‘Order beer with your breakfast we won’t judge you’ Siem Reap Cambodia Part Two

Tags

awareness, Cambodia, Enlightenment, Siem Reap, spiritual awakening, spiritual enlightenment, Spiritual experience, spiritual memoir, The matrix, The Thirteenth Floor, Travel, Vanilla sky, writing

Draft extract from my travel/spiritual memoir

See you in another life, when we are both cats*  

*Vanilla Sky

I watched a couple of YouTube videos with Anthony about ‘the matrix’ and felt trippy and inspired, as usual.  I scribbled down quotes and ideas :

Words are spells that programme you

Make friends with your body, subconscious, conscious, make all one

People inside same age- body irrelevant look past this 

Don’t live in the past

Don’t live in the future

Stay in the NOW

Don’t live in fear

Raise your frequency

Dream where you are now

One of the comments mentioned language and conditioning; would we be freer without language?  I’d talked about this before when thinking about the man at Osho’s guesthouse in Kerala who couldn’t read.  If you didn’t see any ads, if you weren’t exposed to all those ideas and conditioning… But it is double edged: the good books get you there, wake you up, the bad ones keep you sleepy and distracted.  Who defines good and bad though?  I’ve had an inspiration moment through a car ad and they’d (car ads) would probably be banned if I was in charge…

Anthony had seen The Thirteenth Floor and told me about it but I hadn’t seen it.  In Koh Rong I had a conversation with a fellow blogger who had written a blog post about Westworld and its effects re thinking about consciousness etc.  I mentioned Battlestar Gallactica which we had recently finished and had similar themes.  Anthony said, ‘Tell him about The Thirteenth Floor.’  It turned out that The Thirteenth Floor was kind of like his (the blogger’s) The Matrix, he had gone to see it with his cousin, hadn’t known what he was going to see and had his mind blown unexpectedly.  The internet wasn’t strong enough at Koh Rong to download it.  We tried again in Siem Reap: bingo.

We switched off The Thirteenth Floor.  I went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror, still kind of in the film, feeling or imagining that I had just ‘arrived.’  I noticed two new moles on my body.  I came back in, still feeling floaty, as if I was a film character.  I looked out of the window.  There was an unrecognisable animal sitting on top of a car.  I couldn’t process what it was, and I couldn’t find the words to name it.  It was black and about the size of a monkey.   But at the same time it looked like a cartoon; with big orange triangles inside its ears and an orange ‘O’ shape for a mouth.  It was as if my brain didn’t recognise it at first.  A monkey?  A cat?  A completely unrecognisable animal, before coalescing into a recognisable creature; a black cat.  Or possibly a small monkey.  I remember returning home at seventeen and thinking the cats were enormous, having not seen them for a while.  Anthony didn’t look until it was almost too late; he thought it was a cat, although he admitted it did look weird.

We went outside, me tripped out on a drug free high, everything colourful and sparkly.  I pointed to a building, struggling to speak: ‘Look- orange- no- purple-.’  I couldn’t find the words, couldn’t say the colours.  I was looking at a small purple house set back from the road.  Next door to it was a bigger building, a guesthouse, peachy orange with shiny chrome balcony rails.  Draped in front were sparkly tubular lights, plastic tubing, it was still daylight, sunny, and the lights in the tubes were subtle like a prism or glitter.

I wanted to talk about the cat.  I kept telling Anthony off for not staying with me; I used to say this a lot when I was trying to explain something strange and he was either trying to ground me or finding it hard to follow me.  Plus he was hungry.  We went into the 7/11 next door.  I told myself:  ‘Don’t think about coffee or deodorant or mascara (things I wanted).  Don’t speak.  Wait for him to eat and go back’ (To the cat, etc)

We sat outside the 7/11 on a bench.  ‘Don’t let me get put off.  Don’t look at anything.  Pick the most boring thing to look at.’  But even just sitting on the bench, it was hard to keep my focus on my ideas, a man walked by, some interesting dogs, always distractions…

To wake up is to realise.  To unplug is to disconnect- no distractions, no phone, no unconscious actions/interactions; no actions/interactions that aren’t conscious.  Act in awareness.  Wake up.

We walked down to the river.  I had to sit down again.  Even under normal circumstances I can get overstimulated walking and talking.  It’s easier for me to be still when talking about something serious, and if the visuals around are interesting I can’t take both in and process everything.  So we sat down on a bench.  I looked down- it was made of shells, like a mosaic.  Like the paving in Otres Village, like the path to the village in Koh Rong.  Even the bench was overstimulating.  Shells and mosaics seem to be kind of a thing for me, maybe they signify arrival?.

So are there blank lives we go into, available slots that we light up on the circuit board?  I have visualised this like a ball of stiff string, with many intersections, our lights/us moving around it and lighting up different places.  Like a circuit board crossed with a ball of wool attacked by a kitten; like The Thirteenth Floor?  Or is it remembrance of other lives?

It was hard to focus on thought.  So many distractions- a man acting weird, on drugs, two weird dogs.  Keep focussed, wits about.  It felt like it was a matrix.  Experiment with thinking it’s a matrix.  Stop saying hi to everyone- waste of energy.  Don’t worry about what others think; people near/walking past. Parents, possibilities; if not real then not scary. Personal power.

We kept looking for a quiet road- but it just got busier- and then the neon lights of Pub Street with the multi coloured tumble blocks of lights. Eventually we came to a dusty road, three stools were set out at a mini table; I felt like I could sit there.  ‘I think that’s just where the staff go for their breaks,’ Anthony said.  It was the back of a hotel.

Even underfoot, so many distractions, so much to focus on, sand, uneven paving of all kinds, constantly watching footing, feeling footing, small chairs in the path to go around, being aware of obstacles, constantly aware/distracted, how much variety/stimulation can there be?

Home….  The plastic cable lights of the orange-pink and chrome guesthouse were brighter now that it was dark, I could see all the different colours, blobs on a loop…

Day after, had I changed reality?  Egg off the menu- avocado egg sandwich.  I used to order without the egg, almost every day, a wet, full sandwich chock full with avocado and salad, absolutely delicious.  Now it had a blank sticker over the egg!  I was excited, Anthony not so much, he said he tends to just notice and accept things like this and move on rather than focus so much on them as I do. Aside from whether it was exciting or not, we agreed it was a sign of being in flow like Instagram synchronicities, like all synchronicities.  Like ‘conjuring’ sheets, towels, beans on toast at the ‘wrong time,’ in Kerala.  Why so hard to believe, when people have vision boards of Porsches and trips to Australia?  Because people think the little things are just coincidences.  As if The Thirteenth Floor wasn’t enough, we also watched Vanilla Sky:  exploring consequences, the little things, decisions… ‘There are no bigger things.’

