Dogster: Live from Siem Reap

‘I go with you,’ she said softly.

It wasn’t a question.

Pub Street in Siem Reap was quiet, it was nearly midnight, her options extremely limited - and it was dark.

Strangely, on arrival in Cambodia just eight hours ago, the lines on Dogster’s face had disappeared. On crossing the border a miracle of time-travel had occurred. I was suddenly handsome. The Dog had knocked back a dozen propositions from all three sexes since he arrived.

She grabbed my hand and pulled herself closer. Her breast glistened with a thousand fake diamonds plastered all over a fake designer T-shirt. Perhaps her breasts were fake too, who knows, certainly her sudden enthusiasm for the latest stranger in town was manufactured in a sweat-shop in Taiwan.

I smiled.

‘No-o-o-ooo, darling, that’s not possible at all,’ I cooed smoothly, ‘but good luck for tonight…’

‘I love you,’ she said.

‘I love you too, sweetheart – but not in that special way….’

We parted company. She spotted a solitary back-packer, made a bee-line for his grubby jeans, a lunge for his spotty face. They may well have done the jiggy-jig right then and there for all I know; the big back-packer banana peeled and paid for by the time I made it back to my room, but, strangely, I felt no sense of loss.

I ran a listless gauntlet of massage girls, still hanging around hopefully outside their empty shop, walked down The Alley to the Lingha Bar. Sprawled on a table top was what appeared to be a dead child – but he was sleeping, recovering energy for another day of wandering the streets, a bag of books in his hand.

‘You want a book?’ he’d said earlier.

‘No-o-o-o-o-o-o,’ I smiled.

‘You want a book?’

‘No-o-o-o-o-o-o,’ I said gently. The Cambodian lad who had joined me at my table [uninvited] smiled.

‘What you from?’ the child asked.

I resisted a sigh. How many times a day had I been asked that question in the last six weeks?

‘Austra-a-a-lia…’

‘I know the population of Australia,’ he said. He wasn’t going to budge.

‘And what’s the population of Australia?’ I asked, sticking to the script. This was a little performance I had participated in many, many times.

‘Twenty-two million,’ he replied,

‘Very go-o-o-od,’ I said.

‘I know the population of everywhere,’ he said. He had very good English. Unlike the uninvited guest at my table. We had already labored thru a grisly five minutes of small talk.

The little boy was about seven. I was about seven hundred. He pushed on with his spiel.

‘I know the population of Cambodia.’

Sigh.

‘And what’s the population of Cambodia?’ I said. This was like a little soft song.

‘Fifteen million,’ he said.

‘Very go-o-o-o-d,’ I said.

‘Do you want a book?’

‘No-o-o-o-o-o-o.’

‘Why not?

I can see we’ve moved into the next verse.

‘O-o-o-o-o-h, little sausage,’ I said and held one finger up to my lips. ‘Sh-h-h-h-hhh.’

I call all children ‘sausage’ – I don’t know why. The small ones I call ‘little sausage.’

‘You’ve seen me many times,’ I crooned. ‘Now I stay here,’ and indicated my hotel room up above, ‘for six whole days. So you’ll see me many, many more times. Six days… mmmm. Long time. No books for me, sausage – but good luck, eh?

‘No book today?’

‘No-o-o-o-o-o-o.’

‘No book tomorrow?’

‘No-o-o-o-o-o-o-o.’

‘Bye bye,’ he said and just walked away.

‘I’m sorry,’ said my uninvited guest with a smile on his face.

‘O-o-o-oh, everything is business, my friend. That’s fi-i-ine. Everybody has to earn a living,’ I said quietly, ‘even little boys…’

But I had a big boy next in line. He was ‘practicing his English’, that all-purpose phrase that leads, generally, in exactly the same direction. Only this young lad was a bigger sausage and selling books wasn’t on his agenda. His particular sausage was dangling limply between his legs. It sure wasn’t going into my frypan.

‘I’m going upstairs for a massage,’ I announced and stood up.

I think he was about to say, ‘I go with you…’ but I blocked that statement with an outstretched hand.

‘Very pleased to meet you,’ I said formally. We shook hands in the particularly limp way Cambodians often do and I walked inside the foyer of my hotel and up the stairs to the Lingha Spa.

The Lingha Bar, the Lingha Spa, the One Hotel and my latest hotel of choice in Siem Reap, The Be Angkor are all part of a constellation of businesses run by part of the local gay mafia – as a consequence they have more style than the rest of Siem Reap put together. Impeccably designed, they boast a staff of young Cambodian men who veer from the extreme side of limp to the limp side of extreme, a gaggle of gays rescued from starvation through the good instincts of Mr. Martin, given a trade, a home, training, a profession – and dignity. Most of them lack parents, siblings or any real education – but they are learning, some with great success, the rudiments of the tourist profession.

That lesson number one is how to charm old guys like me is no real surprise. If I was them I’d do exactly the same. We’re in Cambodia, remember.

But the one thing in this youthful town of Siem Riep that nobody chooses to remember – is history. I’ve been to Sol Klung, that pre-school turned into a death camp, looked at the hundreds and hundreds of photographs on the walls, a gallery of young faces just like the ones I was meeting today, pictures taken just before they were killed. I see those same faces every day.

I stripped and showered in the Spa, lay naked on my back as my young masseur laid a green towel over my nether regions, a futile attempt at dignity as, once my legs were lifted, pummelled, stretched and massaged, all of Dogster’s faded glory was well and truly exposed to the lad. He was twenty-one.

‘How old you?’ he asked.

Luckily the lights were low.

‘Very very old,’ I said. ‘Nearly one hundred years old.’ This appeared to satisfy him.

He squeezed my lower legs.

‘Very small,’ he said.

‘Skinny,’ I corrected him.

He squeezed my cadaverous thighs.

‘Very small,’ he said.

‘Strong’ I said.

Then he reached over and tapped on my willy.

‘Very big,’ he said.

I didn’t correct him.

‘Willy sleeping,’ I said.

