walk confidently and people think you know where you're going.

I'm going to sign-out there, as I'm sure you've had enough now.  Thank you for being a diligent reader, for the comments on Facebook, for the knowledge that you were reading.  I hope this trip has opened your eyes, taught you something, made you laugh, or even cry, or both.

I'd be interested for any more comments.  Maybe you know me - tell me next time we meet.  Maybe you stumbled across this by accident, in which case, welcome, I hope you've had a good read.  Maybe you are a publisher and want to offer me a lucrative publishing deal? (Not a dodgy vanity publisher though, proper ones only please).

The heavens have opened; there's thunder in the air; lightning has struck - twice - strange, so methinks it's a good time to say au revoir.

I nearly missed my flight because of the President!

It was all going so well.  I enjoyed a leisurely shower, packed up my belongings.  Well, those which I have.  Most of my clothes were inadvertently left in two drawers in the original hotel in Hong Kong, for no other reason other than that I am a numpty.  There were two drawers under my safe in the Hong Kong hotel.  The thought process on July 10th went like this:

- must remember to empty safe

- must remember those drawers of clothes under the safe

- empty safe

- pack everything

- check-out and fly to Vietnam

- unpack and wonder why I can't find most of my clothes

- remember those drawers under the safe. They are full of clothes, in Hong Kong and I am in Vietnam

- note that I am a numpty.   My travelling companion agrees.

But I've been in touch with the legendary Frances Yip who oversees the housekeeping and she is looking after my clothes.  Is she going to sort it all out? Yip!

Anyway, back to this morning.  I bid farewell to Top Banana Guest House.  It was great, but very much geared to Hedge Dwellers and party people.  At night, the music from the bar and neighbouring bars was deafening, but I can sleep through anything, so was blissfully unaffected.  I was in Japan once and slept through an earthquake.  I paid 16 USD for my own room, with en-suite bathroom and air conditioning.  Sublime.  Highly recommended if you don't mind loud music at night.  Friendly staff too.  They would have organised drivers etc, but I met Stone and he sorted everything out. I'm going to write a little guide to travelling soon, so I'll write more about trusting your instincts there.

As we approached the airport in Stone's tuk tuk, or his 'limo' as he prefers to call it, the traffic got heavier and heavier, to the extent that even the motorbikes couldn't get through.  He then explained that the President of Cambodia was today passing through.  I realised that most of the Cambodian people were lining the streets, both sides of the road.  What a great thing, for a nation to cherish its President; but not when I have a flight to catch! After what felt like a lifetime of catastrophising in the tuk tuk, Stone suggested that I should walk to the airport.  Can you imagine being in a cab to Heathrow, and the driver telling you that it would be quicker to walk?! 

There was no option - if the bikes couldn't get through, the tuk tuks certainly couldn't, so I paid Stone, warmly thanked him for his diligent service over the last few days, strapped my 60 litre rucksack onto my back, my small rucksack onto my front, and fled towards the airport. 

People crowded around, craning their necks for a glimpse of the President.   No-one took any notice of this hapless backpacker weaving in and out of stationary tuk tuks, motorbikes, cars, stalls, walls of people and who knows what else.  I walked about half a kilometre.  The traffic was still heavy, but there were a few more gaps.  It was just over an hour before my flight.  I hadn't checked-in - I had tried but failed.  A motorbike pulled up beside me, driven by a young man clad in jeans, t-shirt, flip-flops and a baseball cap.  'Madam - airport?' - 'Yes please! My flight is leaving soon'.  I jumped on, sandwiched between my massive rucksack, my small rucksack, and his tiny frame, and off we went.  I'm not sure if it was a display of brilliant and skilful driving, weaving in and out of the stationary traffic on both sides of the road, hooting at a policeman who was standing in the middle of the road, or a display of absolute stupidity, but he dropped me right outside the airport.  I ran like a thing possessed across the car-park; I found a board - my flight wasn't listed!! Oh no!

Then I realised that I was looking at the arrivals board.

I belted towards the other side of the airport - I bet Hilary's horse Helen runs more gracefully than me.

