Note from the Now

I woke up in China today.

Yesterday I squeaked out of Vietnam with the last little bit of currency I had left. The Chinese border control guards scrutinized my very existence as they searched my bag. I just played along cheerfully and after an unecessarily long waiting period was set free on Chinese soil. What an exciting feeling! All this fuss about China and I was standing within its borders. (I would find later that another border had to be crossed, this one patroled by heavily armed military officers. Fortunately, they didn't require a search of my bag).

My first financial transaction in China put me in good spirits. In Hanoi, I had been lucky to sell my malaria tablets for Chinese RMB currency. When a moto driver offered to take me to the bus station for 15 RMB, I shook my head and pulled out one of my 10 notes. Walking away, I heard the universal sound of success, "Okay, Okay!!" I was smiling the entire 20 kilometer ride to the bus station.

Sitting next to me on a fairly posh express bus was a friendly man who was eager to practice his English. Perfect opportunity for me to figure out and practice my essentials. Hello, please, thank you, beer, and I'm sorry are the first five I like to secure. This guy was practical and added "I go to ____" and a few more. He even helped me figure out how to catch a public bus to the city center. We parted with a handshake and a smile.

This is a good start to China. I have only 30 days, unless I can find a teaching position for a week or two. China's refusal to grant even long time resident English teachers visa renewals translates to opportunity for me to pick up lucrative short term work. Still not sure how that one will play out. For now, I'm looking at Shangri-la by way of Kunming. I've always heard the name Shangri-la and now I'm only a train ride away. Why not? From there, perhaps north to Chengdu for some fiery Sichuan cuisine. Might at as well check out the Three Gorges en route to Shanghai after that. I won't plan farther than that.

This is all for now. I'll get a post up about Vietnam once I've adjusted to China.

Cheers!

Good Night, Vietnam: Phu Quoc and the Kingdom of Dogs

To obtain my Vietnamese visa, I had two options. On one hand, I could rent a motobike and drive two or three hours west to Sihanoukville where I would exchange cash for a visa on the spot. This would make for a full day burning petrol, seeing a stretch of road I had already seen, and missing one of my final days in Kampot. On the other hand, I could give my passport and a few extra dollars to man who plies that road every day, have an extra day to say goodbyes around Kampot, and be set to go. It's a strange feeling handing over one's passport. I'd made a few phone calls and spoke enough with Ezza at Blissful to know this guy was running a legitimate business. It worked splendidly and within 48 hours I was toasting to my new Vietnam visa.

The last morning hours in Kampot were enjoyed at Blissful with their famous omelette (best in SE Asia) and an iced coffee. Of course, I had to purchase a kilogram of the pepper with which I'd grown so familiar. My affairs in order, I hopped on the back of Tikor's moto bound for the border. This is the same Tikor who guided Jessica and me through jungle and banana plantations to a hidden waterfall. The hour's ride was magnificent. This was a relatively new border station between Cambodia and Vietnam and thus the road was still largely undeveloped. I felt like I was in the remote coastal flat lands of southern Cambodia. Pausing briefly to make a photograph, I realized I WAS in the remote coastal flat lands of southern Cambodia. It was a beautiful feeling. I was saying goodbye to a country I had come to know over two months and was soon to be in VIETNAM.

I had a chat with the Fat Cats of the Cambodian border patrol. Before handing back my passport, the leather faced man in uniform behind the desk looked at me coldly and asked, "You are not come back?" I thought about making a smartass remark about coming back for the revolution. Deciding against it, I pointed across the border and said with a smile, "Vietnam!" Satisfied, he returned my passport and I walked to Tikor's motobike in no-man's land.

Borders are always exciting. This one was big, new, and quiet. Large red and gold signs were set off against bright white walls. The windows were still clean, the clean-shaven officers still inexperienced. When I arrived at the desk, I found two Chilean women trying to prove to the young men in crisp olive uniforms that Chile was a country in South America. I think they had to look it up in the big book of countries. It was here that I met Sasha of Australia. On the last month of a 12 month around-the-world journey, she was headed to Phu Quoc as well. We agreed to catch the boat together and set off with our motodrivers into Vietnam. (Yes, I said it. It was shortly before noon when I stepped onto Vietnamese soil, so of course I hollered out "good morning, Vietnam!") Unlike most motodrivers from Kampot, Tikor had enough sway with enough people to take me to a boat launch well within Vietnam's borders. After a good deal of negotiation and banter, Sasha and I had places reserved on the Phu Quoc-bound boat the next day. That night was spent in a very odd roadside hotel which we quickly determined was whistlestop love shack for Vietnamese couples escaping the confines of shared family housing. I also learned that the Vietnamese language was going to prove very challenging. Blank stares were the common response to my attempts to say even the basic "sin chao" (hello).

