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Phongsali is Laos’ northernmost province. Wedged between China’s soft belly and Vietnam’s northwest peaks. It is also where I escaped a robbery/murder attempt some years ago. 

It was in the provincial capital (map link), that I chatted to an Adelaide–educated tourist police officer. He was writing out what he thought was a report about a backpacker’s lost bag—just for insurance purposes you know—then I got to the bit about the two guys trying to kill me.

He looked up from his lined sepia notepad and said “Sorry?”

Let me rewind a bit.

I’d left the village of Boun Tai (map link) early. Stranded there the previous evening due to the road being, well, far worse than expected. Once a war period Chinese road, I’d struggle to believe it had seen a lick of work had since. Just kilometre after kilometre of rounded boulders. 

It was colder than it looks. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

As with the previous day, the scenery was as stunning as the road was empty. But it was real cold, and the morning mist air in the valleys bit more than licked me. By the time I got to Boun Neua, a crossroads market town, I was a mess. Wild hair, soaking wet and freezing cold.

I pulled up at a noodle joint and the soup and syrupy coffee were welcome. I emptied my bag, pulling out my laptop, camera and so on. Everything soaked. I laid the gear out to dry while I concentrated on enticing my blood back into my hands. To anyone watching I was alone with plenty of kit.

I’m positive that they followed me from here.

My lodgings. Don’t let anyone tell you travel writing is not glamourous. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

From Boun Neua the road runs north to China and east to Phongsali. I took the east road. Thrilled to find a decent road surface, I crawled my way up up up the side of a mountain, making my way towards the capital.

It was along here I first noticed them. Two bikes, way behind. They’d round a corner just as I’d slide around the next. I reached a signposted viewpoint and hiked up to see what I could see. Precious little due to overgrowth. Back to the bike, and the two behind me were gone.

I didn’t give it much thought.

Not long after, I rounded a sweeping bend and there was a bike stopped, parked across the middle of the road. A guy behind it, waving me down to stop.

He was alone. I pulled up close, his bike between me and him.

I didn’t turn my engine off. An oversight that saved my life.

Phongsali province is pretty hilly. Photo: Caroline Gaylard.

The guy was saying something to me but I don’t speak much Lao nor great Thai—I thought I’d heard “Stop stop”. It didn’t occur to me how odd it was he was speaking English.

Still on the bike, feet on the ground, I stood, scooter vibrating between my Levis. Removing my helmet, I half looked over my shoulder and a movement caught my eye. I turned and another guy was running at me, curvy barrelled rifle in his hands. Raised to hit me with the non-pointy end.

I’ll pause to tell you, I am not am action guy. At all. Years later I would tell this story to friends and what they found amazing was that it involved me moving fast.

I swung out with my helmet, aiming for him but making contact with the gun coming down. It flew from his hands and he fell on his backside. Yes, for a moment I was Jason Bourne, just not in quite as good shape. Disagreements on this point are welcome. 

Rolling in to Boun Neua. Photo: Adam Poskitt.

I turned, flicked up the stand, burped the bike forward, then, bracing on my left foot kicked at the other bike. It tottered (well we both did) then fell. I gunned, as much as you can gun a step-through, and sped off.

The whole encounter lasted perhaps five seconds.

My left arm looped through my helmet, I almost crashed my bike on the first corner. Arms and hands shaking, I managed to slow enough to slip my helmet back on. Half watching the road, half checking the mirrors, I rode like the blazes. 

Heart of an alligator. Stomach like a cricket ball. All I could think of was to get to a village—if they caught me before then, I was dead.

The next village—a hamlet. I pull up. Had a cry and a vomit. I waited.

Were they waiting for me to leave again and catch me on the other side of the village? I stomped my boots hard, paced, got my head together. Then I left, and rode the rest of the way to Phongsali town without incident.

I never saw them again.

I’d ride for hours and not see another vehicle. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Fast forward back to my Adelaidian educated friend. When I asked who would have done this, his reply came fast.

“Chinese people. Bandits. There is a border crossing near Boun Neua. Lao people cannot have guns like that.”

My question though was why didn’t they shoot me. The officer was vaguer.

“These people, they’re from China, uneducated and silly. But sure they would kill you. Knock you or shoot you, then take your things and push you off the road.”

When I asked what would they have done, if they had hit me, he was unequivocal.

“We would never find you.”

Big skies somewhere near Sin Xai. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Later, after way too many Beerlaos, I phoned a travel writer I’d met earlier in Huay Xai on the Thai border. I knew he was planning the same route so wanted to warn him.

“Some guys tried to kill me today!” I blurted.

Mark E. was in Luang Prabang at the time and I was so well soused, we agreed it would be better to talk again the next day.