‘Ahhh, he replied, ‘sle-e-e-ping.’

‘We’ll let him sleep,’ I said gently.

We did. The massage continued. There was no happy ending. I’d already had that… but not quite in the way you’re all thinking…

Let’s set the scene.

Yesterday morning I woke up in Bangkok on the 43rd. floor of Centara Grand, a new, as yet officially unopened tower of power slap-bang in the middle of Central World, a vast shopping complex and cinema multiplex that, for some insane reason, attracted me when I booked. After four very strange days and nights I was plex-ed out.

Per-plexed.

My day hadn’t started well. I woke up late, showered and hurtled out to the executive lounge for breakfast. It was 10.22 a.m. Breakfast finished at 10.30 but I thought that, as a privileged member of their Executive Club, I’d be allowed a little grace.

I pressed the button for the lift and waited - and waited - and waited. Nine minutes later the lift arrived. I stepped in and nearly died. The toxic fumes from the still uncompleted work on Floors 45 to 55 had filled the lift-well. The doors slammed shut. I held my breath and pressed the button. The lift stopped five times between my floor and the Lounge, housekeeping trooped in and out, wearing face masks and light blue and grey uniform. I truly thought they were doctors and I was being delivered to surgery.

I’m never at my best before breakfast.

Each time the lift doors opened a blast of sound hit me. Drilling, hammering, strange noises I couldn’t identify, humming, screeching – all accompanied by that horrible, horrible paint-stripper smell. By the 51st floor I was close to death. It was 10.35 by the time I arrived in the Lounge.

Breakfast had vanished.

In a fit of extreme Asian efficiency the smoked salmon, the papaya, the scrambled eggs, the pastries et al had all been ruthlessly dispatched, as per the schedule, sent down to the restaurant fifty floors below, doubtless to be re-constituted and turned into building material for unfinished restaurant on the 55th floor.

Was the Dogster pleased? Not really. Did he perhaps pass a comment or two? Possibly. The Executive Lounge staff nearly turned inside out in apology. If Cirque Du Soleil had made an acrobatic display of bowing, scraping and that Thai pressed palm greeting they couldn’t have done any better. I felt that, short of falling to my feet and disemboweling themselves, there was little more than they could do.

They sucked and groveled and giggled profusely – did everything they possibly could – everything BUT bring my breakfast back from the bowels of Centara Grand at Central World. I sat, mute and steaming, with only myself and, at that idiot moment, the entire Thai nation to blame.

Doggy, doggy, Dogster… Recover yourself. You are the mighty dog!

So, with all the intelligence, style and grace of a thirsty Thai cockroach I came up with a plan.

I returned to my room, opened my laptop and booked a flight out. Where to go?

Perhaps Siem Reap WAS a little extreme. I could have just checked out and gone to any one of the dozen other hotels I adore in Bangkok – but I was crazed, as Dogsters often are first thing in the morning. Siem Reap it was.

Zoom.

On my first trip to Siem Reap I chose Raffles Grand Hotel D’Angkor. Heritage room, perfectly fine, in the Raffles kinda way. The usual stuff. Guide. Temples. Artisans D’angkor, You’ve all done it. I’ve read the reports. Cookie-cutter tours. Totally cool by me.

www.raffles.com/en_ra/property/rga

Second trip: Raffles. Same, same.

Third trip: Eight days at Hotel De La Paix, Stunning. A suite so wonderful I wanted to ring home and crow – but by now, the better the places I stay, the more my pals hate me so I decided against telling them. I was getting used to the Angkor ‘thing’, settling into the temples and discovering more and more and more. Amazing. In-depth exploration, tuk-tukk-ing my way off the beaten track, sucking up that delicious ambiance like a drowning man. Then nights alone in that wonderful suite, slopping in the bath, watching T.V., stuffing my face with excellent food. There was still more to see.

www.hoteldelapaixangkor.com

Fourth trip: this time bringing my 69 year-old ex-agent as a present. Hotel De La Paix again. She arrived with gammy legs, a liability she hadn’t really disclosed. This time we’d head off to the temples, she’d make it [just] to the front entrance, then gently expire. We’d sit on a stone and she’d take photographs. Then we’d leave. Was this just a little frustrating? Yup. But, I guess, a little bit was better than nothing at all. It was all just old rocks to her. She was more content to sit on the swinging tables in the hotel restaurant, guzzle way too much wine and stuff her face with the ten course Khymer meal than brave another temple. Oh well.

This time I wanted a change. I could happily live [and die] in the Hotel De La Paix but I’d had my eye on an oddity for a little while. This place:

www.theonehotelangkor.com

but then, with a bit of a search, I came up with this place, an even newer property right next door, run by the same guy.

www.hotelbeangkor.com

Something told me that THIS was the place to stay.

I was right. I'm writing this from the Bamboo Room. Here was my happy ending.

That's it for a while. I've got a tuk-tuk waiting and a temple with my name on it. Check you later.

Well..I did say you missed your calling as a journalist, Nigel... )

The clever literary device of time-shifting is duly noted.

This SR hotel sounds much more interesting than the HDLP.

I IMPLORE you to write a book, i would buy it and a copy for all of my travel loving friends......

Thank you dogster, I await your next chapter.

Loving your writing. We all await, breathless for more.

Thanks ladies - and gentlemen. Don't think for a moment I take your kind words lightly. There's a moment when I start posting - a shudder of fear/adrenalin/tension - dunno what - 'cos I know that once I start I HAVE to keep going. In a funny way this is a bit like doing live television - for a very small audience. Lol. I'm sure there's only about ten of you reading any of this - but, hey, that's ten more people than are interested in my stories back home.

I was rather worried in retrospect that you might that first part a little rude. But that's the thing with these 'live' reports. Self-censorship comes a bit later in the process, with a second draft, an edit, a fine-tune. Like 'The Great Stumble Forward: India' this is all straight-shooting: write it, read it through - then post before you re-consider. Hence the occasional grammatical oddities.

