Anywhere on this Road

Mexico Day 1

2011-09-07T22:30:00.000-07:00

After a 2 a.m. chocolate cake feast in Mississauga, and a sparse 4 hours of disrupted, excited sleep, we headed to the airport. Five hours later we watched a city spring up out of the Mayan jungle.

As we disembarked and were engulfed by a garment of heat and humidity, we had our first reminder that we were in Mexico - haggling for a ride from the airport.

Our hotel is near the centre of Cancun, about 4 blocks away from an amazing taco stand in Parque Las Palapas. We are also conveniently situated one block away from yet another amazing taco place. In fact, writing about this is making me crave more tacos. The salsas are amazing and fresh. Is it breakfast time yet?

We did do a few things other than eat tacos... but I swear if you had any idea how delicious the tacos are here...

We came across a huge supermarket/department store and spent more than an hour looking around. $25 got us a cheap clock radio, shampoo and conditioner, hair dye, and a magazine full of Mexican recipes. In Spanish.

Speaking of which, Russell speaks a surprising amount of Spanish, which has come in quite handy - we're not really in a tourist area of Cancun, and most of the folks we've met so far speak little or no English.

Russell is reading a local paper. He just told me that the local minimum wage is MXN$56.07. We agree that, given the prices of food we've seen today, that isn't bad at all - it is totally livable.

shoes

2011-08-31T21:36:00.000-07:00

Less than a week to go! It seems as though I will be packing an inordinate number of shoes....

16 sleeps

2011-08-22T09:38:00.000-07:00

15 sleeps until we leave

16 sleeps until Mexico

My bridesmaid dress arrived yesterday and I LOVE it!

Now all I need to do is... acquire a particular variety of unmentionable in my awkward size and I'm set!

La Riviera Maya

2011-08-17T08:30:00.000-07:00

Less than 3 weeks to go - just barely. It's time to get excited!

My Honeymoon

2009-08-04T09:53:00.000-07:00

Canoeing through Prince Albert National Park

Photos are up!

2007-02-06T16:28:00.000-08:00

February 5, 2007 - Rarotonga

Tonight a lizard ran across my knee and down my other leg.

Apparently there are a few people out there who actually read my blog, because I've had a few e-mails wondering where I've been and how I am. The answers are simple, fairly short and very gentle.

The exciting part of the trip is over. Now all that remains are a few days of complete relaxation. What have I been up to? On Saturday I went into town and went grocery shopping. Saturday night when Mike came home he introduced me to ice cream fruit. I'll have to upload a photo of it and explain it then because it would never make sense in a million years otherwise. It is a bean that works like a banana with the consistency of marshmallow and the inside is the same size as lotus seeds...

On Sunday I watched my last remaining housemate move to the other side of the island. Then I picked up munchies at the Seventh Day Adventist store down the road. Today I rented a bike that is a bit big for me. Getting on is a challenge. It involves tilting it to the side a bit and pretty much launching onto the far pedal with a forward motion while resting most of my weight on the handle bars. Once on the bike it rides very nicely, and for the benefit of everyone who is concerned for my safety, I brought my own bike helmet and lights.

My first stop on the ride was the cafe at the botanical gardens. I enjoyed a lovely lunch - the food here has been fantastic. I don't eat out much to begin with, but when I have it has exceeded my expectations - even Raro Fried Chicken and FBI (that's Fish Bites Inc.) fish and chips. I also asked my barista today what the difference is between a flat white and a latte. Anyone from Australia or New Zealand might already know this; I am guessing that most folks from North America will never have heard of a flat white. I was excited when I found out the Cooks were in friendly association with New Zealand because I could have more flat whites, and hopefully figure out what one is. The way my barista explained it made it sound simple. A 12 oz. latte in Starbucksland gets one shot of espresso. But a flat white gets two shots. Flat whites come in one size, and that is small. Lattes come in all sizes and do not taste as strongly of coffee. The espresso in question was from Juergen's farm on Atiu - it makes a lovely espresso.

After lunch I took a walk through the garden. It was beautiful. I filled the memory card on my camera with photographs of flowers and plants and growing things. The majority of them turned out very well.

Back on the bike, I made it as far as the next beach. I parked the bike and waded into the ocean where I noticed a large school of tropical fish - iridescent white ones - and one larger fish that would zoom through now and then to terrorize them. The island is surrounded by a coral reef, meaning it is not great for swimming and great for snorkeling and very much fun for wading.

I swung round to the beach at Blackrock where I stopped for a breather again, enjoying the ocean. It is amazing to be able to stop and watch the ocean.

I called through a store just behind the airport to see if they had any of Mata's coffee left - she's the one who roasts in coconut cream. I think I managed to scoop the last two bags on the island. (For anyone interested in what CIDA is doing over here, apparently we gave Marshall a ladder to make his Kopeka cave tour easier, and according to the back of the coffee bag we're doing something to help Mata produce coffee as well.)

Tonight I have killed time in the common room at the guesthouse while the Irish ones watched an incredibly bad movie. My photos are edited and ready to have prints made when I get home, and I have accomplished some writing as well. All was going well and truly slowly and was relaxed... until the lizard ran down my leg.

I think the little gecko fell from the ceiling? I have no idea where it came from. It was maybe the length of one of my fingers. I felt something warm land on my knee and large enough that I went to swat it but then it moved to my other leg and ran down my leg onto the floor. It was then that I was able to discover what it was. It didn't scratch, it almost tickled. It was light, warm, fast, and gone before I could exclaim to anyone what had happened.

And that, Ladies and Gentlemen, is all the excitement.

Jen out.

Paul's last night

2007-02-06T16:26:00.000-08:00

Raro Culture Shock

2007-01-29T18:59:00.000-08:00

Everywhere I look something or someone is in action, the noise from the traffic is constant, there is music, electricity, pavement and even air conditioning. I cannot believe the number of people or the cheapness of fresh groceries. There were two cafes, open and with people inside. There are shops selling non-essential items. There is wireless internet.

Atiu is so silent in comparison it is unbelievable. It was hot and dry and magical and now that we are back to civilization (aka a place with some semblance of a cafe culture and a nightlife and a local newspaper and fresh veggies) I understand the slogan used to advertise the island: Atiu - Get Away From It All. Before we left I wondered get away from what? Now I know. Get away from everything.

My farewell 'ei is hanging in my room making it smell of beautiful gardenias.

Jen out.

