Oh the crisp air of Chiang Mai

It's amazing what a difference climate makes.

I arrived in Chiang Mai around noon, off the overnight train from Bangkok. I was already elated, having actually made my train despite some serious difficulties, but stepping off the train into the crisp Northern air felt oh-so-good that I was grinning like a mad woman at all the vendors on the platform.

My ten-day jaunt to Chiang Mai happened back in mid-November. The trip kicked off the month-long countdown to my departure from Cambodia for California, and the cool dry weather was so similar to Orange County in autumn that it was impossible not to feel at home.

Upon my arrival, I took a winding route from the train station, across the entire town, through the bustling Wararot Market, where I picked up some coconut cream puffs -- soft crepe-like dough wrapped around neon green coco-cream filling, past a million wats, past a used bookstore where I happily overpaid for two paperbacks, past about 300 7-11s, and eventually all the way up Huay Keuw road to the hostel. The hostel was nestled in a small residential neighborhood aptly named Natawan Village. The houses were medium-sized brown and white cottage-y affairs that looked faintly pastoral with their thatched roofs and jaunty windows. The hostel drew your typical mix of young travelers, many single women on long-term trips, a few large groups of Irish and Scottish lads who had met up on their way, a Canadian couple, your requisite Germans, and me the only American for awhile. It was extremely clean and friendly, but definitely had a college vibe -- with photos plastered on the wall of nights out on the town and group trips to mountain lakes.

My first order of business was to hit up the local mall to pick up some toiletries and a scope out shoe stores to see about tevas for my trek near the end of the week. As I headed back into the village from my shopping expedition, the roti man had just set up his stall at the entrance to the neighborhood and he was making a first order for two teenage residents. I got to talking with them and they kindly ordered for me in Thai and then paid for my banana roti -- fried with an egg, and slathered in condensed milk and chocolate, with sugar on top.

Mm.. banana roti in the evening light

This perfect welcome boded well for the rest of my trip. That night, I went to a traditional khantoke dinner-dance show. The food was amazing -- and I was entertained not only by the dancers, but also by the very friendly couple behind me from New Jersey who only ate the fried chicken and white rice, so that they had to ask for refills five or six times during the show. The next day, I biked around town, checking out the major temples, taking photos and chatting with monks, and then spent 3.5 hours being scrubbed and rubbed and steamed until my skin glowed.

One of the hilltribe dances at the khantoke dinner.

Temple goodness

I spent one afternoon hopping from one trendy coffeeshop to the next on trendy Nimmanhaemin road. I swam 100 laps at a rooftop pool. I took a cooking class at an organic farm where I made friends with the instructor who shares my dream of someday opening her own food-related business.

Mont Blanc -- delicious coffee, yummy cakes and sweet atmosphere

Ingredients for Pad See Ew

Chiang Mai was the land of couples -- couples honeymooning, couples on year-long-round-the-world-jaunts, couples who just met, old couples, young couples, and me. Did it make me miss Jaime? Yes, like the Dickens. Did it curb my enjoyment of this beautiful town? Not a whit. (Well, maybe a whit, but not more than a smidge) This was especially apparent at the cooking course, where I was joined by a young clingy couple from Switzerland, a vibrant Danish pair, and a understate but sweet French duo from Brittany. Being without my other-half, I was paired by default with a huge, overbearing, somewhat racist Australian woman who couldn't stop talking if her life depended on it. In the course of a couple hours, I heard all about the negative qualities of her Laotian in-laws, the amazing abilities of her 3 long-distance swimmer kids, and the time her washing machine broke down and she went out that very day to buy a new one!

Some of my favorite moments on the trip included the twinkling night sky at the gorgeous Loy Krathong festival.

Loy Krathong on the river

Then there was the view from our hut during the overnight trek in Chiang Dao, the luscious green bamboo archways vaulting over our path, the cute little upside down bat in the limestone caverns.

Mist falling over the hills in the morning

There was cheering for the impromptu soccer match -- Lisu v. Lisu. And eating with bamboo chopsticks from bamboo boats carved from fresh green stalks by our guide Pol.