I'm just training myself - quite what for though, I'm not sure. So thank you for bearing with me.

For those not in the know, a 'Nigel' is an Australian term of mild abuse. It couldn't possibly be my name. I'd kill myself.

Your reading audience may be both larger and more appreciative than you realize. More of this literary jazz, please.

Please, no censorship, I love the original.

Definitely no censorship! And I would put the audience here well over ten.

No need to censor. We're all adults here. Or - most of us are anyway.

Does Gpanda count as an adult?

The audience applauds lustily. Immortalized in the annals of Fodorites.

Wouldn't you be disappointed if I were more mature?

No need to censor. We're all checking in here for the lastest installment because we're fluent in dogster now.

Just play it to us like it happened.

not mature, but open to change...

Mature, that's open for discussion?
However I prefer uncensored, I grew up on Bergman and Swedish interminable summernights.

Dogster just tell it like it is/was
please.

O.K. Your advice is noted. And your really nice words. Thanks.

But - Lol - if you only KNEW how much I actually leave out. Some of Dogster's greatest adventures could NEVER be told in here... but, as we get to know each other, the shutters are prized open a little more each day...

Forgive me if I seem to be dwelling on this particular topic - but, this is what is going down in Dogster World today. You'll see why.

God, it's hot. Here's some more.

I am 59 years old, a single unattached gentleman and, unusually for Siem Reap it seems, the thought of sharing my bed with an effeminate Cambodian lad sends my poor sleeping willy into a terminal coma. Now just how does one explain THAT to the parade of limp local youths who regularly plonk themselves uninvited at my table?

‘Where you from?’

‘How old are you?’

‘First time in Cambodia?

Blah, blah, limp girly simpering blahhhh…

Perhaps it might be best not to sit outside the only gay bar in town.

Yesterday I zoomed out in my tuk-tuk, grabbed a seven day pass, stood on the line for my picture to be taken [one of the least flattering pictures in recent history]. The poor lass behind the glass screen was efficient and friendly - but her face belied her nature. She was under attack from acne of such ferocious proportions that the doctor had simply given up. Both cheeks were covered with two huge bandages, taped to the rest of her with strips of Elastoplast. Peeping out on all sides was flesh covered in ghastly, weeping sores.

Ever had a cold-sore? Remember that feeling when you went out, thinking that ALL anybody was looking at was your lip? Multiply that a thousand times. Then stand behind the booth at Angkor and issue tickets. Her two eyes, pretty much all that was left on view, attempted a smile. But I could read her mind. My heart bled.

So why was that same heart completely unmoved this morning when one of Siem Reap’s ‘characters’ – the man with no arms who sells books from a box hanging around his neck – honed in on me with my breakfast coffee? I’d just woken up.

‘Hello!’ he said cheerily. He was very charming. He held out both stumps in front of him.
His arms had been amputated just above the elbow, land-mined, chopped-off, eaten by tigers – I knew not what at that moment.

‘I’m perfectly aware you have no arms. You don’t have to show me,’ I found myself saying. He smiled broadly. Luckily I checked myself in time. I’ve been here many, many times,’ I said gently. ‘I’ve seen you before. You’ve seen me…’

‘Ahhh,’ he said and pretended to remember.

‘So good luck today, my friend,’ I replied. ‘Nothing for me…’

He held out his right arm.

I shook his stump.

That was something I’d never done before.

So I sit outside the Lingha Bar, looking for all the world like a cadaverous dung-beetle, yet another elderly sex-tourist in Cambodia - of which, as we know, there are many.

But, you know, I’m NOT - so the assumption that I AM kinda rankles.

‘You buy boom-boom?’ said the ten year old boy. His companions laughed.

I didn’t find it amusing. Not at all.

‘I’ll find you a partner – you like big strong man?’ said a lad from the bar.

‘Well, errr… no.’

‘Lady-boy?’

Only in costume, on stage at the Calypso Cabaret in Bangkok. Otherwise no-o-o-o-o-o.



Let us not be naïve – there have been moments in my many travels when my behavior has been less than impressive, times when, once the tawdry deed has been done, I’ve had to pick myself up, give myself a smack and say the words ‘inappropriate behavior.’ Inappropriate these days on any number of levels; chief of which is cultural exploitation. When one man from an affluent culture waves those greenbacks around in a culture where their prey has no greenbacks at all, that’s scarcely a meeting of equals. Aesthetically not too pretty either.

I think we’ve all seen that Bangkok constant – gross, sixty five year old male visitor, great fat belly hanging out over his shorts, a dick he hasn’t seen in twenty years – on his arm a petite, beautiful Thai lady. She’s seen that shriveled willy, I’m sure of that [excuse me while I throw up] … but, then who am I to deny anyone the chance of happiness late in life? Not all of these liaisons are corrupt, exploitive, grubby; some, I’m sure, are partnerships of great affection and equality - so why do I find this such an unsettling scene?

The knife cuts both ways. I’m privy to the personal lives of a number of my gay friends who have found themselves in – errr.. delicate situations with their freshly imported Asian ‘companions’. The Thai boy or the Toy boy, there ain’t much difference. One very famous Australian stage designer solved his problems with a quick call to the Immigration Department. My relationship with that talented pratt has never been the same since.

In Australia we call those gay men with a penchant for the mysteries of the Orient ‘Rice Queens’.

So why am I sitting alone outside the only gay bar in Siem Reap?

Because THAT'S where my hotel is.

The pictures on the website don’t lie. This place really IS as nice as they look. Next postI'll describe it a bit more. But they don’t quite tell it all. There are times when I feel like I’ve stumbled in on Act Two of ‘La Cage Aux Folles’.

Unique. In every way. Hotel Be Angkor.

Let me state this very clearly.

This is not a gay hotel.

It is not remotely targeted at the gay market. The staff are not gay - even the ones serving drinks in the gay bar opposite. But you might well think they are – because they are gentle, well-mannered, stylish and professional.