The boat was a riot. We took a little skiff loaded with people, goods, and motobikes out to sea only to jump aboard a bigger boat loaded with people, goods, and motobikes. We rested on cabbages and watermelons for a while until I hung my hammock in the back. Sasha and I alternated sitting on a pile of bricks and swinging over a pile of two-dozen tied-up, defeated chickens. A little girl, upon realizing the likelihood of falling through the toilet hole to the open sea below, squatted on the deck under the hammock and had a pee. Sasha and I had a laugh, taking a certain amount of comfort in feeling like we were a part of Vietnam. We were the only westerners aboard and we later realized we'd be grossly overcharged for the three hour trip. A lesson learned many times over in Vietnam.

Phu Quoc Island. The center of heated territorial dispute between Cambodia and Vietnam, the 574 square kilometer island is rapidly erupting into a major Asian tourist destination. It is renowned for its population of semi-wild dogs and production of fish paste (which is essentially packaged salty rotten fish mash). The place is greased for tourism. Upon arrival, a well dressed man wearing sunglasses said to me "Hello, Tom, would you like a moto to hotel?" Referring to himself as Number One, this man had been contacted by Sasha's motobike driver. I didn't trust him much, but we took the ride anyway. I would later come to believe he had a twin on the island, which weirded me out even more. Anyway, within the hour, Sasha and I had a terrific beachfront bungalow surrounded by palm trees for $9 per night. Good start to a new country.

This island was my birthday gift to myself. I had celebrated my Quarter Century Birthday for three days in Corvallis, surrounded by good friends. I was excited to celebrate the 26th on a tropical island, in an unfamiliar country, with people I'd only just met. As fate would have it, I was soon surrounded by an extraordinary group of travelers. Mark and Chloe, a lovely young couple from Canada, filled the salty sea air with guitar and song. Aileen and Dara of Ireland were quick-witted in their banter. Both old enough to be parents of the rest of the group, and each a solo traveler, Mike of Liverpool and Gabriela of Denmark, offered wise words and generous encouragement. Along with Veronique, a stunning, long-legged brunette from Montreal, and a quiet, thoughtful Tom from the U.K., our resort on Phu Quoc was packed with great company.

At the break of our first full day, Sasha and I teamed up with Mark, Chloe and the Irish for a motobike tour of the southern beaches. The ride was beautiful, meriting numerous photo stops. The beach was like no other I had ever experienced. The sand felt like confectioners sugar, and nearly looked the same. The water was warm and crystal clear. The only threat came from the odd jellyfish, but even these could be gently cupped in hand for examination of nature's inspiration for Dale Chihuly's blown glass. That night, the entire group got together for dinner and drinks. The bar played a rock and roll version of Happy Birthday and gave me a sickly sweet cocktail. The night wound to a close around a beach fire accompanied by the sound of the waves and the Canadian musicians.

June 2nd: I toured the island alone on my motobike. Sitting in a cafe in small town, I was very unexpectedly wished a happy birthday by Vietnam. While driving I had noticed the trucks used what we would call a "back up beeper" to indicate left and right turns. Thus, when backing up, trucks would sound out a polyphonic tune of a song of their choosing. Well, as I sat writing in my journal in the cafe, a truck backed up along the adjacent street. I had to laugh as it was piping out the "happy birthday" ditty. What a fun to place to celebrate the 26th!

The rest of my stay on Phu Quoc was enjoyed motobiking to distant beaches, lounging on the beach, crashing posh hotel bars, and hammock swinging in the company of three incredible dogs. I was given a marvelous birthday present by these three dogs, one that perplexes me to this day. But that's a story for another time.

Today I leave Vietnam. Tonight I will sleep in China. I have more to write after having stayed two months in this serpent-shaped nation.

Cambodia as a Local: Putting Down Roots

Without further ado...

