Reflections On A Grey Wednesday

**Disclaimer – This post is in no way a political rant, diatribe, ramble or other equivalent form of opinion venting. I am in no way educated or informed enough to offer any relevant insight to any political situation, especially one abroad. At best it would be embarrassing, at worst ignorant and offensive. This is simply about us. And me. Mainly about me. It's always about me.**

When I woke up this morning, I had that groggy ache in my head and clumsy sense of nausea you get when you drank too much red wine the night before.

It probably had something to do with the fact that I drank too much red wine the night before.

My shower took too long to warm up and my house felt so cold it almost made me dislike my bed because it appeared to be taunting me with warmth and comfort that I knew I couldn't embrace. For the record, I love my bed. In leaving my house I was greeted by the kind of quintessential cold English rain that I hadn't felt since leaving for South East Asia almost 3 years ago. My umbrella got turned inside out at least twice during the roughly 3 minute walk to the bus stop, during which period the bus itself rushed past me and pulled away in an amount of time that could have been scientifically calculated to cause the maximum degree of frustration. The followup bus was stuck behind the recycling truck as it inched it's way towards completion of its suburban civic duty. At this moment, it struck me. I had also forgotten to put out the recycling.

Oh yeah, and whilst I was cleaning my teeth, Donald Trump was declared as the next president of the United States of America.

It is safe to say that I felt like it was going to be “one of those days”.

Now I am not a believer in 'those days', things happen randomly and sometimes an unfortunate series of events all fall within one rotation of the planet. In my opinion there is no greater significance to this than the simple fact we are more inclined to notice it. None the less it is a hard feeling to shake. I get the impression I was not alone in my funk.

If Facebook serves as the modern town square where people bare their opinions and their souls, the general consensus surrounding today was somewhat, shall we say, gloomy. The news feed is an insight in to the wider mood, you lay witness to the mirror held up against responses on cultural events, the passing of public figures, global tragedies, humanitarian crises as well as the eternal struggle between heroic iguanas and demon Medusa-looking hell snakes on remote tropical islands. That reference may well date quickly but there is never a bad time to re-watch Planet Earth.

I have never witnessed a wave of negativity akin to the one that greeted me today. Sad, angry bewilderment. I can hardly blame people. As far as this year goes, the camels back was one straw away from being broken and a 107kg man* with an extra 3kg of hair and fake tan** just jumped on it to catch a ride to the oval office.

I don't know what this means for the world but when I told a friend of mine that I was feeling ill, he wisely told me to relax, the sky is not falling. I was actually referring to the after effect of the wine but he had a good point.

I totally understand why people are feeling so awful. I feel like a large part of it has to do with how helpless we all feel. The bad thing has happened and our role is relegated to that of powerless spectator. It is just one of those days. It is just one of those years. And you are right, we can't change it, we can't stop it, the Hall of Presidents at Disneyland will be forever tainted.

There is one thing we can control though, and that is us. It is a trite cliché to say that if you let them get you down, they have already won. Especially in this case as he has literally won. There is inevitably some truth in that sentiment though. This year has thrown up countless demonstrations that we can't rely on public figures to save us. Our heroes may eventually die, our leaders may badly under-serve us and our society may not represent us in a manner that we believe is true to our spirits. Howevere, without meaning to sound overly dramatic, we can still save ourselves.

Now is the perfect time to rediscover your joy. Remember that joke or that stupid thing you did which made your friend laugh so hard that the result seemed like it would be death or defecation? Phone them up and remind them of it again.

If you have a favourite song that makes you giddy even under threat of being disowned by your loved ones, play it loud. Better yet sing it loud. Now is the time to take singing lessons if you want to sing. Now is the time do dance and if you don't know how then learn. Get back in to that sport you lost time for. Watch that box set you have been putting off. Bake a massive cake. And save me a slice. Seriously. I love cake.

If you don't have a hobby, take one up. If you don't have a passion, take the time to discover one. If you don't like your country right now, start saving tomorrow for your round the world ticket. I have been putting off writing my blog for over two years. My mind boggles just stating that. I was always going to start it up again tomorrow. But the dates don't lie. Positivity is rarely my strong suit but the events of this morning have made me realise that I am responsible for how my day goes. One minor victory at a time is all it takes. The lifeline may have been severed and the hand-basket may be freely floating to hell but the journey doesn't have to be wasted.

