Four Men And A Little Lady

Having made my new friend and with it being my last night I splurged and ended up at the Billabong Resort. A single room for $20. I'll survive.

Aaron Spelling most certainly consulted on the building and branding of the Billabong because I half expect Amanda Woodward to push me into the blue tiled pool located in the courtyard flanked by lounge chairs and neatly folded towels. 

My clean and comfortable room, located on the second floor and has shampoo in the bathroom and a mini fridge. It's basically the Ritz.

After unloading my bag I meet back up with Carla and an Austrian friend of hers for dinner. Sister's Restaurant is just down the road and for a couple of bucks will serve you something with indistinguishable seafood and indeterminate flavor. Needless to say - it was a bad call. My dinner companions didn't seem up for the night market so we all, instead, take the short walk back to the hostel and have banana splits and break up talk in the courtyard. 

My sleep was restful and rise early. Giving me plenty of time to utilize the reliable wifi to catch up on on Netflix. A super cultural experience.

I was the black and white Mark Duplass film 'Blue Jay' and marvel and his ability to capture the tragic beauty so often found in life. 

I make it to the pool by 8am with absolutely no shame as I am trying to get my last drops of vitamin D in before heading back to the Northern tundra of New York city and run into the homies from the night before as they gather to head to the killing fields. For a moment I consider putting on appropriate clothing and joining them. 

Part of what I've learned from traveling is that I must accept I cannot see everything. Much like in life you have to choose door A or B and I realize getting my niece a doll means more to me than a place of pass genocide.

I pass affectionate skinny Asian girls with exposed tracks and the Eastern European man who 'love' them, or who have at least paid for said affection for the weekend as I meander my way to the market where I get something for everyone on my life with riels to spare.

When I return to the hostel with my newly purchased goodies I reunite with the cast of Cambodia Place and we share from the day - what see, eat, avoid.

I pack my bags and relax at the hostel, and head out to the night market with Karla and British baker Matt who will be leaving in the morning to surprise his Mum for Christmas.

We, once again, don't make it to the market but we do land at an open air restaurant and I order WAY too much in hopes of sharing and instead buy my companions and beer and consume all solid calories alone. The dinner is lengthy and chatty and although we were denied service solely based on our being Caucasian the food was aplenty and the bill was low. 

With some reticence make it back to Billabong and I gather my things before hoping into yet another tuk tuk (I love them so much!) and head to the airport. 

The joy of starting your period, just as you start your two day journey home is one I can't quite put into words. The joys of being a woman are boundless. As are the joys of travel.

I will not pretend to be filled with joy or hope, at least not at the moment. But with country 36 checked off of my list, with the help of four men and a little lady, I am filled with experiences. And for that, I can be thankful. 

I love you, Cambodia. 

A Baby Jellyfish In My Vagina

You know you're not in Kansas anymore when the driver for hire (a tuk tuk in this case) literally pulls over so he can take a call. I find the antiquated ways of the third world equal parts charming and frustrating. In New York I would likely be up in arms at the blatant disregard for my dire need to get wherever it is I was going, but here, I am just along for the ride.

If only I could employ this que sera sera attitude in my everyday life. Or rather my life back in the 'real world.'

Just across from my abode for the evening I sit in a papasan chair that may or may not contain mold, bugs or other's pit and but juices but tonight is mellow and I fret not. Instead I greedily slurp down my pineapple shake, listen to some Jurassic 5 and read up on addiction and abuse as I wait for my diner companion.

Garreth meets me for dinner and we dine under the stars before he coerces me into making moves to Otres 1 where soon find myself amongst a throng of 21 year olds waxing poetic about the meaning of life at Ibiza Beach Club, replete with black light paint and fire dancers.