Our bamboo lunchware

Visiting the Sunday night market with all the amazing young artists and designers sitting on the sidewalk with their handpainted sneakers and trendy printed satchels and clever graphic tees.

Favorites from the Sunday Market

And motoing up the hill to see Wat Doi Suthep. The temple itself was overrun with tourists -- next time I'd go at dawn -- but the air on the ride up was crispy and fragrant so that you felt more alive afterwards than before.

For more photos, click here.

My Singaporean Homecoming

Back in October, I took a trip back to Singapore for the first time in about 9 years.

As a kid, I traveled to Singapore with my family six or seven times. I can remember general impressions -- tossing around sweaty in my singlet trying to get to sleep; going to the zoo; swimming at the fancy club; my Kong Kong toasting me a slice of bread topped with cheese and sugar or running out to pick up oily chicken rice wrapped in a banana leaf; family members taking us out to fancy meals and giving me red packets; watching terrible Singaporean dramas; going to Sentosa; getting mosquito bites; munching on fried bananas; handing out gum to cousins I didn't know I had... all, in all, a great experience.

I love being half-Singaporean. It's always seemed way cooler than just being half-Chinese. Singapore's exotic, the land of beautiful stewardesses and orchids and canings. Whenever I hear someone with the quirky slightly British, totally distinctive, Singaporean accent with its liberally sprinkled "lah-s" and "aiyah-s" I feel a warming in my soul. But my love for all things Singapore is sort of an uninformed infatuation, rather than a deep passion bred by understanding. So though I thought my heritage was spiffy, I never really felt Singaporean (my aiyahs are forced and I hate durian).

So that's why I was a bit surprised when my recent trip made me feel like falling straight into the bosom of my motherland. Hanging out with my cousin Aidan and his friend Alex, walking around Singapore and eating at the hawker centers -- I felt at home, like I belonged. I was a little embarrassed because I didn't know the proper name for anything and I didn't ever know the protocol. But still, I felt like I could fit in here, like other people were like me somehow.

I was sitting at the kitchen table playing dominos with my aunties and uncle and Aidan and Alex. I had one leg hanging down, and one foot up on the chair, leg bent up against my chest. I sit that way without noticing, but my auntie noticed and told me that that was the way my great grandmother sat. Then one of my mum's childhood friends took me to her mum's house for lunch. Her mum remembered my mum from when she was a teenager. She kept calling me beautiful and telling me that I was a "simple girl" just like my mom.

The city is full of hapas -- half this and half that. In a way it's annoying because being a half-breed is just par for the course here, but it's also weirdly comforting. And then there was the food -- the chili laden, deeply flavored multiethnic food. I figured out why I love to add so much spice to everything I eat. It makes complete sense when you come from a food tradition with such exuberant smells and tastes. So many things to eat and drink that I associate with childhood and comfort -- pineapple tarts, ovaltine, chicken rice, satay, kuay boluh, char kway teow, paratha, chrysanthemum drink, milk tea, barley water, fishballs.

It's strange to think how differently we experience things as we grow up. When I was young, going to Singapore was like going to another planet. Yes, these were my relatives, but I barely knew them. But going back this time, I felt like in some indirect, but powerful way, this country helped define me. Even down to some of its more repressive elements. Perhaps that's why I never had a penchant for flouting authority (or maybe it was growing up in conservative Orange County?)

The casual dress, the obsessive academia, the love of food -- they all spoke to me; so when my cousin Aidan suggested that I move out for a year to take another Masters degree or teach English or do random anthropological research related to food, it sounded like an amazing idea. I've since revised my initial enthusiasm -- for someone who hasn't grown up there, the heat of Singapore simply saps all my life force -- but though it probably won't happen next year, I'm not ruling out the possibility of coming back.

The Singapore skyline as seen from the Flyer

7 days of food fun in Singapore

Here's what I can remember of my food adventure in Singapore...