Jen's Top 10 Items for Survival on a Deserted Tropical Island

2007-01-28T20:41:00.000-08:00

January 28, 2007 - Atiu

1. Mosquito repellant - tonight I tease them by sitting by a screened window and they are almost deafening.
2. Reliable can opener - because we assume your island has one store that gets canned cargo on average once every two or three months.
3. Something to trade for cheese - grow local fruit and ship it to someone in the next biggest country in exchange for quality/any cheese.
4. Stationery - meaning nice paper, sturdy envelopes, sharpie markers and very nice pens.
5. Sturdy hiking boots - for navigating makatea forests, caves, sandy beaches and roads.
6. Sunscreen/big hats - It's darn hot. Really darn hot.
7. Veggie seeds - grow your own or you won't ever see them fresh.
8. Shipping contract with Silk Soy beverages - not only is there no soy drink on the island, the next nearest one tastes rather bad and curdles in tea and coffee. The alternative is UHT longlife milk, a well preserved dairy that seems to be able to withstand extreme outside heat without refrigeration. This should not be possible.
9. Egg laying chickens - will save you a small fortune in eggs and can be amusing when it is so hot there is nothing to do but watch the chickens.
10. Breadmaker - this applies only if you do not live on Atiu. If you live on Atiu, there is an excellent bakery that creates amazing bread. If you live on Atiu, the number ten item is a French Press. The island's amazing coffee is homegrown but there is no other way to have it other than at home.

Rare Birds, Bush Beer and Fresh Bread

2007-01-28T01:56:00.000-08:00

January 27, 2007 - Atiu

Gear safely stowed in the back of the truck, we headed off down the road. We parked the truck where the road almost ended, and hiked further into the bush. Bush slowly gave way to makatea, or coral forest (yes, that does mean coral growing a decent distance from the ocean with forest around and on top of it) and as the path became more treacherous, we came across walking sticks. We met birds, hermit crabs, lizards.
A short descent down a ladder and we lit our headlamps at the mouth of the cave.
Inside we heard legends and saw a naked beehive. We saw evidence of coconut crabs and when we went further into the cave, we were shown a very tiny nest. Then we heard it - a series of clicks and in flew a Kopeka, a rare bird native only to Atiu.
Outside the cave, the bird relies on sight for navigation. It has a beautiful song. Inside the cave it uses clicks to navigate in total darkness to its nest. When it alights on the nest, it returns to its beautiful birdsong.
We spent a fair bit of time in the cave with the bird, then retreated to more middle ground where we left most of our gear. Marshall went on ahead of us, lighting candles and leaving them in strategic places in the cave. Slight change of clothes later and we were having a very brisk swim in a mineral pool in a candle lit cave.
Post-cave we were left to fend for ourselves at the tumunu. This is a bush beer drinking gathering unique to Atiu. Its history is steeped in hiding from the missionaries, but today it is a much more open gathering. The bush beer is a local homebrew. I am a bit lost trying to describe it. The first sip tasted of sake, then it was malty, then it had a sweet, almost orange finish. It had a fairly light body, was quite sweet, tasted nothing like beer as we know it and is very powerful. The man pouring the drink had a small coconut shell that he would dip into the bucket of tumunu and pass to each person in the circle in turn. The men discussed things mostly in Maori, occasionally breaking into English to explain things to us. I was the only woman in the circle, and apparently it is only in recent time that women have even been allowed to join in.
After the tumunu was time for a nap. This was important because it was not to be an early night. The island's bakery is run by Seventh Day Adventists. Their sabbath is from sundown Friday to sundown Saturday. Every Saturday night about 11 p.m. they re-open the bakery and bake fresh bread. The event has become a bit of a gathering for the island's young people who show up at the bakery and sit on the lawn, talking.
The owner's son and one of the bakery workers approached us in the dark and introduced themselves, inviting us to watch from the back of the large mudbrick oven. Soon we could smell bread baking.
We left with four long and skinny loaves - a gift from the baker's son. We tried to tear into them as we were leaving but they were simply too hot. When we finally could get a piece off, we were pleased to discover it is perhaps the best bread we'd ever had. Two loaves disappeared on the way home.

Cherries and Peaberries

2007-01-26T21:55:00.000-08:00

January 26, 2007 - Atiu

Today was coffee tour day. Jurgen picked us up after breakfast and took us out to one of the places on the island where the coffee trees grow. His trees come from Kenya, the Antigua region of Guatemala, and somehow he managed to get a handful of Jamaica Blue Mountain seeds. His coffee is a blend of Arabica beans from all three trees. I'm not going to spend a lot of time here going into the history of coffee - I will assume you know it and if you're one of the rare few I haven't sat down with to share the location of the Great Rift Valley, well, I guess we'll have to have coffee one day and discuss it.
From the plantation we went to the processing facility. Coffee cherries are picked ripe and de-pulped with the help of something looking like a rotary cheese grater. It takes away the fruit, leaving you with a slimy coffee bean. The coffee is then fermented in water overnight. This serves two purposes - firstly it gets the cherry slime off the coffee bean, but perhaps more importantly, it allows the bad beans to float to the surface where they are picked off and chucked.
The fermented beans are left in drying trays out in the sun for at least 150 hours. When the coffee is sufficiently dry, it is taken to the machine that takes off the parchment - the thin papery covering left on the beans. Once that is done, they are roasted and packed either ground or whole bean.
At the end of the tour we stuck it out for a coffee tasting in town. It was fantastic. The coffee has floral notes characteristic of Kenya, coco texture characteristic of Guatemala Antigua, and the earthy green body of Jamaica Blue Mountain, as well as the very unique flavour of having been grown on Atiu. Kudos to Jurgen - what I promised when I said I'd bring back coffee for everyone at home was that I'd only bring back the good stuff. Jurgen grows good coffee.

Welcome to Paradise

2007-01-25T11:46:00.000-08:00

January 25, 2007 - Atiu - 11:45 am

Atiu is visible out the side windows of the cockpit and they are removing the sun shield and beginning preparations for landing. The airstrip was on the opposite side of the island from our approach, necessitating a U turn over the ocean before we could land. As we approached the airstrip I was thankful for the small size of the aircraft, especially when I realized it was unpaved.
The airport at Atiu isn't more than a small shed with a roof and two walls. There is a notice on the inside about a voluntary security check. Everyone was milling around with flower 'eis, greeting and sending off. Marshall found us, handing off two gardenia 'eis which smelled phenomenal. Properly greeted we obtained our luggage such as it was. Marshall kept looking, saying he was expecting a package. He was surprised when I told him I had it in my bag already. His daughter spotted us at the airport and asked us if we would take a package of cheese to her father.
Before being given a brief tour of the island, we were shown the harbour. The harbour is where all the excitement happens. The day before, the cargo ship had finally arrived. This was cause for great excitement because sometimes there is no cargo for a few months. Food here is expensive and unless you grow your own vegetables or raise your own meat, your diet won't be greatly varied and will consist mostly of canned goods. Even then you are limited to peas, creamed corn, tomatoes, spaghetti, beans, kidney beans, tuna, pink salmon, mackerel and the local "corned beef" which is really spam in a can. You also have noodles, rice and if you get lucky like we did yesterday, fresh potatoes. I also made the discovery of fabulous plain donuts, which I assume come from the bakery.
In the meantime, we were shown to the cafe where we were given grilled tomato and onion and cheese sandwiches - the only thing on the menu as it was the only thing in stock. The lady who runs the cafe sat out and talked with us, giving us all kinds of information on the island. The conversation was fabulous and I wouldn't hesitate in recommending the cafe to anyone who is here.
Marshall Humphreys is our host - Atiu homestays is where we currently call home. He and his wife raised their kids here and now that they've all moved to either Rarotonga or Australia or New Zealand, the house is vacant. Marshall is the ex-hotelier who introduced fine dining to New Zealand way back in the day. His wife is an artist from Atiu. The house is huge and beautiful and tied down. It is cyclone season. The lady who runs the cafe tells us that because of cyclone season, there won't be any dances. Apparently Friday night is dance night down at the local community hall - except during cyclone season.

