Indiana Jones and the Visa Application of Doom

(Or, Jumping Through Hoops To Get To India)

Recently I applied for a tourist visa to visit India. It was comparable to a painful bout of rectal squirts brought on by spoiled chicken masala. How did it come to this? Why did I descend into Indian red-tape hell? Let me bore you to death with a long-winded rant.

A few months back, one of my best pals told me he would go to India for a school project and linger for a while afterward to travel. I considered how close Shanghai was to India and decided to tag along. As has become my motto of late: why not?

Usually itinerary planning and ticket purchasing prove to be the most complicated and stressful parts of planning a trip. Unless you're coming to China, getting a visa isn't that bad. For Americans, most popular tourist destinations allow immediate access at the airport (God bless the US). Other less scrupulous nations who need the money will charge you some pithy amount before letting you clear customs (see: southeast Asian nations). When I found out I needed a referral letter in order to get a Vietnam visa, I thought it was the silliest thing I had ever heard. Not only could I get that letter online via tour agent, but it only cost me $14 USD, which I could pay by credit card. Is there a point other than taking tourist dollars? Not really. I thought this was to be the most ridiculous visa-application experience ever, UNTIL now.

[Editor's Note: to any foreign readers who have had to apply for a US visa, I'm told that it's quite the bitch to complete. On behalf of my countrymen, I apologize. You all need to stop trying to illegally immigrate to our great nation by overstaying your expired visas.]

A friend of mine recently visited the great subcontinent and failed to tell me what was in store. She didn't want to ruin the surprise for me. Devious as that may seem, I can see why she didn't say a word. Even if I believed her, the procedure couldn't be THAT bad, could it?

In the interest of making life easier for fellow worrywarts out there, let me just take you through the process. [Please note, this is for foreigners in Shanghai. If you're in another country, I bestow the grace of God upon you and pray that your process is easier.]

Step 1: Prepare Thyself

I consider myself a well-prepared individual. Before I even went to the visa office, I had printed out the application form found online, collected two (2) passport-size photos and prepared to say goodbye to my passport for a few days. Just to be safe, I decided to call them first.

Me: "Hello, I'm an American applying for an India visa. Is there anything I need to bring beside my passport, photos, application and fee?"
Visa lady, taking a deep breath: "Well..."

And then she proceeded to blaze through a laundry list of items that I had her repeat three (3) times because I couldn't jot them down fast enough. Grab a pen and paper, here I go:

1. Passport
2. Two (2) recent passport-size photos (2" x 2") (No pictures of when you were a kid. It's cute, but they won't take them.)
3. Air ticket (Proof you're actually going to India, in case you wanted to get a visa just for fun.)
4. Application form (Save yourself some time and fill it out at the office when you get there. Trust me, the surprise is worth it. The one I found online was outdated anyway.)
5. Money (For Americans applying for a single-entry tourist visa, it's a whopping 762 RMB as of December 2010. Call ahead to make sure you have enough cash. The number is listed below under "Information".)

Step 2: Getting There

On the visa office website, they provide an address, which is fair enough. Anyone can GPS themselves from point A to point B these days. But in case you need more details to plot travel time, here are the directions:

Taxi: The office is at 555 Xujiahui Road, near the overpass, on the second (2nd) floor of the Guangdong Development Bank Tower. It's at the southwest corner of Xujiahui Road and the Chongqing Road/Luban Road intersection.

Subway: Take the metro to the Dapuqiao (打浦桥) station on Line 9. It's the one near Taikang Road/Tianzifang area. Then walk over to the office using the location I described in excruciating detail above.

Driving: Again, see the detailed location described above, or just pop the address into your GPS. The only beneficial thing I have to add is that there's parking outside the bank.

Once you're inside, take the escalator up to the second (2nd) floor and walk past the Sichuan restaurant. The India visa office is to the left of the Canada visa office. You'll see their colorful flag above the doorway.

Step 3: Let the Fun Begin!

The first indication that I was in for a long afternoon was the waiting room. It looks like a bank waiting area, which, if you've lived in China for any amount of time, you know is going to be a headache. Here's what I did. Feel free to improvise.

1. Wave hello to the security guard(s) at the doorway and take a number from the ticket machine. They will smile at you sympathetically, which you know is a bad sign.

2. Grab a few copies of the visa application forms from the counter behind you (to your right as you enter the room) in case you make a mistake. Trust me, there's plenty of chances.

Be sure to take one (1) copy of the "Visa Application for Foreigners Desiring To Proceed to India" (there's an icon of three (3) lions on the header, just so you know) AND one (1) copy of the "Additional Form To Be Filled By All Foreign Nationals (Visitors)(Non-Chiniese) In Shanghai Alongwith Visa Applicaion Form (Please Fill In The Capital Letters)" [sic].

3. Find a comfortable place to sit and get your ass ready (literally) for a painfully long wait.

4. Look at the digital signs above the tellers and see how many people are ahead of you.

5. Gasp out loud. (Crying optional)

6. Fill out the applications.

At this point, you will notice that these are no normal applications. These are preparatory notes for your as-yet-unfinished (or yet-to-be-conceived) autobiography. I thank the Indian government for helping me get started. Aside from the normal stuff (full name, date of birth, address, nationality, etc.), there are a few gems that I simply must share with you:


Item 5(c): "Whether the applicant or his/her parents or grand parents (both paternal and maternal) were holding the nationality of Pakistan at any time?"

Vishnu help you if you have any Pakistani blood in you, that's all I can say! While I'm comforted knowing that potential Pakistani suicide bombers might get screened out before their visa application is approved, I also don't think any potential Pakistani suicide bombers will be flying in from Shanghai. Or if they're applying from another country, I don't think they plan on legally entering India on a tourist visa in the first place.


Item 6: "The addresses of friends/relatives/places of stay during the previous travel to India"

I think my dad visited India while he was in college, but he forgot to take down the address of his hostel. There goes my application approval. Damn you, dad, for that stupid oversight thirty (30) years ago. Kidding aside, I think this is fucking ridiculous. Should I put out a Facebook survey to gather this info from friends who I didn't even know visited India a few years back? I left this blank as a quiet "fuck you" to the visa folks. If they ask, I don't have any friends or relatives. They all died trying to apply for Indian visas.


Item 8: "Father's Name (in full)" and "Present Occupation and Address"

Now I need to know things like my dad's name, "IN FULL", and what he does for a living? Shit! I should have asked him last night when we were chatting about my sinister plans for defiling young Indian girls on my travels. I thought this was a joke at first, perhaps something for unmarried girls or children traveling alone, but when the visa man told me to fill it out, I almost choked on my saliva. Why this has bearing on my world travels is a mystery. How could they even verify this? I put "Neil Yeung Sr., trash collector and artificial cow inseminator."