The bus dropped me off along a familiar quiet street on a hot, blue-sky day. Only a short distance from my guesthouse in Kampot, I walked down the middle of the pavement and felt at home. I knew the waterfront vendor who cooks up a plate of delicious pan-fried noodles with sprouts and peanuts for $0.50. I knew when I arrive at the cafe adjacent the central petrol station (I'd named it the Refuel Cafe) I would be recognized and a $0.25 cent glass of sweet iced coffee would soon be in front of me. I could even picture the bed upon which I would soon rest my travel weary body. Well, if I'd made a reservation that would have been the case. Instead I spoke with the eccentric management pair, Angela and Ezza, about reserving a cheap room for a few weeks at the always-full Blissful Guesthouse.


Blissful Guesthouse is aptly named. The second western-run establishment to hit Kampot, it opened in 2004 under the direction of three business partners. Angela, a kind-hearted but hard-driving businesswoman from Denmark, found satisfaction in creating a beautiful place and making an effort to benefit the community around her. Ezza, his shaggy hair and weathered face belying his youthful strength and energy, had adapted well to life in Kampot and made the most of each day. Back before the roads were paved in the province, Ezza was the messenger between three cities. The muddy mountain trails could hardly pass as roads. An experienced dirt bike enthusiast, Ezza's job was essentially an extreme sports junkie's dream. He had over 100 kilometers of exciting terrain to cover in as little time as possible. Forever young, Ezza is. I never really got to know Jerome, but I'm sure he had his qualities, too. In addition to these three, the lovely Khmer staff, and the incredibly talented kitchen crew, Blissful employed the services of two amazing dogs. Fat Boy and Rebel (a Disney style love story as they were reunited by fate after four years separation) were a perfect pair. Fat Boy knew city life and only acted tough if he had to. Rebel, having done her time surviving the streets of Sihanoukville, had a keen, quiet strength. Dogs rule at night in Kampot as every house has at least one, if not four. The civilized ones stay within their environs while others unite under the stars to form vicious packs. Turf wars are frequent and brutal. Fat Boy and Rebel ran a tight ship. It was always a pleasure to return to the guesthouse to find them keeping watch.


The guesthouse itself is a two story affair with a restaurant/bar/social area on the first floor. The grounds boast three covered gazebos with hammocks, tables, and chairs, surrounded by lush greenery. Gravel paths meander beneath tunnels of flowering vines and fairy lights. It is a small property, but Angela and her crew put a great deal of thought and effort into making it a serene paradise. When I first arrived at Blissful, I learned that the guesthouse was doubling as a pepper processing facility for the trio's second business venture: reviving the market for Kampot's once-famous pepper. Angela had spearheaded the creation of a 70-farm organic pepper cooperative, providing farmers with irrigation and other production capital. This year marked the first harvest with a projected final production of six tones. All of this took place above the restaurant and adjacent the guesthouse rooms. I would step out of my room every day to the smiling eyes of ten Khmer women wearing gloves and face masks sorting through tray after tray of pepper with tweezers. I got involved in the action on two occasions, hauling sacks of unsorted pepper and boxes of vacuum-sealed two kilograms bags between storage and the guesthouse.

This wasn't the only time I offered my labor to Angela and Ezza. The rains came early to the coast of Cambodia, and they came in full force. At the worst point, the back of Blissful Guesthouse had waves lapping against the foundation. To relieve this flooding, a trench had to be dug from the back about 30 yards to the front to connect with the sewer system. I had free time and a desire to get my hands into some real labor, so I offered to help. Much to the amazement of Angela and Ezza, I happily swung my pickax through mud, root, and rock for the better part of an afternoon. At the end of the day, my muscles were sore, I was exhausted, but I felt great. In return, my accommodation was free for my entire stay.