Atiu - Get Away From It All

2007-01-25T09:07:00.000-08:00

Morning. A new day, a new way, a new place. Soon to be a new place. Between now and then only time to kill. The papers say we only have to check in half an hour before the flight. This seems a bit unusual to me - won't it take almost that long to go through security and board the aircraft? To my surprise, no. We fight with returning wheels to the rental place, then head across the road to the airport in search of the very closed cafe.
The airport is relatively bustling and the crew are efficient. Security does not exist for domestic flights here. In fact, they didn't even check our ID. We were welcomed onto the aircraft and given the fabulous front row seats. The pilot was on when we got there. The first officer closed the doors, told us to keep our seatbelts on, that the weather was fine, and to enjoy the flight. Apparently with Air Rarotonga we had two choices for aircraft - a small Saab, or the Bandit made by Embraer out of Brazil. We flew in the Bandit.
As soon as we were in the clear above the clouds, the pilots put a sun shield across the windscreen. The first officer proceeded to open and shut the window several times throughout the flight, which was as smooth as could be.

Airplanes and cyclones and scootcars, oh my!

2007-01-24T23:28:00.000-08:00

A sigh of relief comes from me - Zita passed without incident nowhere near here yesterday and it looks like Arthur is going to follow a path so far from here that our flight to Atiu shouldn't be affected. This is a good thing. The Cooks are still forecasted to have another two or three cyclones hit this year, and for all of you who don't know, yes, yes, it is Cyclone Season!
In other news, we rented a scootcar today.... imagine a tuk tuk without the rear seat attachment and you have the modern scootcar. Slow, noisy and a very fun fun fun way to see the sites - including an ancient Marae where they blessed the Maori explorers with celebration and human sacrifice before they set out for New Zealand - coincidentally very nearby the beach from where they actually set out in the mid 1300s. A marae is a Maori meeting place, usually fairly sacred ground.
Tomorrow morning we shove off at a leisurly pace for the island of Atiu via Air Rarotonga, where Mr. Humphreys will meet us at the airport. From there we will drive almost entirely across the island to his house where we have arranged to stay with his family for four days. The purpose of the visit is to tour/taste at the Islands' two coffee farms... as well as observe the sabbath the local way. The Seventh Day Adventists run the local bakery. The Adventists have their sabbath on Saturday. In between their sabbath and the Sunday sabbath, they re-open the bakery to make bread. According to the book, the thing to do on Saturday at about midnight is go to the bakery for fresh bread.... and then catch church in the morning!
There is no internet on Atiu so the rest of the stories will have to wait until next Monday. If you are wondering where Atiu is, go to my first post and look up the linked map.... zoom in until Rarotonga is quite big. Atiu is northeast of here a tiny bit, just south and a bit east of the larger Aitutaki.
Jen out.

The Anti Clockwise Bus

2007-01-17T11:47:00.000-08:00

January 17, 2007 - Avarua, Rarotonga

Motor scooters and vehicles pass by the window. Somewhere Over the Rainbow is being swung to a polynesian rhythm. The sun shines on the building across the road, its side the same green as moss. Jungle and hills are visible beyond.

Nothing seems to rush or be in a hurry - it would be impossible to be in a hurry in this heat.

There are two ways to get into Avarua from home. The first is the back road, the second is the main road via the airport. I live close to the airport. It is about a three minute walk if I am particularly slow. The large jets rattle my windows. By the time I leave I will know the schedule of who flies when like the back of my hand. I still have not seen United fly in - I heard they do - just Air New Zealand and Air France.

The back road is primarily residential. It is at the foot of the mountains and runs in some form or another around the whole island. Places are given as being on the back road or the main road. The walk into town is not long - surprisingly it feels shorter to walk by the airport than along the back road, although the back road is much better lit at night.

The jungle is amazing. I cannot think of how to describe the flora other than to use other places - it reminds me of the Caymans and Hawai'i with a handful of bushes and trees I've seen on the north island of New Zealand.

The people are friendly, quiet, polite. Welcoming. Folks say hello on the street and in the shops. They know where I am from, slowly. They cannot imagine what -20 with a foot or two of snow would be like.

The island holds two buses - the Clockwise Bus and the Anti Clockwise Bus. Both stop at the bus stop in Avarua and a round trip around the island is about a half hour in duration. Avarua is clearly the only town of any size on the island. Muri beach is noticeable, as is Black Rock, but neither seem to have the structure of Avarua. The rest of the island is a loose collection of homes and businesses strung along the main road - much as settlements seem to be on all the small islands I have ever visited.

The beach is a bit of an enigma. It exists. But it is not particularly good for swimming due to the large numbers of sharp rock and coral in the water. The current is quite strong. It appears to be relatively consistent around the island - rocky lagoon areas, broken up by areas inaccessible due to rather large black rocks along the shore. I get the feeling this will not be a swimming trip per se - although I am reserving judgement until I have seen what 'Atiu has to offer.

There are several pubs/nightclubs in Avarua - and by several I mean there's TJ's, Banana Court and the RSA, as well as Nu Bar down by the airport. Throughout the week they rotate and each pub has a night where it is the feature pub - and it appears most of the island turns out for the fun. I have not been to TJ's - the night I arrived it was Banana Court where they held the dance competition, and last night was Banana Court again. Banana Court is frightening. They have a dance floor and a bar in the back that resembles a well-carved tiki hut (I don't think the carvings are actual tiki gods, I think they're other gods) and far too many obnoxious backpackers. I think I'll give the others a look out of curiosity, but perhaps lay the pub/club scene to rest. The movie theatre has shows three times a night, and that is about it for nightlife. Cafes and most other businesses close shop at 4 or 4:30.

On the menu for today is sorting accommodation for 'Atiu, as well as inquiring if our fine hosts need anything from the bustling supermarkets of Rarotonga. The most appealing place to stay is a homestay - the family welcomes you into their home for however long you are there. It is run by.... let's see. If memory serves, it is run by a Kiwi family who have lived there for a generation. The book says it is common courtesy to bring dried or canned goods for any visit to the outer islands because the cargo ships do not visit as frequently as they are supposed to, and canned goods are expensive here. To compare, a bag of carrots, a can of tomatoes (there are no fresh ones, apparently they don't grow tomatoes here) and five packages of instant noodles came to NZ$10. The same at home might stretch your pocket to CAD$4.00 if you picked particularly expensive carrots.