I found the right board and dashed to check-in.  I was soaked through, due to the 40 degree heat and 100% humidity.

'Please', I begged the man, as I stood, sweat pouring down my face; 'the traffic is so heavy because the President is there and I'm late because I had to run from my tuk tuk and...' 

'Passport?' the surly man said, showing less than no interest in my predicament.

Through I went, then boarded the flight to Hong Kong.  Thank God.  

Tuk tuks - so good they named them twice

This morning, my tuk tuk took me to the airport at 5am.  My tuk tuk took about 20 minutes.  It was still dark when we left the guesthouse, but Phnom Penh didn't seem to have gone to sleep.  Stone (not Ston, like I wrote yesterday), had slept in his tuk tuk outside the guesthouse overnight.  Now that's commitment.  I wouldn't sleep in the office if I had an early meeting.  

The nightwatchman let me out of the guesthouse, I jumped into the tuk tuk, and off we went.  

I've spent part of the day pondering how many times I could use the sound 'tuk' in a sentence, consecutively.  I've concluded that the best way would be if my surname was Tooke (which it isn't), and if the name of the tuk tuk was 'Tuk Tuk'.  Here's my sentence (let me know if you can do better):

"Tooke took tuk tuk 'Tuk Tuk' to the airport".

Recently, someone who was interviewing me asked me what my surname was; 'it's long', I warned her; before I could explain, she'd written L-O-N-G; she went straight on with the interview; it was too late to go back.  So in some settings, I am now, Helen Long.  

I met someone who was actually called 'Helen Long' at a conference last year.  I told her my hilarious story.  'It's the best surname I've ever had', she proudly told me.  'The best?' I said;

'How many have you had?'

'Four'.  

'Four? What was it - divorced, beheaded, died?'

She didn't laugh.  At all.  I was only making conversation!

I had booked my flight to Siem Reap using Baby Asus, in the bar, on Wednesday.  I didn't need to speak to anyone; I didn't have to pretend that my name was 'CURRENCY CARD' like I thought I might, after booking it on my magic cash-card.  I glided through the aiport check-in process.

I got to security and wondered how tight they were going to be about liquids etc.  I had an un-opened 1.5 litre bottle of water with me.  I waved it at the security guard - 'I can take?' He shook his head disparagingly.  

Not wanting to waste the water, or miss the plane, which I'd made expensive plans to catch, I drunk the whole huge bottle in one go.  My body was so saturated that it felt as though my internal organs had floated out of place.  Not ideal at any time.  Certainly not when you're about to board an aeroplane.

I was worried about my suncream.  It's a kiddies' factor 50+ and a curious radioactive light blue.  But all was well and I was ushered through.  In departures, I was greeted by a coffee shop, where an Americano and a pain au chocolat quickly re-aligned my internal organs.  There was also a spectacular bed-like waiting area.  Here's a picture...

Picture coming soon...

I think these should be installed everywhere, throughout the world.  It was very cosy, for the ten minutes I was able to enjoy it.

Now, who remembers Hilary of 'I've got a horse called Helen' fame? When I was in the taxi from Hanoi Airport to Central Hanoi with Hilary, her former neighbour Liann and Liann's husband John, I mentioned that I was hoping to go to Siem Reap.  Liann kindly gave me the number of a tuk tuk driver she knows there called Ti.  

Last night, I called him to see if he was around today and, behold, he was! He met me at the airport at 7.15am this morning, with a handwritten sign which said 'Welcome Helen'.  I jumped in and he drove me all the way to the office where you buy your ticket which lets you into almost all of the temples.  They take a little photo of you, which appears on your unique ticket - what a great souvenir - then you show it at each temple you go to.  Then he drove me to Angkor Wat.

Angkor Wat is the largest religious complex in the entire world.  It's in line with Macchu Pikachu in Peru.  I hope UNESCO realise that tourists and visitors are walking all over it and the other temples there, which surely can't do it much good? Many of the temples are being cared for in partnership with other nations - Japan, China, India etc.  I need to find out what is going to happen when these partnerships cease, in 2016.  