The hotel had really lovely staff but ultimately they weren’t all that effective; they never did fix our window mosquito mesh which we improvised a repair for by stuffing tissue in the hole, and they didn’t book our cab for the correct time to get to airport.  Still, it didn’t matter.  The happiness of Siem Reap, me experiencing a work-pleasure balance, or at least, both things; us both physically well and feeling close again, the out there experiences…  It was a very full six or seven days, and we didn’t even go to Angkor Watt…

Thank you very much for reading

‘Order beer with your breakfast we won’t judge you’ Siem Reap Cambodia

Tags

Cambodia, Mindful travel, mindfulness, Siem Reap, Slow travel, Travel, Travel fatigue, Travel writing, Traveling, Travelling

Extract from my (draft) travel memoir

Even from the road the hotel looked good: shiny, clean and smart with a cream facade and at the front a blue swimming pool; to our eyes it was like a pop star’s luxury residence.  The outside was neatly paved, with pots of bright pink and orange flowers, and lots of pretty summer shoes outside the entrance.  As it was early our room wasn’t ready so we waited at the bar/restaurant: fruit salad, baguette and jam, and lots of coffee.  We met two women sitting at the next table, one from South Africa, one, younger, from England, they’d met on a previous trip and decided to do a trip together.  We went on about India and how great it was.  The younger woman didn’t like India, she said she’d got hassle from men.  She was the only person we’d met who hadn’t liked India.  But of course there’s a flipside to every country, no point pretending otherwise.

The reception staff, young men with good haircuts, were lovely and friendly, they did us a hand drawn map of directions to the barbers for Anthony and a place that did proper massage for me.  ‘Not like-’ he mimed someone giving a very lazy massage and chatting- ‘Ten dollars please.’

The room was big and clean, painted white with its own bathroom with a hot shower and towels provided.  The bed had white sheets, duvet and pillows.  The headboard was solid wood, shiny and carved, mid colour wood not pine not mahogany but sturdy and heavy.  At the other end of the room was a wardrobe with double sliding mirror doors, it was like having my own private yoga studio!  A desk and chair, two bedside tables, and everything so clean and polished and shiny.  That room, although no more expensive than our average, felt luxurious.

I had read about travel fatigue in someone’s Instagram post.  As well as the normal missing friends and family, dealing with the stresses and strains- unfamiliar foods, new places- of travel; some people also over schedule, moving from place to place too fast, packing the days with long tours, and over photographing everything.  There was no danger of us doing that but we still got tired sometimes, especially when ill in Delhi, hence why we cut our plan to travel around Rajasthan down to a month in Pushkar.

Nearby the hotel were smaller restaurants, cycle hire places and travel agencies.  A short walk away was the main food area with lots of restaurants, pubs and an indoor market which we had a look around.  I became temporarily enamoured with glazed and decorated bowls made from coconuts, elephant purses and checked scarves, the prices going down as I looked without me doing or saying anything.  Other than a pair of sunglasses to replace my ones from Phnom Penh which had broken, I didn’t buy anything, and the feeling of wanting things soon wore off.

That first night we had tofu, pad Thai, ‘no fish sauce,’ staff familiar with vegetarians which was good, and fresh mango juice, thick and gloopy, ‘sexy in the mouth’ like the noodles of the first night in Bangkok and then later our first night in Cambodia in Phnom Penh.

There were lots of big Westernised bars and restaurants as well as street stalls with small plastic tables and chairs on the pavement, stalls on the back of motorbikes, plugging into power supplies installed on trees.

The room in Siem Reap represented real comfort and luxury; especially after a week in a tent, with everything sandy.  On the polished wood bedside table, my lipbalm, my kohl eyeliner, my earrings, a charcoal face pack I was excited to buy from the 7/11, and my new glamorous (but cheap) black mirror sunglasses which I always kept there, the ceiling fan reflected in them.

We’d noticed shrines in Koh Rong, here there was a big one in the hotel foyer, and another big one in the restaurant we went to most often.  Every day fresh; two cans of coke; a can of drink, cups of coffee, a cup of tea in a glass cup; two glass cups of hot drink; two apples; a bunch of bananas; a basket/bowl of all sorts of fruit; fruit and veg; stacks of money; a bunch of incense, something new every day.  It was like the morning rituals we watched in Pushkar, shop keepers sprinkling water and lighting incense before the working day began.

I wondered if we should do it at home, make a shrine, have a morning ritual, make a tea for the shrine, light incense, set an intention, not directly from or connected to a recognised religion.  Anthony said religious practices look like a kind of OCD sometimes; he once had a friend who used to walk around the room fifteen times before he went out, everyone thought it was a big problem but Anthony always wondered why was it a problem, why not just accept that it was something that he did, like a kind of ritual.  Like I could change my OCD checking of the taps before I go out into a mini ritual, say thank you for having water.

The restaurant where we ate regularly was open to the street, we watched people going past on motorbikes and scooters and parking outside.  I liked looking at people’s clothes, a lot of the women looked quite glamorous in lacy dresses and one day we saw a woman with astonishingly long hair.  On the opposite side of the road there were shops, I saw a bird going in and out of an electrical box, a small box on a pole with a slit; I saw that in front of the shops next to it there were also boxes with birds nesting in.

At the restaurant, I was excited to notice that there were fans reflected in my sunglasses again, just like in the room.  Anthony pointed out that I put them on the table facing up, and fans are on the ceiling… Another time, in the market, I saw my sunglasses reflected in two big blocks of ice.

We talked a lot over meals at the restaurant.  I noticed that we were able to discuss things like politics better without annoying each other or getting annoyed.  It’s not so much that we disagree on big picture stuff, more that the way we approach things is different and used to cause conflict during discussions.  Each difficulty this year has moved us forward in terms of how we handle discussions, personal issues and the way we are together….  Part two on Sunday

Thank you very much for reading

Otres Village, Cambodia

Tags

awareness, Cambodia, Cosmic recognition, mindfulness, Osho, Otres Village, Personal growth, Pune, Sihanoukville, Spiritual experience, Sungazing, Travel

Extracts from draft chapter about our time in Cambodia in January

We got the boat to the mainland.  Again, it was touristy and busy.  There was the occasional pretty sight; a navy umbrella with silver edges, a burgundy shirt with sequins, the sun catching and making them sparkle.  We went to get a tuk tuk to Otres Village where we were staying, straight away.

I had read about the development in Sihanoukeville, largely Chinese led, in an expats magazine in Phnom Penh.  Khmer owned small shops and restaurants were being sold to Chinese developers and the land redeveloped for hotels and casinos.  Westerners were selling up and moving out, fed up with living beside constant building work, and bemoaning the loss of familiar restaurants, bars and shops, and that the disappearance of the old shop fronts was changing the character.

Sihanoukville was as ‘bad’ as we had feared; one large building site, but fascinating; huge hotels half built, and so many, some covered in green netting.  Others almost done and we could see through the windows to big dormitories of beds; we passed developments of small huts with little space in between, a different standard of personal space to that of Westerners.