The rest of today's menu is staying out of the sun - it is scorching hot today and I managed to burn the first two days, exacerbated by my swim yesterday. A day in the shade is what I really need - good time for writing.

Prelude in G

2007-01-16T18:31:00.000-08:00

January 16, 2007 - Rarotonga

My room mates have vanished. It is me, the cool of indoors and the glorious sounds of Rachmaninoff.

The day feels long. It began meeting Paul, then heading into town to do all manner of things.

We made a plan. It involves coffee, among other things. The plan is to fly to 'Atiu on the 25th for a few days, do a homestay and tour the two coffee farms on the island before flying back to Rarotonga. To say I am excited is a bit of an understatement.

Today was nothing if not long. We walked all over the place and back again and my sandals have given me blisters. Made a plan to go to the movies that I think we forgot about (do I have to walk back to town again?) and then walked back, getting groceries, scoping out town. We returned to the village before setting out with the intention of going for a swim by way of the airport to pay for our tickets to 'Atiu. Then, I found out later, we walked the wrong direction from the beach. All we found were rocks, sharp rocks, and more rocks. All the way... back into town.

This, of course, necessitated another stop at a cafe. Not just any cafe, The Cafe. Open for business. The Cafe is home to the in house roasted Cook Islands Coffee Company. To my surprise, their coffee isn't grown in the Cooks, but is a blend from Ethiopia, Brazil and Guatemala. The atmosphere is fun and the coffee is amazing. The espresso bar is an old one, and watching our barista pour shots gave me great envy. I would love to spend a morning working on that bar - for fun. At the end of the day, conflicts aside, I love my job. I love the part where I don't have to worry about being ten places at once and I can just concentrate on the espresso bar and making coffee. It was hard for me to not ask if I could work the first four hours of tomorrow morning for free.

We decided to catch the anti-clockwise bus back to the village, and on the way I stopped to pick up some frangipani hair oil. My hair has tripled in size due to the humidity. I didn't think my hair knew what frizz was, but apparently it is quite expert at it. Luckily for me, the islands are known for their hair oil.

Tonight, right away soon, I am going to eat mangoes. Hurray for supermarkets.

Dance me to the end of time....

2007-01-16T07:26:00.000-08:00

January 16, 2007 - Rarotonga

My introduction to night life in Avarua was nothing if not memorable. Imagine you have been stuck on the same deserted island for 20 years. Over those years you have accumulated a stash of bad hip hop and dance music, as well as some surprisingly good local stuff. You play DJ for a night and mash it all together and you'd get a close approximation of what I heard last night.

The Banana Court is not a particularly esthetically pleasing bar. The dance floor is at the front and the bar is done up like a tiki hut, complete with wooden gods carved into the posts, and it reminds me entirely too much of Everybar in Anysmalltown I've ever been to. The crowd was a mixed bag - a handful of backpackers acting in ways that made me feel old and a whole lot of islanders. It was a dance in the way small town bars have dances. Except this one had a dance competition thrown in.

To my surprise, once the brave few had taken their places on the dancefloor, what came out of the speakers was not bad early 90s hip hop, but Island drum music. Music you can only move a certain way to. Watching the locals I had the distinct feeling that I could have probably held my own with them, more than that, that I want to learn from them. I don't even know where to start asking for that one. Ripe mangoes I can probably find an answer for. It's probably at the market as we speak. But dancing lessons? They'll either be impressed and think I'm brave or laugh at me until I go away.

I have acquired a few of the triangular shaped coins. Turns out they are worth 2 Cook Islands Dollars. I have also acquired enough foreign coins to keep my collection happy. After the Tahitian coins, more money here: a scalloped piece, I forget how much it is worth, along with new and old NZ$0.20 pieces. The new ones are quite small, about the size of our nickle. The old ones are huge and bulky. Now all I need is a $3 bill and my life will be complete. Question for readers: who else has heard the expression queer as a $3 bill? I was throwing it around friends from work who said they'd never heard it and I wondered if it was that unique or if it was yet another age difference. (I love working with 18 to 21-year-olds. They make me feel out of the loop and very grown up.) I ask the question because I was thinking about bringing one back as a souvenir for a friend who is openly queer but if the expression isn't widespread or if it is going to prove a generation gap, there really is no point. It completely loses its tongue in cheek humour if I have to explain it.

I am amazed at how quiet it is. Wind in the jungle, stream behind the chalet, infernal roosters (that is probably the real reason why I woke up) and not much else. Very little sounds of human habitation aside from the occasional motor scooter. I'm really not convinced I ever want to leave.

Plans for the day:

1. Find Paul. He is here somewhere. I want to make coffee for him and get my battery charger converter kit from him so I can keep blogging.

2. Mangoes. I feel like I could eat five of them here and now.

3. Yogurt. It would be amazing next to the mangoes.

4. Ocean. I didn't get out for a swim yesterday. I had a nap instead and the weather was pretty hit and miss and mostly miss but today is supposed to at least not rain.

4.a. Acquire board shorts. The island isn't as conservative as I thought but I 'd still feel uncomfortable wandering around in a bathing suit that shows off as much as my underwear. Maybe I just haven't worn one in a long time but the thought doesn't make me keen on going out in public. Upshot is that there are board shorts for sale everywhere in Avarua.

Bananas, mangoes, limes, coconuts, red fruits and... olives?

2007-01-15T20:50:00.000-08:00

January 15, 2007 - Rarotonga

Knock at the door, darkness, mild disorientation, heat, smells like somewhere tropical. Voice with an accent different than mine, perhaps English. Off the top the voice sounds a lot like Eddie, a housemate from England who I met in Sydney five years ago. Five years ago. That feels like a long time to remember a voice. Voice asking me if I want to share in dinner. Why is a stranger asking me if I want dinner?

The stranger is the downstairs mystery room mate. As I arose to address the issue at the door, the lights came on. I still don't know who turned them on or how they came on, but they are on. The island's electrical supply is via a diesel generator somewhere, and I had surmised earlier the lack of lights was simply due to the astronomical cost of power.

I wish I could remember the Dutch couple's names. It is almost getting too late to ask again.

And what was I dreaming about? I don't remember that either. Something. It vanished like mist in the sun at the sound of the knock at the door, feeling of mosquito net at my fingertips.

Paul arrives tomorrow - an interesting kettle of fish to be cooked there. He is going to love it here. On the morrow I shall pretend to be tour guide in Avarua, and perhaps make some coffee. something low key.

In the meantime I mourn my failed mango endeavour. I found one low enough to reach. It smelled like mango and looked like mango and was disappointingly apple green inside and tasted far too bitter. Lesson for tomorrow: What do ripe mangoes look like?

Bienvenue et Tahiti!