Angkor Wat itself is spectacular.  It just goes on and on, with the different parts in various states of repair.  This morning it was heaving with thousands of coach parties - Chinese, Japanese, Vietnamese.  Harassed tour guides waved flags around, trying to keep their groups together.  Some groups wore matching hats for identification, which reminded me of the recent epic adventure which Brownies in GLK enjoyed to Drusillas, when many units wore hats, ribbons, or similar, for easy identification.

There's always a northern couple wherever I go in the world.  One of them is usually called Janet. Angkor Wat was no exception.

As I strolled towards the giant temple, after Ti had dropped me at the gate, a girl came rushing up to me with a handful of garments - 'Lady, you want to buy skirt!'.  Yes - I thought; I knew there was a reason that I had got up at 4am and flown 200 miles - obviously, it was to buy a skirt.  I don't think.  I confess that I did later buy myself a t-shirt, which I am wearing now whilst blogging in a bar called Liquid.  I wanted to go to the quirky roof-top terrace opposite where I'm staying, but there seems to be a Hedge-Dwellers convention there, so I'm staying away.

I came across something today, which I didn't realise had become a craze.  Who's seen those ridiculous 'selfie poles' which enable one to take a picture of oneself, by attaching one's camera or smartphone to a retractable pole?  I can accept that these might be used at, for example, a social gathering, or a conference, where perhaps, one might want a picture of themselves with as many people as possible.  But in a complex of ancient ruined temples?! 

If you ask me, it makes the user look as though they lack the initiative or interpersonal skills to ask a passer-by to take a picture for them.  It also makes the user look like an idiot.  Fancy putting your faith in a pole (a metal one, not an Eastern European one, they are generally very reliable).  My advice to those using these poles at the temple complex today? Go and live in a hedge.

Ti drove me from temple to temple, each time advising me where he would wait for me.  Some temples, I ambled through in half an hour, others, a good couple of hours.

In the middle of one temple I was accosted.  A joss-stick (not Joss Stone) wielding woman appeared from nowhere and pressed three joss-sticks into my hand.  It all happened so fast. 

The woman looked like an aged, Cambodian version of Annie Lennox.  Suddenly, I found myself holding three joss-sticks and following this bizarre woman towards a small shrine.  She pointed at where I should put the incense-oozing sticks.  As I placed them there, she tied a red bracelet around my wrist and started chanting.  She then indicated that I should pay her, which I duly did, before fleeing.  This episode perpetuated an anxiety as to whom I might find in the next temple - an ageing Asian version of Joan Armatrading?

I thought - as I often do - what would Jesus do? In the unlikely event that Jesus was wandering around the temple complex of Angkor Wat and was accosted by an Annie Lennox look-a-like armed with joss-sticks, who then proceeded to chant and tie bracelets, I don't think he would resist.  He would respect her for what she was doing, but not consider it as an act of worship.  This is why I find religion so fascinating, because it's all about people and what makes people do what they do and think in a particular way.  That's why I did a Theology degree, taking every opportunity to study different religions (and, naturally, to gain a barrage of 'transferable skills', obviously).  I studied African Christian Theology, African Traditional Religion, Varieties of Religion in Modern African Society (my particular area of interest is Africa - can you tell?); Buddhism; Hinduism; Religion, Politics and Society in Mongolia; Religion in Japan; hence embracing opportunities to visit places of religious significance across the world.

Let's talk about elephants.  I saw some elephants today.  Some of the temples were offering elephant rides around the site.  You can tell whether elephants are African or Asian by the size of their ears.  If you're not sure, then work out whether you are in Africa or Asia, and it should become clear.  If you're in a zoo outside of these continents, different rules apply.

When visiting other countries, I like to chat to local women and hear their stories.  I spoke at length to a seller at one of the eight million temples today, who was a couple of years younger than me.  She impressed me with her linguistic abilities.  She has learnt a lot of English from chatting to tourists.  She can also sell things in French, German, Spanish, Dutch, Japanese and Chinese! We had a laugh running through all these different phrases, all of which has come from speaking to people.  

