2013 World Trip Part 2

The next day began slowly – as hangovers tend to do – yet this one never fully set in, thank God. Funnily enough we were in no hurry to be going anywhere but nevertheless had made plans with our taxi driver the day before and needed to keep to them. Ten O’clock rolled around and we lazily wandered downstairs. The difference in humidity between our room and the hallway was incredible. We’d had the air-conditioner on overnight and it had made the room quite pleasant. The moment I stepped out into the hall however, I was instantly reminded of what country I was in – the difference was literally that extreme.

We found the driver right where he said he’d be, piled into his INCREDIBLY clean Toyota Camry and headed off. This is where I noticed the first of many differences between Australia and Cambodia. There probably are, but it seems like there are no discernible road rules in Cambodia. It is the most intimidating thing when you come from a country has such structured laws and harsh penalties for breaking them and go to a country where people basically just do what they want.

The driver nudged his car out into traffic – didn’t give way, just… went. There was this odd ebb and flow to the traffic; it never truly stopped and never really got going. People were honking all around but it wasn’t an angry thing like it is in Australia. It’s not like a:

                ‘Hey, tosser! You did such-and-such wrong!’ kind of thing. 

It’s more like a:

                 ‘Here I am!’ kind of thing. 

Everyone is just letting everyone know where they are and if possible to move over just a bit to let them through. It’s such a radically different system from what I was used to but for the most part – oddly enough – it seemed to work.

The amount of bikes – bicycles, motorcycles and tuk-tuks – was incredible. They were EVERYWHERE! And when they weren’t on the road, they were parked en masse up on the sidewalk. Everyone uses motorbikes to get around and I could completely see why. They’re small, light and nimble. They can travel routes that cars just can’t. However – like we saw – they’re easily knocked over, which is a bit of a hazard. It didn’t stop people from piling onto motorcycles two or three at a time. It was a regular occurrence to see a man driving a scooter, his wife on the back and their toddler just standing at the man’s feet. If that happened in Australia, it would cause chaos! We pour so much money into child safety equipment and awareness, so to see something like that and so frequently is quite an eye-opener.

The drive opened up Phnom Penh – the perpetual construction work (that didn’t quite seem to be getting anywhere); the piles upon piles upon piles of telephone/ electrical wires that snaked from post to post just metres off the ground; the unnerving chaotic nature of it all. Slowly, the traffic began thinning out and it became apparent that we were reaching the outskirts of the city. Slowly the grime of the inner CBD was replaced by the grime of the countryside trying to work its way inward. I loved this. This was exactly what I came to see – a world that was so radically different from the one I had just left. It was also quite intimidating for that very reason. 

We reached the countryside and the driver managed to open the Camry up. Country driving seemed to have its own set of rules as well; bikes ride on the side of the road, cars honk at the bikes for them to get out of the way and the biggest thing on the road gets right of way – at least that’s how I saw it. The car began to slow and we saw the walls of what we had come to see – The Killing Fields. Stay with m, it gets a bit morbid from here on in.

The driver parked and let us know that he would be waiting for us on our return. We moved through the gates and received a map and little plastic headsets with audio tours programmed into them. The aim was to move around a route dictated by the map and to enter a number into the headset that corresponded with a particular area of the journey. I had initially gone into this place with the mentality of

                ‘It’s part of the country’s history; might as well see it.’ 

I wish I hadn’t been so blasé about it. As we were slowly moving from point to point as advised on the map, each tale we were being told brought us right back to Earth, reminding us exactly what this place was and how utterly despicable human beings can be.

I think one of the big misunderstandings – at least it was for me – was thinking that this particular area was the only one of its kind in the country. In fact, these grounds were just one of HUNDREDS where people were brought and brutally murdered in cheap and undignified ways. During the seventies, a cruel dictator named Pol Pot took power, saying that he planned to unify the country, that everyone was going to be ‘equal’. It was quickly obvious that the man was no more than a power-hungry dictator who slaughtered tens of thousands during his four years in charge. He simply took out anyone he thought would be competition or a danger to his cause. He basically determined what would be a threat on a second-to-second basis. These could range from people from his own military that disagreed with him, to doctors, lawyers and other educated people, right down to ‘intellectuals’ which could simply be people that wore glasses. It was also described that Pol Pot would kill entire families so there would be nobody left to take revenge. I think the thing that blew me away the most was that this didn’t happen hundreds of years ago – this happened within the last 40 years. 