Far more enlightened people than myself have stated for a long time that the surefire path to misery is to focus your happiness on the thing you can't control. You don't have to bury your head in the sand but that doesn't you can't look towards something better. The world may look different but it's still the same and we can deal with it the same way we would yesterday. With laughter and nature documentaries. And wine. Maybe less of that. Maybe. The sky is not falling, even if our spirits are.

Be funny. Be stupid. Be thoughtful. Be creative. Be passionate. Be weird. Be active. Be productive. Be absolutely ridiculous. But don't be defeated.

Do remember to put out your recycling though. The world still needs that.

Stay positive y'all!

*Body weight verified by Google

**Hair and make up weight in no way verified by anything. I just made that up

A Tribute To The Plankton

Hows about we open this one with a quote:

"When I was a child, I used to speak like a child, think like a child, reason like a child; when I became a man, I did away with childish things."

That is one of those quotes I have heard paraphrased innumerous times in various contexts. Turns out its a bible quote. Go figure? It strikes a chord with me though, largely because I do not agree with it. It harks to responsibility, to expectation, to a 'grown up' mind set. The burden of adulthood which we all eventually come to bear.

A friend of mine who had been travelling before and passed on to me all manner of advice, told me that everyone who goes backpacking for a long term period is running away from something and you can see that there is a sense of truth to that. You find abundant examples of individuals running a tortoise and hare race with their demons around the globe, too varied in their nature to adequately summise. If there was however one unified factor to identify which so many seem to be trying to unshackle themselves from, it is that of adulthood. The backpacking community is like a teeming mass of lost boys, looking for their neverland and not having to do away with childish things.

If you read that paragraph as a sentimental excuse for a hoard of arrested adolescents to forgo responsibility in order to get drunk in foreign locations, well you can certainly be excused for coming to that conclusion. You are not far off. It is more than the sheer festivity of it though. It goes beyond hedonism, beyond financial disregard and beyond an escape from the rat race. It is about regaining a sense of wonder. Reclaiming your right to shock and awe. Re-embraching a sense of spectacle, of discovery. Allowing yourself once more to believe there might just be magic in the world.

All these things that we take for granted in our early youth that too many of us strive to cast off before their time until it gets to the point that you can no longer remember when you stopped believing. Freeing yourself from the trappings of adult life in a place like South East Asia makes it easier to connect once more with these feelings. On any given day you can see so many things that take your breath away, its amazing you don't suffocate.

Having been out here for almost 4 months I have been fortunate enough to see a great number of people who should be old enough to know better, revel in infantile glee through any number of situations. There is however one toy in natures play pen that has an effect like none other I have witnessed.

Bioluminesence.

Or in the case out here, biolumisencent phytoplankton.

Or just glowing plankton. That's easier right?

That is ostensibly what it is. As ever I have neither the scientific knowledge, nor the inclination to research in order to explain how the phenomenon works. If you are reading this, you also have access to google. Go look it up yourself if you care that much.

Here is what I can tell you. The ocean is full of plankton and when you move through them after dark, they light up around you. It is staggering, it is humbling. It is enchanting, entrancing and enticing. It is like submerging yourself in a black canvas whilst some greater power draws around the outline of your being in glitter paint. Literally.

I have been lucky enough to find myself in a couple of locations that offer bioluminescent night swimming and I can honestly say, it has yet to get old. The only thing greater than swimming in to dark waters and watching them explode with light around you, is watching other people do the same. You see it time and time again, folks convinced that such a spectacle shouldn't be real, therefore can't be real. Surely you must have to trek to some obscure location? Maybe it only works at highly specific late hour? Perhaps you need to recite an acient greek incantation whilst offering up a blood sacrifice to Lord Poseidon? No, No and possibly (I have yet to look in to that last option.)