In the tuk tuk, the road long and dusty, building work all around, my main concern was dust after so much pollution on the trip.  Luckily, where we were staying was something of an oasis, down a side street and down a path off that.  It had changed names and hands, and was in between style wise.  The huts were wooden and the shower room walls were decorated with wildlife murals.  The toilets must have previously been compost ones, the instructions still painted on the wall although they were now ordinary ones.  There were signs for an alternative pharmacy, now closed.  In contrast the restaurant area looked recently done up, with new metal furniture and cushions, glass topped tables, and a smart looking cream printed menu.

Our wooden hut with beams was open in places, with slight gaps in the ceiling and walls but with a reassuring mosquito net.  On a beam above the door was a bag of weed, some papers and a lighter, left by the previous occupants for the next ones, probably they were taking a flight.

The huts had balconies with chairs, with little bushes in front and dotted around the garden.  Staff looked like they were working on the garden which was half scrubby half beds of bushes.  Everything was in the process of changing.  We saw Khmer people, at our place and in the street, carrying so much, thick bamboo, firewood, poles, long pieces of wood, balanced on one shoulder.

One day I hung my bag on the hook on the back of the shower door, when I took it off I saw that there was a little frog perched right on the end of the hook, luckily I hadn’t touched it with my bag.  I called Anthony to come and look.  ‘We should move it, in case it gets hurt,’ Anthony said.  I moved a bin underneath so it wouldn’t have so far if it jumped down to the floor.  As soon as we went near, it jumped, not down but across and stuck to the door, legs outstretched, feet sticking to the wood.  It was like something out of a David Attenborough programme.

There were three kittens around the restaurant who would play, sit on laps, eat noodles and curl up to sleep beside you.  Not all the guests liked them around them while they were eating though, and sometimes they would be shut in a box at meal times.

There was a tree just beside the restaurant that the kittens used to play in, it had a hole at the bottom.  One kitten was braver and would jump from the restaurant wall into the tree; the others watched but didn’t jump.  The three kittens were very similar size but that one was more well muscled, so it could do more, or was it because it did more?  One day I was sitting on my own in the restaurant having breakfast, coffee, huge chunks of French bread and jam.  One of the kittens was on a nearby table playing with an arrangement of fake flowers, those ones where the heads will pull off the stems, the kitten seemed to know this and managed to pull one of the heads off… so fun.

On the main road were shops, travel agencies and small supermarkets.  Also wooden buildings, bars and restaurants, many owned by Westerners, and almost all with for sale or to let signs up.  We saw a Western woman, blonde, skinny, with dreadlocks, be dropped off by a man on a motorbike.  She had a bloodied face, and her expression and walk made her look like a zombie; we wondered whether she was on Ketamine, which was freely available to buy in the pharmacies.  We watched her for a while, saw that she went into a pharmacy, hopefully for some first aid…  We saw a vegan street stall selling, unbelievably, homemade Vegan Snickers.  Vegan Snickers!  He was a young Westerner.  We asked him what he was going to do.  He said he was thinking about going to the Anderman Islands…

Sitting outside on our balcony I saw a woman walk past our hut a couple of times.  ‘Friend’ I said to myself, and resolved to speak to her next time she passed.  It was the same for her, she said she’d wanted to speak to us too.  Of course at first it’s the outside things:  our kind of age, kind of hippyish in a natural way, no makeup, loose natural hair, a printed cotton smock.

R was Spanish.  As a young woman she had left home and gone off to Osho’s ashram in Pune, India, which explained why my husband ‘recognised’ her; he has known several sannyasins.  She runs workshops in Italy and Spain on family relationships and consciousness raising.  She created a life totally her own that was nothing like her parents’ lives or their expectations for her.  When her mother became ill she returned home to care for her.  She decided to just be herself, ‘Here I am, I run these workshops, I am a teacher,’ rather than try to ‘fit in’ by being inauthentic.  She said it was very hard, going back.  Back, ‘In the collective,’ she called it, the fear comes; security, pensions, savings, all those things she had happily not worried about for years.

We all spoke about our times in more tourist/holiday maker areas.  ‘You can have your own experience even in a party place,’ R said.

I liked watching how R made decisions.  She was going somewhere, then the flight was cancelled, so she thought about it and decided to get a bus instead, break up the journey and go and visit somewhere else halfway.  Travelling alone, living alone, making her own work, collaborating with others, using what she had learned at Osho’s and all learning since, always reading and learning new things too.  People in different venues invite her and if something is put on, people will come, she is known.  ‘I should really work out money,’ she said, describing that she just kind of spends it, treats it with a light touch, it comes and goes.

We often had dinner or lunch together, sometimes at the onsite restaurant but mainly we ate on the main road at a cheaper place, and with lovely staff.  ‘You are an angel,’ R said to our regular waiter on the last day.  ‘You have come down from heaven, an angel.’  She expressed herself so easily, like Renate in Varkala, India who when we said goodbye had said to me, ‘If I’d had a daughter like you, we’d have had such fun,’ whereas I sometimes find my English reserve gets the better of me.

R had a light, a treatment light, like sungazing.  After multiple reassurances that it was safe to do so, I went and had a go.  ‘Don’t rush back, take your time and rest afterwards,’ she said.  I did it in the hut and sat still there afterwards for a while.  The light caused visuals, both behind and in front of my eyes, and afterwards, ideas, a burst of energy, I even felt inspired to do a job search of potential employers near the boat.  A little while later I went for a walk to the beach.  On the road leading to the beach was an insane mini funfair with small rides, stalls of garish plastic toys and brightly coloured balloons.  At a canned drink stall a woman in a pretty dress was semi asleep, she woke and we caught eyes and smiled.  I’d not brought any money so I couldn’t buy anything.  At the beach the vegan man was there but I went past him, I didn’t feel like speaking to anyone.

It was unusual for me to go out alone, and unusual for me to go off and not say anything, the appeal of a bit of interstitial time, unknown, unexplained.  I stood on the beach facing the sea.  There was a big hotel block almost like a skyscraper to the right of me, lit up.  The beach was busy with people.  It was the end of the day, lights coming on, the sea looked pretty.  I was in the moment then.

About the author

Sold house, left job, gave away almost everything else.  With husband went travelling for a year, mostly in India.   Here are my India highlights.  Now back in the UK, living on a narrowboat, and writing a book about the trip, a spiritual/travel memoir, extracts from which appear regularly on this blog.

I just got lost for a while: Koh Rong, Cambodia, Part Two

Tags

acceptance, family dynamics, Friendship, Grief, Guilt, mental health, parent adult child relationships, regret, self acceptance, Shame, Social media, Teenagers

‘Are you so strong or is all the weakness in me?’

I just got lost for a while:  Koh Rong, Cambodia, Draft chapter for book

Even in paradise you can still be sad…

I’m not friends with my son on social media, it is Anthony (my husband) who monitors things.  Sometimes things seem terrible on social media, but when we call things are fine.  Or they’ve been fine on the phone then a day or two later seem awful on social media.  Or on social media some kind of terrible disaster is reported and then when we call or even if we don’t, within a day or two it’s actually resolved.  A, a blogger and millennial, said millennials use a lot of hyperbole, maybe that’s a part of it?

