Boi Boi Waga

Boi Boi Waga will always hold a special place in my heart - partly because of how difficult it was to get there, but mostly because of the resident family.

They were an old couple, perhaps bordering 60. It was hard to tell as it usually is with people who have spent their entire lives by the sea. Their complexions were weathered and their hair bleached a light copper; and I didn't have the eye nor the forwardness to discern if it was because of age or the harsh salt air.

As the boat pulled up on the shore, my guide - their daughter - stepped out slowly. She wasn't young herself, and it showed in her movements. But there was palpable excitement in the air and a clear sense of purpose as she led the way towards a half-stone-half-wooden hut at the end of the beach. 

I have not seen them in a year, she had said to me as our boat bounced over the swells two hours earlier. Thank you for this chance to go home. 

The journey here had been tiring at best. At first the boatman had tried to hug the coastline, where there was some reprieve from the two metre tall waves. Miles after miles of lush primeval forest and sheer cliffs had sped by and kept us company for the first hour. Occasionally we would see a hut or a boat pulled up amongst the trees, but they were so few and far between that it had been hard to imagine anyone living there at all. 

Then our boat had rounded the cape and we lost the shelter of the coast. For a while we battled the open sea as I clung on to the hull of the dinghy, desperately trying to steady myself on my makeshift wooden seat. (The dinghy is the main mode of transport for the locals traveling between their villages and the market - and as such, because the aim is to accommodate goods like entire livestock, there aren't any seats. Everyone sits on the bottom of the boat amongst their produce. My boatman, upon seeing that I was a traveller, had picked up a nearby plank and wedged it across the two sides of the boat as a makeshift bench. As you'd expect it hadn't been very effective, and more than once I found it bouncing along with me when we bashed through a wave.)

And now, we were finally on her home island, where her parents still lived with a motley gang of dogs, cats and chickens.

The tour of the island didn't take very long. There was an outhouse, a well, their sleeping quarters, and an outdoor cooking area, all built on the sand. The perimeter of each block was lined with an assortment of seashells, some larger than my face, and some like nothing I'd ever seen before. 

As I stood on the beach inspecting the shells, she came up beside me. They're here, she said, nodding at the sea.

"Who?"

"The manta rays," she replied. "I see them."

I immediately hopped up and ran over to the boatman, who by some form of telepathy had read my mind and was already revving the engine. With my mask and snorkel in hand we headed out in the direction of the shadows she had seen.

The first manta ray came into view less than fifteen metres from shore. In the time it took me to strip to my swimwear and put on my mask, it swooped by and vanished into the depths. I bit back my disappointment as I scanned the waters, not quite daring to hope I'd see it again - but all of a sudden there it was again, and another, and another! They circled the area over and over, and just floating off the side of the boat I came face-to-face with a manta ray for the first time in my life. 

Back on shore after an exhilarating half an hour, my hosts led me to their cooking area, where they had arranged a plate of baked potatoes and a grilled fish. Mum set to work on the fish, swiftly de-boning it and insisting I ate my fill, while they stoutly refused to eat until I was done.

I wound up feeling so bad for sharing whatever little food they had that after the meal, I offered to pay for my portion. They declined, of course. It's curious how the most generous people are often the ones who aren't the richest - but then, wealth shouldn't always be measured in material terms. 

Determined to repay their generosity in some way, I struck a bargain with my guide. Let me pick some seashells as souvenirs, I suggested, and I'll pay your parents $10 for each one. She agreed.

I picked three - which by the way I still have on my bedside table now, bar one that got confiscated at the airport for being so big that it was essentially a weapon - and handed over $30. Pleased with myself for what I thought was an ingenious idea, I waved at them energetically as we bade them goodbye - only to see them press the money back into their daughter's hands.

As we pushed off and left them waving on the shore, she turned to me and explained simply, "They want me to donate it all to the church."

And that's the thing, isn't it? It doesn't even matter that I don't subscribe to their religion. But I can appreciate the spirit of the gesture and the mindset that underlies it. We are often so singlemindedly caught up in material pursuits that we forget how to be happy and contented. And truly, there are so many blessings we should be grateful for - health, time, the company of those who are dear to us, and the privilege to see the beauty all around us, if only we know where to look. In a way, I'm glad I'm writing this at the turn of the year. I've never been a proponent of new year resolutions so I won't go down that track, but what I've come to realise is that I'm thankful, hugely thankful, for everything that has placed me where I am today. 