Item 9: "Name of Spouse (in full)"

Now this is just getting cruel. I'm single, so what?!? You wanna fightaboutit???


Item 10: "Countries visited during the last 10 years"

When I read this, I actually LOL'ed in the waiting area. People turned around to look at me. Security cameras zoomed in on my face. To make my point clearer, I tossed my head back, chuckled again, then started to tsk-tsk shake my head and sigh very dramatically. This was a doozy and a half. I travel so often that I don't even know how many countries I've visited in the last ten (10) years. But since I'm paranoid the Indian government could tap into some unknown database that had all this information stored, I tried my best to be honest. However, I did leave out the fact that I've visited Pakistan, Bangladesh, Iraq, Iran, and Syria. Woops.


Item 16: "Details of Passports Held"

Yes, you read that correctly. PassportS. Plural. Like, "I hope you brought that expired passport you thought you'd never need again, because India wants to see it!" Luckily, I AM that anal and I do keep a photocopy of my old passport information in my wallet. Make sure you have the expired passport's number, category (?), issued by, place of issue, and date of issue.

Surprisingly, they didn't ask for my height, weight, penis size ("length AND girth, in full"), favorite sexual position, mother's waist measurements, or great-grandmother's favorite cereal. To be honest, I started to get some sick pleasure by anticipating even more absurd questions as I went along. I was holding out for that penis one.

Joking aside, it is a pain in the ass. They don't provide hard surfaces in the waiting area to fill this novel out, so bring a folder or book to write on. And a pen. There are 19 items and their respective sub-items to fill out before you even sign the thing. And before you hand-write a second (2nd) copy, they do have a copy machine. I should have noticed that...

The additional form that you have to fill out in Shanghai is repetitive but a lot easier. Name (both yours and your daddy's), nationality, date and place of birth, passport details, employer name, addresses, and purpose of visit to India (sex trade, DUH). This form will be forwarded to "INDEMBASSY/HICOMIND/CONGENDIA" (whatever the fuck that is) at the Indian consulate in Shanghai to make sure they have no reservations about giving you a visa. You know, for those applicants who are involved in freedom fighting in Kashmir. Again, this baffles me.

Step 4:　I Won, I Won, I Won!!!

That's what I screamed when my number was finally called - no joke - about forty minutes later.

Stumbling over my feet to get to the smiling teller, I sat down and passed over the entire pile of crap. Then I found out why it took so long to get to my number in the first place. Here we go again...

1. Fill in your name and mobile number, then sign, on the registration sheet.

2. Smile at the miserable clerk sitting across from you (makes it all less awkward).

3. Make a dumbfounded expression when the clerk hands you a blank piece of paper telling you to list out your full travel itinerary for the trip, dates included. Yes, I know you already wrote this down on the actual application itself, but the Indian government wants to see it again in sloppy scribbling on a piece of A4 paper. If you don't know the exact itinerary down to the minute and hour, fear not. As the clerk told me, just write down an approximate timeline.

4. Sign the itinerary sheet and pass back to clerk.

5. Make another dumbfounded expression when clerk passes it back to you, telling you to write "purpose of visit" next to each location you just wrote down on the itinerary. Indeed, I had to write "travel" about seven (7) times on that piece of paper. Not once, seven times.

6. Start sweating because you're hungry and it's taken forever to do this.

7. Panic when clerk takes out a thick stapled printout and starts looking for information on a problem item. [Note: save your time and fill in "N/A" on every single item you left blank. Nothing can remain empty. Even that item about your secret Pakistani granddad.]

8. Once prompted, take your passport to the security guards standing near the copy machine. Two (2) copies of your passport photo page, one (1) copy of your China visa page. They even take the time to give you a receipt. That's service. [Note: it's 1RMB per copy. There goes another three (3) kuai. Make your own copies at home if you've got the means.]

9. Bring copies and passport back to clerk. We're almost done, kids!

10. Tell the clerk whether you want to come back to pick up your passport in person or whether you want it express delivered. I try to reduce the chances of losing my passport via Chinese post, so I opted to pick it up in person. I don't know how much they charge for delivery, but I'm guessing it's a lot, like everything else involved here. If you opt to return to the office to get it, please remember to bring your receipt and the copy you just made of your passport photo page, which has since been stamped and noted in the office system.

11. Come back in "about" six (6) business days. If you calculate in your head and ask the clerk to confirm ("Today's Monday...so 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6...can I come next Tuesday?"), don't get angry when he just repeats "'about' six (6) business days." It did not comfort me when another clerk nearby giggled at my question. [Note: Yes, the day you hand in your application counts as one (1) of the six (6) business days. Also, you can check the status on the visa office website, www.vfs-india.com.cn (using the confirmation number at the top of your receipt).]

When the clerk filed my application, I asked him if we were finished. He nodded. I looked at the clock on the wall behind his head. The whole affair had taken one (1) hour. ONE. HOUR. I put my things into my bag and stood up, shaking like someone who had just experienced a great trauma (car crash, oven explosion, knife attack, take your pick) and was wrecked with adrenaline. I survived.

Total time spent: about one (1) excruciating hour
Total cash spent: 765 RMB (497RMB for visa fee, 100RMB for "visa referral fee", 165RMB for service charge and 3RMB for photocopies), not including transportation costs
Total mental and emotional cost: Unknown, current technology cannot track that high
Total energy exerted (i.e. equivalent food consumed that morning) before hands started shaking: one cup of coffee, one apple, one piece of toast
Total pay-off for all this trouble once you actually visit India: I'll let you know when I get back.

Now I need to wait about six (6) business days to see if my visa is approved or not. I really hope they don't find out about my Pakistani granddad.

[Editor's Note: Yes, he got the visa. Onward to India!]

Information:
India Visa Application Center
2/F, Guangdong Development Bank Tower,
No. 555 Xujiahui Road, Shanghai.
Helpline: 021-6390 1198 or 6390 1937
E-mail ID: infosha@vfs-india.com.cn
Open from 8AM to 3PM

Khmer Dream

(Or, Everyone Should Visit Cambodia. Really. Trust Me. Part 2)

Apsara Orgies with Shiva and Vishnu

(Or, Temple Hopping in Ancient Angkor)

The roto-blade of the small airplane whizzed precariously close to my head. Though protected by the body of the plane, I was certain that if the propeller decided to spin off, it could definitely slice through the thin metal chassis and turn me into a ground meat smoothie. I sat back into my seat and tried to fall asleep. Luckily the flight from Phnom Penh to Siem Reap was only 40 minutes.

On the ground at Siem Reap International Airport, the busiest airport in the country, we met Hol Ny (as in, "Oh, me so"), our tour guide and babysitter for the journey, and Pov ("pohv"), our trusty driver. Ny ("nee," as in "The Knights Who Say"), a tall and lanky 29 year old from Siem Reap with a 2-year old son and aspirations for a career in IT, would prove to be an invaluable cultural broker and friend, his kindness and honesty a refreshing glimpse into a land and culture that we could only view as over-privileged outsiders.

