Room 101, Kalashnikovs and Khmers.

I have one regret. I regret arsing around for six weeks in Thailand when I could have been in Cambodia. What a place!

Flight from BKK was short, calm and uneventful, as flights should be. Immigration was as easy as handing over 20$. Within two minutes of picking up my bag I was on the back of a motorbike, weaving my way to the city centre through rush-hour traffic. I instantly fell in love. Five people to a moped, scooters towing trailers as big as flat-bed trucks, monks with umbrellas perched atop cargo-laden lorries.

River Star Hotel was my first stop, a big-arsed suite (Room 101) for about 20 USD (the de facto currency). All plans went out of the window when fell asleep all day in front of a Desperate Housewives omnibus, which was a shame, because it looked quite good. Woke in time for a sunset stroll along the river and a couple of jars. A big, noisy fight broke out in the last bar I visited, complete with motorbike being driven through the front door. It dispersed as soon as it began, but I got out early and went back to bed. My moto driver had already asked if we had lots of guns in my country. “In Cambodia, everybody have gun, ha ha!”

I’d arranged to be picked up at 09.00 by the previous day’s driver for a tour of the sights. He found me a cheaper hotel ($10, air-con, hot shower, free tea and coffee, 80-channel cable TV) and we set off. First stop the Killing Fields, 15 clicks outside the city. You can still find the odd collection of bones lying around the site, as well the pagoda made of skulls (photos to follow.) Sobering and low-key. Rather like death itself.

Next stop was the underground shooting range, of the knock-three-times-and-password-to-get-in variety. I was shown the menu. For a price, I could enjoy almost anything, from a hand-pistol to a semi-automatic, anti-aircraft gun to grenade. For $200 I could be driven up a hill to fire off an RPG. I settled on 25 rounds through a Kalashnikov for $30 (more than a dollar a bullet). Starting on manual, I did badly. Switching to automatic, I did atrociously, but at least got a couple of pictures. If I never fire a gun again in my life, I’ll be happy.

We hot-tailed it back to town, swallowing red dust all the way, until we got to Tuol Sleng, the excellent museum of the former S-21 interrogation centre of Pol Pot. Key among the exhibits were hundreds of photos of the thousands of dead. Interesting to think that the AK-47 I’d fired off with a silly grin earlier on had probably disposed of at least a couple of them.

Wasn’t keen on the shooting range idea in the first place. The taxi-driver, on commission, was desperate to take me. If he got five dollars for leading me there, that’s a good 10-20% of the average Cambodian wage. Better to shoot at paper Russians than real ones, no? I didn’t even kill the paper one.

After a lunch of rice I retired with a good book. Dinner was pizza and beer. Sleep was contented. Shower was blocked with red dust.

***

Since I’ve been here I haven’t spoken to another white face, but have had more conversation with the locals than I had in Thailand in six weeks. My fault, I know, but I’m noticing no reticence in coming forward and chatting amongst the Khmers. If I’m the only customer in a cafe, the waiter will come and sit at my table. I had a long conversation about Phnom Penh, in English, with a seven year old kid selling paperbacks (I bought three.) My taxi driver today told me that Portsmouth was 353 km from London. In Thailand I was naturally and unfairly wary of anybody who showed too friendly an interest. In Phnom Penh you have to force the student of English who just wants to chat with you to accept the Coca Cola you’re offering him. Tuk-tuk drivers have (so far) said thank you when I decline their services. Despite everybody in the country having a sob story, nobody wants to share them. Nobody has wanted my pity.

Of course, all of the above might be total naive bollocks and after three days here I haven’t a scoobie. Violent crime is still a problem in the capital and I’m walking around in a quietly full, contented bubble. Still, great first impressions.

Next time you hear about me it will probably be on the news, having accepted a lift from a friendly-looking army general.

Over.