So it was my husband who saw a news interview my son had done, and who gently, piece by piece, told me what it contained.  My son is an upcoming artist, being interviewed about his backstory, and one of the things he said, was that he was kicked out of home as a teenager.  It’s true, I kicked him out as a teenager.

When he was a child, I would never have thought that would have happened.  In a ‘secret’ drawer of my grandmother’s card table, was a leaflet I’d picked up and saved from when I was on a work placement at a child and family place, when my son was eleven.  Me still so smug, a confident and loving parent, providing a childhood with friends, fun, parties, dogs, pets.  My social work friend saying she’d driven past us on her way home from a horror filled day at work and seen us playing with the dog on the grassy walk, and said we’d made her feel that there was good in the world.

The leaflet said, ‘Parents of teenagers often feel that they have failed.’  Much later, when things had gone wrong, I over related to two mothers from an autism organisation who said, ‘As a mother you feel like you’ve got ‘Guilty’ stamped on one side of you and ‘Failure’ on the other.’  Oh yes, yes, yes.  I was on a training day at work, so I couldn’t say anything.  Those words weren’t meant for me, I just borrowed them.

Like I’d do a depression questionnaire on myself at work; I never hit the criteria, I ate, I got up for work, I liked to have sex, but did I feel like a failure, did I feel hopeless, did I feel like I wanted to die, yes yes and yes again.

When my son was sixteen I phoned up the housing department of the council.  A woman answered, ‘You would have to ask him to leave, he would come here with his bag and we go from there.’  ‘I can’t do that,’ I said.  ‘Well, then you haven’t reached the end of your tether yet.’  She added, ‘I did it to mine, and it was the best thing that ever happened to us.’

It took another two years until I reached the end of my tether, screaming on the stairs, wanting to hurt myself, my boyfriend at the time locking away paracetamol and knives in a suitcase.  My son was eighteen, spent all his time in his room, threatened to throw the tv out of the bedroom when I tried to make him do anything.  Mental health services advised to separate out what was ‘behavioural.’  ‘What would you do if someone else threw the tv out of the window?’  In the long years prior, trashing the house, getting in trouble with the police, truanting, refusing to go to school, social work threatening me with prosecution re the not going to school, school saying I needed to take more responsibility.  During my son’s teenage years my confidence as a parent evaporated.  Of course, when I look back maybe there were loads of other things I could have done, if I had been a different person.  I took his things to my mum’s, he stayed round a girlfriend’s, sofa surfed, and several years later we are all still alive, I am available to help and we get on fine…

…It’s not like I’ve ever forgotten any of that, but to be dragged back there so completely, publicly, more than a decade later, was almost more than I could bear.  It was a hilarious contrast that we were on a paradise beach in Cambodia at the time.  Oh, the shame, I could barely move, and yet of course I did.  In the water, in the heat, over dinner, terrible shame that I couldn’t get away from and the guilt, the guilt.  Imagine the worst thing you’ve ever done, something you did years ago when you couldn’t do any better, not only brought right back, but now it’s public.  I didn’t hear anything from anyone.  Anthony reminded me that those who knew me would know there was more to it than that.

Northamptonshire, April 2019

From Cambodia, Anthony messaged my son, ‘Maybe try not to be quite so hard on your mum,’ and he has toned it down since.  Back in the UK, my son invited us to an event where everyone would know about his the backstory- people are interested, his agent emphasises it.  It’s his story he’s entitled to it, he has every right to say whatever he wants, and I support his right to say it.  Anthony told my son this, from me.  Anthony also said, you have a right to say what you like, but it has an effect.  Anthony explained, it brings up a lot of emotion for your mum, and the emotion it brings up is shame.  My son was unaware that I might find it difficult to go to the event, and my husband explained why I couldn’t go.

Anyway, we went to see the work at his place first, newly produced and framed before being shipped to New York for an exhibition after the show.  His agent, his girlfriend, her mum and dad, all her family were going.  We left, aside from my young nephew, none of his family would be there, not us, no Dad, no Grandmother, she’s annoyed and upset about the airing-dirty-laundry backstory.

‘I feel bad about us not going.’  It took Anthony to say this.  As my friend later said, you’re so lucky you have Anthony.  Like the cliché, Do the next right thing.  You can’t do anything about the past.  All you can do is do the next right thing.  If your son has a show, you go.  So we went.  Yes her family said, ‘I thought you weren’t coming.’  Yes the councillor who had put the event on didn’t shake my hand.  In my mind I thought, she thinks I’m scum, some kind of horrible person.  But maybe she just doesn’t shake hands.  And it doesn’t matter anyway, I’m never going to see her again.  And what does it matter what a politician, of all people, thinks of me.  It’s more important to show support for your family than to worry about what other people think.  I don’t know why I’m still so upset about all this, but I am.

Northamptonshire, June 2019

I went to see a friend, we spoke about Cambodia.  In the past she had experienced similar events and feelings and fears, and understood completely.  The next day I saw another friend.  Her adult child is severely mentally ill and violent.  My friend has been pushed beyond the normal limits many times, and many people in her position might consider cutting all contact.  ‘She’s my only child,’ she said.  She spoke about her sadness over not experiencing the happy milestones that other parents experience.

But all we can do is feel and grieve and eventually, if we can, accept.  Stop pushing it away and just allow it.  Allow that it happened.  Allow that what is, is.  Allow that you are sad.  Allow that the past can never be altered or undone.  And allow that you’re going to go on and be here anyway.

Thank you very much for reading

About the author

Sold house, left job, gave away almost everything else.  With husband went travelling for a year, mostly in India.   Here are my India highlights.  Now back in the UK, living on a narrowboat, and writing a book about the trip, a spiritual/travel memoir, extracts from which appear regularly on this blog.

For photographs of the trip see Instagram travelswithanthony

 

 

 

I just got lost for a while: Koh Rong, Cambodia

Tags

awareness, beauty, being happy, Enlightenment, following the white rabbit, Minimalism, pay attention, remember to remember, signs, synchronicity, Taking the red pill, Travel, writing

I just got lost for a while

Extracts from draft chapter about our time in Koh Rong, Cambodia in January

We were taken to our beach by a long wooden boat with benches down each side, plenty of room but only us on it.  The wooden boat, painted red, the island, and the sea so blue; it was all so totally Instagrammable that I didn’t want to.

Again I felt as if I was supposed to feel something that I didn’t.  Sometimes too much beauty doesn’t resonate, it’s impossible for me to feel.  Like the big temple we went to see near Pondicherry, with not one but several huge facades of colourful mouldings, too much to absorb, so that in the end I stepped away to look at a gold minaret, a white cow statue, and I was able to connect.  Give me an orange cat on a dusty wall, or raindrops glittering on shutters in the dark, those things are more likely to get me there.