So often, visitors write-off sellers like these as an irritation and don't even acknowledge them.  To me, these people are the lifeblood of the operation, the very people who live and breathe the society.  We talked at length about how she is one of nine children.  She is married and her husband works at a swimming pool.  She has a son who is 3-years-old.  'You have to speak with people', she told me.  'They have their dollars, but we want to get to know them as well'.  I sat and had a drink with her, her brother, who was chasing after tourists trying to sell them books about the temple.  This is real life, not back-packer life.  Real-life is better.

At another temple, I was beseiged by tiny children, equipped with baskets full of Cambodia souvenirs offering 'Lady, very good price, just one dollar'.  They were tiny; age 8 - 12, just like my Brownies and younger Guides.  I asked their names and ages and if they went to school.  It was Friday afternoon; they assured me that they had gone to school this morning. I couldn't help wondering what their future holds.  If I come back in ten years, will they still be there? Maybe they will be multi-lingual tour-guides, charming the masses in 5 or 6 different languages.  Maybe they'll still be selling postcards and key-rings.  Who knows.  I asked them if they knew of Girl Guides of Cambodia; one of them said she had heard of it, but couldn't tell me anything about it, in English or French.  

If I'm honest, I got a bit tired of my own company today, so started pretending that I was French and spoke French instead.  

I had a wonderful day in Siem Reap, which can be done as a day-trip from Phnom Penh.  Like most things in life, if you believe in them enough and do all you can to make them happen, then they will happen.  

I absolutely stank from the constant application of my radioactive sunscreen and Deet, both of which one sweats off in minutes in the heat and humidity of Cambodia.  I kept track of my liquid intake today: 6 litres of water, 1 litre of Coke (I only drink fat Coke when abroad, mainly for the sugar hit which is rehydrating); 2 small coffees.  Those of you who were on the recent LaSER Leaders' Health Training can tell me if that was enough in 45 degree heat and 100% humidity here in Cambodia.

It rained later in the day, which was beautiful.  I held my fake Oakley hat in the rain till it was soaked, then put it onto my head and cherished the cool.

Exhausted, I asked Ti to take me back to the airport, where I was perplexed to find that the flight I was booked onto didn't actually exist! Thankfully, I was able to board the previous flight.  Stone was waiting for me at arrivals, and his tuk tuk took me back to my guesthouse for one final Cambodian night.  

Bonne nuit mes amis.  A demain.

Hedge-dwellers. And Genocide?

Why do so many male backpackers think that backpacking provides them with a reason to look like they've been living in a hedge for most of their life? 

I am sitting in a WiFi-enabled bar (WiFi is more readily available than running water or healthcare here), surrounded by a multitude of the men I describe.  It is a beautiful thing to be a lone female traveller.  I don't meet many.  I met one in Ghana in 2002; I think that's the only one I've ever met on the road.  Travelling alone, whilst it can be lonely at times, opens up new doors which cannot otherwise be opened.  If you're travelling with someone, you chat to them; you eat with them; you see things with them.  This is all fine.  If you're alone, it's a completely different ball-game - you chat to anyone; you do exactly what you want to do; no discussion required.  You eat when you're hungry, you sleep when you're tired.  

Yesterday, I met a tuk-tuk driver called Ston.  He spoke good English.  We arranged that he would take me to the places I wanted to visit today.  Bargaining a price - they think in US dollars here - was amusing, but we compromised, and he was duly waiting for me outside the guesthouse this morning at the appointed hour, after I'd had breakfast with one of the aforementioned hedge-dwelling idiots (whose best line was, 'I saw, like, the temples, yeh? But they're, like, all the same, 'cos it's, like, the same religion? D'you know what I mean?)

As arranged, Stom drove me 15km to the Choeung Ek Genocidal Center, otherwise known as The Killing Fields.  

Eighteen months ago, I couldn't have envisaged that I would find myself visiting the memorial sites of two 20th Century genocides, one of which was in my lifetime (Rwanda - see here for more) and one which was just a few years before.  