I am far from an expert, all I can say is that I do not have a count of the amount of times I have swam in such circumstances during my time here and it has never been harder than throwing yourself in and letting yourself go. And the release is palpable. Hearing the shrieks of delight, whether they be from hippie or hipster, it bewitches all. You get a fair few characters passing through this part of the world who like to think they have seen it all. Playing a game of location based one upmanship, they carry themselves as unshockable, unphaseable. When you meet such an individual that has yet to see the plankton, and watch as they experience it for the first time it is a true delight of life. The sparkling water flowing over them truly seems to cleanse all sense of pretension, cynicism and general smugness for at least a few sweet minutes.

It is certainly one of the most narcotic experiences you can have whilst entirely sober. It seems to instill in people a sense of euphoria free from intoxication. It soaks through to your inner 5 year old and casts it in to a giant ball pit. The effect it has on peoples spirits is almost as remarkable as the effect it has on their clothing. You could almost be forgiven for thinking the plankon has an acidic quality that simply dissolves fabric. People will dip their toes in, watch the first sparkles appear around their ankles and suddenly find themselves emerging from the water 20 minutes later wearing a birthday suit where once there was a bathing suit. Eventually they discover their garments discarded on the shore at a location in which they vaguely remember hastily disrobing some time before. The lucky ones that is.

I reflect on the plankton at this juncture because it was Koh Rong when it first came in to my life. It has been my fortune to witness it on more occasions than I can adequately recall by now but that was the first place I knew the wonder. Every time I have swam in it is a fresh story un to itself and I could recount the splendour endlessly but there I have neither the time or words to do it justice on each occasion. This will have to suffice but it will never truly capture the feeling of your eyes widening and your skin tingling as you attempt to take it in. Just know that it is a good time. And if you don't believe, venture out in to the world and discover it for yourself. Do away with adulthood, or at the very least allow yourself a moment to pretend.

Koh Rong: Right Time, Rong Place

Before I left for South East Asia, I clutched to my side a text that I was just about sure would serve as my life raft should I ever find myself lost in the figurative sea of backpacking. A tome held by a vast percentage of fellow travellers, a guide to navigating this strange and foreign land. The Lonely Planet: South East Asia On A Shoestring.

The book itself is almost as epic and dense as the land is vast sprawling. There is a certain irony to its application in the sense that whilst it serves to prevent you getting lost in the world, the process will inevitably end up with you lost within the pages. I have no doubt that for certain travellers, those who thrive on structure, lists and grid references, this text woud prove invaluable. For me though it just felt like an information overload clashing with my sensory overload causing a sensation akin to sea level vertigo. As it turns out, there is a far more acessible, reliable and relatable source of information readily availble on the backpacking circuit.

The power of word of mouth.

Simple, yet wonderfully effective.

A perfect example of this in action was my final morning in Bangkok. In order to exit my dorm and connect with my transport, I had to somehow remove the 19-year-old-dutch-teenager shaped door stop that had appeared on the floor. In seeking the assistance of his less bipedally challeneged associates, the inevitable conversation was struck as to where we had all been/were going. In reference to my intention to visit Cambodia in the near future their response was both effusive and pointed. Apparently I was, in no uncertain terms, to not miss out on visiting an island called Koh Rong.

Questions of curiosity ensued on my part, answers, information, stories and photos were imparted in response. Cut to roughly a week later, I am on a different island, Koh Chang in Thailand. I was enjoying the company of a pair of backpackers I had met on the beach. Following an amusing game that involved testing the tensile strength of a large stick of bamboo in relation to the human abdomen, we sat around nursing our bruises whilst sharing beers and stories. The inevitable destination equation was drawn and once more the name of Koh Rong was raised. Similar stories were shared, similar photos shown, similar enthusiasm delivered.

This process repeated throughout bars, throughout hostels, throughout countries. From Bangkok to Sihanoukville it was the brightest beacon in an ocean of transient discourse. Had you been? Were you going? What did you think? What about tropical diseases? Did they have electricity? Did they have rats? Was it ACTUALLY paradise?

What did the Lonely Planet have to say? Well my edition, current at the time although subsequently outdated, really did not have much to contribute. I have lost the copy in question so all I can do is paraphrase, suffice to say it laid out the bare bones of the island historically and geographically, providing more of a sense of the locations potential than its actual current state.

