Do we have time?

We're stopped.

The driver prattles about, his voice magnified by the absence of throaty motor, throwing his head back and laughing down the phone.

A tanned woman from Melbourne.
A 60 year old French man with a manual SLR.
A small NZ guy who looks like Gabe.
His hot Italian travel partner
Small, sultry Indian girls
Man more interested in iPod and sleep than see this stunning scenery.
American man wearing a Microsoft Vista launch tshirt

The four hour ferry from Siem Reap to Battambang sometimes takes 6 hours. Maybe 8. It's supposedly due to changes in the water level.

We're stopped again. The NZ guy, American and Adrian snap their cameras at the young Cambodian bobbing with his grandfather on a colourful sliver of boat, slowly negotiating the nets.

Are they laughing at us?

The crumple faced-lady who lulls at the back of the boat laughs back, and the driver and the young boy click their language at each other. The boat is swirled around, back into the sun - we were going the wrong way. We face two houses, pinned feet above the water, separated by a channel slimmer than our boat.

We tip to one side to squeeze through and the thought of my waterlogged notebook and camera keep my gripping hands praying we don't tip any further.

Never mind drowning - a man ahead of us sticks up above the water - just his head. The water is shallow, I could stand.

Sudden silence hushes the chat. Gliding rather than motoring, then stopping. Again.

Plants skim the surface of the river, streaking the opaque, mud green water with the texture of supersized moss. It's found it's way around the motor.

Quietly, among the multi-accented chatter, jokes about the 'speedboat' sprinkle themselves, pinching subtly at this liberal approach to time.

Everyone on board is from a timed society. 6am gym. 8am bus. 8.55am coffee. 10am meeting. 45 minute lunch. 10 minute walk. 12 minute train. 11.30pm bedtime.

Holidays knead this notion from our actions, within days, the mind slows, the plans float freely. But it never presses from our habits, that essence taints us.

Rubber time could be used just a little more liberally at home. On a Sunday, abandon the idea, consider a day of snoozing, a leisurely pace, a late breakfast as essential to being human, rather than a luxury. Maybe flexibility of time is the key to flexibility of mind.

Childhood

When does childhood get so mixed up?

The tiniest of children personify joy. As happy pushing a rock down a hill as playing with a shiny, state of the art toy, these are the kids that scream hello from the base of their lungs, and then giggle until they fall over. They wave so vigorously that I can't stop smiling, and they squeal in excitement when someone waves back.

That's how childhood should be.

There's primary school kids in navy shorts and white shorts, filing down to markets and shops to find their parents, and look after their napping siblings.

Turn around, and a child the same age is wearing kid-grubby, regular clothes, carrying old Jack Daniels bottles filled with sticky, yellow-tinged fuel to a wire rack on the road.

Head to Angkor Wat, and it's surrounding city of temples, and children swarm to you, stick to you. Bearing flutes, magnets, tshirts, water, bracelets. Reeling off facts about Australia, asking your name, begging you not to forget them, buy, buy, buy from me. Buy from me or I'll cry.

When do kids stop waving to pale skinned travellers and playing in the dirt, and start being a workhorse, a playback of beggar calls taught to them by their parents?

It makes me sad that they have to do that.

Angkor Wat

Scams Abound: Bangkok to Siem Reap

That's me, there, that tourist with the Lonely Planet guidebook in place of her two hands. Coupled with an overenthusiastic love for travel forums, on the road I'm all "apparently this", "I've read that", and "it sounds like"... Yes, I am a guidebook junkie.

So the "scam bus" (Ray 2008, p. 89) from Bangkok to Siem Reap was no surprise.

Our seemingly stoned, very chilled travel agent sold us the ticket to the border using approximately eleven words.

"Tomorrow?"

"The two of you."

"Seven hundred baht."

"Eight am, here."

Mr. Boy (well, that's what the agency was called) would never do us wrong. Right?

Scam #1: Poipet has no taxis

As delivered by the dude ushering us through a monastery to the bus stop, this one was easy. Aranya Prathet - Poipet is the most commonly used overland crossing between Thailand and Cambodia (Tales of Asia 2001). Knowing this opportunistic continent, transport opportunities are sure to abound.

We managed to find a taxi within 5 minutes of crossing the border. That one was way too easy! Have you got anything harder?

Scam #2: Bus companies can process your visa for you

The guy leading us to the bus also distributed forms to fill in for our Cambodian Visa. Ding ding ding! This is common - they offer to do your visa for you, charging an extra fee without you knowing. (Visiting Cambodia 2008).

I'm firing questions at him, hitting a language barrier and noticing in the shadow behind him, a blonde British girl shaking her head and hands wildly, translating into: "No! Don't do it! It's a scam!"

Ah, yes, we'll just see if we can do it ourselves.

Think scam #3 is on the way? Oh no. Scam #2 isn't done yet!