I mentioned in the previous post that my first few days in Kampot were spent on a tropical island. Fact: Tonsay (or Rabbit) Island was the most remote island scene I have enjoyed on this trip. Home to only a few scattered bungalows run by families who seem to view tourists as a lucrative novelty, this island cuts power at 9pm. This little getaway was shared with Jessica, one of the Australians I had met during that memorable night in Phnom Phen with the Brotherhood of Cheap Watches. She and her group made the trip down to Kampot and Rabbit Island, influenced to some degree by my positive review of each. Jessica and I found Rabbit Island the perfect place to while away two days reading, sunbathing, and hammock swinging. Unexpectedly one night, we found ourselves in the company of a Khmer Christian group. They were the most gracious hosts, insisting that we dive into heaps of fresh grilled crab, prawns, and squid. Which we did happily. Rabbit Island continued to amaze us with its sunsets and incredible storms. Situated on the windward side of the island, the full brunt of each night's thunderstorm shook the thatch-roofed bungalow. I found myself drawn to such natural power and spent nearly half an hour just standing in awe. Our departure from Rabbit Island was comically delayed as we had to wait for the incoming tide to release our boat from the shore. We grew impatient, and with the help of Tegan (one of Jessica's Aussie friends) and a Frenchman named Luc, we pushed our vessel to deeper water and took off.

Back in Kampot, Jessica, Tegan, and I spent a few more days enjoying the small town charm. On a whim, we accepted a tour guide's offer to take us on a hike to a waterfall. Together with Tikor the Guide, and two Danish girls, the Aussies and I spent several hours on a moderately vigorous hike through banana plantations and jungle. We were rewarded with the sighting of a green tree snake and a swim at a remote waterfall with a great jumping cliff. We learned later that Tikor had taken us along a hidden path to avoid the fees imposed by a corrupt Khmer businessman who gated off the access road and added a tollbooth. The highlight of the hike for me was a lesson from Tikor on the harvesting of bananas. Using nothing more than a pocket knife, I felled a stalk of a banana tree five inches in diameter and cut free a 45 pound bunch of green bananas. This was all quite fun as I hefted my harvest to my shoulder and marched back to the group. It wasn't as much fun an hour later once I had hiked about two miles down the slippery steep jungle path. The villagers at the base of the trail were wildly amused at the sight of an exhausted, sweaty, shirtless white guy with a beard hiking out of the jungle with a big bunch of bananas. We all had a laugh over some rice and veggies and shots of home brew rice wine. Jessica and Tegan just thought I was crazy.

Once Jessica and Tegan moved on to bigger and better beaches in the west, I gave my full attention to Epic Arts Cafe and the Sugar Palm Project. Joint operations run by Katie and Hallam Goad, respectively, these were my contacts for volunteering. Epic Arts Cafe is a community center for the deaf and disabled of Kampot. It's also the home of the best carrot cake in SE Asia. Really. Each time I visited the cafe, for work or a delicious meal and carrot cake, it was bustling with activity. Katie Goad and her assistants taught dance routines to the disabled in the upstairs room. On several occasions, the thunder of dance steps and wheelchairs held its own against the thunder from the clouds above. I felt privileged to be surrounded by such happy, delightful people. They enthusiastically taught me a little bit of Khmer sign language, which I enthusiastically practiced. In their company I also learned how to make a sock puppet...well..kind of. (It starting falling apart a month later in Vietnam and now resides atop a hotel roof in Danang. I couldn't just throw it away, so I made it the guardian of Danang).

My primary goal with Epic Arts Cafe was to renovate the walls and give the place a sprucing up. The marigold paint was peeling badly from what I soon determined to be salt efflorescence. The sand used in the mortar was dredged from a nearby estuary (yeah, ecological disaster as well) and thus entrained with salt. This salt causes water to bleed from the mortar, destroying the paint in its path. I wanted to fix this. I soon learned it couldn't be fixed without tearing down the entire wall and replacing it with clean materials (a near impossibility in Kampot on a small budget). A french couple had already initiated the application of a coat of cream colored paint. Applying the second coat, it soon looked worse than when we started.

I learned from discussions with business owners across Kampot that adaptation is essential. "If you can't fix it, learn to work with it," seems to be how ex-pats live in Cambodia. Ideas were tossed around during impromptu meetings over carrot cake and coffee. It was soon decided that hanging dark, solid color tapestry would cover the blemished walls while providing adequate ventilation. This phase would have to be completed after my departure, but the ball was rolling. Discussing the project outcomes with Hallam and Katie, I was surprised to hear how pleased they were at what had been accomplished. Apparently, when one lives in a place like Kampot it is easy to let tasks stagnate. According to the two, I had infused more people than I knew with new energy and a fresh perspective.