We chat. I sit quietly in my gauzy gown and when my age is revealed - by me - the collective gasp is audible. And welcomed! A 27 year-old Aussie, who I later found out slept with one of her students, says she thought I was younger than her. Brit boy says he doesn't understand why everyone in the worldages better than the British. Its the little things... (and it was dark)


Around midnight the boozy bunch partake in fire limbo which, I don't know about you, but sounds like an EXCELLENT idea to me and the fire boys with their lithe and flexible frames are impressive and mildly sexually arousing.

As much as I enjoy watching the mating rituals amongst the inebriated, it is getting late and time for this old timer to leave the party. Though my new friend articulates that he is in the mood for 'affection,' I am not and take my own personal tuk tuk back to my private room that I am currently sharing with a gaggle of insects and turn in for the night around 3 am. Not too shabby for an old broad abroad... (yes - THAT will be the name of my future memoir - it is decided)

Our promise to meet for a kayaking adventure is met and though I am late the sun is high in the sky when Garreth and I climb into the brightly colored boat. 

On this particular journey I am crossing paths with people in my age range and it leaves me thinking, wondering, contemplating. What is 35?

Young at 35
Wise at 35

With little sleep we schlep our way out to the island situated in the crook of the bay and set up shop - at least for a bit. 

Its has a nice Blue Lagoon quality - with the exception of the sting. The sting one can only experience if they sit in the sand, allowing the sun to warm them and the waves to wash away their sins and... allow baby jellyfish to slip under their neon nylon and situate themselves all up in one's vagina. Being a girl is just fun.

Garreth and I enjoy the rest of our day on the beach back on the mainland before he has to head his way and I have to head mine. I am in my Yankees cap, trying to maintain my already freckled face when two young girls come up and ask to make us bracelets or feed us fruit. We order pineapple and mango and listen to the two girls chat and giggle in Khmer but really 15 year old girl is the same in any language.

The girl with my matching hat on makes me an anklet, despite my repeated insistence that I was not interested and, as she ties it to my bronzed ankle tells me it will bring me good luck. Lets hope.

Such a lovely time is had that I decide - on the fly - to stay another day. After one more night in smelly room #2 I will be left with just a little over a day to shop for loved ones and catch my breath back in the capitol before beginning the long journey home.

Breakfast and one more night in smelly room 2, leaving me a little over a day to shop for loved ones and catch my breath before the long journey home.

The idea of having to go back to the streets of New York and bother with putting shoes on my feet before walking out of the front door is not something to which I look forward.
Vendors 15 year old girls - same in any language

My last night on Victory Beach I am gifted with a breathtaking cotton candy sunset

While pondering papasan style on the darkened beach it occurred to me that 6 months ago, to the day, I was in Egypt. Not only was I in Egypt, but I was in love and, for the most part, I was happy.

It's amazing how much tragedy and torture can be fit into half a year. It's incredible how your life can be destroyed and your entire person irrevocably changed - all in a season or two.

Getting a bit too maudlin I decided instead to turn back to my WW II novel and attempt to lighten the mood...

Belly filled with Cambodian cuisine I walk home in the dark along the sea.Walk home in dark along the sea.

My last morning in Southern Cambodia - and quite possible in Cambodia in general I meditate on the beach in a wicker chain chained to a tree. Or, at least I try. My mind is like Grand Central Station at rush hour and I try desperately to just breath. I try to calm mind, to quiet it, to focus on my breath but there is undoubtedly a pop song playing in the background and a to do list formulating in the corner. I am thinking of loves lost and whether or not my socks are clean. They say women are multitaskers and generally I'm proud to be one. But here it proves problematic.

Time for a pancake (note: not plural) and tea and before and you know it the bright orange minibus was parked on the bright red soil and, just like that I was off.

And deeply sad to leave

Luckily I met lovely British Carla - here traveling for a year and I have an ally in transit. Especially helpful when creepy gay sex worker is lounging in the back of the bus with an oily leer and a mustard button down. Even making eye contact with him immediately made me feel the need to bathe. Ick. 

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.