Happy new year everyone! xx

(No awesome photos as I didn't have a proper camera during this trip!)

Resolutions

It's the first day of 2015, and I've been cooped up at home nursing a stubborn flu that's been plaguing me for the past 2 weeks - a good concoction for some reflection on the past year(s).

Now I won't say I'm the kind of person who makes new year resolutions, but I do like making lists. In fact, I think I'm quite good at it. At any point of time you will be able to find lists hanging from my bulletin board, in my notebooks, or cached away in my phone, although it is a by a strange coincidence that they all usually consist of countries I want to visit next.

So, as it is New Year's Day, and seeing that I've recently turned 26, it's a relevant time to take a look at what I promised myself I would accomplish by age 25.

Here's the list I created back in 2009:

1. Visit Mongolia
In the works for 2015 - wait for it!

2. See snow
For the first time in Germany, at night, whereupon we immediately rushed out to build a snowman. In Norway we struggled to push our bicycles over a mountain path heavy with snow; in Seoul we stood under a street lamp as the first flakes of winter floated down on our upturned faces; and in Nepal, as we trekked through the higher reaches of Gokyo in mid-December.

3. Bungee jump

In Korea, 2011. The park was a 2 hour journey from my hostel in Hongdae, and after I finally arrived at the base of the tower, trembling with trepidation, I found it closed for a company event. This meant my fear had another 24 hours to fester. In retrospect that played a huge role in making me go through with it - when I finally found myself standing at the edge of the platform, I was so sick of being scared that I thought, let's get this the hell over with, and jumped. 

Wouldn't do it again though.

4. Learn to play the guitar.

Learnt, and then forgot. 

5. Study somewhere in the Western part of the world

Technische Universitat Kaiserslautern. "Studying" may be a bit of a misnomer.

6. Attend a music concert

Hellooooo SHINee!

7. Publish an article

Taught myself Korean and volunteered to work at a entertainment media site, translating Korean news articles and publishing them in English.

Which leads us to...

8. Meet a proper celebrity

Getting to attend the Mnet Asian Music Awards show and accompanying press conferences as a reporter in 2011.

9. Teach myself Physics

Learnt, and forgot. Is there a trend here?

10. Visit an observatory

Singapore Science Center Observatory shouldn't count, I suppose. One should try to dream bigger than that.

A couple other things happened the past few years that I guess I'm proud of:

11. Learnt how to scuba dive

Diving has become such a big part of my life that I honestly don't remember how I used to spend my time before it. It's something I had always wanted to do since young, but it sounded reasonably exotic enough that I never worked towards it, until a colleague egged me into it. Since then it's been a whirlwind of excitement - from the first breath underwater, to becoming a Dive Master, to taking the first step into technical diving. I'm grateful I've found something to be this passionate about.

12. Rode a motorbike

Went for motorbike lessons secretly, and when I found myself in Krabi in 2013, seized the chance to rent a bike and travel around the area for a couple of days. Unfortunately got myself into a minor accident at the end of a day-long ride from Krabi to Phuket, which saw me out of action for a month and a half. Nonetheless, I wouldn't trade the experience for anything. 

13. Taught myself Korean

As one of the few self-taught subjects that stuck, I believe we can conclude that handsome men are arguably critical motivators for success.

14. Everest Base Camp trek

This was one of the toughest things I've ever done, both physically and mentally. The number of days we had to complete the trek was cut brutally short due to the weather, pushing us to the brink of altitude sickness as we struggled to reach the endpoint. Given the chance I would love to tackle this again, with the luxury of time.

15. Got my PPCDL

Which is a big deal for me, partly because it's my first driving license of any sort, but mostly because I sucked at it and spent a long time practising in all sorts of conditions.

All that said, let's turn our attention to the years ahead of us! I promise 2015, as well as the years after, will be exciting.

1. Become a certified ice diver

2. Become a certified sidemount diver

3. Become a certified cave diver

4. Trek to Macchu Picchu

5. Learn how to speak Bahasa Indonesia

6. Become an awesome photographer

7. Backpack abroad for at least a month

8. Sky dive

9. Get a driving license

10. Be involved in a lot more charity work

One of the biggest lessons I've learnt recently is that there are times when stepping back is the smart thing to do. There are things worth fighting for and things that aren't; and knowing how to differentiate the two is the best favour you can do yourself.