It's impossible to sum-up what started here in 1975, without writing a book.  There are many books available on the subject - I bought a couple today; I can lend you them when I've read them.  I'm going to attempt a summary here.

I just want to warn you that this won't be easy reading; but it is part of the history of this country, part of the fabric.  Whilst it's fun to people-watch in bars, collect Coke lids and sip beer whilst travelling, it's crucial to get a sense of the history of a place, particularly when it has welcomed you (i.e. the border control was very straightforward - see yesterday's entry).  

Pol Pot had a vision.  His vision was of a peasant-led, agro-communal society, where education was un-necessary; anyone who was considered a threat to this was deemed an enemy of the state and had to be killed.  The peasant-led society which Pol Pot envisaged was threatened by anyone who was living in a city; academics; anyone who spoke another language; foreigners; people who wore glasses; people who had soft hands.  City dwellers were considered to be selfish, evil and responsible for suffering.  Pol Pot, who had become Leader of the Khmer Rouge campaign, having gone to Paris to study and devoted his time to the Communist Party he had joined, decided that these 'parasites' had to be killed.  On April 17th 1975, the bloodshed began.  It is estimated that 25% of the population lost their lives in this bloody period of Khmer history.

A school, now Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum, which I visited this afternoon, was turned into a hideous prison.  Prisoners, who had been rounded up and forcibly taken there, were shackled to the ground in ordered rows in what had been classrooms.  Those considered to represent a particular threat were forced into tiny brick built cells, built within a large classroom, and shackled.  There are rooms and rooms of photographs of the men, women and children who were detained and tortured here.  There are exhibits of the equipment used to torture them, to extract false convictions.  Those arriving were systematically photographed and numbered.  The haunting faces stared back at me today.  I was furious with other tourists for pointing their cameras at every conceivable thing, be it a piece of former gym equipment which was last used as an instrument of torture, or a room full of photographs of young children, who were systematically tortured here.  What are these tourists going to do?! Upload the pictures to Facebook and wait for people to 'like' them and write stupid comments? There is a time and a place for photographs, and a site of a hideous attack on humanity, is not it.  

This is why I don't take photographs at places like this.  It is insensitive and wrong, in my humble opinion.  But I know that others may disagree; perhaps it helps some people to process the horror.  Maybe they are going to use the photos to tell others about what happened here, to educate.  Let's hope so.  

There were some shocking Khmer Rouge phrases displayed at the school - renamed S21 by the Khmer Rouge - 'Study is not important.  What's important is work and revolution'.  It is estimated that between 14,000 and 20,000 people were held here and executed; most of them were falsely accused of acts of treason.

'To keep you is no gain. To lose you is no loss'.  This was a Khmer Rouge mantra, used by the regime to remind their victims of their worthlessness.  

City dwellers were evacuated to the countryside and forced into slavery - planting rice, tending crops. Pol Pot built an army of people from the peasant class - those living in rural areas - and they became the guards at Choeung Ek, who were trained to systematically torture, maim and execute people.  They did not discriminate - men, women, pregnant women, breastfeeding women, children, even babies were slaughtered.  There is a tree at Choeung Ek, which tiny babies' heads would be smashed against to kill them instantly.  The idea was to kill all members of a family, so that there could be no revenge attacks in the future.  Today, that tree is covered in bracelets and flowers.  A tree is such a poignant symbol of life, of growth; the Khmer Rouge called this tree 'The Killing Tree'.

My informative audio-guide explained the route that victims arriving would take, on the way to their own certain death.  Bullets were expensive, so most people were hacked to death or had their throats slit.  They would be forced to kneel next to an open grave, so that they fell right in once dead.  These systematic executions happened at night, with local music pumping out from a huge loudspeaker, to mask their screams.  The guards would sprinkle the chemical DDT over the bodies, to mask the smell and to kill off anyone who may have survived.  