2007-01-15T14:47:00.000-08:00

January 15, 2007 - Rarotonga via Papeete

The warm welcome at Papeete, Tahiti, and eventually at Rarotonga, made the very long haul worthwhile.

The journey began in Edmonton, with a flight to Vancouver, then to Los Angeles. Then the long night flight began. Over eight bumpy hours later, we were informed of our descent into Tahiti, and told we would all have to disembark. Tahiti had been my original plan, until I read about the Cook Islands. We exited the aircraft into a warm tropical mist, the breeze bathing us in humidity. Before entering the airport, we were greeted by ladies handing out flowers. Once inside, there was no evidence of computers. The terminal was constructed to appear tropical. As we entered the waiting area, we walked by a garden with three carved wooden gods. Upstairs was a cafe that poured a gorgeous shot of espresso. I put my two bits down and received French Polynesian Francs in return. The crema of the shot tasted of earth, that same way dirt smells wet when you water the garden after a long period of time. I did not ask but assumed it was probably Tahitian coffee. I scoped out the gift shops, but decided against purchasing any coffee because it did not come in whole beans, meaning if I tried it in Rarotonga, it would be quite stale by the time I got home.

A deluge escorted us back to the aircraft, soaking everyone in the process. Wet and warm, we awaited takeoff for Rarotonga.
My seat was an aisle seat in the centre section, right at the front of the wing. The way the aircraft is configured, not only did I not have a window, I did not have any way of stealing a peek out anyone else's window. I did not see the island from the air before we hit the tarmac. My teeth jarred a little and after a familiar sense of floating, we fell back to the runway for the last time.

Kia Orana!

The greeting at Rarotonga was not as pretty as in Tahiti. The terminal building is old and shows its age, and there are no nice Polynesian design touches. Once inside we were entertained by a local with a ukulele while we endured the very slow customs lines. Again, no sign of computers. Once through customs (they confiscated the Tahitian flower I'd tucked behind my ear) I was met by Adrienne and given a lift to my fabulous new home.

Tiare Village is almost equidistant between the airport and the town of Avarua. It is made up of several A-frame self-contained chalets, the main house, and a couple of pool units. The chalets hold four people and each has its own kitchen and bathroom. I love my little chalet. I have one of the upstairs rooms, and unless I am quite mistaken, I believe the tree right outside my window is a mango tree. This guess is only supported by the ripe mango that is going to have to rot on my roof - because I don't trust the roof enough to go out there and get it. My goal for today is to find a mango for dinner. Not walk back into town and buy one, but actually find one.

The four sides of the chalet are surrounded by window-tickling jungle. I recognize frangipani, and I think I saw pohutukawa, but that is about it. All I can hear is the wind in the leaves, the sounds of exotic birds, and the gentle babble of the stream really nearby.

Adrienne took me and two other travellers for a driving tour of Avarua, dropping us where we wanted to go. It is a small town with not much going on other than retail. The Cafe is unfortunately closed for the rest of January. It had the best coffee in town, which means I am down to the rest of the cafes, none of which particularly specialize in coffee but will make some if you ask. The lady who was in the soap shop told me the Bus Stop Cafe makes one of the best espressos in town. I put it on my list for tomorrow morning.

Holy mother of god. A rather large rooster.... two rather large roosters are making their way across my back yard, mere feet from my wide open door. House lizards I can handle but not house roosters!

There are roosters and chickens all over the place and the three cows I saw did not appear to be penned in any way shape or form. There are some fences around property but mostly ti seems to be natural boundaries - hedges and the like.

I have not yet seen either the large flying cockroaches or the giant centipedes. I believe the mosquitos more than make up for that in their tenacity. Special thanks to Mum again for the most useful birthday gift in the history of birthday gifts: my mosquito net. Without it I doubt I'd get any sleep at all. The mosquitos still buzz around even though I am covered in repellant infused with DEET that is specially formulated to last for six hours at a go. The only option there is the possibility of Dengue fever. I know little about it other than if you take Asprin to get rid of the fever, you will start to bleed internally. No thank you very much.

Rarotonga appears to be a little-inhabited paradise. I tried to look at the mountain Te Mangua, also known as The Needle, today, but its needle was obscured by rain clouds. I expect that is all the exploring I am likely to accomplish today - little sleep makes for a nice low-key, relaxing day. Hunting mangoes. I'll let you know if I get lucky.

Holy mother of god! The rooster is back. I did not see him but he was so loud I jumped. Hope he doesn't like mangoes.

That old familliar itch...

2007-01-04T15:00:00.000-08:00

Ten days left. I didn't count the days this time until just now. It is a crazy feeling to know that my trip is happening so soon and almost everything is actually ready. I suppose it is an achievement of some sort to know that I can organize an overseas trip and be completely prepared in the span of a month.

As some fine folks will be aware, the original plan was to go to Australia. This did not pan out for reasons I will not go into now. My immediate instinct was to flippantly suggest that I was going to Tahiti to finish writing my book. That night I checked into Tahiti and accidentally stumbled across some accomodation that sounded like paradise. The hitch to the plan, of course, was that it wasn't located in Tahiti. It was, in fact, on some island called Rarotonga somewhere in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

A few hours later I had all but planned a trip to the Cook Islands (green arrow on the map). Rarotonga is the largest of the Cook Islands. Its airport is serviced from North America by only three airlines - Air Tahiti, United and Air New Zealand. The kiwis are the cheapest flight and all flights have a stop in Tahiti as it is also remote and on the way.

Upon landing at Rarotonga I have been informed the wait lines are horrendous - but to stave off boredom and cranky air travellers, there is always a local live band playing in the terminal and quite often visitors are greeted with 'ei around their neck - the Cook Islands version of the more well known Hawai'ian lei.

My little piece of paradise is called Tiare Village. The internet tells me they will kick out rowdies, which makes me happy. My guidebook tells me that there is nothing fancy about Tiare Village, but it is clean and has all the practicalities a budget traveller needs. It also has a private library for guests as well as freedom for guests to pick ripe fruit in the garden. Anyone who knows how much I love mango probably knows that this was a drawing point for me. It is down the road from the beach, a bit off the beaten track (there are two roads that run into Avarua - The Main Road, and the back road) on the back road and very nearby a supermarket and the island's only real town. It is far from the tourist centre of Muri Beach, and almost on top of the trailhead for the cross island walk. I get a discount if I rent a bicycle for a week at a time (yes, this time I am bringing my own lights, lock and helmet) and I am looking forward to riding around the island on one of the days I am there.

I do not have to worry about malaria for once, but apparently dengue fever is a concern. Thanks to mum for my NZ birthday gift of the mosquito net! The island has no deadly creatures, but apparently a bite from a giant centipede can hurt a fair bit - the local remedy is to break off a leaf from a rubber tree and rub the rubber juice over the sting or bite.

Local customs sound fairly similar to NZ Maori customs (the locals are the Cook Islands Maori) with one exception: apparently if you are heading out on the town, you are expected to wear a flower behind your ear. The right ear says you are taken, the left ear says you are single. My book did not tell me if this was a gender specific thing, or if I will see a bunch of men with flowers behind their ears.