Saturday 25 - Popiah, carrot cake, oyster omelette, beef rendang, char kway tieow, that crunchy cup thing, that soupy dessert thing; Fried taro basket with steamed veggies, bitter melon soup, fried shrimp balls, chicken wings, bean curd clay pot, lime & sour plum juice


Sunday 26 - Kopi, tissue paratha, regular paratha, egg paratha; Auntie Bernie's mum's tomato pork soup, mutton in tomato sauce, fish curry with ladies fingers, chicken curry; Tonkatsu at Tonkichi for dinner

Monday 27 - Chicken rice; sambal stingray, soup mee with pork balls, satay, oyster pancake, chicken wings



Tuesday 28 - Kaya toast and eggs; pineapple tarts!; nasi lemak


Wednesday 29 - Goreng pisang & fresh soursop juice at Maxwell; Not so yummy duck noodles, then delicious hazelnut ice cream at the Island Creamery


Thursday 30 - Te haliah, beef mutabak, mee goreng, some yummy curry stuff; Scones with jam and clotted cream, peppermint tea, tea sandwiches and petit fours



Friday 31 - Kaya toast and toast with nutella; chili crab, scallops with fresh veggie, fish maw soup; tau huay & you char kuay at Rochor



Despite my best attempts, there were some things that I just couldn't fit: Fishball soup, soto ayam, bak kuh teh, assam laksa, fish head curry

Khmer Food -- Baby duck embryo (aka "egg with baby")

Quite rightly, the introduction to Jeffrey Steingarten's The Man Who Ate Everything begins with an account of Steingarten's attempt to train himself into the perfect omnivore. He begins oh-so-methodically by listing in order the foods that make him gag, that he simply detests, that he doesn't particularly like, and so on, and then proceeds through a narrative of how he conquers (or mostly conquers) his distaste for each offending food.

Steingarten's personal journey inspired me (though I found his hatred of falafel simply baffling!) and reminded me of my own hard-fought victory over my hatred of mustard, and the certain slow-battles to find my peace with select crustaceans and with fungi. In general, I'm proud at most of my attempts at food egalitarianism and Steingarten's essay pumped me up for new explorations BUT then, Steiny (to my knowledge) didn't have to deal with this particular Cambodian delicacy.

Porng Tier Goan -- Duck egg with baby!

Yum. I felt I took a big step in even putting my face so close to this delightful morsel. My companion half-apologized for choosing this for his snack instead of a delicious & fresh papaya salad, or nicely processed, beakless, featherless chicken skewer, explaining that he needed the "power" from the three baby ducks because he had been feeling a bit tired lately.

Khmer Food -- Bananas with peel & beef stomach

I'm in Mondulkiri this week for work, and I asked my coworkers what the specialty is in this region. Their favorite local dish is (yum!) cow's stomach, so tonight, we headed over to an outdoor restaurant that's known for grilled meats and this delicacy.

The seven of us walked to the back of the restaurant near the kitchen. The place had 10 or so tables -- a tin roof over a dirt floor littered with balled up paper napkins and various debris, a typical Khmer establishment. sat down in our plastic chairs around a low table. One person had brought along two plastic bags of precooked rice from a roadside stand. On one end of the table, there was a small wooden stool, and on this stool was perched a sturdy wooden cooking pail with glowing hot charcoal inside. The owner of the establishment came over, poked the fire a bit, and handed us a metal rack with a handle and a small pair of tongs.

Next, the servers brought out three heaping plates of fresh veggies (yum!) -- sliced carrots, cucumber, cabbage, green peppers and eggplant -- and two more plates of thinly sliced banana flower and oval slices of bananas with the peel still on. Since this was a grilling establishment, I thought the bananas were for grilling, but my compatriots immediately fell upon the platter, so despite my misgivings about the deliciousness of banana peel (even the monkeys peel it off!) I joined in and delicately picked up a slice with my chopsticks and tried it. Immediately my entire mouth went dry and I decided one was enough and I'd stick to the pretty pink and white mound of flower shavings.