This is Asia. This is Cambodia. A whole different concept of masculinity applies. To our brutish Western eyes this can seem limp, passive, almost girlish – but let me assure you, these guys [and gals] are tougher than you can imagine. They lead hard lives. They are poor.

If ever there is a place that is renewing itself on a daily basis, it is Siem Reap. This is the miracle of Cambodia. This is a city of young people. They work hard. They study. They have dreams for the future.

Why are there no old people?

Two words.

Pol Pot.

So I’m trying to look past the massage parlours, the tuk-tuks lining the streets, the beggar kids and prostitutes. I’m trying to look beyond the endemic corruption that I’m told is all around, past the sordid trade in human flesh. I’m trying to see over the high-rise hotels, the construction zone that is Siem Reap. I’m trying to see past the tourists - of which, I, of course, am one.

And I’m trying to look through the magnificence that is Angkor.

Because what I’m thinking, right now, is that the temples are the greatest diversion of all. We come, we troop through; guided, led by the nose, droned at by guides, good, bad, indifferent, excellent – we tip too much, pay too much, reveal a collective stupidity that amazes me, eat well, sleep in fine hotels or back-packer dens, tick off the temples on a never-ending list, hurtle from location to location, prodded and pushed like the facile fools we are.

But what do we SEE?

You've been to SR five times. Tell us what magic keeps bringing you back. What do you feel when you look at the temples?

That's a very interesting question Gpanda - and one I don't have a ready reply to. As you can see from the above, there are many sides to the experience - not just the temples

For me, the awareness that there was more and more and more was the thing that drew me back. And the more I came back, the more I realised that the temples weren't the only thing about Siem Reap.

Angkor Wat may seem the be-all and end-all of Siem Reap - but Siem Reap ain't the be-all and end-all of Cambodia. In my opinion a more attentive a serious visitor has to attend to the realities of modern day Cambodia [town and country] as well as the recent dreadful history - but I reckon a solid 50% of tourists choose not to.

I've always thought it a shame when visitors choose not to expose themselves to Phnom Penh, S21 and the Killing Fields - but I confess that after copius reading and research, I still don't understand the 'why' of what happened..

But that's MY preoccupation. Siem Reap is like a new little re-created world... the more you see it in the context of before, the more the miracle becomes apparent.

I confess to being more interested in all that than the temple complex this time.

What I see at the temples is just beauty. Not history. Just detail after detail of beauty. I've stopped taking photographs and started making my plans around where the tourists AREN'T.

Because the great Angkor experience is the moment when it's just YOU and IT. That takes luck and planning. So I see it as a challenge.

There are secrets here.

Waiting for dinner I heard some children singing. My waitress was watching me listening.

‘Do you have baby boy, baby girl? She said simply.

‘No,’ I answered, looking her in the eyes, ‘Do you?’

‘Yes,’ she said sweetly, ‘I have a baby girl, two years, two months.’

I looked at her. She seemed very young.

‘A baby! You look so young. How old are you?

‘Twenty two and half.’

‘You look eighteen,’ I said. ‘Not old enough to have baby.’

She was pleased with that.

‘How old is your husband?

‘Twenty-nine.’

‘He seems a very old man,’ I said.

‘I don’t see old or young,’ she said simply. ‘I just see good heart.’

‘Where does he work?’

She mentioned a massage centre near Angkor.

‘He blind.’

‘So he’s never seen how beautiful you are?’

She smiled sweetly

‘No.’

‘How did you meet him?

‘I work with my brother-in-law. One day he took me to his house. And then I saw my husband.’

‘I love.’

My heart was breaking.

‘We very poor,’ she said simply. ‘We have nothing, no food. But I happy.’

She smiled and looked directly into my eyes.

‘I very happy.’

I had to look away.

Poignant reading dogster. You can't go home. You have to keep travelling now so your writing doesn't stop!

As a side note: you all may know this already, and I hesitate to ask, but what are tuk-tuks?

dogster, from another member of your fan club - - thank you!

Jaya - tuk-tuk's are 3-wheeled, covered but open-on-the-sides vehicles that make a sound like "tuk tuk". Generally they seat 3 people including the driver. Sometimes called auto rickshaws but not in Thailand or Cambodia.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Auto_rickshaw

Thanks Craig. It was one of those "should I be asking this question?" kind of questions - especially since this is Dogster literature we're reading!!! One cannot be too sure.

Unfortunately doigster is too drunk to post today.

Not drunk--surely just Dog-tired.

P.U.I.

Posting under intoxication can make for great reading.

Is that the kind of drunk that if you leave your laptop on the floor ahead of time you can crawl up to it when you're "recovering" to check Fodor's and send us your love?

Speedy recovery.

Mmmmm... rrrrghhh... argh-h-h-h!

It's one p.m. and bloody hot. I think I'll just crawl downstairs, rehydrate, try and force breakfast into me - then I'll tell you what happened.

Really, it wasn't my fault...

Yesterday was a designated P.D.D. That’s a Pamper Dogster Day.

I think I might have taken it all a bit TOO far.

In Siem Reap a P.D.D. is a whole different thing. There are few options here that, really, you don’t find in too many other places. Nope, I’m not talking rude stuff. By the end of yesterday I was in no state for any of that. Now, I’ve moved into ‘The Zone’ - I could stay here for a month. I’m a part of the furniture. No sex-tourist hassle, no postcards, no beggars, no tuk-tuks, no motorbikes – everybody around here knows where I’m staying and what I like to do – my daily rituals and oddities. This always takes a few days but, once accomplished – a whole new world of wonder opens up.

Here’s yesterday’s schedule: Hotel B does a rather nice breakfast – I have that downstairs. I wander out of my room – one floor down is the Lingha Spa – a tasteful establishment that seems to be exclusively for men – then, down another few stairs, is breakfast in the AHA restaurant – run by the Hotel De La Paix. I have a few options here. Eat outside; either directly opposite one side of the Central Market and watch that daily world go by – or one other side of the building, just feet away from the Lingha Bar. This establishment is quiet in the mornings – as establishments of this kind tend to be.