In the early morning haze, before the misery of the high-noon sun could beat us into submission, we rushed into the wilds to begin our first day of temple hopping in ancient Angkor.

Thanks LP. Follow our route with the little red dots.

Angkor Field Guide, Day 1:

Driving north along the bumpy road leading into the heart of the Angkor Archaeological Park, we passed a children's hospital surrounded by a horde of dirty babies and tots waiting for free vaccinations. Across the street, tourist shops sold overpriced goods for over quadruple the monthly salary of the poor parents waiting in the vaccine queue. Tourist buses carted loads of Koreans and Japanese from upscale hotels to the temples, along new roads paved by funding from their overseas countrymen. The crowds increased as we drew near to the entrance. Visiting during high season was a great idea.

Once tickets are purchased (one day, $20; three days, $40; one week, $60 USD), you must hold on to them. Checkpoints at temple entrances and along the roads within the archaeological park make spot checks to ensure people have paid (heftily) to visit these treasures. You'll want to keep the ticket handy (most tour groups provide lanyards to hang around your neck), lest you waste time searching for it in your pocket or pack and end up swamped by the little urchins that flood the tourist areas to peddle their goods.

These kids, ranging from Neil's-hip-height to Neil's-shoulder-height, are an aggressive little lot with admirable sales skills. For one thing, their English is good. Scarily so.

Sample entrepreneurial exchange:

Cute little tout: "Hello lay-deee, you buy scarf from meeee?"
Lady: "No thanks..."
CLT: "Lady, you so pretty. Wheah you frum?"
Lady: "I am from Malaysia..."
CLT: "Ooooooh, Ma-lay-see-ah. What's yo name?"
Lady: "Angela..."
CLT: "Oooooh, like an-johl ("angel"), An-johl-a, so plittee ("pretty") An-johl-a, you buy scarf from meeeee."
Lady: "Maybe later...."
CLT: "OK, pretty An-johl-a, lay-deeee from Ma-lay-see-ah, when you come out, you buy from me. I remembah youuuu. You buy scarf from me."

This smooth exchange was one of many, where the cute little touts mustered all of their English skills to make the sale. Ny told us that most of the kids went to school for half the day, then practiced their sales skills and English for the other half. 5 years old and already with a part-time job. These roving bands of children are everywhere.

Not surprisingly, I was the only one to succumb to their charms, buying a few things with USD that I thought would serve them better than those overpriced tourist shops. It was nearly impossible to haggle over a few bucks when I knew the same product was seven times more expensive in the shop. I later learned that it was not advisable to buy from them, as it promoted child begging and the money would go to the pimps anyway. Like China. Like Slumdog. I knew better, but those cute little faces...

And that's the second clincher. They are really cute. Overwhelmingly so. The little ones especially. Seeing a miniature princess with puppy dog eyes begging you to buy 1 USD's worth of junk is hard to ignore. When the fun and games end and they start to get desperate, it is tough. Walking away with a child begging behind you as you shut the door of an air-conditioned van in their face is not something I am proud of doing multiple times over the duration of the trip, but the cost of paying every kid that asked for 1 USD would have amounted to more than our entire trip combined. In the end, we purchased packs of biscuits and sweets, opting to hand those out to the kids instead of giving them our money. At least they were guaranteed to benefit directly from the caloric boost.

The little angel on the left was four-fingers years old, cutie on the right was nine-fingers.
(I was ten-ten-nine fingers to them. Or just crazy...)
We didn't have enough treats for all the kids (about 10 others not shown), so the big sis gave hers to one of the little boys.

Adorable

At our first stop, there weren't many kids, but a flood of Koreans. I tried to drown them out, but there were just too many anyang-haseos. We were overwhelmed and outnumbered.

Before us loomed the gates of Angkor Thom ("big city"), a massive compound established in the late 1100s, sprawled out over 9 square kilometers. While the Angkor Wat complex receives the bulk of the attention around here (rightfully so), Angkor Thom is an entire walled city (over ten times the size of Beijing's Forbidden City) containing vast amounts of archaeological riches.

Jayavarman welcomes you to Angkor Thom

Through the towering southern gate, topped with giant stone faces, the exploration of Angkor Thom should commence at its crowning masterpiece, Bayon Temple. Famous for over 200 massive stone faces of the same dude atop the gates (King Jayavarman VII, the most badass of Khmer kings) that smile mysteriously upon you from every angle of the creepy, layered maze, Bayon should be a priority.

"And that's where the Khmer Rouge ruined that, and that's where the Hindus defaced that..."

Weaving through the dark hallways of the first level, completely hidden from the melting sun and prying eyes of European tourists, past carvings of sexy apsaras (celestial dancers) and grotesque beaked Garudas, I almost lost my bearings in the shadows. Barely thin enough to squeeze through the pillars, taking great care to avoid lobotomizing myself on the low ceilings, I scurried around like a chipmunk on meth, so excited to live out yet another Indiana Jones fantasy that I almost bust a nut.

I'm actually stuck. Help?

One of the few with face/head unscathed

JUMP! Bayon Temple

I found a quiet staircase unencumbered by the weight of hundreds of tourist feet and ventured into the sunlight. Emerging onto the upper level via the steep staircases on each of the four sides, I could almost reach out and touch the giant faces (not advised, oil on your fingers damages the stone). Like all temples in the area, if you manage to visit Bayon when the crowds are thin, you will be overwhelmed by the scale of this project. We are all but tiny, meaningless, minuscule dots in this universe; King JV7 reigns supreme.

Steep Climb

Chillin' Like Jayavarman

Monks and Korean Tourists

The Official Bayon Head Nose-Picker

Hello Jayavarman!

Sick of these head shots yet? Not me!

And now it's time for a monk interlude. Check out those robes! Me likey.



And now we return to boring you to death with facts and learnings...

Walking north, we neared Baphuon, a foreboding temple dedicated to Shiva that looks like a stack of moldy Legos. An elevated causeway leads visitors to the gate of the temple, but it's cooler to jump off the path to check out what's below. Underneath, rows of endless pillars support the walkway. Once I hopped down to squeeze between them, I could see the temple from a totally different perspective. Like peeking under a young damsel's dress.

Below the walkway

Long, ain't it?

Baphuon was closed on the day of our visit (even archaeological restorers need a break), so we walked through the shady forest around the perimeter. On the western flank (the side opposite the entrance) is a monstrous carving of a reclining Buddha. Though unfinished, you can just barely make out the outline of Buddha's head. If completed, it would have been breathtaking.

