Barefoot in the Jungle

Something about not needing to get up early and having no agenda makes the body rise with ease as does the sun. I am up to see the early morning light through my blue tinted glass sliding door and though a bit sweaty, as the fans turn off with the electricity at day break, I feel pretty good. 

I know I need sustenance and there is a dining area a few bungalows down that sits over the water at (Matt) Saracen Resort, last time, I promise. 

I order an "American Breakfast" for a change and pray my funds hold out until I am back on solid land.

My camera is behaving tempormentaly and I fear I won't have a functioning one for all, if not some of the remaining trip. I do, however, take this in stride. My legs are so insect bite ridden that Helen Keller could read my fortune and I only have $40 to last me while I am here. I believe there is a point when Murphy's Law is so deeply ingrained in your life that it is ALMOST amusing. I am choosing here to be amused.

The waitress who brings over my cutlery and orange juice needs to make sure that I'm alone for some reason, as so many people in this country seem to need to. Never before have I had so many inquiries into my solitude. It's like I have an open wound and they are all own stock in Mortons.

I don't care what anyone says about Americans being loud and brash and obnoxious. Mix that with no regard for others on the road and no sense of personal space and you have the Chinese tourist, impervious to cultural acclimation or volume control.

My American breakfast is American priced and subpar, but food is food and I move on, down the beach as I resort hop. Please note that resorts on Koh Rong Samleon are not "resorts" any other place you've ever been. Resorts here are accomodation and it would seem that most house their own restaurant or bar and, along with beautiful temperatures and access to the beach that is what this island offers.

Around 4pm I decide to head to Lazy Beach. The remote beach on a remote island, located a few kilomteres through the jungle on the West side of the island. A quick nature hike through the jungle in my chucks, a Yankees hat and a bikini - I can hear Helen Reddy amongst the screaming monkeys and the squealing crickets.

Once the jungle parts ways there is an oasis; there is Lazy Beach.

It is breathtaking.

I essentially run to the sea, sticky from my hike, drop my belongings and plunge in. It is me, and the bay and no one else. 

I have become so spoiled by the beauty of the world. So used to seeing new, far off places that every so often I do try to take a moment and really soak in that I am out in the Gulf of Thailand on a beautiful afternoon swimming in the sea. It is a palpable moment for me, and one I savor.

As I drag my drenched body back up to the shore the Lazy Beach resort - a series of huts on the beach with a main lobby that is an outdoor-hammock-chill sort of getwaway presents itsself and I immediately see the British bloke, Gary, from the night before.

I ask if I may join him and we settle in to listen to Bonobo on the soundsystem and watch the sun sink beneath the clouds. I order a Lazy Sunset, the girliest drink on their menu and later fish and chips because I am pretending to be adventurous and eat fish caught just outside but also getting it fried so it mostly just takes like fried. The cocktail is ok and remains half drunk, as is the marlin, when my British bud and I have covered everything from childhood trauma to cycling in France and make our way back to the East side through the jungle.

The moment I saw Gary in this particular gin joint I knew I would later be using him as accompaniment through the jungle. I was uneasy walking through during the broad daylight, but it is now dark. The sun is long gone, but the creatures are not and CalTrans has yet to set up any roadside spotlights for tourists here. I am scared. Legitimately scared and the fact that homeboy thinks every stick is a Boa Constrictor is not helping.

Half way through I realize that this city girl does have some country in her, or at least some iPhone in her...bag. Thank you Steve Jobs for putting a flashlight on your iPhone. It only took me 5 years to figure out how to use this feature, but man is it helpful when traversing the dark unknown.

We exit at the beach, lit up blue by the moonlight and make a right at Octopussy bar back to Blue Green, where Gary is staying and I am using electricity before returning to my hovel. Some approximation of iced tea is served and some more opposite of small talk is had before we both walk way out to the ocean, the cosmic pull having brought it what seems like miles from shore and bathe our feet in the warm night before saying out goodbyes. Two kisses, one on each cheek, just like the French do it and a sincere thank you for sharing your time on this tiny island with me.

iPhone flashlight

Another hike back. A quick shower and a revisiting of Noah's Arc, a little show on Logo 10 years ago and the only videos I have on my phone. Who doesn't like watching a situational comedy about 4 black gay men in Hollywood before nodding off?

And again, early to rise.

I check out of Freedom, not knowing exactly what my next move is but knowing my camera is working occasionally at best and my funds are rapidly dwindling - you try PMSing on a budget!

