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.

Farewell HaNOISE

We opted today to embed ourselves within the chaos of HaNOISE and take a city tour in the equivalent of an open-top bus.  In this case. it was an electric trolley with 6 seats, driven by a smartly-dressed little man who drove us around his city, proudly announcing the names of various places, though without any detail.

We slid down narrow roads, gazing at the millions of people sitting on tiny stools outside shops, sipping local tea, smoking, chatting or playing mahjong.  In the Hanoi streets, the streets seem to be themed - one entire street sells sellotape, in every conceivable variety.  Another fixes motorbikes.   Hanoi is a bit like an impromptu motorbike car-park, with hundreds of them crammed into every available space on every available pavement.

We checked out of the lovely boutique hotel where we stayed - it's the Hanoi Diamond Elegance, 32 Lo Su, if you're ever in the area.  Great location, great view from the restaurant at the top and friendly staff who really want to make your stay great.

In my commuting life, I regularly spend 33 hours a day sitting on a train just outside the London Bridge area where there is 'congestion'.  There will come a day, when Southeastern will anticipate the inevitable 'congestion in the London Bridge area', but it will not be any time soon.

Where am I heading with this? I opted to spent 33 hours on a train, all the way from Hanoi to HCMC / Saigon.  It was one of the best journeys I have ever done in my life.  And I have done quite a lot of journeys.  I love journeys.  'When you rush so fast to get somewhere, you miss half the fun of getting there'.  Journeys transport you into another world, a world you don't yet know; a world which you will never again experience in quite the same way.  If I did that journey again, it would be different again; every journey is unique in the way in which it is punctuated by the individuals who collide with your world on that particular leg of the journey.  It's a good metaphor for life.

We had a 4-bedded berth; a tiny cabin with bunkbeds each side.  One had to climb up, using strategically-placed foot-holes and hand-rails, to reach the top bed, where I happily slept for much of the journey.  The beds were narrow - obese travellers should take note, as they might not be that comfortable.

Jo occupied the bottom bunk, myself the top.  There was a constant stream of intriuging characters occupying the other two beds.  First, the canoodling couple, to whom I would have said, 'get a room' in Vietnamese; though I suppose they were sort of, in a room already, albeit with two others nearby.  They didn't stay long, thankfully.  They alighted and were immediately replaced by a mother and her gymnastic 3-year-old who was performing moves which I haven't been able to do since 1985, if ever.

They didn't stay longer than a few hundred miles and were soon replaced by a grumpy young man; a bright-eyed mother, her bouncing 7-year-old boy and her 8-month-old baby.  The grumpy young man immediately sought refuge on the upper-bed, demonstrating a complete hands-off approach to parenting.  I chatted to the mother a little, using my two words of Vietnamese and her limited English; she even let me cuddle her baby, which was a kind gesture.  It transpired that the man on the top bunk was actually nothing to do with her, and that he was just a stranger who had boarded the train at the same time and entered the same cabin; internally, I felt bad about judging his parenting style.

They went and by this time, we realised that we were possibly the only people doing the entire journey, from Hanoi to HCMC (Saigon - which, Pip, technically only refers to District 1!); all 1,070 miles of it.

I handed back the baby, fell asleep, and when I awoke, three very small Vietnamese ladies arrived.  Two top-and-tailed in the lower-bunk and the older lady sat with Jo on her bed.  At one point, one of the top-and-tailers started vomitting up blood, which was alarming, but she soon recovered and went back to sleep.  

Meanwhile, I took the opportunity to do a spot of Guiding admin, to make some notes for the blog and to sleep, snuggled up toastily in my green duvet, kindly provided by the Vietnamese train people.  

Ubiquitous staff wielding trolleys of food and drink plied the way along the train; we enjoyed beer, coffee and, of course, a train picnic.  

There were a number of announcements throughout the journey and I'm ashamed to say that I have no idea what they said.  The driver could have been reading out the telephone directory, his shopping list, a list of all his friends - who knows.  It did worry me that he could have been telling us to evacuate, or something, but as our blood-vomitting friend and her companion paid no attention, we didn't worry.  None of the announcements seemed to matter though; we duly arrived in HCMC, just a characteristic couple of hours late.