Don't know if you can see it, but that hunk of rock on the right is the Buddha

Further north past a pair of bathing pools (large one for ladies, tiny puddle for gents), we were humbled by Phimeanakas, a steep pyramid that requires superhuman calves to climb. There's only one shaky, wooden staircase to go up and down, which is a pain in the ass when people start pushing. The other three wooden-stairless sides of the temple have big signs warning visitors not to climb the original, crumbling rock steps. I certainly wouldn't advise it unless you were a rock climber: at a roughly 60-degree angle, the ascent can cause vertigo or fainting for a lily-livered wuss as me. A pair of idiot Australians made a valiant attempt, forging ahead even after numerous tour guides tried to get them down. Embarrassed for my white-skinned brethren, I shook my head disapprovingly and from a safe distance, waiting patiently for my turn up the stairway of death.

Those idiots tried to climb this.

Logistic genius: only one staircase.

View from the top

State of disarray

The descent, though aided by those rickety wooden planks, is no less daunting, as the pressure of a row of tourists pushing behind you as you face a steep plummet to a messy death can create a ton of anxiety. The view from the top is nice, but unless you just have some inner voices ordering you to conquer another temple summit, just move on to the next stop and spare yourself the heat exhaustion.

Through the thicket of towering gum trees, we emerged from the forest onto the Terrace of the Elephants, an elevated patio set before the entrance to the leafy glen, which used to be a greeting ground for visitors. Super boring and not at all what I expected from something with such a superbly badass name. Lined with detailed statues of elephants fighting various jungle carnivores and a whole party of winged Garudas, it is essentially a stone stage. Yawn. The Terrace of the Leper King, so named for the mysteriously androgynous statue found at the center, is just an extension of the elephant stage. After a morning of Buddhist and Hindu sculpture and carvings at other more impressive temples, this was easily forgettable.

Dear Ganesh, please bestow us with LUNCH.

Garuuuudaaaa!

The high noon sun was brutal. Smearing the sweat from my brow with an already sweat-soaked bandanna, I gazed into the distance with a dramatic grimace. Across from the twin terraces, I noticed a series of curious towers looming near the tree line. Twelve in all, Prasat Suor Prat were allegedly used for tight rope walking. From tower to tower, acrobats would tip-toe across woven ropes, entertaining the royal families of ancient Angkor. In such a holy and revered space, I thought it was refreshing to see something so whimsical.

Cirque du Angkor

Near exhaustion, we stopped for a late lunch. The Cambodian national dish -- amok, a steamed curry-like mix of meat and veggies steamed in coconut milk -- was on the menu. Fried noodles, morning glory with chili, and baked fish capped us off. The typical food we had during the trip was much the same: similar to Thai but not as painfully spicy, similar to Chinese but with more pep and dynamic flavoring. We also enjoyed an Asian remedy classic: Coca Cola with salt, to replenish the loss from sweating.

Still craving this stuff. SO GOOD.

Once we had injected a much-needed dose of caffeine into our systems, we hit a personal highpoint on our journey, Preah Khan. For one thing, nobody was around. I don't care which temple you're visiting, but if you are lucky enough to have one all to yourself, soak that shit up because you won't be blessed with the same fortune again. Our luck was bestowed at the right spot. Preah Khan is a sprawling compound, with a seemingly endless procession of dank, spooky rooms that repeat like a mad M.C. Escher nightmare. In almost every room, a shiva linga (those magic cock rocks from Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom) sits peacefully in the center, the stone phallus representing the god of creation/destruction jutting into the air like a hefty rounded choad.

Modern Ablution: with bottled water

Those Angkorians must have been tiny.

Shiva wasn't the only guy destroying things around here. Buddhas were beheaded during the Khmer Rouge sightseeing tours. Nature has reclaimed part of the land by toppling hallways and collapsing roofs, portions of the temple torn apart by giant trees growing straight through the stone. In the center of the temple, a tall cavernous room has walls with countless empty sockets, looking like a crater-faced teenager with debilitating acne. These hollow holes were once filled with sparkling gems, which were allegedly swiped by the Frenchmen that "re-discovered" the Angkor temples. Peering up at the walls soaring high to the ceiling above, those crafty frogs made a killing.

Splitting headache

Tree reclamation: seeds/pollen dropped on stone, bird shit fertilizes, voila.

I'm sure a few Korean tourists are buried under there...

Look at all those gem-holes!

In a musty recess of the temple, Ny pointed to a tiny entrance that leads to a quiet side room that houses a shrine to one of the Devi sisters (my notes fail me here). If you don't smash your face open on the low lintel (really, it stings), climb through a second smaller door (more like a window) into an even tinier area with a hidden shrine to her sister, the other Devi lass whose-name-I-didn't-bother-to-record-in-my-notebook.

Cramped inside the suffocating womb, the smoke of incense and the smell of age enveloping us in a tight grip, her expressionless face peered out at us from the black rock. We were at the center of her universe, in one of the deepest crevices, all but missing from the outside world. Had her demon ghost decided to possess one of us and embark on a ravenous soul-devouring horror ride, no one would ever know. A superstitious member of our party got the heebie jeebies and ordered me not to take any pictures of this spot, lest any dark spirits accompany me back to Shanghai. I knew better. I was too spooked to turn my camera on.

Back in the fresh outdoor sun, we traipsed our way through the Hall of Apsaras, the former labyrinth where the kings personal sexy dancers would perform a private show for his majesty, flocks of these slinking girls undulating through the hallways. My overactive imagination could only concoct a fraction of the debauchery that went on here. Oh, to be a king.

On the way out, we passed a massive tree growing through the outer wall of the compound. One of the roots looks like an elephant trunk, thus giving it a catchy name for tourists to remember. This thing was huge.

Behold the trunk! (does it count as a pun?)

As my cohorts continued onward, I lagged behind to see it close up. Hopping down from the elevated walkway to the grass below, I ran past a towering pile of crumbled stone to the base of the tree to say hi to Mr. Elephant. Lying in a bed of crunchy fallen leaves, I peered up into the heart of the tree. Yellow and orange butterflies fluttered beside me and not a soul was around. All I could hear were the dry leaves rustling in the breeze and some insect chirps. My back on the ancient stone, sunbeams breaking through the trees and warming my chilled sweat, I could have drifted off into the happy land of afternoon naps. For a brief moment, Preah Khan was mine.

Top to toe

That night, we planned to join the throngs of tourists atop Phnom Bakheng, the highest hill in Siem Reap, for the famous sunset. Photographers flock here for shots of the sun setting over the misty western plains of Siem Reap. I didn't know what the fuss was about.

Pretty, but not worth fighting the crowd pretty...

Behold the gawking masses!

Bullet holes left behind by the lovely Khmer Rouge

We came early to beat the crowds, which was a smart move. Once we wound our way up the hill (more like a mountain), folks with tripods had already covered the western edge of the temple like grubby lichen. In an hour, the temple would disappear underneath the crush of triple the amount of revelers.