Why this factual dearth you may ask? Becase Koh Rong is on the rise. It is no more now the island it was 12 months ago, than it will be the island it is today in 12 months time. The last year has seen a remarkble influx of both guests and businesses that have kickstarted a transformation of the locations visage. Right now could well be considered the sweet spot, the perfect balance of the present beauty and the future utility.

So if the Lonely Planet can't tell you what Koh Rong is like, I will take it upon my self, just as I have with the multitude of fellow backpackers I have met since departing the location.

Koh Rong is transcendent.

It is disingenuous to describe anywhere as paradise given the relative nature of the term, however I can accurately state that it is a whole lot of what I was looking for. You take the boat from Sihanoukville, and arrive between 40 minutes to 2 hours later depending on which vessel transported you. When you emerge on to dry land you walk down the pier to the beachfront, along which lies the crux of the development that the island has seen thus far. A series of bars, bungalows and guesthouses, all unique in character yet uniform in their wood and bamboo construction. You choose where you want to stay, deposit your belongings and from that point on, simply recline and sink in to your surroundings.

Within ten minutes you can walk from the tip of the local community village located to the left of the pier as you emerge, to the furthest bungalows along the main beachfront. There are other institutions that can be sought across the island should you wish to see them, the treehouse bungalows or the high wire zip line for instance, but really the main draw of the Koh Rong experience, certainly in high season, consists of sand, sea and trees.

The story I kept hearing over and over before I arrived was that of Long Beach. The main beach on the island was more beautiful and relaxing than any of us has the right to expect, let alone demand. That said, there was another beach. Not near by, but it was there. You had to trek through the jungle. You had to use the rope to scramble over the rocks. The route was accesible but no easy feat.

And the reward?

A 7 km stretch of sand whiter than you could fictionalise. Water clearer than you could comprehend. A view of the sun submerging in to the horizon at the on set of dusk that was more resplendent than you could ever hallucinate.  A feeling of otherworldly calm and tranquility as you lay on your back, bobbing on the tide, doing all you can to take in the combined elements with the faculties available to you.

You could tell Koh Rong was a place that a lot of people had geographically found themselves only to lose themselves in other ways but it was certainly a place I was happy to let my eyes adjust to. The trail of verbal breadcrumbs spread along my journey thus far had led me to this gingerbread house and I would be damned if I wasn't gong to stop in and put my feet up.

I mean it would be rude not to right?

Sihanoukville: The Life and Death of the Party

So although I proposed a lack of chronology, this entry actually picks up from where I left off a month or so ago. It only seems appropriate as it is so close to my current location.

Have you ever heard of Sihanoukville?

Can you even pronounce it? Go on. Give it a shot.

Quite finished?

Sihanoukville is a beach town. A Cambodian beach town. Everyone knows a beach town. A kind of fringe existence built up to support the ocean economy. Where this was once based around the produce that came out of the sea, it is now formed around the people who want to go in to it. It is a passing form of trade which typically spends it time gliding across the surface of the locality without ever peering below the surface. As such you will find places like this, Sihanoukville being far from an exception, caters chiefly to one thing: surface pleasures.

Sihanoukville is like a gift wrapped turd in an adult version of pass the parcel.

O.k, that was slightly harsh. It might not be a gift wrapped turd. The thing is, there are a lot of shiny layers wrapped around the experience, that are at once exciting and enticing to sink your claws in to. The problem is, the more you peel away and the closer you get to the heart, the more it starts to stink. And with this place, there are definitely rips in the packaging.

The trick is distraction. This is something it does well. Take, for instance, Utopia bar. Yes, Utopia. Take all the connotations of an establishment that calls itself that and you probably wont be far off. During happy hour they sells beers for 25 cents. 25 cents. I mean yeah sure it is notorious for its $1 dorm rooms being infested with bed bugs, but 25 cent beers. Bed bugs. Beers. Bed bugs. Beers. The eternal debate.