It was 5.45am when we arrived at the train station and it was heaving.  Honestly - think Northern Line at London Bridge on a miserable Tuesday morning, when they close the barrier 'to reduce congestion' - that is a comparative picnic.  The only way to get a cab is to grab hold of one as it's moving, then stay with it till it stops, asserting that it is yours.  If Jo hadn't have done that, we'd still be waiting there now (NB - that was 15 hours ago)

The hotel weren't overly happy that we wanted to check-in nearly 9 hours early, and didn't hide this fact.

But we did - then crashed out to catch up on some sleep.  I'd booked this one through Expedia - they were doing a 3-for-2 nights offer, or something.  It's not as nice as the previous one; the staff are miserable and the swimming pool is permanently full of children having swimming lessons.  But it'll be ok for a few nights and the location is good.

It is my last day in Vietnam! Tomorrow morning, I am deserting my travelling companion and am bound for Cambodia! We celebrated our last evening together for a while, by attempting to eat in a swish restaurant, which we didn't succeed in finding, so ended up in a dodgy back-street place having we're not quite sure what to eat.  We then went up to the Rex Hotel, which has a roof terrace, and enjoyed a sublime gin and tonic.  Have I mentioned my love of roof terraces?

I have a new road-crossing technique today.  If you want to cross a road, locate an elderly local who is crossing the same road, at a similar time, and walk with them.  Simple.  This has not yet failed me.  

The next blog-post will be from Cambodia, so do keep reading.  I'm hoping to meet up with a schoolfriend who I have just found out lives in Phnom Penh.  We were last in touch fourteen years ago - what's a few years eh?

Goodnight faithful readers.  Thanks for reading.

How to cross a road in Hanoi

Faithful followers, forgive my silence.  Baby Asus, my trusty gadget, was sulking yesterday, as she hadn't been charged, hence lack of blog.  First world problems, eh? Fear not, there will be extra insights today to make up for it....

I was on a coach, with all of my Brownies, en route to I'm not sure where.  I alighted from the coach, with two indeterminable Brownies, to purchase water, in Buckingham Palace Road.  As we approached the coach, the driver put his foot down, and the coach sped off.  I ran, with the two indeterminable Brownies, following the coach, all the way to Chislehurst - Summer Hil in fact, just by the station.  Gary from Coronation Street turned up, driving a blue Fiesta; he asked if I needed any maintenance jobs doing.  I declined, and he drove off.  

I woke up, couldn't think where I was, and was extremely confused.  Methinks this humidity does funny things to one's head.  That and the anti-malarials I've started on.  You can't get these without a prescription; unless you know people who know people in South East London.

But what really did happen, was this: I awoke to find that my room-mate had done a runner.  Once I'd remembered where I was and realised that the whole Brownies / coach / Gary from Corrie thing, was a surreal dream, I honestly couldn't see any trace of Jo.  I inwardly catastrophised, as those of you who share my personality-type will understand.  'She's got the train tickets'; 'what if she's been abducted?'.  
I decided that the best course of action was to have a shower to clear my head.  I showered, dressed and styled my hair, then went up to the 12th floor, where I found... Jo! She had not done a runner, or been abducted.  She had, in fact, got up at the appointed time, and gone for breakfast.  The fact is, I'm not really a morning person; or an afternoon person; in fact, am I really a person?

We breakfasted, then bundled into a taxi to Ho Chi Minh's Mausoleum.  We inadvertently joined a tour group and were ushered through the group entrance, where we were obliged to surrender all our possessions and to join a line, manned by surly young guards, beautiful clad in spotless white suits, dripping with medals.  The youth of the guards makes me think that they must have national service here.  We saw them changing the guard, in true communist fashion, complete with bayonets and curious walks.  We glided through the queue, then into the building, where there were guards every few feet.  We saw Ho Chi Minh himself, just lying there.  He wanted to be cremated, according to the guidebooks, but it wasn't to be.  I have to say, he didn't look well, but then again, he was dead.

The humidity here is the most intense I have ever experienced; and it doesn't relent, even after dark.  I have never drunk so much water in my life.

Crossing the road is an important part of life here.  My advice to the traveller would be this - if you haven't got a decent travel insurance policy, don't even consider crossing the road; see how much you can achieve without crossing the road.

If you have a decent travel insurance policy, take these steps; look at what is coming; stroll into the road and keep strolling.  No sudden movements; don't speed up; don't look anyone in the eye.  It's a bit like shopping in Ikea.