This time at Saracen Resort I opt for a more traditional Asian breakfast and I am not disappointed. With excellent Wifi I chat with a friend back home, the kind of friend that makes you feel at home even when you're 9000 miles away (yeah, thats you, Holly) and I plot my course of action. 

An arbitrary booking for a room at the Orchid Resort a mile down the beach is made and I have made my choice - to stay in Koh Rong Samleon, for at least another day.

The morning consisted of a chat with one of my oldest and dearest friends Holly and my internal calculator working overtime while figuring out whether or not the cash I had on hand could get me through another day.

This island is a place so quiet the insects omit a deafining noise.

Dexter, Frank, Zak and Gary.

No, these are not the new fangled members of New Edition. These are the four man who helped me through my journey.

This trip has been a particularly tough one for me and the kindness of these strangers, whether for a plane ride or just a walk on the beach helped me survive. Helped me in ways they will never know. And for that I am grateful.

I love this place. I love the magical beach. The sea filled with fish just like the ones I used to own and name and become fond of right before they took their final swim down the porcelain shoot in my father's bathroom.

Having waited a bit too long to traverse the island back to my humble abode it is dusk and the monkeys are squawking - and I am scared.

The evening is spent PMSing on a huge fruit plate at the Orchid while writing and watching 'The Voice - Cambodia' - or so it sounds.

That night I am met with a hot shower - for what feels like the first time in ages. Hallelujah.

As wonderful as my room for the evening is with all it's rustic charm, the walls are thing and the sext door neighbors rowdy. I couldn't quite tell what they were doing from the noises emitting through the wooden slats separating us. But I can attest to the fact that they kept me up - and made me sufficiently uncomfortable.

Luckily I slept. Luckily I survived.

Few things in life or more powerful than listening to Leonard Cohan on a white sand beach at sunrise.

The morning offered an amazing sunrise and a moment of peave.

After checking out the morning is spent watching the proverbial pot boil or, as is the case here - waiting for my boat to come. Just when I think it never will I am directed several hundred yards down the beach where a refugee dinghe is schleping visitors to shore.

Travel at it's finest.

This means I had a couple more hours to luxuriate, check my internet goings on and figure out where I will be spending the evening at the Blue Green.

I almost book a dorm at Otres Beach, then think about shared bathroom. Getting older is a beautiful thing in many ways. Not physically sure - but it does allow you some perspective and often a few extra sheckles to spend on a private commode. Decision made. Pineapple juice consumed and my LL Bean bag and I board the dinghe headed back to the mainland.

As the ship about faces I was truly sad. 4 days ago now seemed like a lifetime and I have grown to love this tiny island upon which I only spent a few days of my life. By sometimes that's all you need

I mount the stairs to the top level of the boat - trying to get every UV ray possible to permeate the outer layer of my epidermus and who do I happen upon than a nice looking fellow sporting a brightly colored LA hat.

The hour or so boat ride back goes by in a flash as I chat with this amiable man in his mid 30s who lives in the UK but claims South Africa as his home - creating an interesting accent and an interesting perspective on life.

We make dinner plans and as he boars the shuttle bus, I hop on my own personal tuk tuk out toward the beach. Along the ride we putter past the police hut where I was incarcerated for many moments and I am forced to relive this painful experience all over again.

After a long and winding ride I land at Footprints Hostel at Otres Beach 2 which will be where I will be living - at least for the night.

Perhaps it is aftershocks from the hallucination I had last night where a man came to my window banging in the middle of the night only to wake me, rouse me from my bed and, when I reached the glass door disappear, leaving me shaken and disturbed, but this day has been exhausting.

As I settle into Footprints one thought meanders through my mind. My Dad was right, beauty fades with happiness, not with age.

Fuck The Police And Fuck The Hookers.

Oh my goodness, where to begin. In the past few days I have become a civil rights activist; I have had my first halluciation; I've hiked through the jungle at night an irate monkey would tear my face off like that lady on Oprah who has to wear a bee catchers hat at all times and my camera has broken.

It is Saturday in Sihanoukville, but my guess is every day operated pretty similarly. A few motorbikes are making noise as they gradually ascend and descend the hill that runs from downtown to the sea. The Corner is open and currently serving several foreigners, but I like to try new places so I make a lap, tie up my hair that I always try to keep down, at least for a few moments to be clean in the breeze, and locate and eatery that just happens to share real estate with a mechanic. 

Cambodia jams waft through the air, as do some peculiar smells, but several people seem to be enjoying their meals here - my guess is they are all members of the family that owns the place - and when the proprietor and matriarch sees me she simply says 'noodles, mamma?' - Sold! 