Arriving in Aranya Prathet, but not knowing it due to a lack of roman script sign, a well dressed (read: fuschia polyblend suit) lady boards the bus and scorns Adrian and I for not getting our visas through them.

"You get it through us! 1000 baht!"

"No thanks, I'll do it myself."

"You can't! It takes 4 days if you do! You be stuck here! Do it with me! 1000 baht! I'm Cambodian!"

"I'm very sorry but no. I'll do it myself."

I only had the bus booked to the border anyway, so at worst, I get chucked out at a lonely border town. Hmmm.

Visa tout #3 approaches. If Miss Fuschia was bad cop, this tall, broad smiling man was good cop.

"We charge the same. I just don't want you to get left behind. I'm Cambodian, I wouldn't lie to you. We'll help you with your visa."

For the love of god! Fuck off!

Visa tout #4. Oh yes. Loading into the minibus, this is our transfer to the border. By this stage, myself, Adrian, blonde Brit girl and two Canadians have banded together in fear of spending 4 nights in cowboy country as punishiment for not accepting the vigorous Cambodian hospitality.

Minibus rattles along, pulling up at a large white building. Doesn't look like a border crossing.

"Kingdom of Cambodia Consulate"

The sleeping guard outside would ring the dodgy bell at home, but here, it could be the kings house! The guys inside, sitting around a plastic table, casual clothes, wearing cards? Ding! Dodgy bell.

Of course, they're all Cambodian, so they are just trying to help. They also speak hilarious English.

"Where you from misterrr?"

"Gee-daaaiiii maiite!"

"Kevid Rudd Prime Ministerrr!"

"Lovely jubbley!"

They bring us pens, sit us on a couch, start giving Adrian a shoulder massage. We're all freaking out a little. Well, Miss Lonely Planet to the rescue, I'm fucking doing this thing at the border.

Yes, that didn't exactly float their boat, and visa tout #4 waiting outside was less than impressed.

Armed with cash (as there are very few border situations here that can't be lubed up with money), we hit the Thai side. A cinch. "Come back soon!"

Off we trot to Cambodia. Las Vegas of the east. And no, I don't mean Macau, I mean Poipet. Roads that I cannot describe. Picture roadworks of ochre mud, stirred in with gravel. Not proper, road-covering gravel, just plain old crunchy dirt. Remove all even surfaces. Add tropical rain. You have Poipet roads.

Then add beggars. Tiny, dirt smudged children that tug at your shirt and break your heart. Look up, and what do you see? Casinos. Not the glittery kind, but big, bizarre blocks of rendered pink, white and gold. Bone fide weird.

Only after 100 metres of shops, casinos and hotels, do you hit the Cambodian visa point. Passport, photo, form, departure details, no wait, no questions, stamp, done.

Scam #3: You stay at my guesthouse!

So this technically was not a scam on us, but I did avert it thanks to some keen guidebook sourcing, so it deserves inclusion here.

Bangkok's "tourist zone" has possibly more travel agents that westernised pad thai joints, so no surprise that Bangkok - Siem Reap tickets are frequent.

"Since the bus operators make their real money from Siem Reap guesthouses paying them commission for bringing guests, their goal is to make the journey as long and uncomfortable as humanly possible. Why? Well if they dropped you off at an average guesthouse at 4pm, you will probably search out better accommodation. However if you arrive battered, exhausted and in the dark, you're more likely to succumb to pressure and just collapse at their chosen guesthouse." (Ray 2008, p. 89)

Share taxi for us! Despite is being 3 hours of the scariest road of my life (appendix 1), it was easy, and it covered the 158km in an incredibly speedy three hours with relative ease.

Spare a thought for our partners on the bus, who endured nothing less than 6 hours on a road so bumpy you can't even talk properly. Getting dropped off at a Siem Reap guesthouse (rather than the standard bus and taxi drop point right outside town) after 14 hours on the road. Hello Mr Commission! Where did they all stay? You guessed it.

Your reward for enduring endless scammers, midday backpack laden treks across borders in sizzling sun, and 3, 4, 5, 6 hours of painfully bumpy road?

Siem Reap, the lazy French colonial town, real baguettes, a stunning array of bars, relaxed guesthouses, manicured parks. All while remaining suitably marinated in Asian culture.

Oh yes, and then there's Angkor Wat - but that deserves a picture blog of it's own.

Ray, N 2008, 'Cambodia', in C Williams (ed), South Easy Asia on a Shoestring, Lonely Planet Publications, Melbourne, pp. 89.

Sharpless, G 2001, Cambodia Update, travel website, viewed 5 April 2008, http://www.talesofasia.com/cambodia-update-aug01.htm.

Visting Cambodia 2008, travel website, viewed 12 April 2008, http://www.canbypublications.com/cambodia/visas.htm.