As Pol Pot became more and more paranoid, even more people were rounded up, forced into slavery, and killed, if they weren't worked to death first.  Another haunting Khmer Rouge setting is this: 'It is better to kill an innocent by mistake than to spare an enemy'.  

Pol Pot's vision was for a self-sufficient society, living off the fields.  Money and personal possessions were banned; thousands died of starvation or disease.  The guards were scared of not meeting their quotas for killing, so would kill as many as they could to ensure they met them; every death was recorded systematically.  These mass graves were only discovered in the 1980s, and new mass graves are still being unearthed across the country.  Many are surrounded by landmines, so the truth of who is buried there may never be truly known.  Many Cambodians today do not know the truth of what happened to their own family members.  

The audio guide narrator said that 'Pol Pot destroyed the Cambodian family, the day he ordered communal living'.  

But how did this all end? In 1979, the Vietnamese army liberated Phnom Penh.  I suggest you read more about this here: www.dccam.org and www.yale.edu/cgp

There is a 17-floor monument at Choeung Ek, filled with human skulls which have been un-earthed here.  They have been categorised according to their marks, hence, how those to whom they belong, were killed.

I walked around the site, which was again, beseiged with tourists intent on snapping everything in site.  Why would anyone take a picture of a glass container full of the clothes of children who were massacred? Or a picture of a glass container full of the bones, bone fragments and teeth of those hacked to death? It is beyond me.  But they did.  

Around the perimeter, in a quite moment, my audio-guide was telling me about some survivors' stories; I heard a voice: 'Madame, please, one dollar?' - I looked to see an old man behind the perimeter fence, begging.  His face was haggard and drawn; I saw that he had a wooden crutch and only one leg; 'Please, landmine, it took the leg'.  I was flooded by thoughts - who was this man? Why was he here? Could he be a survivor of this awful place of execution? Could he even be a perpetrator, responsible for some of this? I thought to myself - what would Jesus do? In the unlikely event that Jesus was doing an audio-tour at a genocide site, I think he would give him a dollar, regardless of who he was.  The last time a beggar came up to me was at Victoria Station a few months ago; he wanted money, so I brought him a Krispy Kreme donut and some coffee - surely the next best thing? I went up to the man at the perimeter fence and pressed a dollar into his hand.  He's been in my mind the whole time since.  Who was he and why was he there? Maybe he just knows it's Tourist Central.  Maybe there's more to it.

Finally, in 2007, the Royal Government of Cambodia worked with the UN to create 'Extraordinary Chambers in the Courts of Cambodia for the Prosecution of Crimes Committed during the period of Democratic Kampuchea' (as it was then called), or the ECCC.  As at 2009, these trials are still ongoing.  One leader of the Khmer Rouge admitted that he ran S21 and accepted blame for the extermination of 15,000 people.  

There are complications with the trials, in that, whilst it was mass murder and the extermination of huge groups of people, it was not technically 'genocide' because whilst it felt indiscriminate, genocide is defined as wiping out a 'gene' pool; targeting people against national, ethnical, racial, or religious groups.  This mass extermination was a 'crime against humanity'.  There are ambiguities relating to the trials, to do with whether or not the country was 'at war'.  

Pol Pot died in April 1998.  The cause of death depends on what you read - suicide; heart failure; poisoning.  He was quickly cremated.  History will never know for sure.

Well, congratulations if you made it this far.  I commend you.  Some more hedge-dwellers have just arrived; and a mosquito or three have been nibbling away at me whilst I've been writing this.  My plan to bamboozle the mosquitoes with a healthy concoction of Clinique Happy and Deet seems to have failed, but the anti-malarials should keep me safe.  There seem to be an un-nerving number of dogs wandering around this bar, one of which just defecated on the floor - nice.  

I'm going to go and pack for tomorrow, as I'm off to Siem Reap - Ston is taking me to the airport at 5am.  Tomorrow will be quite different from today - Buddhism, hope, peace; rather than anger, execution and bloodshed.

Goodnight all.  

The order of the border

Greetings to you, faithful followers.