Shortly thereafter iced tea and meatball soup are served.

Traditional breakfast seems to be a sweet ramen served with a variety of meats. Sometimes I am adventurous enough to tackle, others I am not.

Breakfast complete, I pay $1.50 with one American dollar and 2000 riels. I have not seen a single coin while in this country, but their paper currency seems to function quite the same and with American currency readily accepted it seems appropriate to pay most places with both.

I go to a few places that offer to rent motorbikes, but all seem to want to hold onto my passport which makes me exceedingly uncomfortable so I compromise by doing so at the hostel next door to mine. The helmut doesnt fit, the gas gauge says empty and the speedometer doesn't read so I figure I am good and hit the open road. After taking several wrong turns I find myself in the city center with large plainly stated signs leading me to Otres Beach, my destination for the day.

Just as I am coming around the roundabout, a large golden Lion in the middle serving as a major landmark in these parts, two police officers waive me over. My initial thought is good god - I still have a ticket to pay in New York state and I don't even have a car there. I literally cannot get into a motor vehicle (or in this case on) and not get a ticket, regardless of whether or not I am actually piloting.

I pull over.

The police officers inform me that the chin strap on my helmut is not snapped.

Initially I pay the proper amount of reverence one does to an officer, snap it, apologize and make moves to continue on the road.

They persist.

This shocks me because, if you've ever been to Southeast Asia, or any third world country is it totally normal to see a 2 year old at the helm of a motorized vehicle, sometimes with several oxen tied to the back. From time to time they will be drinking a local beer while doing so.

As I stand there many many people drive by with nary a helmut in sight.

They inform me I will have to pay. Being terribly American I exhale and prepare to be handed a ticket or something remotely official to pay a fine. Then as they proceed to list I can buy them a bottle of water, or some food I am in complete and utter shock.

I have been racially profiled. Pulled over for no good reason and now I am being blackmailed.

The public defender who lives not so deeply inside of me instantly comes to action and instead of handing them a buck and continuing to the beach I continue the conversation. Repeatedly telling them I will not be paying them anything and I will not be getting off my bike.

Now I am getting angry.

And so are they. The chattier of the two officers repeatedly reminds me that he is the POLICE, pointing to his uniform that says so just in case I am confused by my native tongue.

To be perfectly frank - I don't give a fuck. How dare you attempt to extort me for money, pulling me over only because I am a foreigner and you know it. 

We go back and forth for 10 minutes or so and he keeps gestering behind me telling me to talk to his boss. He says in no uncertain terms that I need to get off the bike, but my body won't let me.

At first he puts his hand on mine, a clear sign of authority. Then he physically attacks me, pulling me off the bike with all 150 lbs of his brut strength, hops on the bike himself and speeds away.

I am in disbelief. Stunned. And livid.

I have to return that bike to get my passport and I have to have my passport well, to pass back into the United States so I know I at least need to address this.

Not 3 minutes later I am at the "Police Station" which consists of two men sitting at a card table under a tent with what appears to be the sort of cash box used as school carnivals.

Now the boss man is confused. There are a handful of caucasian people, heralding from all over the globe. The German couple pays immediately and the French couple gets away with the we are French and don't understand. But I have not attempted to kill these motherfuckers with kindness. They have the audacity to request bribes, loudly in daylight and aren't the slightest bit ashamed. I go back and forth with the police chief for maybe 30 minutes before he becomes so irritated with me he begins to yell at me and his henchmen "escort" me back to my bike. 

My motorbike prowess is limited and I cannot get the bike started, to which they yell more. At this point I am so angry and upset, tears are sliding down my freckeld cheeks which only makes me more angry because they no doubt think I am some scared little girl, but really I want to clock them in their smug faces. 

With only one pass to the famous beaches down here I am landlocked, as the police set up shop there for just these sorts of incidents, though I would imagine usually less violent. 

I begrudginly drive back to my hood, crying the whole way and return to the Queenco which has a small if unimpressive strip of sand and Wifi so I can call back home and speak of this injustice, ironcally enugh, to a black man who seems to have a grasp on my indignation.

I will never pretend I know what it is like to be a black man in America. It would be foolish and insenstive for me to do so. But I do believe that an experience like this gives me just a taste. And let me tell you, it doesn't taste good.

After several hours of lapping waves and sunshine my resting pulse has lowered below apooplectic levels and I am able to relax, a little. 