The ‘Killing Fields’ were where people were brought in the dead of night in trucks and beaten, hacked or slashed to death. In the early days of Pol Pot’s regime, it would maybe happen once or twice a month. Towards the latter days, it was a nightly event, with some people being put in blacked-out buildings overnight to await their execution the next day. I’ll just repeat for emphasis that this particular site was just one of hundreds – HUNDREDS – where this happened.

 

Rain peppered us as we followed the trails and listened to horrible stories of the precious few people that managed to survive and the horrible hardships they had to endure to do so. We saw giant depressions in the earth – the sites of excavated bodies now filled in due to the movement of soil thanks to the rain. In some areas, the constant shifting of the soil brought bones still yet to be found to the surface. There were boxes of rags and bones that were still being discovered to this day. At a lookout over a lake, an old and weathered femur lay discarded. At the centre of it all stood a giant temple – a memorial to the fallen. Inside the temple are the skulls found by teams during the countless excavations simply stacked on top of each other. The building is huge. The monument is staggering. 

Ian and I left the area quite shaken up, more than I thought I was going to be. I didn’t think the experience would be so personal, so touching. I think the inclusion of the individual stories of survival really drove home the true nature of what had happened. We stepped back through the gate and the soundtrack instantly changed. Gone was the backing track of crickets chirping, back in place was the hustle and bustle of the constant snaking traffic and people living their lives just metres away from the site where these horrible atrocities occurred.

Ian and I stopped for a quick bite to eat at one of the local vendors before we piled back into the drivers’ car and made our way to the second destination – the shooting range. We had begun feeling more like ourselves when the food hit our stomachs, and more so with every extra kilometer we put between us and the Killing Fields.

We tracked along the long, twisting roads until we found a non-assuming dirt track, bordered with an overly decorative gateway. The driver aimed the car for this particular road and the hairs on my neck began to stand up. There was no reason for this in the end, but at the time I just couldn’t shake the feeling that this was the moment in the horror movie where the two naïve tourists in the strange, foreign land were dragged away, never to be seen again. I was nearly right too, but for a different reason than you might think. The driver got lost.

The further down the dirt road we went, the wetter we noticed it becoming. There were huge sections of the track that were just literal sludge, but on the driver went – slowly & carefully, but quite obviously lost. It was only after we’d made our way through at least the third mud pit that the driver pulled up to one of the shanty houses on the side of the road and asked for directions. The people obliged the driver by pointing in the direction we’d just come. Up until that point, I thought the driver was quite competent – I certainly wouldn’t be able to drive in those traffic conditions. Off road however, he seemed a lot less knowledgeable. This was immediately apparent when he attempted a three-point turn on an embankment, nearly bogging the car and only succeeding in bringing us to the bottom of it – although we were now facing the right way.

We slowly made our way back through the mud, the car sliding wildly as it lost traction. Ahead lay a patch of mud that we’d made our way through before and for the life of me, I can’t believe we didn’t get bogged on the first try. The driver approached cautiously and slowed down where I would’ve sped up. We entered the swampy mess at less than walking pace and within seconds, the car slid to a halt. We were going nowhere. Ian and I looked at each other nervously smiling – it was a VERY long walk home.

After ten minutes of a ‘drive-reverse-drive-reverse-repeat’ regime, the driver got out to assess the situation. The front wheels were bogged down in water and mud – it lapped at the underside of the car. He frowned and Ian and I remained helpfully silent. We watched as the driver worked to wedge slate stones under the tyres to attempt to add traction for his regime. I say attempt because it never worked. Not once. We were well and truly stuck. The driver shrugged and sighed. He looked at me in the back seat and pointed to the front of the car.

                ‘You drive?’ he gestured. ‘You drive. You drive, I push.’

And that, dear reader, was how on my second day on holiday, I found myself behind the wheel of a car bogged over axle-deep in muck in the countryside of Cambodia. You couldn’t have wiped the grin off my face if you’d tried. Gone were the ill feelings from before. Ian and I actually kept repeating the situation out loud, neither one of us believing what was happening. But it totally was. And we were drawing a crowd.

The driver was true to his word, he assumed a position at the bonnet and gave me the signal to let rip in reverse whilst he pushed with all his might. The only problem with that scenario was that the driver was not a particularly muscularly gifted young man. To call him the personification of a twig would not be entirely inaccurate. So he strained at the hood whilst I dipped my toes to the floor, the two of us getting quickly nowhere. That was before reinforcements showed up.