Later, he said talk of the town, over beers, was two French were shot in similar circumstances a month or so ago. He wasn’t sure if the story was true. He travelled the same route a month later without incident.

For years this experience put me off riding in remote areas alone. Everything is fine until it isn’t. The officer in Phongsali, inferred I could have been far more prudent. 

I’m paraphrasing, but it was something like;

“Almost all people here have nothing compared to you. While for most people, they would never think to take it off you, some would. Local people are wealthy in different ways, they have no camera, but many don’t want one. The money from a camera could help them in many better ways than your photos help you.”

He’d clearly seen the quality of my photos.

He wasn’t, by any means excusing the crime. He was outraged and was beyond apologetic—to the point where it was embarrassing. After all, I was still alive.

But what he was advising was to be aware of your surroundings, of local people’s situations. Tread with care, with thought, and try not to leave an indelible mark on people’s memories.

The sunset on that day. From the roof of my hotel. It was a pensive evening. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

“What is it they say, walk on the beach and leave only footprints, so the sea can wash them away. Be like that. I wish more foreigners came, Phongsali is beautiful.”

Later he reminisced about his time in South Australia. Again, I’m paraphrasing.

“I loved to walk on the beaches in South Australia. So beautiful, but so wild and stormy. My wife still talks about it. She says it is like Antartica is pure and washes against Australia to take the badness away. One day we walked on the beach and saw a dead shark. It was not big, maybe a metre, but neither of us had seen one in real life before. We stood there and stared. The waves washed around it and took it back to sea.”

I’m not sure what his exact point with the shark story was, but there was a long pause. We both sat, strangers in Phongsali, looking at his notepad. He lit another cigarette then pushed the paper over for me to read and sign. We were done.

“So, how long do you stay in Phongsali?”

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Close readers will have noticed I’ve spent more time in Nan than any other province so far on this trip. Why? Because Nan rocks. Not only is the countryside beautiful, but the people are super friendly and the food is great. I’ll be touching on all three of these in today’s final post on the province.

My first stop is Nan’s central market for breakfast. I ride up planning just to grab a quick plate of something local before riding south, but the market is going off.

Just another morning market. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Thumping music, enhanced by an appallingly loud sound system, echoes down the street. Just inside, behind an onion stall, a dance stage supports five women in not–temple–appropriate clothing. They’re dancing well out of sync—stop to wave at me—and the music is terrible (to my ears, at least). The racket is so loud you could slice it, the market sellers though seem oblivious. It is surreal. It is also 6:00 am.

Standing there gobsmacked, an older man sidles up beside me and puts his arm through mine. I pull back—it is a bit early for dancing—but he wants me to join him and his mates. There are six of them—and I’m the youngest by at least two decades. As I sit, they raise their short Leo–filled glasses and toast me: “Chokdee!” (Cheers).

Morning beers are not my thing, but the drinking food laid out on the lino–topped table is. Mains include en kai thawt (deep-fried chicken tendons), naem sii khrong muu (sour fried short pork ribs) and sai krawk isaan (pork and rice sausages). On the side are a bunch of dipping sauces, peanuts and rot duan (fried bamboo grubs). I love rot duan.

By the way, if you are looking for an excellent compendium on Thai drinking food, see Andy Ricker and JJ Goode’s Pok Pok The Drinking Food of Thailand.

What I came for, but ended up with morning beer snacks. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Going by their droopy, watering eyes and camaraderie, the session has been going on for some time. Two plastic crates full of empty longneck beer bottles nestle beside the table. The floor is littered with cigarette butts, gold–tops, peanuts and screwed up tissues. Thanks to a combination of the music, that they’re plastered, and that my Thai isn’t great, the conversation is beyond random. We do establish that Nan is great and that I should spend all morning with them drinking.

An hour or so later than planned, I make my way out of the market and back onto the bike. It is about 50 kilometres—roughly a one and a half hour ride one way—south to Sao Din.

Tatooine welfie.

As with the City of Ghosts in Phrae that I wrote about a few days ago, Sao Din is a product of nature’s will. Unlike Phae Mueang Phi however, Sao Din feels abandoned—there is a carpark, but that is about it. The lack of attention makes it more atmospheric. Think a weird moonscape of dirt towers that wouldn’t be out of place on Tatooine. There are plenty of valleys to explore and at one stage I stumble upon a group of locals hanging out. Photo time.

About half way back to Nan, I’m feeling the effects of my deep-fried meat and salt breakfast. The local market at Wiang Sa comes to the rescue. Kai thawt (deep-fried crispy chicken) seems like the perfect antidote.

Diet starts tomorrow. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Almost back to Nan, I stop by two hilltop temples on the south side of town. First is Wat Phra That Chae Haeng, with a 55-metre tall, gold–clad chedi that dates back to 1353. The original town of Nan once clustered around the base of this hilltop temple. 

