the time I slept in a drug den

I ended up hopping from accommodation to accommodation (literally); my maimed foot forcing me to remain in one of the most touristed areas of Cambodia for the Christmas and New Year's holiday.

Sihanoukville is essentially divided into four separate beaches. Victory, a beach only Russians frequent. The resort area, with the nicest beaches although, consequently, 2 kilometers away from civilization... it is also where the outdoor stairs and I collided.  Serendipity, in the heart of all the action, wildly crowded and the least enticing of the beaches I visited. And Otres, a tiny hippy village on the water, 5 kilometers away from Serendipity with nice beaches and a relaxing atmosphere.

I left the resort area on Christmas day. With the inability to walk properly, I needed to be closer to amenities. I then moved accommodations three times in five days. Out of necessity rather than choice. Availability was limited in that area. So I made due. Until I had enough of Serendipity and its sub-par beach front.

Fortunately Sammy had enough of it too. We met our last night in Serendipity at the hostel we booked into at the same time.

I saw her in the lobby the following morning with all her belongings.

"You're checking out too?" I asked.

"Yeah, I've decided to try out Otres," she replied.

It was exactly where I was headed too. Since neither of us had a room lined up, we decided to grab a tuk-tuk together and see what our options were.

Going from one hotel to another along the beach, we were greeted with nothing but "no vacancies". Until we met an older man who was checking into a hotel we were told had no available rooms.

"I actually just checked out of a place further down the road," he said. "From what I gather, the room is available, but only for tonight. I'll have my boy give you the name of the hotel if you're interested."

We were. We walked over to the car where the man said his boy was, to find a young Cambodian man in the passenger's seat.

Sammy and I looked at each other. He wasn't a type of boy we were expecting. The filthiness of the older man had us second guessing if we even wanted to check out the hotel he suggested.

We went anyway. We were running out of options.

Thankfully, it was quite nice. But we only had it for a night.

Sammy decided to leave for Vietnam the following day.  Whereas, I had to stay.

But she joined me that evening in my quest for a place to rest my head for at least a few more days until my limp was less pronounced.

Again, it was proving difficult.

"You girls looking for a place to stay?"

We turned to see two Western guys mounting their motorbikes.

"I am. Not having much luck though."

"There's a hostel near where we're staying," one of the guys stated. "It's about a mile inland though. But I'm pretty sure they have availability."

"What's it called? I may as well check it out."

"I think it's called the Hacienda or something, but it's on our way, so we can give you girls a ride if you'd like," the other guy offered.

"Sure, okay," came my response before consulting with Sammy.

She gave me an incredulous look.

The grime of the hostel was less pronounced in the darkness. But they did have one bed available.

"It's $3 a night," the attendant said. "And it's available for as many nights as you'd like."

"Just $3 a night?," my eyes widened. Shrugging my shoulders I added, "well, may as well."

Funny thing about sunlight. It gives you a better view of your surroundings than what darkness offers.  I set my luggage down next to the bed I was directed to the following day with a strong hope that the sheets actually were clean. From the looks of the room, nothing else had been in years.

"This is actually the nicer dorm," a girl greeted me as she walked in and sat on her bed. "There's another dorm here that's free. Well, you pay $3 the first night, but all other nights are free as long as you keep a tab at the bar. It's crowded. Something like 18 beds. The snoring there is ridiculous. But, I mean, it is free. I was staying there for a while until this one guy was making it impossible for me to sleep."

From what I gathered, the Hacienda is home to the long term traveler. Ones down on their luck. With no more money for housing or food, not to mention enough money to return home. Somehow, though, they always had pocket change for drugs. Weed being the softest of the drugs floating around the compound.

I stepped out of the room and was greeted by an 40-something year old Polish man on the porch who looked at me, smiled and exclaimed, "I'm flying!" before passing out.

I gathered up my laptop, e-reader, ipod and any other necessity I thought I'd need, crammed it in my little backpack and decided from that moment onward I'd spend my every waking moment at the beach.

Upon checking out of the hostel a few days later, a guy who slept in a neighboring bed started up a conversation with me as I packed away all my belongings.

"I need to get rid of these," he said midway through the conversation, throwing a package of pills on top of his bag.

"What is it? Why do you need to get rid of it?" I played along in his little conversation. If the tenants weren't taking drugs, they were talking about it.

"Vicodin. I've been taking too many."

"How many?"

"30 a day... plus 10 Xanex."