With the Sugar Palm Project, my first assignment was to promote and assist with the Football 4 Peace (soccer) Tournament. This was a great job. All I had to do was run around town talking with locals and handing out fliers announcing the tournament and reminding them the government doesn't have the right to confiscate their property. Once my bananas from the mountain had ripened, I handed those out, too. Kampot is a small town, and after a while I got the impression I'd made myself known more than I was aware. I guess the place doesn't get many talkative bearded white guys running around for a month at time. Anyway, the football tourney was a joy. It took place on a grey, rainy Friday and saw eight teams of 10 battle out 10-minutes games on a concrete court. Hallam had provided each team with brightly colored t-shirts, creating a mishmash rainbow against a concrete grey day. The kids were enthusiastic and noisy till the end and then dispersed into town sporting their t-shirts with the message "Stop Unfair Housing Evictions." It's a hard reality of Cambodia that the government is crooked and the poor suffer greatly as a result.

Also in an effort to help the poor, Hallam spearheaded a project to fund the replacement of a dilapidated village house. Little more than thatch over a raised platform, it was easily demolished with the assistance of a traveling philanthropic group. The village was then provided the funds for new materials and project completion was expected to take a mere three days. All of the work was carried out with hand saws, hammers, and other basics tools. The project manager only had one leg. Throughout it all, a little boy of 3 or 4 ran around naked with a bicycle tire. I liked that village.

To avoid loafing, I helped teach English at the Chum Kreal school for a week. Chum Kreal means "heron rookery" and is appropriately situated adjacent tall trees laden with active heron nests. The site is also shared by a temple and prior to each class a number of saffron-robed monks would make their way through the trees seeking to improve their English. From 5pm-7pm each night, I would give lessons on the four seasons, the verb "to be," the benefits of environmental consciousness (this had to be approached lightly as it was beyond most), and an assortment of vocabulary and pronunciations. The students ranged in age from 12 to 25 and varied even more in their language abilities. The experience was at once rewarding and discouraging. I could see the massive gap in ability that was not being addressed by the resident teacher. As respected as he was, he had a difficult time getting through to every student. The most important lesson I repeated, and I learned to say it in Khmer, was to "practice a little every day." They are the generation that can carry out the revolution. I pray they do.

Overall, my experience in Kampot was more enjoyable than I could have expected. I met many interesting and inspirational people. I learned the benefits and risks of being an ex-pat. I can safely say, it's not a life for me! Great places to visit or live for a while...but unless one is on the run, it's best to set a return date. It should be noted that, while in Kampot, I rescheduled my own return date four months after the original. I picked September 17th because it makes exactly nine months and puts me back in time for election fever.

Cambodia as a Traveler: Footloose and on the Move

Here's the latest scoop: These are my finals days in Hanoi, Vietnam. China is up next. My batteries recharged after nearly a month in this city, I'm armed with a Chinese visa, a care package of random nick-knacks sent by my room mates back in Corvallis, and an eagerness to get back into the adventure. Good thing, too, as the budget is fast-approaching the yellow zone and it's time to shoestring it.

This episode is a long one. Altered a bit from the preview, it leaves Kampot for the next round.


Toward the end of April, and having established my intention to return to Kampot, I missioned north toward Battambang (some 300 km away). Delays are a way of life in Cambodia and I found myself back at Phnom Phen's familiar Okay Guesthouse for the night. I was told the dorms were full but insisted on seeing them anyway. Only one of four beds looked occupied and the enterprising employee said "sometimes people put their bags away during the day." Yeah, sometimes they do, but not three travelers who also leave their beds untouched. Refusing to consider an overpriced and unnecessary single room, I slept in the dorm for $2 per night. My only company was a mild-mannered guy from Philly and a couple of mosquitoes.

Waking up way too early, I caught the bus north to Battambang. I had heard Battambang is a good place to settle in for the long haul. I understand why. Though it is Cambodia's second-largest city, it's a lot like a big, sleepy village. Read: not much going on. I ate a cookie at a frumpy little bakery and it was bland. I drank some coffee that couldn't hold its own against my place in Kampot. I meandered through the market, accompanied by the familiar fragrance of dead and dying dinner animals. I had an advanced lesson in the virtue of patience as I spent several fruitless hours attempting to post photos to my online facebook identity. But there is always a silver lining. I met and enjoyed several lively hours of conversation with an inspirational woman who has dedicated her life to travel and helping others through health care management. She visited Angkor Wat in 1993, shortly after the Khmer Rouge had been (mostly) flushed from the area. She also ventured into Russia in 1982 as a young woman and against her mother's will "just to see what was over there." (See, Mom, I'm not the only one with what you might call a reckless sense of adventure!) Her account of the temples untouched by tourism whetted my appetite to see what all the fuss was about.