Here I can talk to my many passing acquaintances – the pack of book-selling children, Stumpy, my land-mine pal, One Leg, another victim, Mrs. One Leg – yet ANOTHER victim, various passing restaurateurs, gallery owners, the many and varied staff from everywhere… all the time stuffing my face with an omelette, mushrooms, tomatoes, fresh O.J, Lavazza coffee… I hadn’t yet taken the third option – inside with the A/C – that was a bit dull in comparison.

Then off to the Market – not for the fruit and vegetables – but for a manicure.

Then, on a whim, a pedicure.

Dogster, sitting on a tiny stool, surrounded by women having their nails painted, dead chickens, cuts of meat hanging in the air, a seamstress or two, about one hundred stall-holders selling everything under the sun – his bony knees clenched together, a bowl of water balanced precariously on top, both hands dangling limply in the bowl, nails and cuticles softening, both bare feet stuck in a bucket, gnarled toe-nails slowly giving up their multiple ghosts – I’m wondering if any human being could look more stupid. Not possible.

Two dollahhh…

So, all twenty digits attended to, [no, I didn’t have the nail polish] off to Blue Pumpkin for my daily chilled coconut juice. A giant shaved coconut, a straw, a seat outside, a fan blowing on my head – bliss.

Two dollahhh…

Down the street, a block away, my latest discovery – Dogster’s Beauty Parlour. It hides behind black plate-glass windows with ancient Chinese New Year decorations stuck on them. Only careful investigation and a chance open-door located it. Somehow, I have the feeling that I was the first Westerner to grace the red reclining chairs. But a sweet, soft man wearing a blue surgical mask roused himself from slumber to talk mangled English to the wandering foreigner and a plan of attack was formulated.

First – a shave.

Now, given the hairless faces of most Cambodian men, a shop that shaves is a REAL find.

‘How much?’ I asked, with appropriate gestures.

Great confusion. They had never seen so many morning bristles on a face before. He smiled and said guilelessly:

‘Monkey. More….’

I had to roll with that.

‘Two dollahhh.’

This was clearly way, way above normal. Mostly they have to pick at three or four accidental black hairs once a month, it seems. Fine by me. I was laid flat in the red recliner, shaving foam was procured and a soft, scratchy, tentative shave ensued. It was a bit like having a frightened rat chew on my stubble.

Eventually, Dogster’s monkey-face was cleared of hair. But there was more to come. A little soft massage and I was un-reclined.

‘You want face?’

Whatever that meant.

‘Why not? How much?’

‘Two dollahhhh.’

The red recliner was reversed and I was flat on my back again. This time for the application of strips of white paper, each about three inches long, glued to every available surface. I had no idea what was going on and as I couldn’t see anything, strips of white paper having been glued to my eyes as well, just had to lie there hoping my face wouldn’t dissolve.

After a long time the strips were peeled off and examined. All the staff were gathered to witness the great unveiling of Dogster, the foreign Mummy. Great excitement. To judge from the reaction, every pore had expelled sewerage. I was, however, complimented by many of the ladies present on my large nose. At least, I think that’s what they were talking about.

My man made a series of rather rude gestures with one finger, waving it stiffly around and turning it from side to side.

‘Yes?’ he asked.

I had no idea what he meant, so, in the Dogster manner, of course I said:

‘O.K., why not? How much?’

‘Two dollahhhh.’

Was there ANYTHING in Siem Reap that didn’t cost two dollars?

Then the bright light was brought out, lethal prongs and implements I can’t bear to even think about were delivered on a steel tray. A glamorous female assistant was procured. She peeled on a pair of white plastic gloves, sat down beside me and started to insert the probe deep into my right ear.

Either it was radical brain surgery through the nearest available orifice – or I was having my ears cleaned.

Now, I know some of you will be eating breakfast when you read this, so I’ll spare you the descriptions of the mountain of orange gunge, the dead flies, the flora and fauna that was dug out of my scull. A small family of mice scuttled out screaming – or was that ME screaming? It’s all a bit of a blur.

I was sweating, the way you do when the prospect of a punctured ear-drum suddenly presents itself. I was given a small cushion to clasp. I shredded it in terror. My toes were curling, face contorting, both eyes rolling, searching for a place to look. I settled on a picture of Angkor Wat made of matchsticks.

All I could feel was the probe going in, the probe coming out, some strange movement inside my head, a tug, a trawl through inner space as more animal life was plucked from the darkness.

God, I’ll have to stop writing and lie down. I’m shaking. I’ll have thirty beers and tell you the rest later...

can't wait.....

Not exactly my idea of a spa day, but I salute your sense of adventure. I am disappointed, though, that you didn't opt for any color with your manicure and pedicure.

Ear cleaning sounds like it's definitely not in the realm of pampering! You are one brave traveler.

I have been waylaid, diverted from my narrative and rendered mute. I can't possibly tell you the details - but I DO have very clean ears.

Heh.

Here endeth Dogster's official adventures in Siem Reap.

Say it ain't so Do! ( an American reference to an antequated baseball expression).

WE WANT MORE.

Ok, but do we get a report of the unofficial adventures in Siem Reap?

Lol Gpanda - that was a quick response... I just thought you might all be getting bored with me by now.

Just let me sober up. I have to sllep. It's nearly 2.00 a.m.

Kathie, sorry I missed you there, we cross-posted... mmmmm - I could be talked into it...

no names, no pack drill tho' - I have to protect the innocent.

Dogster, great reading, I am looking forward to my first trip to SR in January. Its refreshing to read your experiences. Thanks!

More, more! Don't stop,please!

I know what I did today, but more importantly (and probably more interestingly) what did Dogster do?

"Here endeth Dogster's official adventures in Siem Reap." sniff, sniff as I look for a tissue... You're a blast of literary fresh air from all of the same questions being posted for the umpteenth time... blah, blah, "is 5 days long enough to see all of India" stuff.

Don't be gone for long!