The fact is, for those looking for a good time, Sihanoukville knows how to give it to you. It is one big party even if it does feel slightly like the tail end. Like turning up to a house at 5am where most of the revellers have passed out or gone home and the surroundings are littered with the detritus of festivities that once were.

Take the main beach, Serendipity Beach. At first glance you have a beautiful ocean front, golden sand, blue seas, the package. Problem is ase tide laps at your ankles, so too does untold amounts of refuse. Discarded cans, food containers, plastic bags and potentially even the odd rubber receptacle of the shared joy experienced the night before between two consenting adults who love each other very dearly. I enjoy a dip in the ocean but this was one location where I opted to stay dry.

Alright, that is not ostensibly true. There was that first night out drinking at the late night beach bars where my Texan companion and I were coaxed by new aquaintances in to taking a late night dip. The air of throwing caution and indeed modesty to the wind seems to blow in on the evening breeze and only dissipates in the glare of the following sunrise. The only hope is that whatever dignity you discard on the shoreline is able to be reclaimed before you surrender to sleep. We were lucky to leave with what we arrived with alongside some good memories, I have seen many who left with less.

In Asia though it is hard to entirely fault a location servicing abandon. Those that come to this part of the world can often be characterised by the desire, to a greater or lesser extent, lose themselves. Sihanoukville provides that environment in the easiest possible way. Seek Utopia, indulge hedonism, retreat from reality. The appeal is not hard to identify.

Unfortunately it is this reality that causes the stench of putrification wafting out from beneath all the glossy layers. When you can hardly hear the waves on the shore beyond the cries of children begging you to buy their bracelets and fireworks. When the crowd at the liveliest bar on the beachfront comprises more prostitutes than it does actual punters. I mean they call it a bar, we call it a bar but the flashing lights can only disguise so much from its true identity.

Ultimately though, Sihanoukville only lies across the edge of the sea. Where there is ocean, there are opportunities and other places to explore. It is a location I have passed through a number of times now but only as a point of transit whenever it can be helped. You can stop by, take it in for what it is, find the nearest boat and sail on out of there. It didn't take much of that place for me to start feeling choked on the fumes but i was hopeful to find a breath of fresh air on the horizon, and I certainly wasn't wrong.

Eyes on the Horizon

So... Its been a while. I know. I made no promises and told no lies. I got slack and fell behind. I put the Hugh in to Hu(gh)man incompetency. Apparently in the past sentence I also managed to put the Hugh in to Human. I thought it would fit better. Actually looks kinda ugly. Food for thought.

Regardless here I am once more, attempting to communicate some fraction of the sensory overload that I have been weighing myself under for what has now been more than three months. Not long in the grand scheme of things but it certainly feels like something approaching a while on my end. I have seen, done, felt, experienced, embraced, swam in, jumped off, smelt, embibed and ran away from things that I could never have previously conceived to have even approached my path, let alone cross it.

And all of this without keeping you beautiful people informed of said shenanigans? For shame!

The benefit of my absence from the blogging medium is that my well of travelling tidbits has grown deeper and richer than ever before which means there should be an abundance encounters to share with y'all. Should being the operative word of course. I make no further promises as to my ability to maintain the informative flow but I do pledge to try. I mean, you don't even know what happened on the further adventures of my flip flops do you? Thats a good one, if I do say so my self.

I will say this much, it has only just occurred to me in writing this last paragraph that, were Hughs Views not such a damn catchy name for this blog, The Well of Travelling Tidbits would be a fantastic alternative. Its almost sounds like a knock off Harry Potter book, chronicling his gap year when he decided to go backpacking across the wizarding world. Hugh Surtees and the Well of Travelling Tidbits. It has winner written all over it.

Pointless digressions aside, here is my hope going forward. It has been so long that to attempt to maintain a coherent chronology is beyond my already limited powers of discourse so I will just attempt more to collate a collection of select memories from throughout. Once I have figured what I can share and what is best left for personal recollection, I will do my utmost to type them down and post them up. To be fair a lack of sense and structure would certainly be the more accurate form of reflecting the last few months.

Now if you will forgive me, I am going to shake out my head, stretch out my fingers and see what flows forth. I am quietly optimistic but as one of the golden rules of scuba diving would say, don't hold your breath. And don't aggravate sharks. That should be obvious.