The crowd had tired of our non-changing routine. Four or five men stepped forth and joined the driver at the hood of the car. There was this fantastic moment where this man who had no teeth but was quite happy chomping on his cigarette walked towards us with this ‘right, this is boring, let’s get it finished’ kind of look on his face and rolled up his sleeves – despite him wearing a singlet. We all worked in unison and by that I mean I again pushed my foot to the floor while five or six men did all the work at the front of the car and Ian filmed it all. Nevertheless, it did the trick and the car rose from the stinking, foul mud! IT WAS FREE!!! Carefully, I drove back around the puddle (the route we probably should have taken in the first place instead of heading straight for the middle of the giant muddy hole in the ground) and a great cheer rang out among the locals. However, the cheer was mine alone. Everyone else kind of just… left…

The show over, we all resumed our places – the driver and the tourists – and before long, we were at the shooting range. The car slowed to a stop and we jumped out – happy not to be stuck in the mud this time. We were greeted by one of the men who had helped us free the car. He was a warm fellow, a huge smile plastered across his lips, trying valiantly to speak English. I say that as if I was doing a great job of speaking Cambodian. Regardless, he drew us inside and another man sat us at a table and dropped a laminated piece of paper in our laps. On this piece of paper were pictures and names of weapons and the price tags attached. The guns ranged from pistols to shotguns, bolt-action rifles, assault rifles, grenades and ever a freaking ROCKET LAUNCHER! They were quite expensive at $40-$45 a pop, so we each picked three. 

I chose the Glock 98 (one of two handguns they stated were available), the AK-47 (the most recognizable gun in the world) and the behemoth – the belt-fed light machine gun – the M60. You remember THAT scene in Rambo? The shirtless Sylvester Stallone goes on a rampage with the gun at his waist spewing forth molten lead death while he screams in the air? Chyeah. THAT gun. Ian chose the same pistol, a shotgun and the AK-47 as well. Once we were inside the shooting range (just a very long, dark hall) the workers wasted no time in getting us kitted up. I went first with the AK-47, single shots first before a few bursts at ‘full-auto’ brought my fun to a jarring halt. Ian shared the same experience. We both stared at each other between weapon changes, eyes wide, grins bigger than they should ever have been able to be. This was basically completing the fantasy I’d had since I was young – to just go nuts with these things (in a controlled way, of course).

Next, they pulled out a pistol and began readying it for my use. I’m not a huge gun-nut, but I knew straight away it wasn’t the Glock I’d asked for. Nevertheless, I took it in my hands (I think it was a KSY for those of you keeping track out there) and took aim at a few cans that had been laid out for me to lay into. Four out of the seven cans later, the gun clicked empty – the magazine had run dry. Ian was next to take hold of the handgun, squeezing off round after round, even holding the thing side on – ‘gangster style’ – for a round. Finally, the door swung open and there she was. Cradled in the arms of a huffing Cambodian, was the largest gun I’d ever seen – the M60. 

The bullet belt was oiled and loaded into the gun. The sights were set (although I was just firing at a wall) and I was shoved behind the weapon, my shoulder rammed into the stock. My fingers curled around the handle of the gun cautiously, wary of the power that I was about to unleash and – I’m not afraid to say it – pooing myself a little that this gun might misfire, explode and kill me. Not afraid enough to stop though. My free hand was directed against the stock of the gun and finally, the gun was cocked. I was given the order to shoot… and…

                *CLICK!*

I stepped out from behind the gun, confused. The men quickly stepped in, charged another bullet into the chamber, the unused one flying freely to the ground. I was directed back into the same position and…

                *CLICK!*

I was beginning to sense a pattern here. Ian and I giggled nervously while the men once again worked feverishly to load another bullet into the chamber. I jumped back behind the gun, finger squeezed the trigger and…

                *CLICK!*

I let out a sigh. This happened at least twenty times, I’m not even exaggerating. When at last the bullets finally flew, they flew two at a time and then the gun jammed again. But when they flew…

                *FWOOF! FWOOF!*

GOOD GOD THE NOISE! But the best was yet to come. Toward the end of the ammo belt, the gun seemed to ease up, so I began getting more bullets during each spray. 