Or sometimes it’s because my mood is incongruent, like in Nepal, we’d got up early to go and see the sun rise over the mountains, one of which was Everest, but the day before I had had a totally unexpected row with our travelling companion and stood trying not to cry, the surreal once-in-a life-time view doing nothing to alter my mood.  When Anthony asked me to be in a picture with him I refused.  I felt ugly, a consequence of the low mood, but I was also glad to avoid contributing to another social media lie, a dreamy photo of us with the sun rising over Everest, with the fact that I felt so low not mentioned, of course.

The sea was a little wavy and it was a little scary, in the open water, the waves tipping the boat, but I reminded myself that the man does this all the time.  The journey took about forty minutes.  He dropped the anchor a little way from the shore, hooked a ladder over the side and we stepped down from the boat with our bags, into the water above the knee, past the bow which was beautifully decorated with flowers, and onto a paradise beach.  Again, laughably nice, with well off looking tourists on sunbeds, and little beach front restaurants, ‘Are we in the wrong place?’ we asked ourselves.

We were in a tent, it was luxurious camping though, with a deep thick mattress, one of the best we’d experienced in South East Asia, electricity with two sockets and a fan.

An English woman helped out with online bookings and English speaking queries at our place.  We asked how she’d ended up here, she said she’d come on holiday and fallen in love with the place and come back to live, and had been on the island seven years, she had a Cambodian partner and a little boy.  ‘He understands everything, but he’s a little late in talking, which is normal, as he’s learning two languages at once.’

In a way it was a bit boring, being stuck on a small beach with nothing to do; it was good for me and writing though. I had set myself a rule of work first before anything, sometimes I went on the internet first and felt guilty, but sometimes I did two hours of work only no internet.   As long as you do something, I said to myself.  You need to be in condition, like for work- sleep, stretch, food, and sometimes, if totally stuck, to just do nothing.  Which is this, choice or procrastination?  Only experience tells- or time- does the book get written?

One of the nicest things was that even in a sloppy type up of old notes I saw patterns that matched other sections or the present, and made new notes.  The balance between experience, writing about it, absorbing, reflecting, peace and quiet, and being right in the moment, ‘paying attention.  I used to think I needed quiet time to see patterns, but actually, fully immersed in writing, I saw more.  Being in the zone, connecting with other bloggers, who echoed my own words back to me.  Living right, for me, All I have to do is write.  Moments alone with no writing but not many, writing is so important- party later.

 

Walking to the village in search of culture and authenticity, up a steep hill, two paths there, two paths back.  The harbour area was beautiful, with wooden pier and buildings.  We stopped at the first little shop, with red plastic chairs outside, and sat and drank Sprite.

When I went there alone that was all I did, walked to the shop, sat and had a drink, Sprite, Red Bull, or a soya drink in can, watching the chickens and chicks on the other side of the path by a small rubbish pile.  The chickens ate a big sheet of polystyrene, it got smaller each time I went, the little fragments like rough beads.

On my walk to and fro the village I paid a lot of attention, making a mental note of all the markers; a building with a blue roof, a cafe that was never open, sacks of building materials, a truck that was usually there.  Scrubby plants that led to a sandy path.  Broken planters.  Tiny bright bluish purplish shells in a messy semi circle.  With Anthony we went another way.  Me momentarily confused, looking for the shells.  ‘All roads lead there,’ he said.

Shells on the beach in tiny arrangements like art, and tiny holes with lots of tiny piles of sand, made by crabs.  Like a work of art, each one different, some like comets some like asymmetric snowflakes so delicate and pretty.

We used to float in the sea and talk about enlightenment, then get dry and go and eat dinner.

Anthony’s hypothesis:  Is this all there is?  If you gave up the search, put all focus on this life- like being in the moment, richer, if you like.  Think of it like a game, if that helps you take the gas bill less seriously, but don’t have half your mind on the otherness- the brain in the tank, the Green Mist theory, the after, the what’s next- that’s like the what’s next in life- stops you being in the present, is ill advised.  If there’s nothing, then you’ve wasted that time- just be present.  People realised they were in a mortal life- found that scary and so invented the possibility of otherness as a comfort.  Just live, enjoy, make up/imbue meaning- or not.  Forget about spirituality, it’s a cu-de-sac.  Waking up= enjoying life.  Sadness prevents us seeing beauty.

People say the ‘first step’ is seeing beauty.  What if the ‘first step’ is the only step?

Like R from Switzerland, if you want to reinvent yourself maybe it is much easier to do with no contact with your family.  This is what I’m meant to be doing, what I intended to do, therefore I am successful (not a bum with no job to family).  Like me- No, this is what I always intended, to live on a boat, and WRITE, as I did as a child, as I’ve always done.  I just got lost for a while, that’s all.

In the sea the day after the enlightenment conversation I felt pinpricks, as if something had stung me on the outside of my thigh, then at my wrist, as if a tiny spiky thing like a prickle was caught  in my bracelet.  Then I felt it again, stronger, stinging, on my right breast.  Anthony said, ‘Are you getting stung?’  We couldn’t see anything.  We got out after a little while; whatever it was had caused tiny bumps like little TB markers which disappeared quickly.  That evening we saw a shooting star, orange like a firework, with a tail like a comet, I had never seen one like that.

We met a woman from Italy and went out for dinner.  She had left her job, been travelling for two months, wanted to go home, work, then go out again.  Not all her friends understand.  ‘Everyone just wants things.’  Before she left she gave me a four leaf clover.

Digging a hole on the beach then leaving it is anti social, I realised.  I had fallen in several especially at night in Thailand- one foot not my whole body.  As a child I fell headfirst into a muddy water filled hole straight after my mum’s boyfriend said, ‘Don’t you ever stop talking Rachel?’ And on the beach in Koh Rong, also holes.  ‘Even my chair fell into a hole.’  ‘Perhaps it’s a metaphor,’ Anthony said.  (I always say that)  ‘What, I’m in a hole?!’  ‘No, you’re going down the rabbit hole.’  Oh yes, I like that, a reminder every now and again, my own personal mindfulness bell.  Remember to remember: you followed the White Rabbit down the rabbit hole, you took the RED pill.

 

Thank you very much for reading

About the author

Sold house, left job, gave away almost everything else.  With husband went travelling for a year, mostly in India.   Here are my India highlights.  Now back in the UK, living on a narrowboat, and writing a book about the trip, a spiritual/travel memoir, extracts from which appear regularly on this blog.

For more photographs of the trip see Instagram travelswithanthony

‘No Drugs, No Prostitutes, No Weapons:’ Phnom Penh, Cambodia, Part Two

Tags

awareness, Cambodia, guesthouses, hostels, Incredible India, Love India, Phnom Penh, spiritual enlightenment, spiritual memoir, Travel memoir, Traveling, Travelling, writing

Draft chapter for book about our time in Phnom Penh, Cambodia in January

‘No Drugs, No Prostitutes, No Weapons:’ Phnom Penh, Cambodia

I got my laundry ready the first day, but forgot to take it out with us, and after dinner it was closed.  Even getting it ready was enough.  Likewise with shopping, I had tried to do it all on the first day.  I bought a few things, they didn’t have everything, at a friendly shop on our road near the laundries, but didn’t make it to the 7/11 style supermarket until the next day.  We flew with low weight and needed to buy shampoo etc on arrival.  The first day and night was enough stimulation- I was over stimulated, walking through the bar street I felt tired.  Noticing my tendency to overdo and crash.  Don’t have to do everything all at once.