My eyes widened. "How is your stomach not bleeding?"

"I... I... I don't know. I'm just really depressed."

"Why don't you just throw them away then."

"Because they're drugs!" he stated as though my question was obviously a stupid one.

"How much did you pay for it?"

"$4 for 40 pills."

"And how many do you have left?"

"About 25."

"Look. I'll pay you $2.50 for the rest of those then."

"What are you going to do with them?"

"Throw them down the toilet."

He paused for a second. Looking down at the pills and then back at me. "Nah, that's okay. I'll just take the rest of them tomorrow." 

Memories of Christmas Past

It was mid December of last year when I entered Cambodia. Yet, it doesn't feel as though a year has passed. Certain memories seem as though they occurred just yesterday.  Like one revolving my foot, for example.

This poor foot is no amateur in the field of travel-related disasters. Rewind the clock to March of 2009.  Barcelona.  I sat on the back of a motorbike with a silly boy. The end result was less-than-pleasant. My foot being the one to face the brunt of it all, trapped under a pile of machinery as we lay sideways on the ground. The poor thing grew three sizes that day, and remained so for weeks. A long time passed before it finally forgave me.

Returning to present day (present day, last year, that is), I had been walking on a numb leg and foot since a week into touring Myanmar because of a lower back issue, which consequently, still isn't resolved today (the real present day).

Feeling melancholy after having visited the Killing Fields, and having no desire to stick around the streets of Phnom Penh, I traveled south to the coast the very next day. December 24th, to be exact.

The price of the hotel I booked was astronomical for the locale. Granted, the powdery white sandy beach was worth it.  And it was the the busy holiday season, after all, so I took what I got.

Although dark out when I returned in the evening after a day out, it was still relatively early. Instead of heading to my room, I decided to walk down to the outdoor lounge area and listen to the sounds of the waves lapping against the sand.

With the light of the moon as my only guide, I made my way down the outdoor stairs. But with no feeling in my foot and minimal visibility, I missed-stepped. My foot twisted and I followed it to the ground.

My gift to myself last Christmas season was a torn ligament, and a self-mandated 10 day stay at the beach.

the killing fields

At the time of the war, there were 15 million people in Cambodia. 85% were farmers, 10% office workers and 5% other.  The Khmer Rouge, the governmental leaders, were well educated teachers, most receiving their degree in Paris. When they took charge they condemned education, and then annihilated the educated. Poetically, they used a school to house their prisoners. 

They wanted to start the country afresh. Year zero. The educated, the prominent community figures, those who disobeyed rules were nothing but a hinderance to thwart their new ideals. So they got rid  of them. 

1 in 4 individuals ended up being killed. By their own people.  

“Better to kill an innocent by mistake than spare an enemy by mistake,” said Pol Pot, leader of the Khmer Rouge. 

Many were brought to the killing fields. 

Large speakers tied to trees blared propaganda music to cover the noise of death. But it could still be heard. 

Various methods were used to kill. Stems of sugar plan trees were used to slice necks, due to their teeth like jagged edges. 

Adults were hit in the back of the head, whether dead or knocked unconscious, it didn’t really matter. They’d be thrown into the pit in the ground anyway. Chemicals that were thrown on top of them would finish the job… and stop the stench. 

A giant tree stands tall in the middle of one of the fields, rope bracelets are tacked all over it. A sign of respect and remembrance. Infants were killed there. Soldiers would grab them by the legs, dangling the little one upside down.  They smashed their head against the tree and then threw them the opposite direction into the mass grave that lays beside it. 

When one member of a family was killed, the rest would be killed too - no matter their age - so on one would be left to seek revenge. 

“You feel so isolated - among your own people, even though you speak the same language. It’s the most frightening feeling of your life,” a survivor states. 

9000 remains were collected in 1980 alone. There are still fragments remaining in the ground. Bones continue to resurface even today. Every few months caretakers collect them and place them in a glass box - “it’s as if the spirits of those who died here do not lie still”. 

A woman survivor stated, “I’m almost 70 years old, and I understand many things. I understand about love. Love between a husband and a wife. Love between a mother and her child. Love of your neighbors. But I don't understand this. That is why I cannot talk about it." 

Promotor of Peace

At 12 years of age, Suon's parents were killed in front of his eyes. The soldiers who had done so recruited him as one of their own. He cried for three weeks until he was thoroughly brainwashed and numbed from the memory. He was then ready to fight.