Japanese male tourists are here in droves, maybe for the local industry of local girls, maybe to take a leisurely dip in the Gulf of Thailand and then bask in the sun at the outdoor restaurant in their still wet boxer briefs, spread eagle, leaving very little to the imagination. But leaving a whole lot to wonder about whether or not those stereotypes we've all heard are true or not. Never having seen an Asian penis, I casually glance from time to time looking for signs of life but fruitless and a bit "To Catch a Predator" of me I decide instead to return my attention to the beautiful blonde woman to my left with the beautiful body and the beautiful baby (I hate her) and my main man - Mr. Chuck Klosterman.

After an American priced meal on the beach I head back up the hill where a Dave Gahan lookalike informs me of his gig at Club Mojo around the corner from the girly bars while perched upon his hog. My interest is piqued, but I have to return my motorbike, to a woman who hands me a burgandy passport, crack staff they have here. And besides - I think I have Sihanoukville - hookers and crooken cops. I'd rather stay in tonight and hop on a boat outta here tomorrow.

Luckily the staff at Out of the Blue hostel can facilitate both. The ticket is $25, which seems wrong, but what are you gonna do, so I buy a Sun Tours ticket to Koh Rong Salmeon, a small island off the Southern coast of Cambodia and hope for the best.

I spend the night looking for accomodation for the folliwing evening, there is a $110 a night gorgeous yurt that would transport me to Santorini, but I am in Cambodia, so I pay $16 for Freedom Bungalow and call it a day. This trip is already becoming more expensive than I anticipated, but they always do.

My bag, now barely containing same amount of stuff I brought with me, perhaps my sweatsuit just takes up too much room in 90 degree weather, is slung over my shoulder as I exit room #2 and head down the holl to the dock. Today is absolutely the kind of day I wish I had my standard issue backpack currently still residing in California, but for now its just me and this duffle, and we're making due.

It is always interesting wonce you've spent a few days in a place how it changed and I can now see a much more efficient way to get from point A to point B. When I arrive at the pier in minutes flat I wonder why I was ever so discombobulated. 

I have, of course, arrived at the pier early, a mix an inability to sleep and wanting plenty of time to figure things out. A number of speed boats are docked alongside a huge white ship seemingly rented out by the country of Japan. None of these watercrafts are my overpriced Sun Tours so I sit, and I wait.

It is as I am waiting in the morning sun I hear an 'excuse me,' and as I turn around it is the young woman from my hostel. Apparently I left without paying my balance. The women at the front when I left just stared at me blankly so I took that as a sign we were good to go. I hand her a 20 and in exchange she offers me some valuable information about Snake Island, a lot of snakes used to live there, and a tiny island just beyond that illegally acquired by the Russian government. I am grateful for the info as well as her assurance that I am, in fact in the right place and we say goodbye.

Sitting on the pier only enforces my 40/60 theory (thanks again, Lorelai Gilmore) about this town. I would venture to guess that at least half of the Sihanhoukville population is a 60 something Caucasian male with a 40 something Cambodian bride. I hate that the cynical side of me questions the hand holding and gold bands as somehow fake or inauthentic. Maybe they are realy in love. Maybe marriage means different things to diffierent people. Maybe my concept of passion, love, commitment and conflict resoultion is puerile in it's conception.

Maybe.

Finally Sun Tours 3 decker, Staten Island Ferry inspired ship docks and I happily board the monolith for some classic rock and modern pop tunes, a provided meal and 2 hours on the open water.  

The thought of eating and shipping at the same time is a daunting one and it is my earnest hope that the boat just rides steadily enough that the included meal doesnt include me losing it over the side. Motion sickness is a terribly affliction from which I have always suffered and one a former boyfriend used to insist was all 'in my head' until one bumpy cab ride uptown literally turned me green.

Our first stop is a tiny island. A patch of pure vegetation an hour off shore and immediately the backpackng crew of young twentysomethings began to leap from the top level of the shop. This while the throng of old Chinese ladies, replete with life vest and blow up floaties I witnessed them inflating while on board - stood idly by, not even attempting to get wet. 

I was content to sit and read and hopefully get some quiet if everyone was out in the sea - but then I thought - when is the next time I will get this experience, so I put the book down, disbrobed, and lept. Feet first into the salty sea, riding me of any nasal congestion as well as the top to my bikini almost instantly. The current was strong and steady so my childhood award winning swimming skills came in handy bobbing in the sea. I took the time to chat with some fellow travelers briefly and a thickly accented man immediately said, 'American?' to which I, of course replied yes. I asked the perfunctory and you. He was Norweigan. Then I took a beat.

Not one to leave any stone unturned I said - do I look America or sound American.