I'm glad that the people I've chosen to surround myself with are the people who are truly worth it - the ones who are sincere and uplifting, and whom I trust and am genuinely happy to be around. These are the people I'm thankful for at the end of every day. :')

Twenty-First

For a lot of people, turning twenty-one is a pretty big deal. They start planning their parties months before the actual day, and scrimp on their meals so that every cent they have can go towards making their parties all the more fabulous.

For most of my life I thought I wanted a huge party too. To be specific I wanted a marquee, preferably on a nice stretch of beach, where my guests would gather singing praises and bearing expensive gifts.

There are two rather large problems with this vision. First, I am a socially inept person who hates crowds. Second, I am unenviably poor and scarcely wont to spend my money on catered food for a hundred.

By mid-2009, hence, I had stopped dreaming about The Party That Would Put MTV To Shame. I started thinking about other ways I could celebrate my birthday. It had to be something special -- after all, it's the day commemorating everything about me me me.

Right when I was wallowing in all sorts of sinful, self-indulgent, narcissistic thoughts, something contrary crept into my head. Wait a minute, it went, other than the fact that you inevitably aged, I'm not sure you had much else to do with turning 21.

That's true, I answered (quite schizophrenically). It's always been my family that got me out of trouble, believed in me, clothed me (excessively), fed me (excessively as well), and tons more besides. If anything should be celebrated, it's their efforts.

So a week before my birthday, I set the gears of my wily plan in action. I told my family I hated cake and thus not to get it, then ordered a Sachertorte one from a restaurant.


On the day itself, after dinner, I got everyone to close their eyes while I made a speech and brought out the cake. Unfortunately I'm not someone who's good at talking about feelings, so the speech came out all awkward, and more funny than sincere. So I'm not sure if they got the gist of my speech, or that they understood where I was coming from, or how I really am thankful for everything they've done. They did demolish the cake though.

Days 9 and 10: Vientiane, KL, Singapore!

The sleeper bus' driver turns out to be the same one as the minivan's, and for now he seems to have forgotten the little tiff he had with us, agreeing to play a Family Guy DVD that the Brit guys bought. No one else is at the terminal save for us 8 travellers, and we're all excited at the prospect of having the huge bus to ourselves.

Eventually however, a whole troupe of Laotians turn up with kids in tow, and the driver switches from Family Guy to some karaoke video. We groan collectively -- you have no idea how irritating and generic karaoke can be until you watch it continuously, on loop, neverendingly, on every single bus trip.

The sleeper bus, for all its perks, has double beds instead of single ones. I am curtly told to share a bed with the Nigerian man -- though I tell him I am in no uncertain terms unwilling to jump into bed with a strange man, and slip into the same bunk as Hazel. This is the first time in my life I'm specifically happy about a friend's gender.

For the next few hours Hazel and I talk about spirituality, conservation, morality, and about ourselves. I find I have a deep respect for this woman -- she's very honest, strong, charitable, warm, compassionate, and outspoken. Meeting her is definitely one of the key moments of my trip.

At some point we nod off, and awake a few hours later to the sight of the Vientiane bus terminal. I suppose Hazel and I are lucky we're slight -- most of the other boys didn't get much sleep in the tiny bunks.

We stumble out into daylight, and quite unceremoniously, go separate ways in 5 minutes.

I hang around the terminal, waiting for a Dutch boy named Keskyn, whom I met back in Pakse. He's travelling roughly the same route as me and we figured we may as well accompany each other some of the way. His bus pulls in half an hour after mine, and together with a French couple (guy is extremely good-looking and stylish; I do not dare meet the eyes of the girl), set about hunting for a guesthouse.


Later we rent bicycles and head to a Scandinavian bakery for breakfast. Everything smells really good, and it's a good reprieve from the usual coconut/ginger stench that hangs around the streets and eateries of Lao. I get down a bit of food, but then get so nauseous that I head back to my room after an hour.

Before that however, we manage to see Putaxay, the Laotian version of the Arc de Triomphe.

It is small, uninspiring, adorned with fairy lights, and surrounded by vendors and beggars. I take an obligatory photo of it, as does Keskyn, and get back on the road immediately.