Souvaniers of note that I will attempt to acquire are the Cook Islands 3 dollar bill, and their unique triangular coin. Cook Islands currency is apparently equal in value to NZ dollars and both will be floating about on the island.

I am not sure how well I will be able to upload photos while I am gone - I know long blocks of text are draining to read on a computer. There are a couple places on the island that have wi-fi - those who are tech savvy know that that means I can bring my laptop in and have my own personal internet. If the connection is slow I won't likely upload many photos because at $9 an hour, I figure everyone can just wait to see them until I get home.

10 days and counting!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Cambodia Revisited

2006-04-29T13:41:00.000-07:00

A piece of music from war-torn Somalia reminds me why I write this. It is not for me. It is for the bones I walked over.

Cambodia is not a place I particularly want to revisit. If a friend were going, I would strongly recommend a fierce-looking large man for a travel companion. I would not try to talk anyone out of going, but I would relate my experience. Consider carefully. It changed my life.

I don't talk about Cambodia often. It has left a strange taste in my mouth. When I read stories of Afghanistan and Iraq in the papers, I keep thinking if there is ever peace, five years later either one could look a lot like the Cambodia I experienced.
I cringe when I read in the papers that Cambodia is a safe, multi-party democracy (Edmonton Journal, Feb. 25, 2006). It is neither. If you have USD$300 a day to drop on your guided tour, you might be given that impression. But if you are a backpacker overlanding the country on a shoestring, you will see neither a multi-party democracy nor will you feel particularly safe.

I do not consider a country where the leader of the opposition has spent the better parts of the last few years in exile to be a multi-party democracy. Perhaps this is a matter of opinion. On paper, multi-party democracy exists in Cambodia. In practice, the opposition and human rights activists are threatened with prison unless they apologize for their behavior to the Prime Minister.

There is no such thing as safety in a country where the people are so desperate to survive. Anarchy rules the streets; everything is used to make a profit. In tourist centres, happy pizzas are as common as money-changers. Guns are somewhat visible, and machetes are as common as tools there as umbrellas in London. These days they are used for making your dinner, but it is not a great stretch to imagine if a few choice things went wrong, they could be used on you.

I hadn't planned to visit Cambodia. It took me about a month to get used to the idea, and another few weeks of reading to try and understand what I was walking into. Our first border crossing, from Thailand, had only become legal in the last few years. We'd heard stories that it was unsafe to be out after dark, and that use of weapons was rampant. We were going to Phnom Penh to visit the Killing Fields and we were told they weren't finished cleaning them up. We were told there was a tree where babies were bashed to death. We were told the roads were unsafe, possibly impassible, and that getting from Phnom Penh to Siem Reap would be difficult and unsafe. But once there, in the sanctuary of Angkor, we could breath again in relative safety and tranquility before braving the long road to Poi Pet, a wild west town trying to revive itself as the dirty Las Vegas of the east.

My guidebook had a lot of information on Cambodia. This was not a good sign because it was a book designed to have the most information on the countries that were the most difficult to visit.

Cambodia had a number of different names in the past 35 years, and its immediate history is as tumultuous as ice in a blender. On April 17, 1975, the Khmer Rouge, led by Pol Pot, entered Phnom Penh, ending Cambodia’s five year civil war and beginning a series of atrocities that would see between one and three million of the country’s people – just over a quarter of Cambodia’s total population – brutally massacred. Being on the Khmer Rouge’s hit list wasn’t difficult. If you were a simple, uneducated, hard-working peasant not prone to exploiting others, your chances were better than average for survival. Everyone else was considered an enemy of the state. Family relationships were dismantled. Religion, private ownership and money were banned. Communications with the outside world were eliminated.

The murders and terror continued until January 7, 1979, when the Vietnamese entered Phnom Penh. Cambodia was then placed in the care of Hun Sen, a man who fell out of favour with the Khmer Rouge when he defected to the Vietnamese in early 1978.

Cambodia is currently enjoying a period of anarchistic quasi-stability. Hun Sen remains Prime Minister. While I was in Asia he openly berated those who gave money to Tsunami victims while not giving money to fund Cambodia’s human rights trials of former Khmer Rouge members. Shortly after that he welcomed with a VIP reception a man who had been among Pol Pot’s elite cadres, granting him amnesty from his past human rights offences in exchange for defection to the government.

This kind of corruption extends throughout the country where everything is for sale. Our first experience was crossing the border from Thailand to Kroh Kong, a chaotic land border crossing. We were escorted into a little room while fighting to keep our bags (no, thank you, I really do want to carry my own bag) and given a form to fill out saying we didn’t have SARS. The whole thing was a small-scale extortion scheme. At the time I felt scammed, but looking back I don't mind a bit. It was a hassle, but the men running the circus can now feed their families or maybe even send their children to school. I can't argue with that.

A car claiming to be a taxi took us from the border checkpoint to the boat dock. Most taxis weren't marked, merely men with cars offering rides for money. There is one boat a day from Kroh Kong to Sihanoukville, where we planned to spend the night, and it leaves at 8:00 a.m. However, the driver of our car assured us that if we stopped to change our money the boat would wait. We weren’t so sure but changed money anyway. The brick of Riel I acquired in place of my USD$100 wasn’t going to fit in one piece in my money belt or anywhere else. I, like many others, had come into Cambodia carrying a large stash of cash, because while many Khmers carry cell phones, the country was devoid of ATMs. (In the last six months, an Australian bank has opened an ATM that accepts foreign cards in Phnom Penh.)

From Kroh Kong to Sihanoukville, the road is either unsafe or simply unfinished. My guidebook said there wasn't a road, but that building one had been planned. I wasn’t able to determine which because at the border the only option presented to us was the boat. Like many forms of public transportation in Asia, the boat stopped to pick up anyone who flagged the captain down on the way. When we arrived at the pier in Sihanoukville, we were met by hoards of motorbike taxi (moto) and car taxi drivers, all wanting our business. Negotiating a cab fare was trickier than it looked, and after a morning battling touts, I was in no mood to argue and every mood to get to our hotel and not have ten people grabbing my bag and another five trying to offer me a ride or a deal. I had no idea when we left the calm rationality of Thailand what we were getting into, and the intensity was overwhelming.

Apparently most people stay at one of Sihanoukville’s beaches, but since we were only staying one night we picked a hotel in the city’s downtown area. Luck had it that our hotel was across the road from the bus depot where we would be catching our GST bus to Phnom Penh.

GST is the public bus company. This, of course, spawned a discussion with my Australian friend on our respective Prime Ministers’ promises to abolish our GST, which we carried on mostly to persuade the two or three moto drivers vying for our attention that we really weren’t interested in paying for a ride anywhere. (If you stay somewhere long enough and always walk everywhere, the drivers stop offering you rides and start teasing you good naturedly for consistently refusing a lift.)