The day began with our final meal together for a very long time.  It consisted of syrup-like coffee, fruit, bread and jam.  Every conceivable Vietnamese speciality was available and being devoured by the predominantly local clientele.  

The hotel was quite eerie and officious, with curious music pumping down the corridors.  I wouldn't stay there again, although Jo is there for another two nights, so I wish her well.

We said goodbye and I pootled down to the bus station, where I jumped on a Cambodia-bound bus.  It was luxurious - air-conditioning, bottled water, really helpful and friendly staff.  I was the only Westerner and one of the driver's 'mates' constantly translated for me, which was very kind.  I wondered; if I sat in a bus full of Vietnamese speakers for long enough, would I eventually start speaking Vietnamese? After six hours, I could still only speak two words; maybe six months might work? Maybe I'll try that sometime.  

I've crossed a lot of borders in my life.  Inevitably, the questions come - 'are you married?', 'where is your husband?'.. etc.  I've become accustomed to creating a husband who is waiting for me in whichever town I happen to be heading towards.  I've fought off more marriage proposals than I can remember, and managed to (eventually) cross all borders, without having to actually marry any of the inevitably surly lot.  My imaginary husband story has only gone horribly wrong once, in Mali, West Africa 2002, when after assuring a border guard that my 6-foot-rugby-playing giant of a husband had crossed the border a few days previously, he assured me that no man of that description had crossed the border so far that year, if ever; thankfully, two Polish backpackers turned up, and I was able to pretend to be married to one of them, much to his confusion; hence, my passport was stamped and they let me into Mali.

I was ready for similar shenanigans at today's border, and am pleased to report that there were none.  The bus guy collected up all our passports, plus $20 if we didn't have a visa, then sorted everything out for all the passengers.  We alighted and bundled into the immigration buildings, where the surly (why are they always surly?) border guards processed passport after passport, then the bus guy called out the names and we each collected our own, then progressed to the electronic checking, where the security was like the US - four fingers, thumb, other four fingers, other thumb.  Jump back onto the bus.  That was it - welcome to Cambodia.

Twenty minutes in, we stopped at a roadside cafe for refreshments.  I fell into conversation with a man called Frankie, from Malaysia, who was en route to Phnom Penh for business.  He had studied in Brighton and was familiar with South East London, where I reside.  Small, small world.  I told him about the epic World Conference; he was aware of Girl Guides in Malaysia, which was reassuring.  I told Frankie about this travel blog - so greetings if you are reading it, Frankie!

On arrival in Phnom Penh, the coach was predictably surrounded by tuk-tuk drivers and mopeds, but not threateningly so.  I was keen to get some cash with my magic cash card, as I had 40p on me (the equivalent), after changing up the last of my Vietnamese dong in the roadside cafe.  My cash card failed me in three consecutive ATMs, which wasn't good.  I went with plan B, got some cash, then took something called a remork (remorque-moto, a roofed, two-wheeled trailer hitched to the back of a motorbike), which was great fun.  It was less fun when it transpired that the driver and I had shaken on a price, which I was thinking of in riel (local currency) and he was thinking of in dollars.  We compromised eventually, as the rain came tumbling down in that unique rainy-season way.  Once he'd disappeared, I realised that my guesthouse was nowhere to be seen, but it was the right street; I sought refuge in a cafe, rehydrating on Coke and filling up with some special fried rice.  You can't beat special fried rice.

The rain finally eased and I sought directions - it wasn't far.  I checked-in and settled into my perfect little air-conditioned, ensuite room, affected only by the occasional power outage, which can make things quite dark. Unfortunately some of my clothes were soaked by the rain, so I have created my own little Chinese laundry in my room.  

I have been making plans for my 2 days of sole adventuring, as the friend I was meant to meet has been called away, to another country.  This often happens when I arrive somewhere.

So all is well; the guesthouse is cosy and friendly.  The rain is still pouring down and pounding the streets, not that any Cambodians seem very affected by it.  

I've read up on Cambodian history and am as ready as one can be to go and visit the Killing Fields tomorrow.  That blog entry will not be a chirpy one, I'll warn you now.