The next stop is That Luang, a buddhist temple some distance away from Putaxay. From far, the stupa looks like it is covered with gold leaf. The grounds look huge, and there is a mini traffic jam leading up to it.

Up close however, the gold leaf reveals itself to be mere paint; the interior is sparse, with little signs of maintenance; rooms and stairways are locked, leaving visitors able to walk around the main corridor only; the circumference is puny. I don't feel unpacking my camera is worth the effort.

We leave after 10 minutes, feeling robbed.

Literally, there is nothing else in Vientiane worth seeing. A couple of moss-covered stone structures here and there, mostly at small road junctions or round-abouts. It is the most boring stop of the trip -- the French couple were smart, choosing to stay in Vientiane for only 4 hours, before catching the noontime bus to Vang Vieng.

Back at the guesthouse, I make a few calls back home to inquire about a plane ticket back to Singapore. I have already lost quite a bit of weight, and decide I don't want to risk getting seriously ill in the wilderness of northern Lao. No one can help me book a ticket because it's less than 24 hours to the flight out, so I get back on my bicycle and head out for the airport. It takes almost all of my money -- I even have to excuse myself to empty my bra -- to get the plane tickets.

On the way back I detour a bit -- quite daringly, in my opinion, because I don't have a map, having given it to Keskyn. To my great surprise and pride I do okay, finding my way around quite adeptly, never needing to ask for directions.

Vientiane is small.

I even bump into Sunny, the Nigerian man. He spots me from across the road and calls to me with such a great yell of joy that I immediately feel ashamed for the way I treated him yesterday. Sunny's checked into a 50,000kip/night guesthouse along the Mekong River, and is on his way to an African bar for lunch. He invites me along, but I'm on a mission -- to find Talat Sao, the morning market. (I do find it, but as usual there's nothing worth saying about it.)

The next morning, I take my last tuktuk ride. For the first time in 4 days I'm actually hungry (must have been running purely on adrenalin the past few days), but now I daren't even try to eat. Throwing up can be quite a nuisance.

My flight's an Air Asia one, and I'm headed first to Kuala Lumpur where I'll get on another to Singapore.

The flight is insane for two reasons:

First, the pilot keeps walking out of the cockpit, on occasion leaving the door open for an extended period of time. It seems to me a huge security risk.

Second, we hit violent patches of turbulence, at one point dropping through the air for a few seconds. People around me are moaning, praying, vomiting, and crying -- I suppose the prospect of a crash must be on everyone's minds. In the row opposite a woman nurses her baby calmly, and for some reason as I take in the scene around me, I feel almost like I'm in the documentary Air Crash Investigation.

Make no mistake -- I certainly am entertaining the idea of a crash. By nature I am a bit paranoid, and in fact I don't need turbulence for that thought to enter my mind. But when you're alone and have no one to turn to, and when you're strapped in your seat with absolutely nothing you can do, well, I guess you get resigned. You also kind of believe in your own immortality when you're young. I find I do anyway. I simply take a few deep breaths, drum my fingers and observe the people beside me.

After about half an hour of dips and dives, the pilot announces that we're detouring to Johor instead. Landing is apparently impossible given the weather.

2 hours after the stipulated arrival time at KL, we land at Johor. The door is opened for passengers who want to get out and kiss the ground, but other than that no one is allowed to leave the plane.

A Singaporean girl begs to be allowed to disembark -- which makes sense, given that Singapore is that much closer to Johor, and that we may not make our connecting flight back at KL -- but the air crew is adamant: we are flying back to Kuala Lumpur.

On the way back, everyone is silent. The laughing and joking that was present in the early part of the previous journey is starkly absent. I get the feeling a collective breath is held as we pass over KL airspace; thankfully we land without any trouble this time.

The detour means, however, that instead of the 4 hours I have between connecting flights, I now have 45 minutes. A mad dash through the immigration, baggage pick-up, check-in, and immigration (again) counters ensues. I make the flight with 10 minutes to spare.

Day 8, Pakse

The night is so dark, I can't see my hands despite waving it a centimetre in front of my face. There literally is no difference between having your eyes open or shut; I blink a few times experimentally, and get confused over whether my eyes are open.

When I do wake up in the morning, it is 7a.m., and the first thing I do and trek down the path towards the outhouse. The shower is indeed refreshing, though I start getting muddy almost immediately after, so it is an exercise in futility.

Packing takes a mere 5 minutes. I throw away a bunch of clothes that are beyond any detergent on the market.