Phmom Pen: Death, Darkness and Disarray

Ooh, what an ominous title.

Don't worry though, its not all doom and gloom. Backpacking can often be described as a pretty light hearted and joyful exercise in experiencing the world. You can come and go as you please, live your days at your leisure, flit from excercise to excursion as the mood strikes. Certain places however have sites you have to see. Some out of wonder, some out of curiosity but also some out of education and to an extent duty. Phnom Penh holds such a place.

When first strting my travels in Bangkok, i naturally enquired amongst the more seasoned travellers as to what my upcoming destinations would be like. Phnom Penh was the first stop described to me in anything less than effusive terms. I was told it was dirty and seedy. Further enquiry however uncovered a more apt term for it. A description from the tourist information advisor.

Phnom Penh is a sad city.

As the capital of Cambodia is the most developed location I have witnessed throughout the country and by some margin. It has high rise buildings. Bustling main highways and intersections. Branded shopping malls. Uptowns and downtowns. You can see the freshness to some of it and feel the strengthening beat of the urban pulse which is slowly building towards the fully fledged modern heartbeat developed by cities such as the Bangkoks and the Hanois it is ultimately destined to emulate.

Cambodia is a poor country though which has not had it easy. Phnom Penh has been front and centre for the struggle. It is growing to diversity through adversity. To even get close to understanding this, you need to visit the killing fields.

Getting there it self is like a trip between worlds. You catch a tuk-tuk (of course) and it drives you through smoggy sprawl of transport and commerce that are spread across the streets and the roads, neither exclusively set on one or the other. You are as likely to find a fruit seller strolling down the middle of the main road as you are to find a motorbike weaving through pedestrians in search of short cut.

Ultimately you get to the infamous killing fields. They are symbolic of attrocity. Moreover they are the site of attrocity. To think that one such place exists is heartbraking. To think that it is one of many throughout the country is unbearable.

I am not qualified or informed enough to give an adequate description of its history or context. Suffice to say that a bad man by the name of Pol Pot got some crazy ideas and some influence, he used this to convince a large proportion of undeducated peasants to join a cause they didn't truly understand and form an army called the Khmer Rouge. At this point in time Cambodia was still suffering from the battering it had had taken on behalf of the Vietnam war, meaning that when the action came, it was not ready or able to defend itself. The Khmer Rouge took the city, took control and just like any crazy tyrant, Pol Pot started wiping out his enemies.

The killing fields are an execution ground. An execuition ground of mass graves that span vast fields. Just as power breeds paranoia, especially the ill-gotten variety, more and more people became classed as enemies and now across the country fields like these exist. Appartly out of a population of 9 million people, 3 million were massacred. Please don't judge me on any faults in those details, I am just trying to recall it from memory. It seems strange to be part of a generation that grew up just after these events happened. Too late to have born witness to the news and yet too fresh to have the perspective to have studied it as history. I don't know if I speak for all my age but I know a lot of people who are aware that something bad happened there but dont know the story.

Now I think I will never forget it. I mean these are real, authentic mass graves you are walking amongst. They are still uncovering fragments of bone and clothing even to this day. I visited the morning after a heavy storm and had a hard time being able to atually compute that the cordoned off mud pits with bone shards sticking out of the dirt were not props. Pirates of the Caribbean, this aint.

You can only imagine that a day spent in such surrounds requires an evening to reflect but a night to forget. Some sights may never leave you but you cant fault a distraction from them. Duly socialising abounded, hair was let down and the night began. Then came time for the night to move on. The last bar was closing, it was time for a club.

Enthusiasm was rife, a location was set and a ebullient group of us set off in tuk-tuks, the rest following behind, the destination: Code Red. Great club, great drink offers. We had been dealt a winning hand.

One catch though, the ace in our pack turned out to be a joker.

Here is a piece of trivia for you. A lot of the tuk-tuk drivers in Phnom Penh, don't actually come from Phnom Penh. They come from far and wide, they are drawn to the bright lights and the commerial buzz. The catch being, they don't know the city and they don't know where the hell they are going.