                *FOOFOOFOOFOOFOOFOOF---CLICK!*

                (Re-chamber)

                *FOOFOOFOOFOOFOOFOOFOOFOOFOOF---CLICK!!!*

The adrenaline rush was one I have never had before. The rhythmic clunking of the gun against my shoulder mixed with the fire spewing from the barrel, the smoke clogging the air and the thick smell of gunpowder and grease was… I’m sorry to say… FUCKING AWESOME! Sadly, the gun eventually ran dry and that was me done. But as far as I was concerned, I could die happy. 

Ian stood up to the plate next, expecting a shotgun to appear. Instead, an M4 Assault Rifle was produced.

                ‘Shotgun broken! No good!’

Ian didn’t seem to mind as he let rip with automatic gunfire downrange.

                *BRA-A-A-A-A-A-P!!!*

But as before, it wasn’t long before the gun ran dry and quicker than we would have liked, our fun was over. We exited the range and took position near a gun rack, each taking turns posing with an array of weaponry for photos. We used the devastating Russian-made PKM (the M60’s match), Vietnam-War-Era M16’s and AK-47’s. Boys with their toys. Even our taxi driver got in on the action. It was awesome. Keep in mind the guns were not loaded at this stage. Probably could’ve got messy had they been.

AND THATS WHERE PART 2 ENDS!

Stay with me for more exciting escapades my dear sweet limited audience, coming to you whenever I have wi-fi. 

Follow the link to part 3:
http://ponderingoblong.blogspot.com/2013/06/2013-world-trip-part-3.html

2013 World Trip - Part 1

2013 Trip

Well, I had hoped to be handwriting this instead of typing, but now I just want to write these things down before I forget them. I mean, I’m filming this whole trip and taking photos, but that just means I’ll remember those specific things and I want to have a little more on record. 

My friend Ian Quin and myself had been planning a round-the-world trip for at least a year. Can’t remember how long. That’s irrelevant. Initially, the entire idea for the trip came about during a lunch time catch up between myself and another mate of mine Tom Oaklands. He was telling me about cruises he’d been on and all the travelling he’d like to do and I just thought, 

‘You know what? I want to travel too!’ 

So originally there were going to be four of us on the trip. Ian, Tom, Blake Morrell and I. But in the end after all was said and done, it ended up being just Ian and myself. Which wasn't too bad. Not REALLY...

So, in the days leading up to the flights, I was a bit stressed. My girlfriend and I were moving into an amazing apartment in Glenelg and I had four night shifts in Accident and Emergency. As if the moving wasn’t hard enough (I never want to touch those freaking chest of drawers ever again) the night shifts were SPASTIC busy. Had the SAME guy come in 3 out of the 4 nights, each with overdose related issues. I was exhausted by the end of it all.

However, it DID all come to an end and all of a sudden, I’m standing in my apartment with my bags all packed, surrounded by Ian  and our families. It was a bit like 

‘Oh, shit wait, what? We’re going now? Like, we’re actually doing this?’

 I was a little worried about my girlfriend because she’d just seen her sister off to America for something like 4 months the week before, now she was saying goodbye to me as well. I don’t want to big note myself here or anything, but I’m pretty fucking great. I’D be gutted if I left me. So we all made our way down to the airport, with Tara’s mum along for emotional support. Despite the fact that the apartment is a two minute drive from the airport and us all leaving at the SAME time, Ian thought he’d provoke some of my dormant anxieties by turning up late. 

We had checked in online the night before, so all we needed to do was chuck our baggage on and we were set. We’re at the desk and all of a sudden they’re bringing up things like ‘Do you have your VISA for Vietnam ready?’ and ‘Oh you DON’T have spare passport sized photos?’ And I’m left standing there like ‘Uh… No? Why would I? This has literally never been raised with us before.’ That must have solved whatever problems the ladies at Singapore Airlines were concerned about because quick as you’d like, our bags were on and we were back with our families. 

Ian and I grabbed some cash for the way over – some Singapore Dollars and US – and had our last few drinks with the family. We made our way to international departures, we kissed (well, I kissed Tara. Would’ve been a bit awkward if I’d kissed anyone else. I mean Tara was RIGHT THERE! She would’ve seen everything!) we hugged, and just like that, ian and I were in line at departures, the families would not be seen for another 5 weeks. I was filming absolutely everything, waving my little camera around like a mad man until Ian pointed out

‘Uh yeah, there are signs everywhere that say ‘No Cameras’. Like, literally, everywhere.’ So I quickly stuffed my little camera into my pocket and prayed I didn’t get tackled by security .