Breakfast is half a banana that, thankfully, manages to stay down. I scribble in my diary for a bit then head to the jetty (really a mud slope that is slightly less steep than the banks around) with the Aussie boys.

"Hey, did your room have a shower?" I ask out of curiosity.

"Yea," one of them says. "Why?"

I stare, mouth agape. "What? I didn't! No wonder you guys walked out looking all clean and fresh. I can't believe the woman gave you guys the room with showers and me, the one without!"

We all laugh it off, but I can't help feeling like I was fleeced.

The longboats pull up at the shore, 45 minutes late, and the men in charge spend half an hour playing a game of human tetris with the 40 of us and our respective luggages. With about 10 of us still standing by, they order the passengers to squeeze. The boats are obviously overloaded, and are sitting very low in the water.

"Nobody move -- or breathe," says a girl behind me, once the boats start on their journey back to the mainland.

After a very perilious 10 minutes, during which there is constant shuffling to maintain the boats' balance, we reach the banks of the mainland, whereupon an absolutely sexy Spanish man pulls me onto the road and hands me my heavy backpack.

His name is Roberto. He asks that I call him Berto, but it isn't a gesture of intimacy -- it is because I'm mangling his name.

A handful of us now pile into a minivan headed for Pakse, a town in Southern Lao. There is already a woman sitting in there, reading a book on spirituality, with a stern look upon her face. She peers up a us for a bit and reprimands a traveller for attempting to throw a plastic bottle by the roadside.

Soon (which, by the kind of loose timekeeping I am now used to, means about an hour and a half after the stipulated timing) the minivan roars into action. Within 5 minutes however, the driver stops to pick up a local girl, and orders us to squeeze in order to make room for her. Being a bit of a pushover I almost oblige; the other travellers however insist that we all paid good money for a seat each, and it's well within our right not to budge.

"5km only," he wheedles. (In fact she ends up in Pakse too.)

The travellers now get a bit vulgar, and sensing the tone, he retaliates by slamming the door shut and consulting with the girl.

She ends up driving the minivan, with the original driver hanging in the doorway of the vehicle. Later, she will crouch behind the driver's seat while he takes over the driving.

An hour and a half into the journey, the minivan breaks down. We are stranded beside a steaming pile of very questionable excrement.

For 2 hours we wait in the blazing sun. Still, no complaints -- I get to know the stern woman with the spiritual book, who turns out to be a rather amazing individual, and further get to exchange a few Spanish pick-up lines with Roberto.

Hazel tells me she's on her way to Luang Prabang, where she will be helping out at an NGO called Free the Bears. Roberto has a fractured foot and is travelling to Thailand for medical help. (He also tells me, "You know your MRT stations? You have that little TV that shows the Madrid bombings. The funny thing is, we from Madrid haven't made any improvements after the attack.") The man who earlier tried to toss the bottle is Nigerian -- he seems very interested in applying for a visa to Singapore, and with the word "Nigerian" immediately triggering all sorts of warning bells in my head, I'm afraid I treat him a little coldly.

I say I am from Singapore, and everyone knows where that is immediately. I think they must soon be sick of me though, because I stick up for my country way too much.

Case in point:

"It's funny how all these South East Asian countries are so backward," says a Dutch girl.

"Not every country," I murmur.

Everyone laughs. "Malaysia's alright," says her boyfriend. "It's pretty safe."

"Really?" I frown. "I don't think so. There are so many instances of people being attacked and robbed."

They laugh again, but this time someone adds, "Yea, everywhere's unsafe to you, you're from Singapore!"

I shut up after that.

Eventually a van trundles by and comes to a stop beside us. We cheer, thinking that help is at hand.

Alas, that van has broken down too, and in fact is not the last one we see in that two hours. Even a bullock cart falls apart a few feet from us. It's like that stretch of road is cursed.

Help does finally come in the form of a lorry. It is none too comfortable, but it does get us out of the sun and on the way to Pakse.

We reach at 6p.m., explore the tiny, sleepy town for an hour, then are driven to the bus terminal to board the sleeper bus for Vientiane.

Day 7, Don Det

On day 7, I hop aboard a little minivan that will bring me and a bunch of other travellers to the Lao-Cambodia border. There are 4 Chinese nationals who I assume are a family, but later find out are government officials here on holiday; 3 Aussie boys who have been on the road for several months; and a Laotian policewoman who works for an NGO.