Soon after, our server came back with a tray of sauces -- a soup bowl of gray, thick concoction, highly pungent and topped with a bunch of peanuts -- and tiny trays of salt & pepper mix, limes, garlic slices, and extra peanuts. I was instructed that the grey sauce was Prahok, a general term for a myriad of pastes, sauces, gums, and spreads of all consistencies and colors, made of fermented fish. I dipped a chopstick in gingerly and decided it was delicious, so I poured myself a small tray and started dipping my veg.

Seconds later, two noodle bowls full of raw, red meat and a large platter of a gray and black, bumpy, almost hairy-looking meat arrived at our table. The beef smell was unmistakable. I promised them I'd try almost anything at least once, so I immediately took the smallest piece of stomach I thought I could (mua-ha-ha) stomach, and popped it in my mouth. The consistency was as it looked -- tough and chewy -- and the taste was as it smelled -- beefy beyond beefy. I'm quite sure it had no flavoring -- it looked boiled. It definitely would have benefited from a dip in the Prahok, but I wanted the unadulterated experience. I can't tell you exactly what my revulsion was, but if I'm honest, I think it had more to do with the presentation and the texture than with the taste.

Mr. Yu, grilling meats.

Eventually, we got round to the grilled meats -- some more delightful offal, and eventually some pieces of steak, which my colleagues (dear, dear folks that they are) pressed upon me with admonitions that I would need the "power" from the beef to push the car through the knee-deep mud of Mondulkiri roads the next day.

Phnom Penh Prisoner (happy ending)

Friday afternoon, I headed out to Phnom Penh hoping for a night out and some general fun on the town. It was my Pepy buddies' last weekend in Phnom Penh before heading out to their new office in Siem Reap, plus Friday night was the re-opening of the Pontoon, a floating club on the Mekong which sank back in July after a night of too much party.

I made it into town around 6 and headed for Lauren's house. All the occupants were out for the weekend, but they left the keys with their sweetheart landlady Eng. After a twenty minute conversation about the pros and cons of living in the US (Eng lived in Milpitas for over a dozen years), she let me in whereupon I proceeded straightaway to turn on a fan, plop down on the couch and sigh.

I got in touch with Achaya, Allison and Matt to get the rough plan for the night. Since no one was sure about food, I decided to splurge and order pizza delivery. When I come out to Phnom Penh, I tend to indulge in all the pleasures that I just can't get back in the KC, so I only felt a little guilty about vegging out for the next couple of hours with some good reading material and a perfect veggie feta thin-crust pizza.

Eventually around 10, Allison called and told me they were heading over to a bar nearby, so I hopped to, brushed off the crumbs, and started to get ready. 10 minutes later I bounded down the stairs, only to realize that Eng had locked me in. There were two extra heavy duty padlocks on the inside of the house gate. Given my lack of Parkour skills, I was trapped.

Twas a pity, but I was sleepy anyhow, so I curled back into my book, read for awhile, and then headed off for sleep.

The next day, I woke up bright and early, made a quick plan and then headed out to breakfast. First stop was Java cafe where I had a bagel (yum!) and housemade yogurt (double-yum!) and a big mug of coffee. Oh how the little things make such a difference to me here! -- sitting on a cafe balcony on a Saturday morning, surrounded by plants, eating a BAGEL and drinking real coffee. What a delight.

I prolonged the luxury of the experience with a Will Shortz puzzle and amused myself by eavesdropping on the 20-something graphic designer beside me who was giving a friend advice on how to procure Kanye tickets.

Afterwards, I walked out along the river towards Bohr's used book store where I wasted 30 minutes carefully browsing all the titles on their 2 shelves, and finally choosing two (photocopies, of course). As I left the bookshop, the light suddenly changed and the ever-present clouds took on a slightly ominous cast.