Waiting for the photo-op

We climbed the dangerous steps to the top, snapped a few photos, and then made our way right back down. The descent was bad enough without the pressure of the masses, so I couldn't imagine how big of a disaster it would be after sunset, when hundreds of idiots would vie for a chance to climb back down. I could only picture a disastrous scene involving crushed skulls and little tourist brats raining from the sky. These steps are no joke: Ny told us an old Japanese tourist fell down the steps at Angkor Wat in recent months, snapping a few vertebrae in the process. Fun.

JUMP! Phnom Bakheng

Safely off the temple, which was now flooded with gawkers, we fought our way through the mess of people marching the opposite way up the mountain. They would never make it in time, as the sun was already setting, but the constant stream was impressive. There must have been hundreds that passed us as we walked back down the mountain. I shook my head and giggled. The post-sunset surge down Bakheng would be a riot. Literally. And that view wasn't even that spectacular.

That night, we made our way to Bar Street (also called Pub Street, so very misleading), a hip and happening strip of shops and restaurants in the heart of Siem Reap town, catering almost entirely to the tourist trade, bars and eateries surrounding the old market at the center. This was a lot more lively than Phnom Penh, more akin to the busier sections of Singapore's Little India or Arab Street at night. We enjoyed a filling (and cheap!) meal at Khmer Kitchen, made famous after a fabled visit by Rolling Stones head geezer, Mick Jagger. The food was worth the fuss and we returned to our hotel filled with beef lok lak (stir fry topped with a fried egg), shrimp lab (super spicy stir fry) and Angkor beer.

Khmer Kitchen, located in "The Alley" off Pub Street

Shrimp lab

Beef lok lak

Khmer spring rolls

Shoes covered in our first day's worth of Angkor dust, we needed to get our rest for Day 2 and the magnificence of Angkor Wat.

For comparison's sake, wiped one shoe off, left the other one filthy. It is THAT dusty here.

Khmer Dream

(Or, Everyone Should Visit Cambodia. Really. Trust Me.)



Hovering pants-less over a dirty ceramic squat toilet, I spied a dead cricket the size of a small mouse lying by the stall door. I almost fell backwards because I swore it twitched at me, petrified it would hop up my butt. Meanwhile, flies and mosquitoes began buzzing around my vulnerable little nut sack, like vultures hovering above a shaved, wrinkly wildebeest carcass. Head upturned, I furiously tried to blow them away from my quivering naughty bits, which made me light-headed. This was my fourth evacuation in less than a day and I prayed to Vishnu that my bowels were finally cleared from all evils. I had to be fresh and ready for my tarantula dinner that night.

Of course, Cambodia was more than spouting fountains of bum sick and culinary oddities. Over the course of five days, we explored the two main tourist centers of the great kingdom: the capital of Phnom Penh and the #1 attraction in the land, Siem Reap, the site of the ancient capital of the mighty Angkor kingdom. Our trip was nearly over, mere hours away from departure. I almost made it out with a clean record (literally). Optimists would say it was good timing: better to get sick on the way out than to have the entire trip ruined. Imagine temple hopping with the day's lunch dripping from your backside? Bleagh.

So considering the timing, I was actually really lucky. We were somewhere along National Highway 6 (NH6), the main paved road that connects Phnom Penh to Siem Reap. To outsiders, it would seem nothing more than an average country road, without markings or medians, bordering directly on the dirt roadside. However, in Cambodia, it is a structural luxury, a lifeline between the two big money-makers that we had flown in to see, lined with shops and rest areas. Now it proved to be vital for my survival.

Back in the stall, I almost passed out from the heat. My legs started to quiver from squatting too long. (Yes, it had been that long since I last exercised properly, thanks for reminding me.) An anguished moan slipped from my lips and I toyed with the idea of calling a priest for my last rites. You know when you're sick and nothing can faze you, your one goal being to evacuate every bit of discomfort from your body as fast as possible? I was in that mode. The grotty walls inches from my face, pestering insects diving in for the kill and the sour throbbing pulsing from my lower exit could not dissuade me. I just wanted to feel better.

And in Cambodia, of all places.

We arrived in Phnom Penh to a hero's welcome. Fireworks shot into the night sky, bursts of electric green and burning pink glittering down from the heavens as we skitted along the narrow boulevard cutting through the capital city. As I readied my triumphant acceptance speech, I was reminded that the celebration hailed the arrival of the new year, not the arrival of a trio of overworked expats from Shanghai. Deflated, we turned into the crisscross grid of Phnom Penh's smaller side roads and toward our hotel. It was dark, a bit dirty and there were quite a few dubious people out and about. But to my delight, at least the air didn't smell as bad as China.

This was our second New Year celebration that night. The first -- held unceremoniously on the Shanghai Airlines flight from Shanghai to Phnom Penh -- was a quiet affair, like most of my New Year's Eves, usually so sedate they could euthanize an entire nursing home. When the clock turned, we whispered happy new year to each other and exchanged hugs over tightly strapped seatbelts. An old guy in the row in front wanted in on our party, yelping a "Happy New Year!" in our direction. I was overjoyed that he didn't get the urge to lean back and kiss us too.

Our big plan for Cambodia would include a three-day temple-hopping jungle expedition through the Angkor temples near Siem Reap, in the northwest jungles of Cambodia. The tomb raiding would be book-ended by two days in Phnom Penh, the modern capital and site of the most publicized of the horrifying Khmer Rouge atrocities, Tuol Sleng prison and the Killing Fields.

But, as many people -- curiously shocked and frightened -- asked me before the trip started, "Why Cambodia?"

My hometown of Lowell, MA has the highest concentration of Cambodians in all of America (top spot figures disputed, but as far as I'm concerned, Long Beach can suck it), mostly descendants of the massive wave of refugee immigrants that fled the country during the Khmer Rouge stranglehold during the '70s and '80s. Jewelry shops, markets and restaurants adorned with bright red and yellow signs are scattered all over town, advertising Phnom Penh this, Battambang that, the squiggles of flowing Khmer script weaving along all the store fronts. Unfortunately I didn't bother to mine any cultural information from my Cambodian friends at that time, which probably would have been a bit useful, instead opting for neighborhood hijinx. We just worked and played together without too much concern for family history or in-depth analytical interaction. I actually thought they were just Chinese with really good tans.

Therefore you won't be surprised to learn that Angkor Wat had been a travel target of mine since I was a kid. The stone towers jutting out above the dense forest tree line utterly captivated that wannabe Indiana Jones within. The thought of such an imposing and exotic structure, ruined and lost to time and nature, made me giddy. The attraction of a totally unknown land was also a plus, affording a chance to learn something new about a familiar yet foreign culture.

I was finally here.

As the first minutes of 2010 passed into history, we began our Cambodian adventure.