And his reply was simple and concise. "The confidence. It's nice."

I chose to take him at face value and choose to say here, thank you strange Norweigan man for some unsolicited kind words. 

As the boat rocked along lunch was served and the line to dig in wrapped around the bottom deck. I insinuated myself amongst the young folks and, as it happens, right behind a friendly old soul from New Zealand named Zack.

He was suffering from motion sickness and, being a lifelong member of that club I offered some friendly suggestions and we began to chat. He felt like the elder statesman of his tour group at 28 and when we docked just a short time later neither one of us wanted to end the conversation so we sidled up at an outdoor eatery, and I use the term eatery loosely and decided to grab a drink.

Electricity is limited on the island and I am going to blame that on the fact that when we were told a mojito and pina colada were all that was available today on the drink menu that Zack received grass trimmings in a highball and I got a cup of cream of coconut with a splash of rum. Needless to say they were disgusting and replacement Klangs were ordered immediately following.

As we sat and talked movies, books and travels I told Zack that I was a photographer, but fancied myself a bit of a writer too, though these entries may prove otherwise.

Not being shy I admitted to Zack that life had been rough, though not going into detail and that I was a bit of a crier. Though we had just met he told me he was surprised, because I seemed to strong. My response: You can be both.

He told me I spoke like a writer.

I enjoyed the comment immensely.

Being the almost gentleman that he is, I was walked to my accomodation for the night, Freedom Bungalow. As we travereed the beach each and every business, of which there are few, simply pointed further down the beach and exclaimed something along the lines of all the way.

It turns out when booking my room the night before I passed up on plenty of perfectly good prospects to choose the cheapest private room I could find on (Matt) Saracen Bay in exchange for convenience. Freedom Bungalow was not only at the far end of the beach, there was construction, so you had to hike up into the jungle, take a right at the shantytown and decend again before you located this perfectly lovely, if hidden, gem.

The irony in my decision to unknowingly choose the place that required the most dangerous and arduous route was not lost on me.

Perhaps some of my decision making acumen needs adjustment.

I bid adieu to my new Kiwi homie Zack and handed him my business card in the least obnoxious way possible as I would be here, in Koh Rong Samleon for a few days and he was heading back to Thailand to get his Muy Thai on.

Once check into room 23 there was no sign of any B. Or any wifi. Or any electricity before 6pm. And no access to the main beach. With less than 100 pages left in my book I panicked, if only mildly.

In all honesty though, this place is beautiful magical, otherworldly and if I were not concerned with first world needs like an available meal before 6pm, or were with a paramour or, I were very very high, it would truly be heaven.

Cambodia, if I am doing the math correctly, is country #37 for me and it has been pretty rate in my experience thus far to feel like I am in a world so different from my own. Renting a thatched roof cottage on the beach for 20 American dollars to enjoy white sand beaches and clear blue waters miles off of the Southern coast of Cambodia feels pretty far. 

I really have been to some of the most romantic places on earth. Alone. 

Blue Green offers a reprieve from the heat of the sun with its outdoor patio and happy hour specials.

I post up at a table for 4 with my book and a Coke when a little orange kitty comes to say hello. I am always hesitant to touch animals in these parts of the world, but I say hello and take a couple of pictures. Then, out of nowhere his white friend decides to get in on the action and both are now atop my table. 9000 miles away from home, in a country I am sure doesnt share the same stereotype and I have become a cat lady. It is pointless to resist. I may as well buy an arsenal of house dresses, throw on some chancletts and put rollers in my hair and call it a day.

The kitchen opened about an hour later and a bowl of delicious green curry is served to me by a shirtless, nipple ringed young Spanish man who may or may not have been smoking a doobie when delivering said meal.

Once the Wifi is turned on I am an a roll and when I hear a familiar language being spoken behind me I make fast friends.

Gary is a pilot currently flying out of Siem Reap who popped down for the weekend to get some sun and some apparent food poisoning. After a few minutes of friendly conversation I ask if he is Liverpuddlian and he seems equal parts surprised and impressed by my adept accent determining skills. When he asks how I knew he was from the North my answer is simple, accurate and predictable: The Beatles. If you don't know what Paul McCartney's accent sounds like you've either been living under a rock, or you're an idiot.

Once a friendly German traveler from a table over joins the conversation its basically a full fledged party.

Dinner and internet have both been consumed and it is time for me to take the long walk, down the latnern lit beach, over the river and through the woods, barefoot mind you, to Freedom.