One of the Aussie boys is in an irritable mood because a Cambodian vendor earlier renegaded on a bargain over some bottled water. When he boards the minivan and realises there are more people than seats, he calls out to the driver, "Hey mate, there aren't any seatbelts back here!" I try to hide a laugh under my breath but he hears it, and from then on the ice is broken.

Besides being overloaded, the air-conditioning is also broken, and before we even pull out of the tiny town all of us are suffocating. The driver -- who initially told us to bear with it -- now decides to stop at a mechanic for some help. Nothing can be done however, and so a second minivan is dispatched to pick us up. We are now an hour and a half behind schedule -- and are still in Stung Treng.

Eventually we reach the border, a wide road with respective customs separated by 100metres of tarmac. The Cambodian custom officials want a bribe, but stupidly stamp our passports before asking for it, and the Aussie boys raise enough of an outrage that the officers hand them over dumbly.

The Laotians however, hold our passports hostage and lock themselves in little room. A stand-off ensues.

We first try to bargain with the officials, offering USD$2 for a group of 7 (a group of British travellers have joined us; the Chinese nationals are still stuck at the Cambodian side, trying to make a visa arrangement) instead of USD$2 per person. The officials of course, will have none of it, and jab violently at a sign that says Working hours: Monday to Friday, 10a.m. to 4p.m. Everything else overtime. It's Saturday today.

Up till now it's the Aussie boys who have been handling the anti-corruption tactics, but they're not making any headway and it's my turn to try my luck.

I step up to the glass panel.

The official looks up at me smarmily and points at the sign.

"I have to pay?" I feign ignorance.

He nods. "2 dollars."

"Why?" Failing to get my way I am at least going to make him sound stupid.

"Overtime."

"Doesn't your company pay you? Maybe you should talk to someone about that." The people behind me laugh, and that infuriates the official enough that he slams the glass window shut.

Okay -- that definitely did not go according to plan.

We sit aimlessly outside the cabin for an hour. The Aussie boys spew vulgarities, try to sneak into the room (someone inside yanks the door shut violently), and try on the leather shoes left at the door. Occasionally one of us wanders up to the glass window and attempts to persuade, but all efforts are in vain.

Suddenly the Chinese nationals trot up to the cabin, all looking as pleased as can be. "We got our visas for USD$2 each," they said gleefully in Chinese.

The Aussies and Brits are shocked. They paid USD$40 each for theirs at their respective embassies.

The Chinese nationals' joy is shortlived however -- the Laotian officials refuse to let them through, saying that the visas are invalid. Neither side understands the other's language, and I am dragged into their skirmish as an underqualified translator.

I spend a good hour running back and forth between the Cambodian and Laotian offices, relaying each side's messages, while the Chinese nationals stand in a huddle looking confused, the Aussies and Brits look on in faint curiosity, and the officials in nothing more than self-interest. The Cambodians and Laotians refuse to talk to each other, citing political reasons as an excuse, and are perfectly content to wait in the shade while I jog the 100metres there and back, and there and back, and there and back.

Eventually, with the help of the Laotian policewoman and some well-placed bribes, the Chinese nationals get their passports stamped and officially enter Lao. I am much too tired to continue the stand-off, and cough up the US$2 to get my own passport back.

(Note that in that hour and a half we are there, the officials must have stamped at least 60 passports at a rate of USD$2 each.)

As the official slides my passport back across the counter, he winks and wets his lips. "No hard feelings?" he says with an oily smile. "Can I shake your hand?"

We finally get to Ban Nakasang, where a boat is waiting to take us to Don Det. There, I bid farewell to the lovely Laotian policewoman and the Chinese nationals (who collectively give me a bottle of mineral water by way of thanks), and climb into the longboat with the Aussie boys. It is a rickety old boat that has seats caked with mud. We are not given lifejackets.

"So what do you aim to be in future?" one of the boys asked.

"Rich man's wife?" I answer (if you know me, you know that is my standard response).

Everyone laughs, but just then an identically rickety longboat zooms past us, and everyone on it has a lifejacket on. We all agree that my rich husband is probably on that VIP boat.

At Don Det it becomes apparent that I'm sort of part of the group. We all check into a guesthouse called Mr. Mo's that overlooks the river -- not that it's particularly scenic, being the brownest, muddiest body of water I've ever seen.