I decided it would pass and continued on my planned route to the huge Himawari Hotel where I got myself a day pass and headed out to the glorious pool. In fact the pool wasn't that glorious when I arrived. It was grey and drizzly and I was the only person around. The attendants in their jaunty maroon uniforms came out to rearrange the lounge chair cushions so they'd remain dry. They gave me incredulous looks so that I was afraid they were about to drag me out as a precaution against ... what exactly? not getting wet? But I was left unharrassed, and true to my prediction, the sun came back within 10 minutes and within 20 minutes of that, there were 20 people in and around the pool.

I sat out and read my book and whenever lines of sweat started dripping down my forehead into my eyes, I'd jump back in the pool and swim a few laps in between Korean speedo-boy and aqua-robics hippie lady.

After 3 hours or so, the folks beside me ordered lunch and the smell of french fries reminded me that I had other things to do that day.

I arranged myself and headed off to the Russian market where I bargained and sweated my way into various souveniers for friends and family back home. Since I'm heading back in December, I figured I would rather break up the present-buying affair into a few manageable episodes rather than one, stressful hagglefest. Then, pleased with my fortitude and laden with packages, I grabbed a motoman to take me to pick up my stuff at Lauren's, and then on to post-market relaxation.

True to the indulgence theme, my next stop was my favorite spa in town, Aziadee. For $8, I got 60 minutes of pure bliss from a super-strong Khmer lady who rubbed and pulled and kneaded until I was a happy jelly mess on the mat on the floor.

Once that was done, I was ready to go. I made a quick stop off at Lucky Supermarket for cat litter and one of their awesome custard tarts, and then hopped on the bus home.

Discos down south

Last week, I had a few days off for Pchum Ben (a Cambodian celebration of ancestors), so I headed down to Phnom Penh with a plan to meet up with some friends heading south to the beaches. I arrived in the city with a terrible earache and ended up spending 3 days curled up prone, half in tears, on the couch of my dear friend Lauren. Eventually, Lauren took charge and brought me to a Francophone doctor (no English speaking medical professionals in Phnom Penh apparently) who prescribed me a barrage of heavy duty antibiotics. (My time in Cambodia has made me into something approaching a feedlot cow in terms of doses of antibiotics consumed per month, and my digestive track is most definitely devoid of any and all good critters.)

Thankfully, the meds cleared up the pain, and on the morning of day 4, I was able to hop on a bus out to Kep to meet up with a small crew of friends who had all made it down in the previous 2-3 days and were already a day or two deep into hard partying. It was a good night despite not being able to hear from one ear -- good music, good food, good company, dancing, and a sea breeze.

The next day, we had breakfast at the Led Zep cafe -- burritos which tasted more like pizzas in pitas -- and said goodbye to one of our crew who was headed back to Phnom Penh, then we rocketed off to Kampot. Jam and Matt had ridden down on bikes they borrowed from their NGO (a eco/development-tourism business called Pepy where they both are volunteers), so they sweated it out the 30 or so kilometers. Achaya speed off dangerously on his rented crotch rocket, and Alison and I lived it up in the back of a vacationing family's truck.

Kampot was sleepy as usual, but so were we after the previous night, and the plan was head out ASAP. The idea was to stash the bikes, rent motos and make like Charlie's Angels onwards to Sihanoukville. However, post-coffee, rain still spitting down, our not-so-tough crew decided that riding was out and so we went van-hunting. Eventually, after much incredulous eyebrow raising and reminders of "holiday prices," we settled on a share taxi for $5/head and $5/bike.

Jam was strapped and in a nasty mood. Lucky for him, his whining and empty threats to just stay in Kampot alone were met with good natured cajoling and convincing by his friends, so after much hee-ing and haw-ing (and rolling of the eyes by yours truly) he stashed his bike on the van and hopped on the motorcycle with Achaya.

The unwitting and unlucky rest of the crew (Matt, Allison and I) pile in the back row of the van next to Mr. McDrunkerson who proceeded to grab me and attempt to lay one on before Matt graciously offered to switch seats. 5 hours, one new oil filter, one new van, 3 roadside Anchors courtesy of Mr. Tipsy, and many drunken-Cambodian-anecdotes later (songs about seahorses, anyone?), we finally arrive in Sihanoukville ready for a shower and a drink.