Hope you are enjoying your "unofficial" adventures dogster! We can only imagine . . .

This is so much fun Dogster - please continue from wherever you are!

I also had the "I go with you" experience in Siem Reap recently.

Me "No thank you"

Girl (? some doubt) "Why not?"

Like a fool I tried to explain.

"Get on moto with me"

"No"

"Why not, only $1" (For moto ride maybe)

Finally it hit me that I should not have to justify my lack of interest to a prostitute and escaped.

However its all part of the fun of Asia. Friends of my daughter's who live in Siem Reap walked past one girl every night for months. Male was on his own one night and she tried her luck.

Don't let any of this put you off coming. Its a great country.

Wha... wha...? silverwool... you mean it wasn't just MY personal magnetism and supreme good looks? Do you think she was a [gasp] p-p-prostiture? [I can hardly say the word].

Ahhh, I'm feeling sad today. In less than 24 hours I'll be back at the hateful Centara Grand in BKK. There are reasons for this idiot choice. The words 'glutton for punishment' come to mind. Then home to Melbourne.

I scarcely think a 'Dogster: Live from Melbourne' post would be riveting reading.

But, for those of you coming to Siem Reap in the near future - there's just one more place I want to tell you about. The most remarkable restaurant in the known world.

I'm gonna go off and have a massage [P.D.D. continues, pretty well non-stop] and I'll compose my latest, and last, missive from Siem Reap.

Just to say thank you for all your kind words.

I wouldn't mind a Live from Melbourne post since I'm headed there next month for the first time to see a friend-I'm sure you could give me a whole new perspective.

Guys, it's late and I'm on the road. I'll tag this from BKK tomorrow - or Australia.

Wherever I end up.

dogster... hope you'll have time to meet for Haagen-dazs ice cream at Central World sometime. I am heading back home to the USA on Wednesday morning early. Any chance of saying hello in person?
Or maybe you'd prefer the Pickled Liver for beer and food... my friend Maeng's local place on Sukhumvit soi 11.

Carol

Friendly reminder to compose the SR restaurant post...

I'm in BKK now and it's very late - finding words hard to come by while I'm on the move. So I reckon it'll be from Australia. Give me a couple of days grace... then I'll finish this and embark on the REAL report...

Dogster,

Have so enjoyed your journey. I still am laughing from your prior five hour "cruise" story, but Siem Reap is just as precious in its own way.

I cracked up at this sentence: Yesterday I zoomed out in my tuk-tuk, grabbed a seven day pass, stood on the line for my picture to be taken [one of the least flattering pictures in recent history].

Dear god, do they get special cameras that go out of their way to make you look as bad as you have ever (or ever will) looked in your life?

Our guide said we could "keep it as a souvenir" Um, Yeah, right. Suitable for framing. I actually cut mine up while still in Cambodia--it could have given some poor chambermaid the vapors.

Hi Dogster, How easy/hard is it to readjust to the lifestyle back in Australia after India, Cambodia, etc.?

Topping for dogster to finish. We know you're back!

Yoohoo! Oh Dogster! Where art thou? We waiteth in patience.

Gawd, I've hardly sat the cadaverous dogster bottom back in my favorite chair at home, then you start clamoring for attention.

To answer your question jaya: I'd much rather be OUT there than here. Melbourne seems bleak, empty and dull - but that's just the 'Returned Traveller Blues' - they'll pass. It always takes this old dog a week or so to feel like I've actually ARRIVED. The body is here - but the mind is yet to find its way home. So I'm in a state of psychic confusion. What's new, you ask?

My friends have lived up to expectations and shown NO interest, whatsoever, in my latest adventures.

I'll try and finish this today, otherwise I just know marija will continue to hound me...

My brain is already moving on to the next edition of 'Dogster: Still Stumbling: India'.

Here you go - final, absolutely final episode. Just a little tag to finish it off.

The road home began, innocently enough, with a recommendation.

‘I want a great little restaurant for dinner. Somewhere close by, somewhere I can walk to, French.’ I was talking to Mr. Martin, the owner of Hotel Be Angkor. ‘Be creative. Suggest something fun.’

He didn’t have to think too hard.

I love the solitary meal in a fine restaurant. I love not having to talk, being able to focus on the food, free to taste and feel and chew and smell, to take my time and savour my meal. Pamper Dogster Day was continuing towards its great finale. My nails were clipped, my face was stripped of all impurities, my ears were clean, my body had been oiled up, pummeled, de-greased and showered in the Lingha Spa downstairs; I was hungry and ready for dinner. That’s when I found the Holy Grail.

I’ll say this once – and once only – the name of the restaurant is ‘Samot’. It’s in ‘The Alley’, just over the road. You’ll find it – if it’s still there - or not. I went three nights in a row – but then, I’m a glutton for punishment. When you get there you’ll either roll with the punches – or not. It will be fate.

It’s a one man operation - a passion. Just eight items on the blackboard menu, one chef and two waitresses, neither of whom could communicate in English. Neither of the waitresses had any training, any knowledge of the food, of wine – or indeed, of life itself, bless them, but they were sweet, nodded and smiled, took my order and delivered it to the patron in the kitchen. He would then hurtle out to greet his guests, have hurried consultations on the menu, exchange greetings and explain each dish, then hurtle back into the kitchen to cook it.

In the course of these conversations the entire order may, or may not, have been changed. It was impossible to know. I seem to remember the words; ‘I think I will place myself in your hands, maestro...’ All is a blur.

In, out, in, out – fry, splash-h-h-h, clank, sizzle, phone calls in harried French, a waitress scurrying out for a fresh slice of salmon, scuttling back bearing the goods, in, out, in, out. One chef for eight, maybe ten diners, ordering different meals at different times - everything took a very long time. The one thing the waitresses were good at was silently filling our glasses as we waited. They filled mine many times.

Various unexplained dishes were brought out; unordered entrees and palate pleasers. For some this was confusing. One couple complained that, as they hadn’t ordered them, they should have to pay for them – which was O.K. by the patron – they were free, anyway. I just ate whatever was put in front of me. Something told me I was in good hands.