We made our way to the front of the line and Ian got called up to the frankly-too-attractive female immigration officer. It was at this point that I realized I had unknowingly made a new friend – there was an elderly Indian man practically humping my leg. He only had eyes for the lady behind the desk. I guess in his mind he was thinking 

‘Well, I’m NEAR the front of the line, so I MUST be next.’ Ian finished his business and before the lady had even called for the next person to be served (which would have been me) when the man pushed his way past me – literally shoved me out of the way. So I gave him a firm scolding and then made my way to the not-unattractive-but-I-don’t-float-that-way male immigration officer.

With my warmest, most award-winning smile plastered to my face so there would be no way of mistaking cheerful little me with an angry terrorist, I began getting processed. Within two seconds, the man had detected a problem. 

‘Ooh. Your passport. It’s a bit tatty, isn’t it?’ So he calls over some assistance to help him deal with the ‘tatty passport’ – which is legitimately what he called it on the radio. I get sent over to the overweigh-and –angry-with-his-life-choices male officer, he took one look at my passport before he shrugged his shoulders, threw it back to me and continued living his life in the fast lane.

I caught up with Ian in the departure lounge where we made friends with some lovely older ladies. One was an approximately 60 year old lady, the other was her mother. The latter was quite deaf which meant EVERYONE would be treated to their conversations whether they liked it or not. But they were nice enough, so I let them get away with it. Cheeky minxes, the two of them. Boarding begins for the front section of the plane so I remained seated. I was sitting basically at the end of a ramp that connects to a corridor that connects to the plane. I threw a glance towards the end of the ramp and saw an Asian lady clutching her head, holding onto the handrail with her other hand. I also happened to notice every single passenger walking by her, STARING at this lady, but not one of them offered to help. So I went over to her and asked if she was OK. I’m not sure if she didn’t speak English or just couldn’t speak, but she remained silent. The passengers had now started to act concerned for the lady, I’m guessing if I hadn’t shown an interest in the lady, she would’ve continued going unnoticed. I let some of the flight staff know about the lady and a wheelchair was brought out for her, escorting her away. I think they took her out the back and quietly put her down because I sure as hell didn’t see her get back on the flight. 

Our first flight was direct from Adelaide to Singapore. 7 hours. Saw some really cool things like lightning racing through the clouds at however-many-thousand-feet-up we were. I have to say, that time would’ve been incredibly tedious if it weren’t for the fact that I’d brought my Ninetndo DS and Pokemon Soul Silver. Pokemon  is FREAKING sweet. I leveled up my team, I took on my rival, you wouldn’t believe how riveting it was. I could tell you more, but I won’t. Just know that I could. But I won’t. 

But I totally could.

So Ian and I touch down in Singapore, quite tired despite sleeping on the plane. I don’t get that, why does travel make you so exhausted? Regardless, we arrived at midnight. I’d heard there was a cinema, a gym, a hotel, all the things you could ever want and more, but we had our priorities. We had to get Ian a boarding pass printed (all of mine had been printed in Adelaide, but for some reason they were unable to do the same with Ians.) and get passport photos for our VISA applications into Vietnam. Being midnight though, we didn’t really want to do anything, so when we found that we would be unable to print the boarding pass out until two hours before the flight, our priorities shifted – it was time to get some shut eye.

We made our way to the transit hotel, but found there were no rooms at the in. Luckily there was a place next door with ‘nap rooms’ available! But they were all in use as well. Tired, hungry and stinky, we wandered around until we happened upon the awesome ‘Snooze Lounge’ which is exactly what it says. Just a bunch of couches, and a bunch of people sleeping on them. I quickly shoveled some grub into me and made a beeline for a couch. I was asleep within moments. I was awoken with a start a few hours later by armed guards wanting to see our boarding passes. Ian was saying to me that from where he was sitting, a gun (though holstered) awaited him at eye level as soon as he was awake. Satisfied, the guards left and we drifted off again. 

We were woken by some other passenger’s alarm – each of us having slept through Ian’s despite the fact that it was right next to us. We made our way to Starbucks and smashed some food again. Turns out, toasted bagels with cream cheese are like putting small pieces of warm heaven in your mouth, I highly recommend it. We freshened up with a fresh coat of roll on deodorant and made our way to the desk for Ian’s boarding pass. After that had been done, we made our way over to terminal 2 (we were in terminal 3) to check the photographs off the list. With that sorted, I decided to check into a nearby ‘Cotton On’ as I was having serious doubts about the clothes I had packed. None of them were particularly light or well ventilated so thirty dollars and two polo tops later, I figured I had solved that problem. We mosied on back over to terminal 3 to wait out the remaining time until the flight. It wasn’t until the doors slid open that I realised I’d left my sunglasses back in Terminal 2. What was initially one quick trip became three as we hurried back to the store where id left them and back again.