The Hunt For The Red October, I Mean Internet, In Prostitution City

I awake not to the sounds of roosters but to the cool clean air of night. Morning is here but the sun is not yet and I debate getting up and beginning my day before the city does, or going back to bed. After some internal struggle I fall back asleep. It is only for 30 minutes but it is that deep lucid dreaming sleep that leaves you disoriented, almost paralyzed by the time you wake, blurring the lines between reality and slumber.

Once I gain my bearings I see an email from Frank and not a minute later he is knocking on my door and I'm pulling back my dirty hair and pulling on leggings, ready to face what he describes as a 'relaxed' day. No plans myself, other than locating a computer at some point to properly book the next leg of my journey, I'm game for anything.

Frank has eaten but I'm a baller and don't bother with the hostel provided faire. Just across Road 20 we locate an empty eatery where the staff is feverishly studying the drink menu written out on a white board. A Cuba Libre seems particularly challenging for them. As I consume Khmer Pad Thai I not only discover the Thai version is better but I discover when you eat at a fancy restaurant such as this, your waiter stands watch at your table, just in case you're in need of anything. Can you say awkward.

Adding insult to injury when I request the bill said waiter immediately turns Frank to confirm we do in fact want the bill and when he returns hands it directly to my male table mate. No wonder Hillary didn't win!

This actually did inspire a quick Trump talk and I got an interesting perspective from one of Americas neighbors - just not the ones tan enough to require an entire fictional wall to be built to keep them out.

Having spoken with a camo clad tuk tuk driver who offered a decent rate we returned to his corner to negotiate price and discuss what sights he could show us, settling on a tour of a few temples, the war museum and the killing fields.

Never in my life did I think I'd be visiting a site solely known for mass genocidal atrocities, but while in Rome...

Wat Bo - a main attraction in Siem Reap is quiet and lovely and I think it is safe to say one of my most favorite temples ever. It's washed out colors and shady locale nestled underneath the trees offered a tranquility of which I was in much need. Despite the fact that it was actually closed for the day didn't detour me from leaving contemplating a life devoted to Buddhism.

Back in the tuk tuk and camo pants suggested that we skip the museum and the fields and head to the floating village 20 kms outside of the city, for a new low low price of course. We agreed and after a quick beer and gas stop we were on our way.

It didn't take long in the back of the open air tuk tuk to realize that the lush green Cambodian countryside was worth the cost of admission alone.

At this point in my life I've traveled enough, been enough places to have created and tested some theories about the world. So here we go.

I believe there are three dileneations of cities throughout the word.

Since most major airports are located in Capitol cities I call these first tier: Casablanca, Bogota, Guatemala City. These cities are often dirty, congested and offer some remnants of a culture that once existed but are now be strangled by modernization with large buildings, hectic traffic and an obligatory KFC. This is where you land, acclimate yourself and, if you know what's good for you, get out of as soon as possible.

Next is the second tier: Florence, Luxor, Siem Reap. In these cities you find a more authentic cultural experience and a slower pace of life. They're often amenable to tourists with plenty of eateries and shops, local artisans and a plethora of older women draped in clothing they picked up at Chico's.

Third tier are always more rural and a little bit more off of the beaten path. Panajachel, Hoi An and, in my experience offer the best view of what life is like in said location.

This felt like we were seeing how Cambodians really lived. Stilted homes, roaming chickens, pantless children.

Vibrantly green rice paddies are far as the eye can see.

Many many kilometers down the road we turn off onto a dirt path and pull up to the ticket booth. $20 dollars seems excessive for a trip such as this (and we later found out, it actually was) but we were at the mercy of the kind man behind the window wearing a shirt that had California written over the breast pocket so we handed over the cash and continued down the adobe colored pathway. 

One more check of the tickets by super hot mysterious Cambodian dude who didn't take off his shades and was flanked by adoring children on both sides and we climbed aboard a ricketing old ship that we had to ourselves, save for the jort adorned driver who, if his hat is to be believed, at one time or another worked for the NYPD. 

The water is low and the engine in the back sounds like it is working awfully hard. So hard in fact that 10 minutes down the murky waterway we abandon ship and hop inot another one standing by in a culdesac for no particular reason. It was in this culdeasc that my fight or flight instinct kicked in and I wondered if I was about to star in my own personal version of the killing fields, certain we would be raped and pillaged only without the incomporable Sam Waterson by my side.

Crises averted and, another 15 minutes down the watery road we were at the floating village. While in Thailand a couple of years back I went to the floating market outside of Bangkok, so I thought I knew what I was getting myself into, but there are no goods to purchase here, no children pushing their wares. This is an actual village, a functioning fishing village that exists in tin and wooden homes built up above the fluctuating water levels created by the feed from Tonle Sap Lake. It was beautiful and fascinating and filled with children captaining ships on their own. 