The next morning, I boarded a 20-foot boat just wide enough to cram in two long rows of passengers bound for Siem Reap. The journey was long and the benches hard. Snaking our way up a narrow river we were flanked on both sides by trash-strewn banks and villagers carrying out their daily toil. Not exactly a glimpse into pristine village life. I felt more a voyeur than I would have liked and it was disheartening to see what had become of a once vibrant, healthy river. On the up side, we all had a good laugh as the boat ran aground twice in low water.

At lunch, I hopped aboard the floating snack shop cum restaurant and cheerfully chirped out greetings in my rudimentary Khmer. Pointing to a pot, I asked how much a bowl of its contents might cost a hungry wayfarer. The answer was cheaper than the stale packaged chips offered as an alternative. Soon I was looking down at a steaming bowl of dark green leaves and some sort of meat with scales. While I can only venture to guess what animal it may have been (maybe snake?), I can definitively say it was the worst meal I've had in southeast Asia, and there have been some bad ones. It tasted acidic and sour with a foul aftertaste. Some insects share this characteristic in order to fend off predators. They might have made a preferable substitute but I ate this soup anyway. Visiting the toilet before departure, I stood staring through the hole in the boards at the murky waters below. Up to that point, I had chosen to ignore the obvious fact that the soup water I had just consumed was the same as the sewer water I had just polluted. I am happy to have a strong stomach and a healthy immune system.

Arriving in Siem Reap, I found myself accommodation for $1 per night in an attic dorm. My shower facility doubled as the bar toilet, but I shared this humble abode with several friendly young women. I knew I would enjoy my time in Siem Reap. Two of these women, Erin and Zennor, invited me to join them and their British friend, Susie, in wandering the temples the next day. Briefly considering my options, I agreed and we all went out for drinks. Thus began a cycle of socializing and archaeological exploration that gained momentum and intensity over the next four days.

On the Temples of Angkor:

1) I rode a bicycle to and around the grounds each of my three days ($2/day = total freedom)
2) The ruins were always fascinating, every nook and cranny offered something to ponder
3) I wore a two-dollar straw fedora

While the above three were constant, my three days at Angkor varied in company, the time of day, and the weather. Joining Erin, Zennor, and Susie (from my guesthouse), my first visit began in the mid-morning heat. The sun was relentless as we wandered the sites the girls had missed on their previous visit. Taking this as my temple preview, I enjoyed the company as we meandered through the Jungle Temple Ta Prohm, stared back at the faces of Bayon, posed among armies of asura demons, and fed fruit to monkeys.

The second day, I was rousted at 4:30am after an hour's slumber (a consequence of Siem Reap's exquisite night scene). Together with a vivacious young blond Brit named Zoe and a quiet, easy-going Irish guy I made the pilgrimage to witness the Angkor Wat Sunrise. Determined to catch this reportedly breathtaking experience, our winded and bleary-eyed crew pedaled fast against a brightening sky. We arrived when it was still fairly dark, drank coffee for a short while, and then it was light. Not exactly the stunning sunrise we had imagined, but a rewarding experience nonetheless. We then went our separate ways and I made an extensive tour of near-deserted grounds around Angkor Wat.

The third day was tops. Zoe and I teamed up again for a pedal around the small circuit. After a full day of templing under grey clouds, we were rewarded a brief window of blue sky toward sunset. The ancient stones and twisted trees of Ta Prohm were splashed with gold as the day's final light fought through encroaching storm clouds. We could have pedaled back to the shelter of Siem Reap but opted instead to catch the faces of Bayon before they were veiled by night. The black clouds overhead, ripped through by thunder, unleashed rain so heavy our voices were drowned by the sound alone. We stopped at Baphuon with hardly a soul in sight. Lying with our backs against the warm, 1000-year-old stonework and our faces to the fresh tropical rain, we agreed there is no better way to experience such a mystical place. Drenched to the core, we laughed at the crowds who had fled the temple grounds at the first signs of the coming storm. Undeniably, this was my best experience in Siem Reap. Bicycling back to the city in the dark rainy night, however, was a terrifying adventure but we made it.