A few years later he escaped the Cambodian army by serving with the Vietnamese. It was only when he discovered he was killing his own people that he cry again. The first time since his parent's death.

"And when I got out of the Vietnamese army I started working here," he explained.

"How did you get out of that?" I asked.

He rolled up his pant leg. A prosthetic leg leads all the way to his hip. "I stepped on a land mine."

His leg is the most important part of him.

"One day I woke up and my prosthetic leg was gone. I couldn't find it. I was in a panic. I cried and cried. My friends walked in and laughed, saying they hid it in the closet as a joke. I told them to never do that again. My leg is my life. Every night since then I've held onto it as I sleep."

He now tells his story at the Land Mine Museum in Siem Reap.

2.5 million mines are still hidden in Cambodia. About 12 people (primarily farmers) die every month from hidden bombs that have not yet been found.

Suon led us to a display of land mines, varying in shapes, complexity and material.

"And this one is the most dangerous of all," he said as he held up bomb in the shape of a wooden rectangular shaped box.

The wooden bombs killed thousands of children, in the early 2000's, who thought they were pencil boxes laying in the fields where they play.

"But I am not here to talk about war.  I spent my entire life growing up in the war.  I am very tired. We need peace in the world. That's what we must try to have. Peace." 

History, in brief

I may have once mentioned I paid less than no attention in history class.  My eyes glazed over when trying to read textbooks filled with ancient dates of boring facts that happened in far away lands.  History was not my thing. I had no interest in learning about events that were not at all relatable. And I had the grades to prove it, much to my parents' dismay.

It's amazing what age and travel can do to broaden the mind and create a yearning desire to see, smell, touch and learn more about the places and events that are mentioned in those dry history books of my youth.

Angkor being a prime example.

So let's let the dry words of Wikipedia (my now go-to history book, regardless of its potential inaccuracies... because, let's face it, not being in grade school anymore means using whatever resource you'd like) lay out the brief history:

Angkor (Khmer: អង្គរ or នគរ, "Capital City")^[1][2] is a region of Cambodia that served as the seat of the Khmer Empire, which flourished from approximately the 9th to 15th centuries. Angkor had been the largest pre-industrial city in the world, with an elaborate infrastructure system connecting an urban sprawl of at least 1,000 square kilometres (390 sq mi) to the well-known temples at its core. 

In Angkorian times, all non-religious buildings, including the residence of the king himself, were constructed of perishable materials, such as wood, "because only the gods had a right to residences made of stone." 

The temples of the Angkor area number over one thousand, ranging in scale from nondescript piles of brick rubble scattered through rice fields to the magnificent Angkor Wat, said to be the world's largest single religious monument. Angkor Wat [being] first a Hindu, then subsequently a Buddhist, temple complex in Cambodia and the largest religious monument in the world.

first impressions

Cambodia opened to tourism in 2003.  In 2004 over one million tourists flooded its lands. Ten years later, the number has jumped to over four million per year. Despite the deluge of holiday-goers being so great in such a short period of time, the country has coped with it amazingly well. However, whether it be the landscape - which has suffered drastic changes ecologically and visually due to deforestation, the people who are funny and jovial yet at times overbearing, the history - from its ancient temple roots to more recent genocides, visitors either love it or hate it.

All of it intrigued me, and as I crossed the boarder into Cambodia, I entered wondering which category I'd fall into by the time I left.

Although, the light banter offered by the first locals I came across, welcoming me with greetings like "whazzup homeslice?" sure gave it a good start.

the perks of long term travel

Short term holidays require planning. Hotels, attractions, transport. Details worked out well before your first vacation day to ensure the least amount of stress and the maximum amount of enjoyment.
Half the travel excitement comes with the anticipation of it all.

A life of travel is different. Planning is confining. It shuts the doors to spontaneous experiences that could end up providing you with some of your favorite memories. A life of travel involves the exhaustive efforts of lugging your belongings around the city, town, or village you've just arrived in for as long as it takes for you to find decent, available accommodation. Planning is done on a bus, a train, or a plane en route to your destination. Whatever it is you find on Lonely Planet, Wikitravel, or word of mouth, that is.

There is something exhilarating about traveling without an agenda.  The freedom of it all.  Like the ability to decide late into the evening hours, on your way back to your room in Bangkok, despite your prior plans to head south, "Screw it. I'm tired of Thailand."

And just like that, at 6:30 the following morning, you're lugging your belongings to the nearest bus station.  Destination: Cambodia.