It took us some time to realise this. I would say roughly an hour. Give or take. The giving and taking referring to giving directions and taking lies. Giving advice and taking false nods of understanding. Giving grief and taking confused looks. Giving up and taking another option for a club that was nearby and seemed acceptable.

And it was. It was called Heart of Darkness but that was somewhat misleading. A literary title for a gaudy electro pop nighclub. It may seem like a strange name that teeters along the titghtrope of inappropriatess given the books connection to the Vietnam War. Then again there was a club in Saigon called Apocalypse Now so really, who is to say.

Either way it seemed like a good enough time, and wouldn't you know love was in the air. Amongst all the dancing, frolicing folks a local Cambodian lad, couldn't have been older than twenty, he found affection. Clearly someone who understood him, someone he could share his spirit, certainly someone who got him. So what if this partner in question was a western man, who was clearly past the age of retirement. You could seem the connection in their dancing. And grinding. Why, the old, roughly unshaven, creepy old white guy had such a close relationship with this young Cambodian chap, he even trusted him enough to count his money.

And the say romance is dead.

I sat down in the other end of the club, trying to reflect on everything that I had seen that day. The sorrow, the confusion, the vibrancy, the frivolity, the vice and the festivity. It was a rich synaptic cocktail to digest and I wasn't sure how it was going to go down.

The answer, naturally, was to dance.

In this less populated end of the establishment, a group of waitresses finished their shift, put on a traditional local song and started dancing in a circle around a bar stool. They tapped my friend and I on the shoulder and invited us to join in. It was something I had never done before, I didn't know the moves but they just seemed happy. It could have meant all kinds of things, it could have meant nothing but amonst all I had seen, sharing in these people having a good time meant everything. I knew nothing of what was going on but at that moment, it made all the sense in the world snd that counted for a lot.

Siem Reap/Phnom Penh: Backpacking Karma - A Tale of Two Monkeys

One fact that is inescapable in South East Asia is that despite all the rife madness and debauchery they are incredibly spiritual people. You see temples in abundance and shrines in every establishment laden with offerings of food, drink and incense.

The prevailing religion in this region is Budhism, definitely one of the more interesting and peaceful religions as far as I am concerned. Despite having actually studied this particular faith in school some many years back, I could not provide much in the way of detail when it comes to their particular practices. One key element that I am aware of however is that of Karma. This is (basically) the notion that in the cycle of life good actions will reap good consequences and the same conversely with bad actions.

As I have mentioned before I am not a spiritual person and I could not begin to say how this Karma thing actually works but the following story makes me think there may actually be something to it.

You see as I tore through the streets of Siem Reap in the back of a tuk-tuk, my Karma meter was definitely rising. So was my heart rate and the contents of my stomach.

It had seemed simple enough at the time. A fellow backpacker had just departed on a night bus for their next destination and unfortunately left their camera behind in the bar. It had since found its way in to my possesion due to being one of the last faces to be photographed on said camera. The solution to this quandry seemed simple. I would go to reception, inform them of the unfortunate circumstance, they would hold on to the camera until its owner got in touch, at which point they could forward it on to the next set address.

The thing is, Cambodia does not do simple solutions.

Upon explaining the situation and all the relevant details, the receptionist told me to stay there and a series of frantic phonecalls ensued. I kept trying to explain what needed to happen but they were having none of it. A few confusing minutes later, said receptionist pointed at me and I was ushered outside. I dutifully followed and noticed that the receptionist was hailing down a tuk-tuk. It was at this point I clocked on to the new plan. We were going after the bus.

I timidly climbed in to the vehicle and the receptionist jumped in after me. I am not sure precisely what she said to the driver but sometimes physical comunication is universal enough. One such gesture is the tapping of the watch and the firm point in a specific direction. That means floor it, preferably with even scanter regard for sense and safety than you would normally practice. It also means the following: Hold. On. Tight.

The bus had a significant headstart on us but thankfully it had stopped further on up the road to collect more passengers. Ultimately we caught up with it and I was able to stride on the bus, return the lost goods and play the role of the hero. The shaky legged hero with a pale face and even paler knuckles, but the hero none the less.