Later that night, we end up at the dark empty venue where they host crocodile and snake shows during the day. Apparently, one of our party was mistakenly informed that this was an "off-the-hook" night spot. On the upside, the tuk-tuk trip afforded a crazy roller-coaster ride up and down the hills of Sihanoukville, the clear highlight of the night.

Eventually we find ourselves at seedy Khmer night club with a cover charge of $4 (free beer included), unflattering blue lights, and creepy staring bouncers. Allison and I are clearly the tallest people on the dance-floor, and we become the unofficial hubs around which the smaller energetic contingent eddies and swirls. The Cambodian boys dance together holding hands. They shake it like they mean it, and scream out loud with ecstatic arm gestures and coordinated pelvic thrusts at appropriate moments while the girls stand around swaying slightly and looking more than a little embarrassed.

Then, amidst all the joy and chaos, the crazy cat who's still sore about his mistake with the abandoned croc farm disappears. Those concerned for his welfare recognize this as a cry for attention and accommodatingly text him messages of love and concern. Croc boy is found upstairs, and we eventually convince him to head back to the hotel with the rest of us. We drink some bad vodka and chat and some of us stay very quiet, meditating on how we wish croc boy was left behind. This uncharitableness can be partially blamed on croc boy's non-stop verbal outbursts, bragging about about how his Hindi advantage got him into the VIP lounge and chastising us for dragged him away from the apparent apogee of the S-town social scene.

The next day, Matt was in a bad way with his stomach and the other boys were knackered, so Alison and I headed down to the beach for awhile. We whiled away the day in various ways, but ended up all together again around 6pm for the first drink of the evening.

I'm 23, but rarely do I feel that age. Instead, my feelings and actions swing from those of a 10-years old to someone around 35, only occasionally (uncomfortably, unnaturally) ending up somewhere in between. That particular night, I started as an old 35, not in the mood for the drinking, party, flirt with random strangers thing. I was very thankful to meet Elida, a friend of Achaya's (actually his ex-boss) who provided some interesting conversation, agreed to dance, and didn't seem to mind that my libations were only half-hearted. Then, croc and I had a tiff. The others tried to mediate, but I made like a pre-teen girl and he made like a reptile, and though things were smoothed over, I still felt disgusted. (Who tries to excuse their anti-social behavior by likening themselves to Mother Teresa?)

The next morning, I was up at 7am to a glorious sunny day. The rest of the contingent slept while I headed out to the beach for a small sunning. Then I called Elida and we headed out in her SUV to a secluded beach where we swam and splashed and sunned and built a mini-version of Angkor Wat in the sand and felt completely content when our castle was recognized by the small Cambodian children frolicking about us.

Eventually we headed back to meet up with Elida's fiance and after a small dip in her hotel pool, I headed back to Phnom Penh.

Neon Lichens and French Ghosts

When we set off to Kampot last weekend to trek up Bokor Mountain, the footage in my head played back a gently sloping dirt path through luscious (but just-so neatly pruned) jungle -- the occasional whoop of a monkey, the busy chirp of cicadas, the far-off trickling of a waterfall. The word "trek," in fact, seemed to be a romanticized overstatement, for marketing purposes only. Though it wasn't the soul-scraping, test-of-will adventure of the kind I imagine you get in Nepal or those other countries where rosy-cheeked sherpas laugh behind your back at you and your shiny Patagonia gear, it required more sweat than I anticipated.