My room too, is a sordid Lilliputian one -- the wall facing the river is constructed of wooden bars; the floor's planks do not fit neatly, with gaps you have to be careful not to drop things into; the bed has no pillows or sheets. The bed is also pushed into a corner of the room, leaving a foot of space on each of the two remaining sides. There is nothing else I can complain about because, literally, there is nothing else in the room.

Still, I am game for the experience and rather sadistically think it may be fun, so I dump my bag in a corner and head down for some cycling with the boys.

We decide to cycle to Li Phee Falls on Don Khon, an island linked to Don Det by a bridge. Unfortunately the country roads are so rocky and bumpy -- I have no idea how some people can make it look a complete breeze to cycle down one of them -- that after I become airborne off of a large rock and throw up from a combination of doxycycline and motion sickness, I wave the boys off and return to my room.

This is my second day without food, and having just thrown up for the third time in 2 days, I feel utterly miserable. I even curl up on my bed and shed a few tears.

(At this point, I have to say I am so grateful to Michelle, Ser Kheng and my family, for going all out to help me in spite of the distance. They helped me check flight details for the journey back to Singapore, and kept my spirits up as I ranted over the phone. Even if they were busy, they made time for me. In times of crisis (I consider it a crisis anyway) you find out who your real friends are, and I can truly say I owe so much to these wonderful people.)

My brain kicks in before too much of the self-pitying takes place. I've always considered myself to be mentally strong, and that little lapse leaves me feeling ashamed and angry. Even if I'm not in the best physical state, I'll be damned if I sit around and mope.

I pick up my rucksack and set out on foot for the waterfalls -- no more cycling for me.

The route takes me along some of the most scenic landscapes I've seen since the start of my trip. Unfortunately, I have a crappy camera.







The Laotians are also a heck of a lot more genuine than the Cambodians, with everyone greeting you and striking up conversation as you pass.

Random Laotian who asked me to take a photo of him

It is definitely one of the more relaxing walks I've ever been on, though it does take me an impressive 3 and a half hours to get back to my guesthouse. Also, the Li Phee Falls is in no uncertain terms, not worth the effort to get there.

For a waterfall that is allegedly the largest in South East Asia, it is decidedly unimpressive.

I take an obligatory photo to show that I have indeed been there, chat a little with a Frenchman with a DSLR, then quickly turn back. It's a long walk I have ahead of me, and I'm rushing to beat the sunset -- there is no electricity on the island, and I don't want to traverse the countryside in the dark for fear of falling into the river. Or, for that matter, stepping on lurking cowpats.

Sunset over padi fields

When I do reach my room, I'm mud-splattered and a thunderstorm has just started. The bathroom is some distance away down an uncovered dirt road, so I hop into bed muddy and prepare myself for a very cold night.

Days 4 through 6, Phnom Penh & Stung Treng

I wake up at 6a.m. on day 4 to get ready for the 7 hour bus trip to Phnom Penh. I've booked a ride on a VIP bus (aircon, wet towel, pick-up from guesthouse) for all of USD$6, and for its low price it turns out to be the best bus ride I encounter in the 10 days -- although the driver does get lost initially, circling around the estate for a good 40 minutes.

It is also on this trip that I realise my 6gig MP3 player, which I spent a week carefully loading songs onto, is jammed on the first folder. Unfortunately, the first folder contains only 2 songs. I am now something of an expert on Right As Rain and Cold Shoulder by Adele.

I arrive at my Phnom Penh guesthouse at 2p.m. and head out immediately for the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum, a good 20 minutes away on foot.

The first thing I notice is the barbed wire surrounding the compound, a stark contrast to the cheery houses around. For the unaware, Tuol Sleng was a high school that was converted by the Khmer Rouge into a torture center. In its 4 years of existence it's thought that 20,000 prisoners were incarcerated there, with only 12 ever making it out alive.

Around the gates, landmine victims skilfully weave their way around tourists, not so much begging as pestering everyone for money. Tuktuk drivers and motorcyclists alike try to get you to hop onto their vehicles, seeming not to notice that you've only just arrived and are trying to enter the museum.

The first thing you see after the ticket counter is 14 identical, featureless graves. According to the sign beside them, they contain the corpses of the last victims of the Khmer Rouge.