A command, a ding! - a triumphant shout and the first course is delivered. Here is where the chain of command falters. The sweet, lovable waitresses would, without fail, deliver the food to the wrong tables. The confused diners would tuck in, only to have the patron swoop after a few mouthfuls.

‘That’s not for you,’ he said to one couple and swept the offending plate from their table. I sawthe woman’s eyes widen as her food disappeared. Her mouth was wide open with a fork heading inside. She was in peril.

A very tasty piece of fish came my way. Was this the roast salmon in the glazed wine I’d ordered? I had no idea. I looked at it for a while, trying to conjure the words ‘roast salmon’ from the grilled tuna splayed in front of me, trying to find the glazed wine jus. I turned and opened my mouth. The patron was way, way ahead of me. He passed, like a shadow, behind me. When I looked back at the table the tuna was gone.

I watched as my first course, a clam and shrimp mariniere, went to a couple of hungry Americans. Too late, they’d already stuffed half of it in their mouths before that was recalled, the bowl swept from under their astonished noses with a curse. So, all the entrees had to be cooked again.

I was, I confess, already drunk by the time the food came out, happy as a clam. Others in the restaurant seemed to be entering into the occasion less enthusiastically

A table for three arrived unexpectedly; tall, unshaven, beefy Americans, lawyers dressed as back-packers. The patron rushed into the restaurant and ordered them out. He was too busy. There were only six of us in the restaurant. At my whispered recommendation they persevered. I’d seen them earlier. I knew they were smart.

Then one couple suddenly stood up and stormed out.

‘Hopeless! Hopeless! Deserves to fail!’ they hissed as they passed my table.

The odds for my new friends had dramatically increased.

I saw them later in the night, weaving their way through town. They grabbed me, took my photograph and thanked me fulsomely for the recommendation. Their dinner had taken nearly four hours. They, like me, were in a state of wild, fairly drunken excitement. They, like me, had been so crazed with joy they had taken pictures of everything that moved – including the food - which is how I can remember the parade of amazement that crossed my table that night in Siem Reap. This was a transcendental dining experience. From the ridiculous to the sublime.

A side plate of fresh, thick bread, soft butter, resting in a dark olive sauce, a splodge of light, whipped duck liver pate – followed by five perfect scallops warmed on a black plate, a tumble of fried squid and a prawn, artfully arranged on a bed of green salad.

A delicate pile of crab meat, mixed with pieces of grapefruit and orange and sprayed with a lime vinaigrette arrived, sitting atop a mound of whipped avocado puree – then, together, a dollop of rich yellow salmon and cheese risotto, oozing oils and butter to accompany ten sticks of fresh asparagus bearing a thin slice of marinated tuna, flash-fried in garlic, smothered in fried onions accompanied by freshly squeezed limes.

A gigantic clam and large shrimp mariniere. Luckily, once the clams were harvested and their many, many shells laid out on the plate around me, the dish had shrunk to manageable size - then, finally, that roast salmon in a rich glazed wine sauce with five small roast onions and a plonk of tossed asparagus nestling on a bed of pureed vegetables.

The bill came to $16. I tipped handsomely and stumbled out into the lane, wound my way back across the street to my hotel. Just carry me off to Heaven right now, I thought and let me die a happy man. I have seen the mountain-top. It wasn’t my fault I was, perhaps, just a little unsteady on my feet. All of life was a party in The Alley that night. The lights twinkled, the restaurants buzzed with people, the back-packers have never looked so fine. I sat in my chair outside the Lingha Bar and reflected on life, felt the end of my trip close at hand. I ordered a beer.

Mmmm – yup, I could go home now, I guess...

dogstar, i hope you never quit writing about your travels. i also hope i can see siem reap as well as you when i am there in january!

I agree, dogster, don't stop writing about your travels. You have a gift with words.
Sorry we didn't meet up in BKK
Carol

Great meal and great description - almost you tempt me to go back to Siem Reap just for that restaurant! I'm eagerly looking forward to more stumbling around India.

BTW, "I love the solitary meal in a fine restaurant. I love not having to talk, being able to focus on the food, free to taste and feel and chew and smell, to take my time and savour my meal." - ah, dogster, we need you on the solo dining threads over on the Smart Travel board!

Thanks for the new postings from SR. Waiting for the rest of your "stumbling around" India trip.

P.S. You don't need a wife when you have us to nag you all day right?

Thank you for the most delightful restaurant review. I could conjure up the evening as I read it!

Thanks. Looking forward to the next report soon.

If only I could stop laughing. Poor waitresses, I really feel for them, and the poor chef trying to get it right for each table.

One of our rather well known actresses, was a neighbor of mine, to help her out before she was "discovered" I hired her in my restaurant, she would have fit in perfectly at Samot.

Will be in Siem Reap in a few months and hopefully Samot is still there when I arrive.

Dogster I know you say this is your last missive. However looking at life through your eyes, makes the not so obvious clearer, and also most enjoyable reading.

Would it be possible to get a glimpse of your life in Melbourne and let us be entertained by your wonderful wry observations.

Well crap now he's spilled the name of the best restaurant in town. Come high season I won't be able to get a table.

Can we get this thread deleted?

Lol, offwego, what a funny reply! And to all of you who have said nice things, thank you again. I enjoyed this little exercise. Without your encouragement I would have yielded to my Siem Reap demons and given up.

But I fear moremiles and Ny - that a live blog from Melbourne would truly be the most boring document in the world. Right now I'm just finishing off the second most boring document in the world.

It's called 'Dogster: Stumbling down the Hoogli.' Let's go there instead.

Dogster, I would love to know what you were served the other two nights you dined at Samot.

As much as I'm looking forward to Melbourne and to meet up with an old friend, I think you're right that it just won't compare to India or Cambodia for color and character. However, your observations of the city would still be interesting!