We set off from Sen Monorom guest house at 7am, bellies full of pork rice, doused in 97% DEET, hanging on for dear life as we perched on the sides in the back of the pick-up truck. The core crew consisted of

1) Lauren - lover of trees and of the French and my first friend in Cambodia;
2) Tom - Lauren's new boyfriend, a younger man, interested in knowing things about current events;
3) Chris - Lauren's easy-going ex-high school boyfriend, randomly in Cambodia;
4) Matt - a pescatarian designer who likes beer and is training for a marathon with Lauren;
5) moi

L&T were nearest the cabin and Chris and I were directly across. Matt hung precariously off the left-back corner next to Lauren.First we stopped to collect Alps Man, a solitary, broody, slightly greasy figure, who (despite our well meaning attempts at friendliness) sat down next to me, then got busy ignoring everyone and focusing his dark energies on strategies to conquer the mountain. At the next stop, a couple hopped up into the cab, an attractive Puma employee and a very German German Finance man, who I only later realized were emphatically just friends. Next, at a guesthouse called Orchid (or something similarly tropical) some familiar faces from drinks the night before -- Ricky and Mandy -- a cheery, young and thin British pair, clean and pretty like a soap ad. Last in were our Khmer guides and so we were off.

The ranger and his gun who were scheduled to accompany us up the mountain had apparently had too much to drink the night before, so after waiting 30 minutes, we decided to brave the wilderness sans automatic rifle and headed towards the trailhead.

At first the going was easy. Then, we began to hit sections where the trail wound up and up so that I often bent my smallish legs at 90-degree angles to take the next step and found myself flailing at smooth saplings to pull myself up and over the next slippery obstacle. We stopped at a waterfall and sighed at the hugeish multicolored pile of plastic & styrofoam (miraculously absent previously on the trail) and did our best to snap artsy shots of the huge and diverse lepidoptera. While some folks showered off the sweat, our camo-clad ranger and his gun snuck up on us, his posture an awkward mix of sheepish and don't-give-a-damn.

It's not clear whether everyone else was simply a powerhouse, or if they, too, were shamed by our wiry nearing-50 guide who leapt blithely up the hill; a man in comparison to whom we (graceful Mandy included) could be nothing but large clunky white folks. But despite the slight shame, I felt good. I'm sure any and all toxins that lurked in me oozed out with all that sweat; the rests were sufficient, and I had an extra bottle of water. And best of all, two hours in, we met a group coming down who exclaimed (not a little jealously) over our breakneck speed.

So we put our chins down and puffed our chests out and continued up the hill, and at the point where our jungle trail intersected dirt road, we refused the offer to wait awhile for a lift from a truck.

Eventually, we hit the summit and the King's Concubines' retreat. (In fact, it only took about 3.5 hours for the 3000ft ascent -- not bad at all). We rested and at lunch -- a sort of potato, veggie fried rice concoction with an egg a-top that made all of the boys ill later that evening. Then we started off on the last 8 or so miles of mercifully flat dirt road.

Unmercifully, the flat dirt road turned out to be nothing much more than advertised -- and flat dirt gets a bit boring after awhile, so around mile 6, I flailed my arms at a huge yellow dump truck, and to my great delight, I saw that the guide's son had beat us to it and already made arrangements and motioned for us to clamber on in.


Hair blowing in the wind, feet sinking in construction clay, we made our way over the last few miles to the ranger station where we'd spend the night.

The sky was clear around the town, despite previous reports and expectations, so after a brief sit-down on the steps of the ranger station, a few of us broke off and went to explore the concrete ruins up on the cliff's edge. We skirted the massive hole where construction of the new casino was underway. Scampering up between two buildings, past a huge concrete umbrella (or mushroom?) we headed towards the old casino. As we made our way up, the mist dropped silently in around us.


The hotel-casino was covered in moss and emergency-orange lichen, dripping and disintegrating and now shrouded in dense grey.


We explored the building basement to rooftop ceiling, thoroughly spooking ourselves considering the ghosts of the lavish parties of the haute monde that must have boogied down in the decaying ballroom.



We walked over to the edge where cloud dripped off the high plateau onto the thick forest cover below. Up beyond the construction site, the compound was completely silent, but approaching the edge of the cliff, the sounds of the jungle rushed up to envelop us in a sort of acrophobic, one-with-nature trance.


We tucked into bed by 9pm, only that late by extreme exercise of will. I got lost for an hour or two with a German, but the hike down the next morning was otherwise uneventful. By 1pm, we were in Kampot eating fried rotis and drinking piping hot masala tea.