Ian and I made ourselves quite comfortable in the departure lounge and became good friends with Heineken that slid down way too easily. Rosy-cheeked and ‘chilled as fuck’ as we would repeat countless times over the next few hours, we boarded the flight, no problems this time. 

I felt a pang of disappointment about leaving the Singapore Airport; not just that I’d been rudely torn away from the bar, but now I would be unable to ‘rate’ the toilets. Singapore airport had these little touch screens on the wall with a range of faces from smiley to miserable asking about how satisfied you were with the toilets. I couldn’t get enough. Smashed the ‘excellent’ face every time I saw one. Sometimes twice.

So we were on our way to Vietnam. Nothing really eventful happened that trip. I annoyed ian, trained the HECK out of my Pokemon (I think I’m gonna have to drop Beedrill from the list, touch as that decision is…) and napped. That’s it. We landed in Vietnam to cloudy, grey skies, thick humidity and patchy rain. We stepped off the plane onto the tarmac and crammed into a shuttle bus to take us to the terminal. I don’t mean crammed in a figurative sense here either people. I very much mean there were more people on this thing than it was designed to carry. I got very cuddly with an old man.

Ian and I rode the shuttle for a minute until it arrived at the building. We were shepherded through security with literally no checks despite the fact that I set off the metal detector. I mean, hey, I’m not complaining – I HATE having to take everything out of my pockets awkwardly – but it was still a bit like;

‘Yeah, you’re right. It COULD have been my belt buckle that set the alarm off. Of course it COULD also be this .357 Magnum I have tucked away in there too.’

We ambled down to our next departure gate as our next flight was going to leave around an hour after we had landed. We mulled around in there for a while with nothing really exciting happening. I mean, what did you want? It’s a recount of my tale so far, I didn’t say it was ALL going to be exciting. Greedy.

We jumped on a plane to Phnom Penh and I had just settled into a nice, cozy little doze when the Captain shrieked through the intercom that we were beginning our descent. I mean seriously. He didn’t even use his inside voice. I couldn’t believe it though, it honestly felt like we had JUST taken off and we were already landing. These places are THAT close to each other. Sure, you can SEE that on a map, but it was just a cool little ‘Wait, what?’ moment. 

Once we were in Phnom Penh, Ian and I had very different experiences with the immigration staff. We had filled out the seventeen bajillion (three) pieces of paper for our entrance and exit from the country and also our VISAs. When that was done, we walked down to the two men to be processed and allowed into the country. I had a nice, cheerful young fellow while Ian had this crabby, old thing. I was basically breezed through while Ian got the third degree from the cretin, getting his fingers scanned and all! (For the record, I didn’t get mine done. I’m a renegade.) So we came out of the airport and were beaten down by the humidity. It honestly felt like we were walking through a sauna. That has been largely consistent during our stay here – apparently it’s the rainy season here so I’m not entirely sure why I’m surprised.

Walking out into the mad throng of taxi drivers awaiting for us already, it was a relief to see ‘Matthew Tyler’ plastered on a piece of paper. The thousands of emails that I’d sent to the ‘Burly Guest House’ (our hotel during our stay in Phnom Penh) had been received and acted on. The guy holding the piece of paper couldn’t have been more than 18 but he swore he was 23. He took us in air-conditioned comfort to the Burly GH. Conversation was strained to say the least. He spoke relatively good English, but it was hard for me to find the right words to use so he would understand what I meant. For example, I told him that I was keen not to offend any of the locals by unknowingly breaking local customs so I asked him if there were any I should be aware of. After a long silence during which he processed everything I said, he very slowly replied:

                ‘…Yes…’

He did not elaborate. Obviously, he had been sworn to secrecy. I didn’t pry any further but I knew I’d have to tread lightly from there on in.

We reached the Burly Guest House and made arrangements for the same driver from the airport to pick us up the next day to take us to the Killing Fields and a shooting range. An odd combination, but we’ll not think too hard about that now shall we? After the kind hotel staff helped us get our belongings up to our room, we waited awkwardly for him to leave. It wasn’t until he’d backed out of the room, smiling and offering us prayer-like hand gestures that we realized he was totally waiting for a tip that entire time and we’d just come off as stuck-up western tourists that didn’t want to pay any more than they needed. Which was basically true but we didn’t intend to be so blatantly obvious about it so quickly.