The next day we found a real stationers, an entire shop selling stationery, I bought a really nice notebook, and gel pens!!!   I had brought enough for the trip, given away some in thanks for my monkey tablet rescue in Hampi, and so had just run out.  And at the ‘7/11’ there was soya milk, face cream, body moisturiser, Vaseline, Nivea, makes, luxury four blade razors, and all kinds of biscuits!  Almost all cream was whitening again like in Thailand. and Japan and sunblock went up to Factor 100.  I bought big thick sunscreen; I had slacked in India and let my skin go chicken skin-ish.  Never mind, they are the tiger stripes or stretch marks of the experience.  Simple pleasures; stocking up on necessary items such as soap etc, and also nuts, and getting our laundry back, done in washing machines, with little tickets when you took it in, felt so good.

Mobile rickshaw or motorbike stalls often had a phrase on a loop coming out of a speaker; we’d hear a vehicle going past with a repetitive, monotonous announcement, it sounded so serious to us.  In India it would have been politics trucks, here it was someone selling snacks or corn on the cob or coconuts; the coconuts in Cambodia were the biggest I’d ever seen.  There were handcarts with bells, and noisy kids’ toys like in Thailand.  Again, I noticed the difference in noise tolerance between South East Asian countries and the UK.  One day a bicycle with a loudspeaker blaring out a repeated an announcement just parked in the street near our guesthouse selling filled baguettes.  It would have driven me insane but the stall person and the passersby seemed unperturbed.

We mostly ate at a pavement cafe on the front, there was free iced tea, we risked it the first time; later we looked up about ice.  If it is big chunks with a hole in, which this was- chunky cylinders with a hole through the middle like very large beads- that’s good, that’s for drinks.  Otherwise it could just be from packing- we saw great slabs of ice on trolleys, beautiful like glaciers with air bubbles and fractures and the light shining through it.  We might have been more nervous about eating there but we saw a Westerner there who looked like a regular.  Normal sized plastic tables and chairs that spilled onto the pavement, the cooking was mainly done out the back, with some barbecue meat inside and out the front.  Inside the restaurant was a glass fronted wooden cabinet full of nail polishes, as if someone had a sideline doing nails.

On the way to the restaurants, we passed a glorious gold and red temple, so shiny as if it had just been built.  We saw a rickshaw with Astroturf over the roof and down to the top of the window, and at the front over the wheel.  There were lots of barbers set up on the street who kept asking Anthony to come and have his hair cut.  Before we left he did go to them and was given a typical Khmer haircut, a little too short at the sides for him.  But except for the barbers and a man outside a restaurant who asked us a couple of times if we wanted to eat there, that was it.  Compared to Varkala Cliff, Kerala, India where there was a strip of ten or so restaurants and twenty or so stalls, with everyone practically begging us to eat or shop at their place every time we walked past.  In India tourists can feel permanently pulled and guilty and buy to support not because they need or want anything.  At Bangkok airport we met a man who was just returning to the UK after a holiday in Goa, India.  ‘I’ve bought so many shorts and t shirts and I didn’t even want them!’

We went to the night market and saw Marilyn Monroe style silver lurex and red velvet plunging neckline dresses.  There were lots of bright colour designs printed on t shirts and shirts.  I saw a woman wearing a shirt, so bright and with two big faces on the front, one on each side.  In the evenings women often wore pyjamas in the street, usually button through shirts and three quarter length trousers; one evening a woman walked towards us wearing pink shiny pyjamas which were luminous in the dark.

But… it soon didn’t seem enough, after India it seemed too tame, too touristy, not authentic enough and no engagement.  It wasn’t like India in Pushkar  or Chennai.  No cosmic recognition, we didn’t meet any of the young tourists, families or ex pats around us.  And after all our complaining towards the end of India about selfie takers, I missed the attention.  Not because I liked feeling like a celebrity (okay maybe a little…) but because it was positive interaction with the people of the country.

We missed India.  All the things we had been annoyed about, we missed.  Really like a love affair, you may be annoyed by your wife doing xxx or your husband doing xxx but when they’re gone, oh you miss those things.

I drank coffee French press good strong coffee and wrote downstairs in the restaurant.  Sometimes it was hard to concentrate, with families and other guests talking and playing guitar.  The coffee was great for writing, not so good for sleep; I caught myself out a couple of times having coffee too late in the afternoon and then wondering why I couldn’t sleep at night.

It was whirring around my head so I wrote it down, the What’s Next, and then the word document disappeared.  I had emailed it to myself as back up so I could’ve found it in my emails, but would that really be best?  Is it beneficial to live in the future?  No.  Was losing my What’s Next? ideas a ‘coincidence?’  There’s no such thing as coincidences.  What’s another word then, synchronicity?  Serendipity?  Signs you are on the right track?  Assistance for staying on track?

Rather than trying to plan for or worrying about The Future, it came to me that a useful self support system could be to make spiritual enlightenment or awareness the goal or guiding aim or principle of one’s life rather than anything else.  That way you’ll always be okay because you can do that whatever, wherever, and anything can help.

Thank you very much for reading

About the author

Sold house, left job, gave away almost everything else.  With husband went travelling for a year, mostly in India.   Here are my India highlights.  Now back in the UK, living on a narrowboat, and writing a book about the trip, a spiritual/travel memoir, extracts from which appear regularly on this blog.

For more photographs of the trip see Instagram travelswithanthony

 

‘No Drugs, No Prostitutes, No Weapons:’ Phnom Penh, Cambodia

Tags

Cambodia, guesthouses, hostels, Phnom Penh, spiritual memoir, Travel memoir, Traveling, Travelling, writing

Draft chapter for book about our time in Phnom Penh, Cambodia in January

‘No Drugs, No Prostitutes, No Weapons:’ Phnom Penh, Cambodia

Cambodia was hot!  I stood outside with the bags while Anthony got a SIM card, then we got a cab.  The cab driver had a big, lived in face, open and strong at the same time; as I looked around I noticed a lot of the men looked like this.

It was still early when we arrived at our guesthouse and we had to wait in the restaurant area.  The front had windows and a door open onto the street, at the back were steps up to the rooms.  Around us were lots of young Western tourists, suddenly it felt like we were on the tourist trail.  We had fruit salad, a side order of baked beans- an expensive but necessary luxury/dietary requirement- and coffee; it seemed expensive.  ‘Everything’s going to seem expensive compared to India,’ Anthony said.  We’d travelled overnight, while we waited for our room I curled up and napped in a round wicker chair with a big cushion.