Lol more miles - I think your words about Melbourne not being able to match India etc.. would be the UNDER-statement of the century. You'll see. I'm already planning my next exit.

Happy cheese: I had variations on the same theme. Remember - there were only 8 dishes on the menu - the above meal was simply when I abandoned any hope of getting what I ordered and threw myself at the mercy of the patron instead. Hence the 'degustation menu' listed above.

Not that most of the dishes I ate were even ON the menu. It's that kind of place.

I hope that any of you heading to Siem Reap can find it and have the same experience I had - but it takes a bit of finesse - a coupla visits, a handshake and a chat or two to get the best out of Samot.

Remember, on my three nights there at least 30% of the customers either walked out - or left with a look of extreme confusion...

But, Dogster wakes UP extremely confused - so I found it easy to roll with the punches. I want no recriminations from those of you less able to cope... lol.

"My friends have lived up to expectations and shown NO interest, whatsoever, in my latest adventures".

We have EXACTLY the same problem...it doesn't matter where we go...Turkmenistan, "Oh that must have been nice". Our friends don't even ask where the places are if they haven't heard of them.

Recently my husband has taken to making up countries and recently told a client we were heading to Cruzbekistan...they didn't even comment!

welltraveledbrit, I do hope you'll post a report on your upcoming trip to Cruzbekistan as we don't get many reports on it here.

Hello welltravelled: haven't seen you in here for a while.

My pals continue to amaze me with their indifference to my adventures. Absolute, vapid, complete - so radical a disinterest that I think it actually hints at some deeper cause.

I must think on this more - up until I recently I thought it was just ME - that I was, indeed, the most boring man on the planet and deserved some karmic slap for all my previous misdeeds.

Now I don't think that at all.

Mostly I just think 'you ignorant sod.'

>>>'I go with you,' she said softly.<<<

... thanks dogster, for a classic opening line ... (would have commented sooner, but 'trans-pac' life is a bit crazed these days) ...

... (now, and I mean this as the highest possible praise: your posts are appreciated as much as, yes, a certain Singapore Girl's 'blogspot' that has recently been taken down in part by good old SIA 'rock star' executive management ... one truly naughty Singapore Girl, to be sure (the best possible kind) ... (but sadly, some other SQ Girls' blogs - including one of mrs. m's best friend's blog - have seen their sites go to 'by invitation only') ... (although, some sweet, innocent SIA Girl memories are still available to the 'general public') ...

... thanks again, for taking the time to write ... hope you return soon to SEA ... (and that Asian airline) ...

macintosh (robert)


a four of finger fish and finger pies/
in summer meanwhile back/

(Lennon/McCartney)

fabbo, dogster, although I'll spare your readers my immediate response to your description of the 'ex-agent' !
YES YOU MUST WRITE THE BOOK.

topping for skip P

Well, golly gosh - the thread that will not die... Thank you rhkk for bringing my literary efforts back from oblivion; looking back on it, it's the most oblique travel report ever written - six days in Siem Reap and no mention of temples... lol

I see my ex-agent has been in here sniffing around. heh. Hello 'gaga'.

Dogster, thanks for directing me to this. Highly entertaining and without a doubt worth saving for the next time I need a good read.

And thank you, Boston for dredging this up from oblivion for another brief dash across the Fodor's stage...

Dogster..am off to SR end Jan. Can you recommend some pre-trip reading? On Angkor? On the Pol Pot period? Other?

Hi Nik: I've been running thru your posts on tripadvisor. You're a great resource. I'm deep in M.P., Gujarat and Rajasthan planning right now.

To your question: other than Dawn Rooney's book 'Angkor' and Christopher Hudson's 'The Killing Fields' I'm a bit stumped. You can cheat and watch the Killing Fields movie. When you're in both P.P. and Angkor you'll find a ton of books being peddled, plus DVD's. Best to buy there.

I became fascinated by Pol Pot and just why it all went on. I read several complex books on the politics and, if you asked me now, couldn't repeat a word of it. Labynthine beyond all comprehension. Don't even try unless you're a student of Asian politics. One visit to S15 in P.P. will give you all the info you need. It's inexplicable, no matter how much you read, how much you see.

Again, Angkor is vastly complex and confusing. The background and meaning of it all is still, after 5 visits, utterly confusing. I don't think it matters.

I see art, not meaning, I see beauty, not history. But that's me - the exact reverse of some of the Indian guides I've come across - lol. Others would consider mine an empty-headed approach. It's all my feeble brain can handle.

As you see, I'm not much good to you. I read AFTER I've been to a place. While I'm there I'm just taking it in, fairly mindlessly. Obviously it gets recorded somehow, given my little stories. So, let's hope someone else checks in here and makes better suggestions.

I'm going to run back to Tripadvisor and read all your posts. That'll fill a day or so... cheers

npjai, a couple more recommendations for reading: Michael Freeman also has a book on Angkor. Another book about the Pol Pot years - When broken Glass Floats.

I found my careful study of Dawn Rooney's book really helped orient me to the temples. Our first afternoon in SR, we went to Angkor Wat - it's huge and overwhelming. We just wandered, stunned by how huge it is. Over the next days we visited many temples. The more of the smaller temples I saw, the clearer the architectural layout of the temples became for me. When, on our last morning, we were at Angkor at sunrise, we had the place almost to ourselves. Our walk through the temples became a walking meditation. I understood the layout of the temple and could appreciate it in a different way.

Have a wonderful trip!

Thanks Dogster & Kathy for the recommendations.

Dogsters..my posts are not such interesting reading as yours!! If you need any help planning your Rajasthan portion, drop me an email anytime!! And if youre in Jaipur, happy to have a drink with you.

This needs to come back to the top purely because it has 99 replies.

And now it has 100.

Balloons, whistles - one lonely firework.

My work is done.

That's cheating a bit Doggie but still worth bringing it back. Break out the champagne.

Cheers to you Dogster. This was a good trip report and near the beginning of my keeping a watch for any thread starting with "Dogster: ______________.