Turning the corner, you are faced with a huge sign proclaiming the rules of S-21 (as Tuol Sleng is otherwise known).

Click to enlarge

Visitors crowd the first room, snapping pictures and craning their necks to see the exhibit. But then we gradually come to realise that there are rooms upon rooms upon rooms that are exactly the same, all sparse and chilling and almost ghostly, and for me at least, that's when the magnitude of the situation hit home.

Leg irons

Ammunition box used to store prisoners' waste

As if anyone will think of smiling!

The next building, B, focuses more on the prisoners. Mug shots are displayed, alongside pictures that document both horrific and humiliating moments.

The one thought that runs constantly through my mind is -- for an institution that demands respect and sobriety from visitors (sometimes in the form of donations), surely it's a sacrilege of the highest order to put up such photos? What if surviving family members were to see them? Worst, what about the skulls on display? It all seems very contradictory and mercenary to me.

(Of course, I'm not in a position to say much about it, being that the sole purpose of me visiting Phnom Penh is to see these genocide museums; the very fact that I'm taking pictures already trivialises the situation. This is a mental struggle that I never quite quash.)

The cabinet at the end holds prisoners' clothes

Room after room of pictures demonstrate the sheer number of prisoners that entered the compound. Interestingly enough, if I may be so callous as to use that word, most expressions are blank, some even happy; I only spot 1 photograph that captured a look of worry.

Children employed by the Khmer Rouge to fight

Prisoners were chained to the ground

At one point of time, I look down from the placards on the wall and notice I am standing in a splash of dried blood.

Picture of mass grave

Someone left flowers in little cracks and on exhibits -- a very touching gesture

Barbed wire along the building to prevent prisoners from escaping/committing suicide

Row of 11 rooms, each with about 20 tiny cells

(The doors keep creaking shut as I film this.)

Picture of a Khmer Rouge member -- I think it particularly gratifying that someone had scratched out his eyes

All in all, I spend a good 3 hours there. I suppose I got desensitised a little by the end of the day -- from the perspective of an outsider, no amount of re-creation can bring to life the horror of S21, really.

But a quick calculation shows that you have to be only 34 years old at least to have been through the Khmer Rouge reign. Every time I see a tour guide, or even a random passerby, I subconsciously make a guess at their age, and more often than not it amazes me how easily they talk about the horrors in their past. How can they be desensitised as well?

The next day, day 5, I head out to Choeung Ek (also known as The Killing Fields) by motorbike. It's my first time ever on a motorbike, which I hope explains my death grip on the driver.

The first thing you see upon entering the compound is a stupa, a structure whose sedate outlook belies its macabre display.

Donation box on bottom shelf

Behind the stupa, green fields dotted with shallow pits stretch in all directions. These are the famed mass graves of Choeung Ek.

Tree from which loudspeakers were hung; music was played to drown out the screams of those being executed

After some minutes of wandering, I happen to see a guide ahead of me point to the ground. Moments later a blonde boy kneels down, pokes a finger into some loose soil and pulls out something white. "A tooth," he says in a hushed whisper.

From then on I become painfully aware of the exposed fragments of bones, teeth and cloth in the ground.

Old clothes left against a tree

Nearby, a little hall that's beautifully done up on the outside turns out to have only 3 exhibits in it.

Uniforms that people had to wear under the Khmer Rouge reign

A typical prisoner's profile

After a quick stop at my guesthouse for lunch, I walk the length of the city in the name of exploration.

Streets of Phnom Penh

I am far too lazy to bargain and shop, and so leave Russian Market, O'Russy Market and Central Market with nothing more than a bag of assorted fried insects.

They don't taste anything like chicken.







But then, I'm sure they taste better than whatever this dentist has to offer.


Day 6 is taken up primarily by a 10 hour bus ride to the border down of Stung Treng. The driver is a massive lump of a man who makes pit stops every few hours for food.

No one speaks English save for one man beside me, and he takes such an interest in me that I start getting paranoid. I ignore him for the majority of the trip, selfishly turning to him only when I need help in translation, and am thoroughly ashamed and guilty when he alights halfway through the journey -- obviously couldn't possibly have meant to kidnap me.

Stung Treng is a tiny, muddy town that takes me 10 minutes to circle on foot. Nothing to report from here -- there is a flying cockroach in my room though. I sleep curled up under the blanket the whole night.