Ian and I took a shower – separately, no funny business here thank you very much – and threw on some clothes that were less saturated with body odor. We trekked back downstairs (we were on the 8^th floor in the VIP room, aww yeah) and walked ALL THE WAY across the street to the Burly BBQ. It was a relatively small restaurant but it had a really cool lay out. In the centre were the stock-standard chairs and tables. Skirting the edges were these tables in the centre of four benches. It’s kind of hard to explain but you had to walk over your seat to sit at the table; it was awesome, just believe me.

We awkwardly traded some orders with our waiter who tried his very hardest to understand what we were saying, but in the end we simply jabbed our grubby little fingers at what we wanted on the menu – this tactic worked much better. I went for the ‘Fried Quail with something something’ option and Ian was disappointed when they couldn’t provide him with the ‘Lemon Beef’ he’d ordered, so he received ‘Deep-Fried Beef Something’ instead. It was his first foray with chopsticks and I thought he was doing really well until our overly-helpful-to-the-point-of-creepy waiter jumped in his lap, gave him a spoon and disappeared again. I’m not entirely sure that what I received was Quail, but what I know for certain was that it had every single bone left in it. I was sure that the pieces that didn’t have bone in them would have special bones placed IN them so they wouldn’t feel left out as they tried to choke me while I swallowed them. Washing the meal down was easy – I ordered one Heineken for Ian and myself and somehow received six. I was not unhappy with this.

Ian and I settled into our benches and regaled each other with marvelous tales of Pokemon. Things were going so well that we finished our beers, so I looked around for more. I saw on another table a group of men had ordered a beer tower (a HUGE jug with its own tap so you can pour more beer at your leisure) and made the incredibly smart decision that I must do the same. I received a worried look from the waiter who tried explaining to me that these things were supposed to cater for a minimum of four people, and that together, Ian and I only added up to two. I either didn’t understand or didn’t care – the more I think back on the event, the more I lean towards the latter – so I pushed on with the order. 

The waiter was literally standing at his beer tap for twenty minutes filling the jug. I had seriously underestimated how much beer these things would hold. We drew glances from literally everyone in the bar, and they weren’t even subtle about it. Who were these strange white boys that come to our bar and drink LITERALLY all of our beer?! I took my first glass of beer from the tower and my heart sank a little – there was no noticeable drop in the level of beer. I had probably just drained all of Cambodia of all of the beer it had ever had ever and now it was up to me to drink it. Ian joined in but it wasn’t long before the glasses started getting drained slower and slower and we had to admit defeat. I was particularly embarrassed because we had received such enthusiastic encouragement from some people one table over and now we were leaving in disgrace.

I paid for our meal - $20 USD. I was stunned when I saw the check. All that?! For HOW much?! So I did what any normal drunk person would do in that situation who had just remembered to tip people. I threw another $10 USD on top of it. And then I left really quickly and drunkenly because they were shocked beyond belief at what I’d done. I honestly thought for a second that I’d offended them in some way but got over that REALLY quickly because I was drunk. Ian and I stumbled to our rooms and passed out.

HERETH ENDETH PARTETH ONE...ETH. 

Hope you enjoyed that kiddies, I'm about to board a flight to Istanbul - a trip that will take around 11 hours. So battery life permitting, I'm going to type my little heart out and try to get up to date with this journal. 

Thank you for your time and I hope you enjoyed the read and even more importantly, I hope you will continue to do so!

If not, we're no longer friends.

Follow the link for part 2!: http://ponderingoblong.blogspot.com/2013/06/2013-world-trip-part-2.html

Why you will never be cooler than a Knight.

First order of business today dear reader is to release a hearty ‘woop’ to celebrate Matthew Tyler’s birthday. Yes this day forty years in the future the cyber entity Skynet in a desperate bid created a terminator like no other. This terminator after terminating Skynet and the rest of the human population travelled back in time on a quest to learn what it truly is to be human. It drank lots, partied more and developed quite the funny bone. Forgetting all about its quarrel with mankind it decided that it rather enjoyed our company, if only for the moment.