Sihanoukville was our first exposure to the true Cambodia. It was raw, dirt poor, and vaguely frightening because after the chaos of the border crossing, we had no sense of whether or not it was safe. Stories abound of weapons and lawlessness in Cambodia, fueling our unease. Outside a cafe frequented by diplomats in Phnom Penh there was a guard sitting beside a sign advising patrons to check their weapons at the door, and some of Phnom Penh’s wealthier estates had armed guards. Downtown Sihanoukville showed no signs of violence. The roads were crowded with motorbikes and as dusk fell, the air filled with the smell of charcoal cooking fires.

Down the road from our hotel was a coffee shop owned by a mad English bloke. The coffee exceeded expectations, as did the conversation, but the details have been all drowned out by the presence of three or four children mumbling pleas and begging in the bushes beside our table. We had no idea what to do. If we gave to one, we might suddenly be mobbed by ten of them. It was possible they all worked for the same adult, and wouldn't have actually received any of our money at the end of the day. We had no idea how much was too much or too little to give, and there weren’t enough westerners where we were to guarantee the kids would have sufficient income if we ignored them, which we tried to do, all the while feeling absolutely awful.

In the morning we hopped on the bus to head north to Phnom Penh, USD$4. We lucked out with the kids begging and selling things at rest stops during the bus rides, because we both carried our small hand drums. Kids love drums. So do the grownups. It seems like everywhere we went we were asked to bang out a rhythm or two or three, and people asked to try the drum. Kids in particular liked it and crowded around in groups, having forgotten they were trying to sell something or beg and just asked to play the drum for 30 seconds. If you plan on traveling to Southeast Asia any time soon, I recommend doing it with a hand drum.

Phnom Penh is a city unlike any other. We stayed at a guesthouse on the lake, and other than the handful of guesthouses, the lake was surrounded by little shacks of wood and corrugated metal scraps. The tiny shacks were often smaller than my bedroom at home and would not meet Canadian building codes. Further from the lake near the Canadian/Australian Embassy, the architecture started showing French colonial influences. Buildings and estates were grand things with high fences and often armed guards. I looked at the estate owned by the Church of Jesus Christ that was large enough to comfortably house my entire extended family and I wondered what Jesus would think of their grand estate while the locals live in the shacks.

The primary purpose for staying in Phnom Penh was to visit the killing fields of Choueng Ek and the Toul Sleng torture museum. However, much to our delight the city had attractions enough to keep us highly amused while we procrastinated, mostly in the small tourist ghetto near the lake. Slightly further afield we tried to watch monkeys in a public park, but to our dismay we ended up being the sideshow. Apparently it is uncommon for westerners to sit in that particular park as we were quickly surrounded by limbless and child beggars, hawkers and gawkers. We didn’t stay long.

Finally, when it could no longer be avoided, we spent a day crossing the fields of hell. It is far more disturbing than the death camps from the Second World War; so much of it simply has not been cleaned up.

The museum was filled with extremely disturbing facts and graphic photos. The fields looked clean from a distance, but upon closer inspection I realized even on the footpaths I was walking on several someones’ graves. Bones, bones, bones. Bits of clothing shoddily half buried. Tree roots wrapped into the ground around bones. Mass graves not deep enough to burry me to the knees. And the Khmer Rouge would have. Me, my entire family, every one of my friends. Bones and clothing even buried in the ground under my feet, starting to surface. Bones under my feet.

A stupa (Buddhist burial fixture) housing skulls. Skulls that used to belong to the faces in the haunting photographs hanging in the Tuol Sleng Prision museum. Estimates of between one and three million tortured and dead and the UN hasn't yet raised enough money for the trials of those Khmer Rouge members responsible.

Kids play on the steps of the stupa and on the paths in between the main grave pits, bicycle tyres riding over bones. The tree where they bashed babies and young children to death has a placard around it so that you know it is The Tree. Other trees have at their bases piles of clothing bits and bones.

Bones haunt me. Why was the Khmer holocaust and the Killing Fields of Choeung Ek never a part of my high school curriculum?

You probably want to know why I went to visit such a gruesome site. The answer is simple. Think of everything you did today, right from getting up until going to bed. Then imagine all of your friends and family and think of what they did all day today.
Then picture them all dead in shallow pits, bashed to death to save the cost of bullets, probably while you watched.

Now you might begin to get an idea of why I went.

I began to gain an appreciation for why Cambodia felt so full of anarchy - if you had been repressed and brutalized for years, wouldn't doing something simply because you can have appeal?

The Khmer people have developed incredible ingenuity from years of having to make do with nothing. The krama, a large checkered scarf, is an integral part of Khmer fashion and also has many practical uses. The first kramas were red and white, and later a blue and white variety cropped up. Near the end of its reign, the Khmer Rouge used the blue and white kramas to identify northerners who opposed their rule. Today kramas come in all the colours of the rainbow, and for the most part are not associated with certain groups, although the blue and white kramas are sometimes sought by foreigners who wear them in remembrance of the slain northerners.

Kramas can often be found wrapped around the owner’s head and covering his mouth against dust and exhaust fumes from vehicles, or covering the back of his neck. Kramas are used to wipe tables, sling babies, carry things and stuff a flat bike tyre until you reach a patch shop. It works as a towel, a makeshift sarong, and a belt. I used mine to tie my flashlight to the front of my bike one night. It is not uncommon for people to own more than one krama, and if you are going to spend any appreciable amount of time in Cambodia, it is invaluable.

The other distinct element of Khmer fashion is the sarong. They're not sarongs like we think of them in the west, brightly tie-dyed and imported from Goa or Bangkok. The Khmer sarong is patterned in a style reminiscent of Samoan art and I didn’t see too many with fringes.

During the journey from Phnom Penh up to Siem Reap, villagers could be seen near the road. Always we saw men. Women either hung near the doorways or stepped inside when we arrived. In Phnom Penh we could hear their laughter as they did our laundry, but we never saw the wash women. Men did all the tourist driving, ran the hotels and took our laundry from and returned it to us.

Our guesthouse in Phnom Penh arranged a guesthouse for us in Siem Reap and had a driver pick us up at the bus. This is a very smart idea because otherwise you will be mobbed by touts struggling to grab your bag from you and take you to the guesthouse of their choice as you get off the bus. It was a very welcoming sight to see a man with a huge smile carrying a sign saying Mr. Paul and Miss Jeno.

Siem Reap is an interesting little town. It can be crossed by bike in a short period of time, and the town itself didn’t appear to have any attractions that compared with the magic of Angkor. We stayed in two guesthouses, both beside crocodile pits, the most memorable with the least scary crocodiles being the Dead Fish.