Part 1: Something Like A Phnomenon

(Or, Phnom Penh For Dummies)

Phnom Penh ("puh-nom pen") is technically a city, but you'll forgive me if I initially mistook it for a small market town. While it is a densely packed urban bubble in a largely agrarian land, by Western standards, it is more similar to a smaller, nameless Chinese provincial city. You won't find any McDonalds or Starbucks. Public transportation consists of motorcycles and tuk tuks. Name brand stores are almost non-existent (the country's first Adidas shop is opening in Siem Reap this year). If you want to force a bright side onto the situation, at least they haven't been polluted by disgusting fast food, the clutter of a bus and subway network, or the alluring draw of materialistic shopping sprees. But that'd be stretching it. Most folks simply can't afford those luxuries. No demand, no presence.

Ironic, then, that Cambodia is one of the new production centers in Asia. Look at the tag of that Banana Republic or H&M shirt and, if I'm not mistaken, you'll see a "Made in Cambodia" tag. In fact, there is a market in Phnom Penh where you might be able to find Gap, Old Navy and BR wear at a fraction of what you'd pay in a US store. It didn't just fall off the truck on the way to shipping; it probably was carried over from the sweatshop next door.

On our first day in the city, we were to join up with a tour that we booked online prior to arrival. The price for the tour was a wee bit steep, but alas we thought it was worth it. You see, we foolishly assumed Cambodia would be some dangerous backwater nightmare, where young tourists with supple udders were kidnapped from the dark streets at night and sold as Russian whores to the local brothel. So to be safe, we figured a tour would be a smart choice. However after the first day, we realized that this was not as seedy as Thailand and the locals were not as tricksy as the huckster snakes in Bali.

And so, dear potential traveler, let me state the following: if, nee, WHEN, you go to Cambodia, just do it on your own. I can't stress that enough.

1. Buy a ticket,
2. bring a pile of US dollars, and
3. just go with the flow.

This country is built for tourism. After agriculture, catering to the influx of moneyed gawkers is the second biggest industry in Cambodia. Koreans make up the main bulk of tourists (surprised us, too), with the Japanese, Aussies and Americans closing the majority gap. Unlike more popular destinations like China and Japan, almost everyone here speaks a little English, making your life so much easier. And, as I'm sure you're still scratching your head, I did advise to bring a pile of USD, because that's the favored currency.

Technically, the national currency is the Cambodia riel, roughly 4000 to the dollar. Yes, riel-ly (sorry, I couldn't resist!). We thought it wise to exchange our precious USD for a bit of the local cash upon arrival, and after getting it up the ass in a very unpleasant fashion by the inflated exchange rate at the airport, we felt proud to be supporting the local economy. But we were wrong. The locals don't even want those colorful riel notes. The language of the land is "dollah." To stress this point, you will be interested to learn that during one particular bowel exercise in a local toilet, I actually saw a few 100 riel notes covered in shit in the trash bucket beside the toilet. Worth about 2 pennies a note, it's cheaper than toilet paper.

That morning, once we had all concluded our own bathroom business with good old-fashioned TP, we met our tour guide and driver in the lobby of Princess Hotel. The guide, Sethavy, was a petite woman with candy apple red nails and wide eyes the size of small dinner rolls. After greeting us in the standard Cambodian way -- palms together like you're praying, with a bow of the head -- she started our tour off right...with some bad news.

"Ah, Mistah Neeeeeil, so sorry to inform youuuu, yes, but because New Year Daaaay, Silver Palace closed."

The China expat within me immediately cried "trickster, give me what I paid for!" before logic prevailed. It was indeed a holiday and some things were bound to be closed. But for the price of the tour, I was miffed. She noticed my face turning red and offered another option, a visit to the Tuol Sleng prison site instead. As this was on the itinerary for our solo jaunt a few days later, we gladly pounced at the chance.

"OK sir, we can visit Tuol Sleng. But also must apologize. This half day tour, only visit Tuol Sleng and museum, then I take you to market. Only half day."

Doing a quick calculation in my head, this was really starting to piss me off. We could have done this on our own. We hadn't even left the hotel yet and already the day's activity list was getting shorter by the minute. Fine. Let's just see Phnom Penh already. We only had a half day anyway. Happy New Year.

The National Museum of Cambodia, located next door to the Silver Pagoda and Royal Palace, is a modest collection of Cambodian creations through the ages, mostly intricate bronzes, stone carvings, and some massive pieces salvaged from the pillaging of Angkor and reclaimed by the museum for safe-keeping. We received a crash course in Khmer art, which is a fantastic mix of imagery from Buddhist and Hindu traditions, as well as busts of Cambodian royalty over the centuries.

The Museum Courtyard

I wanna say this is King Jayavarman VII...

A brisk visit takes about an hour, a little more if you are really that enthralled with all the details and eccentricities in every single piece on display. But if you plan on visiting Angkor on your journey, you might as well see the heavy hitters on their original home turf. The brand new, state-of-the-art Angkor National Museum in Siem Reap is supposedly better than Phnom Penh's (at a whopping 12 USD admission), giving time-strained travelers even less reason to visit the capital. However, if there's anything to draw you to Phnom Penh, it's Tuol Sleng.

Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum, formerly the Tuol Svay Prey High School, before the Khmer Rouge turned it into the brutal Security Prison #21 imprisonment and torture center, is a must-see for all visitors to Cambodia. Not just out of respect for those murdered during the occupation of the Khmer Rouge, but also to gain a bit of understanding about the psychological fallout that still plagues current Cambodian society, which has only been free from the presence of this homegrown stain for twelve years, after the death of Pol Pot in 1998.

Welcome To Tuol Sleng

Walking through the main entrance to the school campus, covered with spirals of razor wire, Tuol Sleng looks like any other south Asian school: long, characterless, multi-level buildings with open air hallways and wide grassy courtyards. You can almost hear the little kids in uniform, tiny button down shirts and short khaki pants, running around between classes in the hot afternoon sun. However, once the Khmer Rouge decided to kick everyone out of Phnom Penh to be "re-educated" in the countryside, this former place of learning because the primary station for extracting confessions from perceived traitors and other dissidents found guilty of opposing Pol Pot's regime. And although almost all of the captives were their own people, a small number of foreigners were also unfortunately roped in on outlandish charges, dying the same inhumane death as their local counterparts.

Time for class

No Laughing

Khmer Rouge Rules and Regulations

As we sauntered through the courtyard, the sweet smell of ripe jack fruit wafted through the air. The sky was deep ocean blue and the sun baked our skin as we passed into the shade of building A. Inside, we glimpsed our first cell.