Appendix 1

We shared our taxi with a lovely tour guide, who takes Thai tourists through Angkor Wat, and then drives them by bus back to the border. At one point, he and the driver ceased chatting in Cambodian, looked back at Adrian and I, laughed heartily, and then did up their seatbelts. Alarmed, Adrian and I scrambled for ours, only to discover that we didn't have any! Hold on...

Paradise?

This is forced, but nothing else in this secluded hellhole will get rid of it, so I might as well pen a self indulgent blog about it. Apologies in advance.

There are two situations that transform me into a head-spinning, fire-breathing, exorcistic bitch.

The first is when I'm hungry. It's dramatic, but my insides swallow up all sense. They try to swallow up everything around them, too, which is why my friends ready themselves for the short but intense battle by plotting a tactical route to the nearest cafe. It's a manageable rage. Brutal but easily fixed.

The second, I have right now. It's a blinding frustration in my head, above a crushing sensation around my chest, topping a cesspool of lead-heavy ooze in my feet, stamping me to this rain-sodden ground.

Usually it's indecision. An entire saturday yawns before me, yet my ooze-filled feet anchor me to the house, volleying between bedroom, loungeroom, bathroom, frustrated head hurtling problems forward.

What will I do first?
I don't want to wait for the train.
These shorts make my legs look fat.
It's too cold for my shorts.
I want to wear a dress.
It's too cold for a dress.
Where is my fucking phone?
Shut up. You're dribbling shit.

This island is similar.

It's raining.
I can't get out.
It's windy.
There's nothing to do.
I might be happy if there were sun.
I can't read.

My instinct is to lie on the bed and sleep. Well that's no fun! Islands are fun, Hayley! Go and read! Drink! Walk! Draw!

It's not working. There is no flow. It's a persistent state of crippling indecision, where every possible answer draws a blank.

Tomorrow I spend 12 hours getting back to Bangkok. There's nothing to do on the bus, either, but at least I'll be going somewhere.

Scary mannequins of Thailand

Well, I guess we wouldn't let them get away with wearing thongs in an RSL.

I told Adrian this morning that we would need to cover elbows and knees to be able to visit Wat
Phra Kaew. A cold-weather person, he looked alarmed for a second before coming to terms with it.

"Well, I guess we wouldn't let them get away with wearing thongs in an RSL."

Heading out at the starlingly early 9am (holiday time slipped in without me even noticing), the Temple of the Emerald Buddha was designed to be an appetiser. I didn't expect to understand my temple-taster. I expected glittering spires, quiet prayer and hoards of tourist. I didn't expect the amazing gilded painting spanning 1900 metres around the temple grounds, confusing me with hundreds of stories, depicted on the walls. Well, the paintings themselves didn't so much startle me, but the sheer volume of religious history that I don't know? That was a bit of a surprise.

Temples remain a mystery to me. You can wander, point, click your camera, dress respectfully and be quiet in the right places, but still have absolutely no fucking clue what it's all about. The curse of the atheist, I suppose. It might very well be worth springing for that english-speaking guide...

Bangkok sky

I look up a lot more when I've traveling. Or when I'm relaxed. I love the skyline, and those little, lasting details that garnish buildings. I hardly ever look up at home. I couldn't tell you what Sydney's skyline looks like. Not the city, it's hard not to recognise Centrepoint Tower punctuating the sky. No, the suburbs, the houses, the buildings, windowns, balconies, signs of how people live. The exception is Newtown, where the colour and life of the place occasionally grasps me on a Sunday afternoon, dragging my eyes up to the peeling pegs that line King Street.

Here, I look up and see a whole world. Poverty hangs like washing from the balcony. Faith spikes the muted blue sky. Wealth shines and flickers from giant billboards. Relaxed, wandering (occasionally running into people), looking up tells me where I truly am.

Adrian... do you think we should go to the hospital?

There's always a few concerns while traveling, the type that your mum tends to make worse by worrying about, and as a general rule it's warranted - the milder stuff does happen. Your passport gets stolen, you get ripped off ("Tuk tuk 10 baht each!" Yeah right...), you get bedbugs. You get sick, you go to hospital, you have to beat the language barrier on something more substantial than ordering a meal sans offal. Well, I'm glad to say that the hospital hurdle has been jumped. Unknown to Adrian, that meat-loving stomach has been chugging away, broiling a nice little ulcer. A nice little ulcer that didn't take to well to the stress of planning travels, plane food, malaria tablets and a lack of water. It did, however, like showers very much.

When I realised that Adrian has spent more time in the shower than out, the challenging idea of finding a hospital in Bangkok became a reality. Fortunately, my dear friend Lonely Planet pointed up towards the most attentive hospital I've ever has the misfortune of visiting.

I'm talking spotless, fast, a room to yourself, trundle bed for your "special nurse" (read: me. Everyone *still* thinks we're a couple), quiet, arctic air-con.

Two days, four bags of intravenous rehydration stuff, two bags of ulcer medication and countless pills later, Adrian and I are one challenge down and more than ready for a holiday.