And the karmic reward for my actions? Some bastard stole my bloody flip flops.

I loved those flip flops.

After a lifelong aversion to wearing such footwear, I relented in 2009 during my time in Florida and finally purchased a pair. Unrivalled in comfort and durability, these flip flops had been with me ever since, on various holidays and adventures. They had never let me down but for some reason, this was to be the day the universe saw fit to part me from them.

I was staying at the Mad Monkey hostel in Siem Reap and one great feature of this hostel is a rooftop beach bar, covered in sand with hammocks and good times in abundance. One poor feature of the hostel was having to take your footwear off before entering the bar. It means putting your trust in your fellow patrons. Some patrons are bad people. Sure enough when it came time to leave the bar, my beloved flip flops were nowhere to be found. I drunkenly searched high and low. By that I mean I swore a lot, stumbled round in circles and gave up looking after almost falling over my own feet for a third time.

At this point I made what peace I could with my loss. I had other shoes and I was leaving for another city the next day. I guess it was goodbye. It wasn't all doom and gloom after all. There was still a night out to be had and I was determined it would be a good one. It certainly was. I said goodbye to Siem Reap and one of my longer term travelling buddies in a suitably fitting way and ended up having what was at that point one of the best nights of my trip. Flip flops be damned, the universe didn't hate me that much.

Right?

When I awoke the following night in Phnom Penh to the news that my room was flooding, I questioned it once more.

The journey had been fine and we were staying in another Mad Monkey hostel, the sister venture of the establishment from Siem Reap. It was another good fun hostel, I settled in, had a few beers, met some nice people and called it an early night just as the rain began.

Turns out this wasn't just rain, this was a tropical storm. A real one. No one had seen fit to inform our dorms bathroom plumbing that such a storm would be occuring so it decided to burst a pipe in protest. When I awoke, the water was ankle deep and rising. The only people who seemed more bemused than the occupants of the dorm were the staff members who had been called up to fix it. They stood around literally scratching their heads. After a few minutes of optimistic discussion, they decided that what was called for was some good old fashioned Cambodian improvisation. I couldn't tell you exactly what they did but it involved various lengths of wire and a hammer.

A flooding en-suite in a Cambodian hostel. Talk about first world problems in a third world country.

Amazingly whatever they did happened to work and my belongings along with my self were unscathed and unsoaked. I did my part to rouse the fellow inhabitants of my room and in the end all was well.

I was pissed off with Karma though. As far as I was concerned I had done good deeds and this was simply not karmic cricket.

Maybe the universe agreed. After an intense following day seeing sights that took my mind far from any of these concerns I returned to my hostel and lay down for a power nap. I woke later and was just heading out of the dorm to join my friends for dinner downstairs when I stopped. I looked down. On the floor, two bunks over were my flip flops.

Like, actually MY flip flops. Not similar flip flops. Mine. For starters they were the only ones like that I had ever seen. They also had the same scratches, the same wear marks, the same missing decorations that had fallen off after years of use. No mistaking, no questioning. It was them.

I was incredulous. I had traveled close to ten hours across the country and my flip flops had seen fit to follow me. The person who had taken them could have gone to any city next, in that city he could have stayed in any hostel, in that hostel he could have stayed in any dorm, in any bunk. There are so many ways I could have never seen them again, yet here they were. Clear as day.

When the perpetrator returned I politely inquired as to whether he had just come from Siem Reap, without meaning to sound weird of course, if those were in fact his flip flops. His resulting expression was sheepish to say the least. Thankfully he was gracious in response, explained that his flip flops had too been taken and he picked up the nearest pair out of necessity. I don't know if he was telling the truth or not but at this point, I didn't care. Against all odds, I had my flip flops back.

I could have reprimanded the guy, could have chastised him, could have called him out as a thief and general vagabond. But I chose not to. Instead, when I saw the guy in the bar later, I bought him a beer and said that even though i'm not sure how it happened, I was pleased that it had.

It seemed the right thing to do. Just maybe, if I was the bigger man and did the nice thing, Karma might find a way to reward me.

Or maybe it will give me dengue fever. I don't know. I guess time will tell...