Prisoner bed, ammo container (toilet) and shackles

Leg shackles for rows of prisoners

Prisoner bed

Sethavy shows us one of the victims, as he was found

In a small classroom, roughly the size of a simple dorm, a rusted bed frame stood solitary in the center of the room. Grotty yellow and white floor tiles were stained with uneven dark spots. On the wall hung a picture of the room's final victim, murdered moments before the Vietnamese liberated the prison in 1979. This was one of fourteen such rooms on the first floor, the victims memorialized with blown-up prints of the scenes captured by a Vietnamese photographer when he discovered the mangled bodies, some with smashed heads and eviscerated guts, all last minute murders by the fleeing thugs. In the courtyard, fourteen white tombs sit silently in memory of these unlucky final casualties, the last bodies claimed at Tuol Sleng.

The Fourteen Tombs

A typical day at the Tuol Sleng holiday resort included two meals of just four (4!) spoonfuls of watered-down rice juice to keep the traitors alive. They were tortured regularly to extract confessions and force them to snitch on friends and family. Fingers were removed daily for some, the extent of their interrogation recorded by how many fingers they had remaining on their hands. When they weren't relieving themselves into old ammunition crates or being tortured, they were shackled down and immobile. When their services were no longer required, they were cruelly told they were free to head to the countryside to join the other happy citizens in prosperous farm activity. After being filed, they were led to the Killing Fields and bludgeoned to death with clubs. In order to save valuable bullets, of course.

This one really got to me...

Galleries filled with hundreds of victim portraits; the kids ones are pretty rough

It is generally accepted that about 2 million or more men, women, children and elderly died at the hands of the Khmer Rouge. Of this recorded amount, only seven survived Tuol Sleng. On the day of our visit, we got super lucky and met one of them. Now 74 years old, he was a technician at the prison. Though technically a captive, he was useful to the Khmer Rouge and thus kept around. A short, dark umber gentleman with shiny streaks of snow white hair over his ears, he exuded an indescribable energy as he slowly shuffled through the galleries, explaining pictures to visitors in the very same places where he watched fellow prisoners get tortured.

Mr. Technician

There he is on the far left (artist is in the center, electrician the short guy to his left (our right))

Two other survivors are still alive: a 67 year old electrician and a 69 year old artist. The artist went on to paint a famous series of pictures depicting the tortures witnessed there. These paintings currently hang in the site's museum gallery, which also houses old torture devices that would make the chaps at Guantanamo blush. Or not, as waterboarding was also a common practice.

Nail removal and acid application

Prisoners in shackles:
Not allowed to move, talk, etc.

Ye Olde Waterboarder

The basic torture methods were quite rudimentary. Lashings and beatings. Starvation. Head dunking into vats of fetid water and human waste. Forced consumption of shit and piss. Hanging from the gallows in painful yoga-esque contortions. Burning alive. Slicing skin with knives, swords and the sharp edges of palm fronds. Kids stuff.

Guards got more creative when prisoners were too stubborn to confess to their imaginary charges. Imaginative methods like ripping finger and toenails from hands and feet, then pouring alcohol or acid into the open wounds; piercing or tearing off the nipples of women charged with being "immoral"; even stuffing tarantulas and scorpions into dark, dank crevices where the flesh is most tender and susceptible.

These tortures were administered on a daily basis. Apologies to those who created me, but if I had to deal with that every day, I'd be on my way to the nearest rooftop. Prisoners no doubt also thought of this, so when one lucky soul managed to jump to his freedom, the guards fenced off all balconies with barbed wire to prevent any more early exits.

No escape

Almost all Cambodians are directly affected by this dark period. The oldest members of society lived through it, while the younger folks have relatives that were victims of the brutality. Our tour guide's father was killed when she was just 3 years old. Listening to the stories and seeing faces of hundreds of victim mugshots displayed throughout the galleries, it all seemed eerily familiar to the Cultural Revolution that transpired in China right before the Khmer Rouge chose to follow suit. Foolishly overworking the land to create an unobtainable agrarian society. Dividing people into labor units. "Re-education." Forced autobiographical confessions. Designating "group chiefs" who acted as spies to tattle on their own kin. Kids ordered to kill their parents. Art, history and culture destroyed to wipe out any trace of the past. Looking at a map of modern Phnom Penh, you'll notice a Mao Tse Toung Boulevard cutting through the south side of the city. I wondered how he continues to get away with so much, despite the fact that he caused the destruction of more of his own people than Pol Pot could ever dream of. And to top it off, Beijing doesn't have a Pot Pot Avenue to reciprocate.

A Naked Massages with Friends

After such a heavy visit to the genocide museum, it was time to replenish our fluids and good spirits. We waved goodbye to our tour guide and set our sights on grub. Though the first day of the new year was off to a grim start, a few Friends saved the day.

Friends Restaurant is a member of a larger NGO that focuses on training street kids, giving them basic skills to function in the workplace in the F&B industry. All profits go directly toward the school program and any tips are highly appreciated. In addition to making your dollar go the distance in terms of lending a helping hand (however minimal), the food is also pretty damn good.

Khmer fried rice

Amok

Khmer Iced Coffee FTW

Not only does Friends get rave reviews online, it is also heavily pimped by Lonely Planet. Seated in the colorful dining area on huge pillow cushions that soothed the aches in my butt cheeks, I noticed that nearly every diner had a copy of the Lonely Planet Cambodia on their tables. I feared I would seem uncool to these hip strangers, so I whipped out my own copy, put on my trusty tour guide hat, and charted the course of our afternoon free from tour guide tyranny.

1. Central Market
2. Russian Market
3. Massage Spa
4. Dinner
5. Nightcap

Of course, as you can guess, when I whip out lists like this, things do not go according to my well-laid master plan. This day was slowly turning into a circus of uncontrollable elements and bad luck.

Friends Restaurant:
A diner is not happy with my itinerary

Judging from the Lonely Planet map, the Central Market was roughly 6 blocks north, 6 blocks west. Though we were advised to take a tuk-tuk by the Friends staff, we felt a nice afternoon stroll would be acceptable.

Editor's Note: just fork over the 2 bucks and take a tuk-tuk.

Walking along the streets of Phnom Penh, it was a striking mix that I could not categorize. Some remnants of French influence could be seen on colorfully painted colonial buildings that stood out as expertly designed pieces of art next to the simpler concrete store fronts that can be found anywhere in continental Asia. The streets were filled with motorcycles, tuk-tuks and a few cars. There is no public transport system here, so the only buses you'll find are loaded with Korean tourists shuttling between the safety of popular sightseeing destinations.

Phnom Penh

Though the country is quite impoverished, things seemed cleaner. I couldn't help compare to China, but it was the closest available comparison in my head. Streets weren't filled with garbage, kids weren't pissing and shitting on the sidewalks, the air was fresher (despite the ubiquitous dust) and nobody was spitting or smoking cigarettes. I tell you, the lack of smoke and phlegm would be enough to make me stay. And the people. Oh, the people.