My main takeway, however, is the boatload of money I will make when I bring the 'Cambodian Fisherman Workout' back to the states. Screw Tai Bo, these caramel colored men were taught and tight and no one seemed to have a card to GNC. First Buddhism, now fishermanism, either way I am a convert.

They had mentoned when we bought tickets that we could go into the forest, but neither Frank nor myself expected the forest to be sea of Mangroves manned by a sea of older ladies brightly adorned waiting to drag you through the trees. Our boat has a lovely woman with frizzy hair at the helm and her ornery 5 year old bringing up the rear. Though Frank said this was on his bucket list this is something I never in a million years anticipated doing, let alone visiting Cambodia in general, so it was all gravy. 

After the quick detour we got a spin around Tonle Sap, a lake so large you cannot see the other side by a long shot. A nearby boat made sure I didn't get too melancholy while writing in my book by serenading us with Meghan Trainor before we stopped for a meal atop a stilted restaurant and made our way back to the mainland. 

Back on solid ground we were offered souvenir framed photos they had paparazzie'd of us upon entrance and mine was so fantastically unflattering I had to buy it. Happy Birthday, Mom!

30 minutes back into town. And I knew I needed to source a computer with some internet as our quickie around the city became a 3 hour tour and I still had no idea where I was going to be the next day, how I was going to get there and where I would sleep when I did.

With the internet stop just outside of our hostel being closed because they felt like it and the one I was directed to not existing and the next one someone told me to go to closed for 3 days to 'clean' the place I was growing frustrated and considered running straight to Burger King to calm my nerves. But I perservered and located a side alley with ancient PCs where I could utilized the world wide web for an hour for a buck. 

I bought a flight on Cambodia Air to Sihanoukville in the South, saving myself a 14 hour bus ride for an hour flight and booked a 2 night stay at Out Of The Blue Hostel located in the heart of the city to give the beach a try. 

I certainly needed to get out of Siem Reap, or at least judgementville. I know when I am back in Manhattan I have dressed like a whore. I've worn crop tops. I've worn booty shorts, but there is something about the throngs of tourists showing their thongs a plenty that seems terribly inappropriate and in poor taste. I know, I know, I am 100.

Feeling accomplished and more certain about the next 24 hours of my life, I reqarded myself with a pineapple shake and a tuk tuk ride home. 

Frank and I had arranged to have a last dinner together before we parted ways and our 2 days in Cambodia became a distant memory. With similar travel sensibilities we simply headed in a direction we had yet to take and stumbled upon Mr. Grill, an ourdoor eatery with large banquet tables with large, Asian families. Seemed as good a bet as any.

Our meals were lackluster, but the foyer had a full sized Christmas treet and a Clinton Santa playing the sax, so it wasn't all bad.

Back at Bun Kao I spent nearly 30 minutes wondering how the exact same amount of shit I brought with me now seemed to take up twice as much room. So I repacked my bag, put on some Gilmore Girls and Netflixed and chilled all by myself!

Plans for a morning run were thwarted by some unsettling emails from back home and real life business to which I needed to attend. But alas, I was up early enough to have a birthday breakfast with Frank at Sweet Dreams hostel and restaurant just across the way. They offer a large sunny deck and an American- adjascent breakfast for a decent price. We dined and hugged before Frank headed back to Angkor Wat and I headed to the airport. 

It has been a lovely few days in Siem Reap and the company of my Canadian cronie came at a much needed time. I am truly grateful I got to enjoy a few days with a strange man in a strange city and I wish him luck on his journey ahead.

As I roll out of Siem reap and I see yet another pair of drop crotch elephant print pants I think to myself - do all of these bitches have thigh gap? Am I the only one who has experienced the inexplicable pain of a good chafing, promoted by the hot sweaty temperatures of tropical environments? Am I the only one in need of spandex coated thighs to avoid such travesty? I think not...

But I digress.

My driver to airport was named Lucky, which I took as a good omen. With this and the forced donation at Angkor Wat to light incense, which I often substitute for candles in a catherdral whilst in Buddhist countries (one for Dad, one for Brie), I figured things were bound to turn around.

After checking in for my flight I check out the pastries at the Blue Pumpkin cafe and log into airport Wifi. Some meaningful conversations with friends back home leave me teary, big shock, I know and the woman next to me, an American reaches out, literally and asks if I am ok. I am equal parts touched and embarrased and realize that I have, in fact, become that girl.