A hotelier from Thailand decided Siem Reap needed an affordable yet funky retreat from the usual standard, and thus the Dead Fish was born. The sign on the restaurant advertises they don't serve dog, cat, rat or worm. The restaurant itself has many shoes-off raised eating platforms and is very classy. They feature live traditional Khmer music and dance, and also rotate two Thai piano players, one who is blind. The guesthouse is loaded with style as well. We were put up in number 17, a room in the Lonely Lodge, upstairs past the crocodile pit. The room itself was nice, carpeted even – the first carpeted room I had since I left New Zealand – and a hot shower. Downstairs each of the rooms were named after different hotel chains - the Ramada, the Sofitel, the Hilton. Within opening hours of the guesthouse salon/spa, manicures, pedicures, head massages, shaves and haircuts were all free to guests.

After acclimatizing to the town, we made our first foray to the temples. Located 12 kilometers north of town, the temples can be accessed by tuk tuk for USD$5 per day, or a bicycle can be rented for USD$1 to USD$2 per day. While tuk tuks require less effort, riding a bike allows you to interact with the locals in a way that you wouldn't otherwise be able to.

Adding to the atmosphere outside a couple of the temples were traditional Khmer musicians. Khmer traditional music is very melodic. There are varieties of oriental violins, a drum vaguely similar to the Middle Eastern doumbek, and a hammer dulcimer. The phenomenon of the music and musicians near the temples is particularly unique because the musicians are all crippled, most the victims of landmines. Instead of begging on the streets, they have been retrained as musicians and sell their albums to tourists.

As we left yet another temple, we were gifted with the sound of tiny voices rising from the gate. Children were on raised platforms carved into the arch, singing and performing traditional dance for the visitors.

When we visited the temple of Ta Prohm (famous for trees growing out of the crumbling walls) the second time, we waited for the tourists to disperse, and talked a bit with Niem, the temple’s sole resident. If you are not sure who I'm talking about, go to a book store and look at the cover of the Lonely Planet guide for Cambodia, where you will find his picture. He was very gentle and quiet and seemed happy to pose for the camera with his copy of the Lonely Planet. Some internet research later uncovered that the Khmer Rouge had murdered his entire extended family.

The Bayon was another memorable temple. It seemed to be run entirely by Buddhist nuns. The complex has many towers, each with a face carved into it - the face of Avalokitsivara, the Buddha of Compassion. It was a very peaceful place and throughout our visit, nuns handed us lit incense and invited us to pray in front of the temple's many shrines to Buddha. When I returned home I tried to study Cambodia's nuns, but literature is nonexistent. They are not ordained, and like the country's monks, were disrobed during Khmer Rouge rule.

Finally we took the plunge and visited the actual temple of Angkor Vat. We arrived mid morning, parked our bikes, and sat on the stone bridge over the moat. I threw stones from New Zealand into the water and we took a moment to appreciate just being at the entrance.

Inside the vat I felt something turn me to the right. Down a corridor I was drawn to a saffron-wrapped statue of a Hindu god, Vishnu. I lit incense and fell to my knees to pray. I felt visible white energy fill me, and I swayed a bit. I felt an incredible urge to open my mouth and sing the song that has no tune in the universal language but the voice inside me was no longer mine. I kept my mouth shut because I wasn't sure if it was culturally taboo to sing while in prayer.

As we made our way around the second level, a young monk visiting from Thailand stopped us to talk, practicing his English. He spoke very well.

Inside the complex after lunch we made our way to the inner/uppermost sanctum. After an extremely steep ascent we observed four Buddhas in shadow, one facing east, south, west and north.

We undertook nearly our entire Angkor visit by bicycle, which presented its own set of challenges. First, you must understand Cambodian drivers are not like drivers back home. Aside from the vigorous tootling of horns (and if you don’t have a horn on your bike you are expected to use your voice as you pass someone), you must constantly be aware of everything and then some in order to not die. Yes, those mammoth huge trucks will pass you and nearly take your handle-bars off. Yes, those tour buses expect you to ride on the shoulder as they blow by. Intersections are a real treat - nobody stops. You weave in and out of everyone else relatively slowly. If you go backwards you're as good as dead and if you stop your chances aren't great either. Keep moving. Traffic will move around you, but you need to have the Gonads of Steel to move with the traffic first.

Potholes are another menace of Cambodian roads. They are frequent, large, surprising, and they will jump up and bite you if you aren’t paying attention.

Having a flat tyre on your bike is not a big deal near Siem Reap, even half way between town and the temples, because it seems like there is a place to have your tyre patched around every other corner. This we discovered twice in one day, the second blown tyre leading to a whole new adventure: biking 12 kilometers from the temples back to town in the dark. Never have I seen a better case for the use of bicycle lights, and never again will I leave home without them. Thankfully, I had my flashlight in my bag, which I tied to my handle-bars with my krama, making us at least visible, though it didn't cast much light outward.

Traversing Cambodian roads at night by bicycle is not something you really want to do. You can't see the potholes and other road traffic can’t see you. You can't see the pedestrians on the side of the road until you are pretty well on top of them – heck, most of the time you can't even see the edge of the road. Luckily, two young students on a motorbike rode beside us most of the way in the dark so that we could see by their headlight until we reached the lights at the edge of town, and we arrived surprisingly and thankfully without incident.

Cambodia’s roads are generally in abysmal condition. The road, if you want to call it that, from Siem Reap to the border at Poipet is pure and unequivocal hell. A trip barely over 100 kilometers ended up taking a stomach-churning six hours that left my back feeling like I received a mild dose of whiplash. Sand, rocks, dips, potholes, one washed out bridge we had to go around, pavement, no pavement, piles of rocks in the middle of the road, other vehicles awaiting repair after the road claimed one of their wheels, and oncoming traffic were some of our obstacles.

Once we finally arrived at the border in Poipet, we were, for the first time since we started the journey, completely ignored. No offers for tuk tuk, boom boom, drugs, new suit, food, drink, shoe shine or whatever else you can dream up. On the Cambodian side of the border, the entrance to customs and immigration from Thailand was lined with limbless/homeless/child beggars. On the Thai side, little girls carrying crying babies were wandering among the tourists begging. The girls were barely bigger than the babies.

We decided we needed water, and between the Cambodian and Thai borders was a large outdoor seating area with drinks. It felt strange to have been stamped out of one country but legally not be in any country after that.

The Thai side of the border felt nothing short of unbelievably welcoming. Due to the obnoxious condition of the so-called-road, we missed the last train to Bangkok by about 15 minutes, meaning we had a night to spend in Aranyaprathet. Not mentioned in anyone's guidebook, we had no map, no clue as to whether or not there were any guesthouses in town, and flew by the seats of our respective pants quite blindly, with a fun outcome. The town is deliciously Thai, and quite clearly they don't see many foreigners, or Farang in Thai – we elicited more than our fair share of stares from locals. The internet cafes were few and far between and full of kids playing noisy games.

Life was returning to what we had come to accept as normal, and the intense chaos and desperation of Cambodia started to fade into a memory of the enchantress who kicks you in the teeth, leaving you wondering whether or not you can ever return.