Moving shop

Afternoon chill

Smiles. Actual smiling. Laughter. Nobody stared at me like I was an alien. Surely, you cynical bastards, folks interacting with me on a one-to-one basis may have been acting nicer to the moneyed foreign tourist. However, just observing the locals on the streets and in shops and at malls, they treated each other with a lot more respect and kindness than anything I've seen in more developed SE Asian countries, let alone the nightmare of manners in China. Tuk-tuk drivers vying for tourist passengers didn't fight in the streets; they group bargained. Vehicles -- while still practicing organized mayhem on the streets -- didn't veer too close to us, there was no violent horn honking, no pedestrian hit-and-run. Surely, there is a dark underbelly to every society. But in general -- very general, for a mere 5 day's of observation -- things were simpler and nicer in Cambodia.

Luckily I gained so much cultural insight on that long march, because before I thought to recheck our map, we already overshot the Central Market by almost 5 blocks and found ourselves in northern Phnom Penh, at Wat Phnom, the namesake and highest (see: only) hill in the city. Convenient miscalculation, I played it off as part of the plan.

Back-tracking, we managed to find the Central Market. Too bad it was closed for renovation. It would have been nice to enter the massive yellow Art Deco palace, but judging from the stall vendors that crowded around the building in a makeshift shanty town, it was unnecessary. Most of the crap they were selling was made in China and you could get it for a lot less RMB anyway.

If the sun were a building, it would look like this

Frustrated, we sought solace in the neighboring, air-conditioned Sorya Shopping Center, a popular mall with a fast food restaurant (BB World, serving the equivalents of those microwavable gray-meat burgers from Jimmy Dean, not a bad meal for 2 USD); a large supermarket filled with hot backpacker chicks buying import goods; a movie theater screening locally produced zombie/ghost horror flicks; and relatively clean bathrooms. I would thank my lucky stars for that last perk a few days later...

Sorya, My Savior

At this point, it was early afternoon and we scratched the Russian market off the list. We didn't have the energy to tackle another market, especially one that specialized in counterfeit goods already abundant in Shanghai. Instead, we needed something more. A little rubbing and groping.

(Now's the time to light some candles, turn on some mood music, such as Justin Bieber, and get comfortable.)

Tuk-tukking back toward the National Museum and Royal Palace, we got off at Bliss Spa, a combo meal of an enterprise that also includes an overpriced bohemian hippie-garb store and a bar. Nice, I'm sure. But sun dresses and cosmos could wait. I just wanted a rub down.

My travel mates opted for conservative options (dry massage, foot massage and manicures), to which I scoffed and ridiculed. Why limit yourself to only 60 minutes of appendage attention when the entire body can be pleasured for over two hours? I went ahead and selected the full decadent Bliss treatment (only 40 USD), which included a 15 minute steam bath, 1 hour exfoliating body scrub, and 1 hour aromatherapy oil massage. I get so many massages anyway, I could just chalk this up as a research expense.

After a quick evacuation (it's never a good idea to go into a massage with a loaded cannon, children), I stripped down to my bare essentials and tip-toed through the open air courtyard into the empty steam room.

Planting my bare ass onto the tiled bench, I leaned back and tried my best not to choke on the burning hot vapors that were billowing out of a pipe in the floor. My naughty bits were protected with a towel, but I was still nervous another customer would come in and ruin my privacy (i.e. see my wee-wee). Thus I remained alert and didn't get too comfortable. Every now and then, a fresh burst of burning steam would shoot out, scalding my petrified bean pouch.

I had been steaming on the tiled bench long enough that my ass resembled a checker board and my hair was completely soaked through. Nobody came to extract me, but I had nearly sweat out all the liquid in my body. I had to get out before I fainted, the staff eventually remembering that flabby white dude in the steam room, only to discover a fully cooked corpse.

The shock of the cool air was refreshing. A passing masseuse stopped in his tracks and stared at me with a concerned grimace. "Wow, you are really hot." I knew he wasn't referring to my dashing good looks, as a later investigation in the bathroom mirror revealed that I was as pink as a Christmas ham.

Showered and fully robed, I was lead to the massage room by an adorable little massage girl. Standing beside the bed, she lifted a sheet to protect her shy eyes and instructed me to strip and lay down. I was completely naked beneath the robe, so I started waving around my crotch and asked "No underwear?" hoping she'd have a pair of disposables.

"No need, you lie down."

And so, prudishness be damned, I whipped my robe into the corner and bared my glory for no one to see. Then I lay face down with my hairy buttocks facing the ceiling and got exfoliated. With all the coarse hair on my legs and ass, that little massage girl got a simultaneous palm exfoliation that afternoon as well.

Once the external layer of my dermis was completely scrubbed off by those little orange-scented micro-beads, she directed me to a shower room. An open shower room. With no door. Still butt nekkid, I swallowed my fear of exposure to laughing strangers, lest I appear to be less of a manly man.

Massage girl left me alone and I hopped into a tub at the corner of the spacious room, protected from prying eyes by only a curtain far across the room. As the chunks of residue sloughed from my body, I looked down and noticed Lil' Neil was in hibernation. So I gave him a few tugs to increase my morale. As I pulled, some unmannered yokel burst through the curtain (what, no knocking?) and saw me, meat in hand. Swiftly turning on her heel, she whisked right back out without a peep. Now I'd forever be that pale guy who was whacking it in the shower room on New Year's Day. Sigh.

During my aromatherapy oil massage, I was so relaxed and comfortable that my mind began to wander. Lying on my back, the massage girl's expert hands gliding up and down my limbs, across my bare chest, forcing out all those kinks in my aching muscles, things started to happen down below. Red lights went off in my brain and my wits went into overdrive. Before pitching any tents of embarrassment with that sheet of Khmer silk, I had to think fast. Something to distract me, something to calm the storm, something to kill all potential thoughts of carnal pleasure with this nubile lamb covering me in warm oil.

Having just visited Tuol Sleng, my mind found it difficult to reach beyond, to something more kosher like baseball or Margaret Thatcher naked on a cold day. It was the only thing I could think of. And so, in the deepest of determined concentration, I silently chanted, "Think Genocide, Think Genocide, Think Genocide!" And it worked very quickly. Nothing kills the mood like the thought of mass murder. Problem solved, libido in shackles.

That evening, we enjoyed our first taste of Khmer barbecue at Frizz Restaurant (which also offers Khmer cooking classes). Ingeniously cooked on a piping hot dome that drips liquefied meat juice into a moat of bubbling soup, it would not be the last time we enjoyed this treat.

...and now I have a massive craving. Gah!

Still high from the combination of grilled meats and massaged flesh, we returned to our hotel for a few hours of rest before our pre-dawn flight to Siem Reap. After an inconsistent and confusing day, I begged all the gods in Hindu heaven to bless us with better traveler's luck on our next stop. If the Angkor Wat experience failed to meet the expectations of years of pent up anticipation, I'd be inconsolable.


Next episode: temple hopping through Angkor, the Siem Reap days...