We went pergoda hunting and were disappointed to find a stunted pergoda, of which the picture didn't do justice.  It was part of a temple, which was closing about 5 minutes after we arrived.  

On our way there, a tiny Vietnamese woman insisted that we pose for photos with her very heavy load - scales of pineapple and bananas.  It was heavy and she was very small.  It was fun, and she earned herself a dollar or two.

In the afternoon, we went to the puppet theatre to see the water puppets.  Whilst I missed part of the proceedings due to falling asleep, what I did see was superb.  It all dates back to northern Vietnam in the 11th century, when rice paddy fields were flooded and villagers would make entertainment by standing in the waist-deep water with the puppets performing over the water.  

There followed a stupendous display of water puppetry, which involved 14 separate scenes with various people and animals.  They glided through the waist deep water unerringly,  weaving stories which were narrated in Vietnamese, so naturally, I understood every word.  It was a superb display of unusual puppetry, run by 10 talented puppeteers who appeared at the end, waist-deep in water.  The puppets had jumped,  squirted water, interacted with each other, weaved in and out of each other; it really was extremely clever and a joy to watch.

We walked out of the theatre; Jo turned left.  To my right, I heard a high-pitched voice squealing 'Helen, Helen!!' I was dumbstruck to bump into one of the 1st Chislehurst Guides, on holiday here with her family.  Unbelievable, but in a good way.  We are 5734 miles from London.  It's a small, small world.  

More tomorrow - stay with me.

Post-conference adventures

Greetings diligent followers! Welcome to my personal blog, where I blog about my adventures.

You find me in air-conditioned bliss in Hanoi, Vietnam, where I have ventured into a post-conference brave new world.  

In case you haven't been following guidinggoestohk.blogspot.com, I have been part of the UK delegation to the WAGGGS World Conference in Hong Kong, which has been an empowering and fantastic experience.  The delegation has now parted their various ways. Read the aforementioned blog for the full story.

Where am I now? Hanoi, Vietnam, with my dear friend Jo, who has come all the way from Bangkok to travel through Vietnam with me! I have put almost no thought whatsoever into this part of the trip, being somewhat consumed by the preparation for the World Conference, so I am gently adjustng to being somewhere else, which is completely different to Hong Kong, despite being just a centimetre away on the map.  Thanks to Jo for sorting everything out and apologies for my ongoing uselessness.  That said, I have booked the next hotel, although I didn't read the reviews.  Jo did.  

I was stumped when I arrived at the airport gate in Hong Kong with 5 minutes to spare, only to find that I had to get on a bus! 'I thought we were flying', I said to an airport staff person, who failed to laugh.  I couldn't believe that having epitomised that bloke in that film 'The Terminal' for more than a week, I was almost late for my flight. 

In the queue for the flight, I bumped into the infamous Hilary, former Girlguiding UK staff member, who remembered my name because she has a horse called Helen.  On arrival in Hanoi, she very kindly organised for me to have a lift into the city, with her friends Liann and John who live here.  They have lived here for 5 days, having moved from Ho Chi Minh City on Saturday, as one does.  

Immediately, I was transported into a chaotic world of mopeds, motorbikes with riders who had masks over their mouths, but no helmet; the taxi bashed into numerous things in the road, which chipped against the chassis.  A bus, on the wrong side of the road, came towards us at speed and I feared this was the end.

By the grace of God, it wasn't.

On arrival at the hotel, which Jo had booked, I was met with a sumptuous glass of watermelon juice to welcome me, then a smiling Jo, whom I have not seen since Christmas.   

I fear I have left a pile of clothes in a drawer in the airport hotel at Hong Kong, because I am a numpty.  I have e-mailed the hotel in the hope that they haven't thrown them out.   This morning was all a bit of a blur.

Just as I was starting to become fluent in Cantonese, I have now shifted country and my Cantonese is redundant.  However, 'gammon' is 'hello', which is a good start.  Watch this space.

We ventured out for sumptuous local food and beer, dodgy the billions of screeching mopeds and uncontrolled bicycles.  Groups sat sipping tea on tiny stools on every corner; the wares of sports shops, hardware and food tumbled out of the shops and onto the pavements.  We inadvertently walked through a stall selling a million perplexing shoes.  

It is a novelty to be going to bed on the same day that I woke up.  This has not yet  happened this week.  So, stay with me blog-wise and I'll write more soon.  

Goodnight.