Our room was medium sized with a low coffee table, a window and its own bathroom.  On the inside of the door was a sign with the rules and information for the guesthouse, top of the list was No Drugs, No Prostitutes, No Weapons.  ‘Well that’s our holiday ruined,’ we said, laughing.

We unpacked a bit and then went out.  Down our street there were lots of laundry places with banks of machines and laundry hung out on rails outside.  We passed a few Western families.  The side streets with their bird’s nest wires reminded me a little of Kolkata or the old part of Bangkok.

Cambodian women wore skirts made of wraps of printed cotton with shirts, or short skirts with t shirts, covering up their tops from the sun like in Japan and Thailand.  Men sat in social groups chatting, with cans of red bull or beer at tables outside workshops and garages.

One of the first things I noticed was that the Cambodian men don’t look.  In fact I looked more!  I couldn’t help noticing men working on engines, not wearing tops, their bodies fleshy, soft, just natural.  An old Lonely Planet I read in a cafe in India advised Western women travellers to wear dark glasses and avoid making eye contact with Indian men, this of course this is a huge generalisation; I hugged male friends we made in India.  But in Cambodia it wasn’t just that men didn’t look at me, no one looked at us at all.

Our first meal, at a Western owned restaurant, mirrored the sexy-in-the-mouth-noodles of our first meal in Bangkok the first time we’d left India.  Perfectly fresh, perfectly cooked, mushrooms, carrots, green beans and chard; the noodles not salty or greasy, the tofu was tasty, and even, for total perfection, just the right amount of Chinese sweet corn (two or three bits.)  Even the lettuce was tasty.  Sometimes in India we missed fresh crunchy vegetables, and right then we were happy to be away, from the bad tummies and the awful journey, and just relax.

From the restaurant we watched the traffic of the main road; a little street food van with lights and music blaring like a disco.  A scooter with a child in the middle of two adults holding a baby/toddler.  Scooters with women holding giant teddies.  Lots of cars, most looked new some very big and shiny.  Rickshaws with curtains, silky shiny drapes.  A white rickshaw with neon lights went past, then another rickshaw full of monks in orange robes.  A cycle rickshaw- the passenger seat at the front like a Victorian bath chair- the passenger a woman with an orange cat on her lap.

As we left the restaurant a woman passed us with a big circular tray on her head full of bottles of nail polish and hair scrunchies.  We walked on the prom between the main street and the river.  There was outdoor gym equipment and people doing exercise classes to music outside.  A rickshaw driver beside his parked rickshaw was doing exercises, hands on thighs, swirling his knees, looking cheerful.  By the river were street stalls, mini charcoal burners, sets of scales, dumplings in a big pot, people with mats, little food stalls with tables and chairs.

People with little hand carts filled with ice and cans sold drinks including alcohol, but even though alcohol was the same price as Coca Cola, the night life didn’t seem to be all about drinking, people were just out.  Playing cards, sitting at the little tables, one group standing with two on the near side and one on the other side of the wall by the river.  Lots of women had little fluffy dogs on leads. Further on along the prom was a running track with distances marked out, and big neon screens with ever changing and moving images, tulips, rain water falling.  A covered area, a night storage area of bananas, coconuts, people sleeping on camp beds, guarding the produce I suppose.  A kind of a square, with grass, paving, topiary trees, palm trees with strings of lights wound around them, and lights outlining the pointed roofs of temples and a palace.  Like an upmarket Asian version of Great Yarmouth (link to a blog post explaining why Great Yarmouth holds a special place in my heart.)

Then back across the main street and in again, through the market with beautiful fruit and lots of street food.  I saw lots of cats, most with short tails, one with no tail, one with a long tail.  I saw buildings with spiral staircases like in Tokyo.  We walked down the strip of bars with young women dressed in mini skirts and mainly older men drinking.   Not one person hassled us except one person offering us a (pink) rickshaw.  Not one selfie request.  ‘Don’t you know who I am?!’ we said laughing.

(Part Two on Sunday)

Thank you very much for reading

About the author

Sold house, left job, gave away almost everything else.  With husband went travelling for a year, mostly in India.   Here are my India highlights.  Now back in the UK, living on a narrowboat, and writing a book about the trip, a spiritual/travel memoir, extracts from which appear regularly on this blog.

For more photographs of the trip see Instagram travelswithanthony

 

 

How to write a book

Tags

How to write a book, India, Kanyakumari, Nepal, Placebo, Project 333, Rufus Wainwright, spiritual memoir, Thailand, Tokyo, Travel writing

Writing update:

Because we travel on 7kg hand luggage allowance only, I ruthlessly declutter even notebooks once the content has been typed.  I tear the covers off notebooks, pull the written-on pages from writing pads and discard the rest.  Although I usually have an A4 or more usually an A5 pad in the room, when I am out and about I have a small notebook.  Sometimes a really tiny one.  I often only have a waist bag and don’t like to carry a heavy bag.

The loose folded pages at the bottom of the pile, the two coverless notebooks and the small and tiny little notebooks contain a few additional notes from Nepal, and pretty much all the notes for India Part Two as in from October when I came back from Thailand and Tokyo, to when we left in January.  I have typed some notes up as I’ve gone along, and some of the blogs from that period will contain useful aide memoires, but these notebooks are priceless.

Does having a collection of tiny little notebooks to carry around and take care of cause me anxiety?  Well yes it does.  I wrap them all up in a plastic bag, then put them inside a polka dot draw string bag, then in my big handbag for travelling, otherwise they stay indoors.  (Other than the current one in my waist bag, of course.)

The last time I bound them up to pack I was thinking about the book, and the work, and about getting it all done, and then I saw how the books had arranged themselves.  There were just two words visible from the open pages of one of the notebooks:  Work hard

It’s actually part of a t-shirt slogan I noted down ‘Work hard, stay humble,’ (one day I will get around to that post, Indian t-shirt slogans are the best) but for now, I’m taking it as a sign or a mantra and I’m having it for myself.

In the photo of the little pile of notebooks is a green notebook.  Until a few days before I had also had a red one the same, both from the Kerala period May- August.  My husband had brought them back for me from shopping one day.   ‘If you love me, buy me notebooks.’  These two had been the worst, in terms of the oldest, the smallest, and had been carried around all over the place, India, Thailand, Tokyo and back to India again, once or twice I’d thought I’d lost them, but I’d put them somewhere safe.

Typing up the bits from them hung over me like dealing with the huge Kerala section.  In Otres Village, Sihanoukville, Cambodia, I worked through a chest infection on Kerala, Varkala, and opened the red notebook.  It had a few bits and pieces for the main Kerala, Varkala chapter, and it also had notes about the trip we’d taken to Kanyakumari.

I’d written a draft chapter about Kanyakumari at the time and posted it on the blog in a bit of a hurry.  Re reading the original notes I realised the blog wasn’t as warm, and the notebook contained potentially more depth of feeling.  After a moment of disappointment/overwhelm, I realised it was ultimately a good thing.  I retyped everything from the notebook, unless it was exactly the same as in the draft, so that I didn’t miss something.  I got the typing finished before we left, and whilst we’ve been at Siem Reap I got the Kanyakumari draft redone.