So today we celebrate the metaphorical (and in some cases physical) bullet we all dodged when the terminator decided not to kill us, thank you Matt Tyler for your mercy. I wish I could say he allowed us to survive from the hopes that mankind will one day be a pure and happy race, but that would be a lie. He’s just allowing us to breathe a little longer so we can create Avengers 2, and the other phenomenal movies coming out in a cinema near you.

So onto the meat of the matter, your lack of armor and sword! That’s right; there is a reason why we all love A Knight’s Tale! King Arthur! Merlin! And any other medieval movie or even game, that reason simply put? We all just want a sword.

In whose mind was it ever a practical or good idea to stop wearing these steel extensions of the human ego on daily jaunts out to get goods and services.

You’re walking in a clothes store, you catch a glimpse of yourself in a reflection, you seem hunched to one side and slightly down-trodden by society.

Now picture this, you catch a glimpse of yourself, your cape is billowing, your sword sits sheathed at your side evening your posture and your shoulders are squared with defiance. Nothing can change your mood, nothing can change your mind, you really are amazing.

That could be you! If you had a sword!

No more would people be able to bite their thumb at thee!

No more would they be able to quarrel!

Thumb biting and quarreling can be quite difficult with a short-sword wedged between your shoulders.

You could say what you want and do what you want and if anybody disagreed, then meet them on one of the fairest and most just battlegrounds we ever created, the dual.

Not only do you get to wear the sword, you can use it too! It’s a special two for one offer!

Surely this sounds like a fantastic idea right? No? Really? You don’t like this idea? It’s too rash and dangerous?

Yes, I suppose your right, arming the criminals of the world would surely just cause more havoc.

What’s that? The criminals are already armed? Well surely we shouldn’t arm the innocents as well, they might hurt someone.

All I ask of you dear reader is to think about it, think long and hard as you will slowly realise that yes, I am right, your life would be better with a sword.

Tis The Season To Get Blogging, Tralalalala La La La La.

Oh hello, I didn't see you there amongst my “Things To Do, But Never Get Around To Actually Doing” List.

This dear old blog, what is it actually here for? Well I'll tell you, it’s for the average person to read on a rainy day, or when there’s no fuel in the car to go down to the shops to buy those emergency tissues from when that rude peasant sneezed on you at work, granting you an unpleasant ticket to cold town…
It’s days like that, that this somewhat temperamental “Pondering Oblong” will hopefully come in handy. I admit, we are doing quite an appalling job at keeping it fresh and up to-date, you can blame me for that. (I’ll let you decide who the ‘me’ is).

To be honest, I can’t think of a god damn thing to write about. I mean I've had my moments of inspiration while I go about my lazy life, but nothing that I can say “Wow! That’s worth writing about!”, as the moments mainly consist of me eating a banana, or elegantly stubbing my toe on the end of my bed and creating a new form of swear words, such as “Shi-utka!” or “Fuu-shadada”.

Anyway moving on to some sort of meaning to this post… >___>

I wrote this next little story a while ago, but I thought it was a bit bland and pointless, but you never know, you might get a small sense of relation to it...

AHEM!
We've all experienced that horrid moment when you've just got yourself nice and comfortable in your bed; you’ve had such a busy day and you're really just looking forward to a grand old sleep, when suddenly a high pitched buzzing breaks the peaceful air of your room. At first you're too tired to worry about such a thing and roll over to try the other side (as they say, the grass is always greener!) 

Silence, thank god.

Bzzz.....zzzz...................Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.............Bzzzz....... 

It's like you're in the stalls of a bloody racetrack!

Let's try the ol' swipe everywhere around you in the dark trick (there's no need for lights when you're a ninja right?). Maybe you'll hit it with your thumb and knock it out onto the floor for you to tread on in the morning. After about 5 or so longish minutes of banging the walls with your palms and a load of violent night swiping, you think that's probably enough stupidity, so you lay your head down on that gloriously soft pillow and close your eyes. 

Bzzzzzzzz……zzzzzzzzzz.

Right, that’s it! Time for some light on the matter!  


….. 

(..I couldn’t resist)

After your eyes have adjusted to the extreme brightness of the once dark room; THERE! Sitting on the wall, is your beloved (soon to have its guts imprinted on your palm) mosquito friend. Steady now…Don’t let it see you…THUMP!

With its bloody remains of your blood (and possibly others) on your wall, you leave it there as a trophy for the morning. With such a joyous smile, you turn out the light, roll over and enjoy the peace and quite of the night

...Until about an hour later when you awake with an itch behind your ear, and to your great misfortune, the song of the mosquito's has returned once more.