Luckily, it is only moments later I discover I have lost my credit card. 

Tickets torn and the long walk to the small plane waiting on on the tarmac begins. We board and the smooth sounds of Kenny G blare through the soundsystem to put the passengers at ease. Some doodling and writing and 60 minutes later and we are bumping our way through the atmosphere to land in Sihanoukville. 

A nice older man with very limited English skills asks me where I am from, where I am going and confirms that I do not in fact know any of the other people on this plane but an in fact just one. ONE - he uses his index finger for confirmation.

He tells me about the island off the coast from which he hails and just as I am about to think he is trying to sell me a time share of some sort he insists we split a cab, as he has one waiting. It is not until we get in that he informs me in no uncertain terms that he will be paying the fare in total. True generosity does exist.

I am silent in the backseat as the driver barks into his cell phone and my pink polo'd friend screams with enthusiasm into his, at one point laughing putting me at ease that there isn't a fight brewing.

After many wrong turns we locate the hostel and I give the nice man a handshake and the most sincere thank you I can in a language he doesn't fully understand. 

I am shown to room 5, for which I have splurged to have airconditioning and a terrace the next two nights and I am famished.

Logic would dictate to walk away from where I am staying, in a small cluster of open establishments and walk toward the water for action. Logic would be wrong.

Thanks to my new friend Frank I now know Google maps will show you where in the world you are whther or not you have access to wifi, part amazing part terrifying so I head toward what looks like a Chinese restaurant. No such luck.

I stop into a quickie mart thhinking maybe salted broad beans and oreos will have to be my meal for the night when the man tells me to go back into town. Apparently the strip upon which my hostel sits is the town. Wow.

Lucily I dont listen to him and instead located a Japanese restaurant just next door with outdoor seating that literally buts up against the Gulf of Thailand. The rhythmic sounds of the waves and warm sun offers a peaveful place for me to watch busloads of Chinese tourists disembark, pull out their ipads, take a number of photos of themselves in whacky positions to prove they were there, and then turn around and get back on the tour bus. 

My curry looked like it had been consumed before it was served to me and the insistence that pork be included in every meal makes me wonder how a Jew can successfully get around Southeast Asia, but I am happy to be outside. Happy to be someplace warm. 

Back up the hill and into town I am again on The Hunt For The Red October, or internet, at which point I am pointed every which way.

How do these people, who live in towns of population 20 not know names of places or where to go. How can you be so confused? You could ask me where to find a burger spot in the village and I could give you a name and a fairly accurate estimation of location. Is this what being mellow is? Is this the definition of giving 0 fucks? I seriously need to know.

I've become the weary traveler. Tired, hungry, unbearably dirty and in dire need of someone who either has a grasp on the language I speak or on direction in general.

I'm pointed down the hill, then up.

I am told to try downtown, as it's only 2 Kms away then I'm told it's 6. I love other cultures. I appreciate differences and respect that I'm the fish out of water here.

But sometimes a girl just needs a computer fix and she is willing to cut a bitch if they send her out into the sweaty mosquito infested night to ogle ancient men, heads holding on to the last few hairs with all their might, to shop like puppies in the window for young nubile girls with too much makeup and too little education.

I've been witness to prostitution from time to time in my travels. The first time was in Wakiki Beach, Hawaii - and perhaps this is my ignorance or my fortune to have the fundamentals for success from early on as well as a very present father, but the sex industry before your eyes is painful. And the men seated in these dimly lit bars next to girls on the precipice on menses, young enough to be their granddaughter, revolting.

So revolting in fact that I almost forget my own need for Internet, being concerned with human rights and all.

It's exhausting thinking about others...

I decide to get some decent sustenance before retiring at 8 pm and I head to The Corner, on the corner, because I've seen patrons there all day so I figure it's decent.

The first few days seemed so promising here. Every meal was delicious and if not delicious, at least interesting. Perhaps my ordering acumen is lacking - but this noodle dish is as well but it does resemble several necessary food groups so I dig in under the yellow lights and oscilating fan.

Before leaving the establishment I'm able to speak briefly with a local. Sort of. Theres a friendly man, most certainly circling 80 with a thick French accent and three business in town. He has been here for 11 years and says there is no time to be bored. I'm guessing this is due to the fact that he has a 20 something wife and a three year old baby.

He asked me if o had the desire to be a mother to which I replied emphatically yes and he assured me the 'right men' do exist. God, do I hope he is right.

And I hope he is not 80. Saggy balls gross me out.