And then in Siem Reap I went back to the main Kerala, Varkala section, and opened the last notebook, the little green one; and found… that there was nothing to find.  Every page had a line crossed through meaning it had been typed, which I also checked, or was blank.  Sometimes the universe just throws you a bone.

I decided that was the moment to stop for the day.  My husband had gone out to give me writing space.  Rather than just plough on to the next thing I thought I’d take a moment to celebrate what I had already achieved.  Listening to this song alone in our beautiful hotel room, the end in sight, was a moment of pure celebration and joy:

The next day I did a final bit of tidying up and sent the Kerala draft to my husband to read: 23,000 words, and the section I’ve struggled with the most.  It’s still a draft, but it’s ready for a rough read, and it’s time to move on.  And oh yes, that felt good.  Below was the song for that moment, that pure burst of energy:

For anyone doing anything creative I wish you full power

 

Thank you very much for reading

A little bit of luxury: Siem Reap

Tags

anxiety, Cambodia, Cambodia sleeper buses, Health and wellbeing, mindfulness, OCD, Siem Reap, Travel, Traveling, Travelling

On the day of the journey from Koh Rong to Siem Reap I woke up feeling a bit sorry for myself, with a bit of a chest infection and the prospect of a twelve hour bus journey ahead that night.

As usual I was a bit anxious packing and checking and rechecking my bag, I have some OCD.  I wasn’t as anxious as usual about needing a wee, I think the more buses we’ve done, the more it’s been okay, they always stop, we’re always okay, that has gotten me used to it.

Indian sleeper buses have singles down one side, doubles down the other.  This bus had doubles down both sides.  This meant that the corridor was very narrow and the sleeper compartments were very cosy.  Still, it was nice and clean, with a pillow and a good heavy cotton blanket each.

The walls at the ends between the sleeper compartments were open for the last bit at the top, meaning you weren’t totally private from your neighbours.  We heard our young neighbours chatting excitedly and sending pictures to their mums, before they settled down to watch separate things on separate devices.  One of them had downloaded several films and I think they were disappointed when their friend said actually I’ll watch my own thing instead.

We didn’t watch anything together either though.  We sat/lay top to tail for more space.  As soon as we got into our space I felt myself relax, and I spent a long time just sitting and noticing and enjoying that feeling.

Every now and again I had to deal with coughing/trying not to cough, AC doesn’t help with that, whilst not drinking more than miniscule amounts of water, and sucking sweets.   I did lie down and sleep for some of it although it was a bit squashed even for me (I am short).  Once we stopped for the loo, and then the bus arrived two hours ahead of schedule, at 6am.

We hung out at the hotel cafe and had breakfast while we waited for our room to be ready.  We’d thought we might have to wait hours, but it was ready surprisingly fast.

The mattresses of South East Asia are not known for being always comfortable for soft Westerners.  So to arrive after a long night journey in a room that is clean, with white sheets, duvet, four squishy pillows, two cushions and a comfy mattress.  Oh, and hot water.  And towels.  Well, it’s a little slice of heaven.

There’s even a 7/11 nearby where I bought myself a facepack for some pampering.  I might even get myself a massage before we go, now my cough is getting better.  Siem Reap is lively and interesting, with pretty lights and good places to eat.  I have a writing desk in the room and a good work ethic.  Next stop Vietnam!

Thank you very much for reading

For actual photos of the trip see Instagram travelswithanthony

 

Cambodian cats

Tags

Cambodian cats, Cats

I noticed in Phnom Penh that many of the cats had almost no tails, just little stubs, or else had funny little bent tails.

The three kittens who live here, and who are so delightful to watch, and such good company, are pictured here.

One of the three has a ‘normal’ long tail, the other two have short or broken/crooked tails.

So I asked my husband to look it up for me over dinner.  Here is a link to the article he found which was full of interesting information about history, archeology, cultural customs and genetics.

This is part of what it said about the tails:

‘… Arnaud Demarti, a French veterinarian who runs Agrovet, one of the largest veterinarian clinics in Phnom Penh, believes the short or crooked tails of Cambodian domestic felines can be blamed on a recessive gene.

“Two cats with a broken tail can only have a kitten with a broken tail. But a male cat with a normal tail can still have kittens with malformed tails,” he explained. He estimated that 80 per cent of cats born in the city have “a tail problem”.

“It’s rare to find a cat with a normal tail,” he said.

Demarti believes the Cambodian cats are their own, yet unnamed, breed of cats. He also said that the cats with short tails in Thailand most likely carry the same gene as cats in Cambodia.

But Marianne Clark, the secretary of the Japanese Bobtail Breeders Society in the United States, said short-tailed cats in Southeast Asia were most likely Japanese bobtails.

Japanese bobtails (which were introduced to the US from Japan at the end of the Second World War) were brought to Japan from China by Buddhist monks about 1,300 years ago. The monks kept cats to protect their religious scrolls, which were written on rice paper, from rodents in the temples.

“This can explain why there are bobtails throughout Asia. The monks brought bobtailed cats with them,” Clark wrote in an email.

There’s no doubt that Chinese travellers visited Southeast Asia, including Cambodia, as far back as the time of Angkor.

But Leslie Lyons, a geneticist at the University of Missouri in the US who specialises in felines, said we couldn’t be sure about Cambodian cats just yet.

“We have no way of knowing unless someone got some DNA and tested them for the manx mutation as a starter,” she wrote in an email.

“They could be manx [stub-tailed cats from the Isle of Man], could be Japanese bobtail, a new variant at either gene, or a whole new gene.”

Lyons said that a simple DNA test could identify whether a cat was a manx while bobtail cats could be identified by counting their vertebrae in an x-ray.

However, it appears no one has analysed the DNA or the x-rays of any short-tailed cats from Cambodia or any of the neighbouring Southeast Asian nations.’

Perhaps Governments and Universities in SE Asia have more important things to do, unlike me…

One last extract from the article:

‘Cats also play a role in Cambodian house-warming traditions. To bring good luck to the inhabitants of a new house, the woman of the house must walk around the dwelling three times with a female cat in her arms, Sokrithy said.

Finally, cats – especially females with three-colored fur – have a special significance to the Royal Palace. Such cats are used in the kings’ coronation ceremonies, and are believed to bring prosperity to the entire Cambodian nation.

At King Norodom Sihamoni’s coronation in 2004, a cat was carried up the red carpeted steps of the Royal Palace by the king’s entourage…’

After dinner I stood watching the kittens play, along with some Dutch people.  They told me about a show on Dutch television where kittens live in a kind of giant dollshouse… and that’s it.  It was made for adults, especially for people suffering from burn out.  I couldn’t find the Dutch one but I found this Icelandic made  one.  Presumably it’s franchised, unless more than one production team came up with the idea for a reality tv show about kittens living in a giant dollshouse?

Thank you very much for reading

All the best

Rachel