On the Siem Reap social scene: the best travel exercise is dancing. Siem Reap is a strange city with some dark underpinnings. However, it boasts a great nightlife concentrated along the appropriately named Bar Street. Two pinnacles of nighttime revelry are the Temple Club and the Angkor What? Bar. Between these two establishments, I burned through several nights' witching hours and loads of calories.

On the expiry date of my visa, I pulled away from Siem Reap fully satisfied with my visit. I had experienced the temples across a full spectrum of conditions. I had also formed a number of strong traveler relationships, a few of which would resurface down the road.

Returning to Phnom Phen, I immediately set about extending my visa. Unfortunately, the process provides the corrupt Cambodian immigration office the opportunity for unarguable extortion. While the first visa costs $20, the one-month renewal is $45. You'd think a government would be delighted to keep western wallets within its borders as long as possible. No doubt they are, they just take their cut first. Unlike the legitimately-priced visa the space marked "fee" on my extension was left blank. To the angry protests of the immigration clerk, I filled it in with "$45," said "you have a lovely country," and walked out.

Free time in Phnom Phen: A friend from Corvallis connected me to an Australian named Emma who was working with the NGO, AusAide. She had been in Phnom Phen for over a month and had established herself well. Stepping into Emma's extensive social circle, I was allowed a glimpse into the lives of Phnom Phen's western residents. (I also learned that these residents are predominately women, a fact that makes for lively and enjoyable dinners). With this group, I attended a traditional Khmer "circus" performance at the Chenla cultural arts theater. The highlight of the show, which also featured contortionists, jugglers, and magic, was the colorful storytelling dance. Here's a quick rundown:

The Monkey King (wearing a sparkly white outfit) commands his monkey army (donning blue and gold) to build a stone bridge across an ocean. No sooner do they commission the bridge does the Mermaid Queen (also sparkly white) send her mermaids (red and gold) to dismantle it. Monkey King does some aerial acrobatics, catches on to the Mermaid's mischief, and sends his army in to clean house. Everyone dances, some lobsters show up, and the Monkey King and Mermaid Queen fall in love after some aspara-style contortionist acts. Everyone is happy and I'm sure a few months later the place is swarming with mermonkeys. The end.

I also had the pleasure of running into two good men from Siem Reap. Nick of Yorkshire, built like a brick house and sporting wild curly blonde hair, had ceaseless energy and a youthful smile. Leigh, a high school physics teacher from Wales, captured attention like the best of teachers with his eloquent delivery of quirky anecdotes paired with thoughtful conversation. I had the pleasure of guiding these two around the city with which I'd become comfortably familiar. We toured markets, climbed tall buildings, ate fast food, and talked about man stuff.

The formation of the Brotherhood of Cheap Watches: Leigh and I had each been searching for our perfect watch. At the central market--Phnom Phen's knockoff watch megamall--our respective quests came to an end. Leigh found his nostalgic black-banded Casio digital of his youth. I found the bold, white-banded Casio that fit my criteria for functional fashion. Nick just jumped on the bandwagon with the purchase of a flashy off-brand loaded with bells and whistles. Over our rooftop fast food lunch, we assigned superpowers to each watch like schoolboys at recess. Leigh had the brilliant idea to synchronize our timepieces so that each hourly beep would remind us of that day and each other. Leigh's watch failed within a month and Nick's was stolen by a prostitute. Mine, even after an accidental dip in Ha Long Bay, beeps on to this day.

That evening was a unique one. The Brotherhood took to the town looking for trouble. We found it when I sparked up conversation with Jessica and her three Australian travel mates at a local hot spot. The group of us stormed tuk-tuks, dance floors, and the streets with riotous laughter and merrymaking. The shenanigans didn't stop till the next morning at the Australians' posh hotel, where Nick and I enjoyed a fine buffet breakfast on the house.

I parted ways with the guys and set coordinates for Kampot. Eager to return to that quiet little city, I was looking forward to settling in to one place for a while. Several months on the travel road with the essentials crammed into a backpack and one begins to miss the simplicity of having books on a bookshelf, clothing on a different shelf, and toiletries in the bathroom.

Up Next: Cambodia as a Local, prefaced with a tropical island getaway.