Over to the southwest lies Wat Phra That Khao Noi. The hill here is a bit more elevated and has a nine-metre tall walking Buddha statue overlooking the town. It seems like the perfect place to see out the fading late afternoon light.

Enjoying the view from Wat Phra That Khao Noi. Photo: Mark Ord.

From here it is back into town. I swing by Fhu Travel, hoping to say hi! to the team, but they’ve closed for the day. A trek with Mr Fhu in the early 90s to visit the nomadic Mlabri people was my first ever experience of Nan. Memories of that trip—my God that jeep—are one of the many reasons I love the province so much.

I’ll be sad to leave tomorrow, but in the same breath am looking forward to a new country—Laos!

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When you live in Indonesia’s most heaviest touristed destination, where is a decent diversion? If I’m happy to jump on a plane, Flores or Sumbawa are no brainers, but if I just want a weekend getaway bereft of crowds, where do I go? I go to Munduk (map link). And this is how I do it.

Early bird gets the worm and nowhere is that truer, at least traffic–wise, than Bali. I pile the family into the car early for the westward drive. If the traffic gods are smiling, Munduk is a three-hour drive from South Bali. Rather than going via Bedugal though, I prefer to take the coast route through Tabanan. 

Nearing Melanting Waterfall. Munduk is perfect for kids. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Years ago, when we were still living in Jakarta, we took an occasional holiday to Bali and never got the appeal of it. Many of the city beaches are meh and Ubud was not our scene, but on one trip we drove out west and the beauty of Bali hit us. After Tabanan but before Balian, a cross-island road heads north. We take that, leaving the Indian Ocean and its black-sand surf beaches behind. 

Rice fields blanket the landscape, from the coastal settlements to the volcano’s foothills. Even the most rice field-hardened “I’ve seen it all–er” will struggle not to pull over and admire the view. About half way to Pupuan are a couple of viewpoint cafes. We pull up at the one with the enormous fruit bats hanging in a tree out front. Their Bali coffee may be vile but the views more than compensate.

The condensed milk is better than the coffee. Believe me. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The road winds, we scoot through small villages. Bright red roof tiles, well brushed compound temples, cloves laid out to dry on the shoulder. We wind the windows down to smell their scent. Pulling over now and then for a full wander—and a snack ... and more bad coffee.

At Pupuan we take a right and the road winds, we're getting higher and the views on a clear day are unbeatable. There’s a couple of turn-offs to Munduk, and as usual we miss the first one. It doesn't matter though—we'll get there in the end.

Big skies, big views. Photo: Sally Arnold.

Munduk lines a road along a ridge to a cluster of volcanoes in Central Bali. Cloves are everywhere, farmers thrash rice, and school–uniformed kids veer on their bicycles. Every drive is memorable yet different.

There are no shortage of places to stay, but we’ve always been partial to Puri Alam (from 450,000 rupiah), more on account of their horizon pool than the decidedly ordinary rooms. They also have a rooftop restaurant where you can watch the sun set over the Pacific. We were by the Indian Ocean just an hour or so ago.

Poolside at Puri Alam. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Unless we divert to Balian along the way, we’re in Munduk for lunch. Creature of habit that I am, we roll in for ribs at Don Biyu, then onwards to our home for the evening. The afternoon is lost to reading and chilling while the kids swim in the pool. Across the valley, Batukaru looms.

Come the morning, we laze and eat at the guesthouse. With more energy we could wander into the village—a friend has long raved about the sate kambing, but we’re yet to hit pay–dirt. Next time. 

Decisions, decisions. A valley rice field walk to the south or the waterfalls to the east and north? Or maybe just sit by the pool.

Offerings at Golden Valley Waterfall. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

In the wet season, when the subak is pumping, Munduk is a veritable water land. We follow the trail that starts near Taman Ayu on the north side of the road, taking us to Melanting Waterfall. This is one of the most beautiful we’ve seen in Bali. Every time we’ve been we’ve had it to ourselves. To be fair, a machete to get there can be useful. 

Two other falls, Tanah Barak and “Golden Valley” are more accessible. As a bonus, both have coffee shops (we skip the kopi luwak, you should too please) nearby. Handy for a pick–me–up after the hike.

At Made Oka, the views are free. Photo: Sally Arnold.

My mid-afternoon we’ve rested, filled our bellies at Made Oka, and contemplated the other side. A rice field walk can fill an entire day—or just an hour. There is a bit of a network of trails and pathways, and guesthouses will give you a map, but the best approach is just to go. 

Wander and get lost. There are plenty of rice fields, fruit orchards, forests and more to get lost within. On a past visit we found the most perfect cottage—it would have been ideal as a writer getaway thing. When we enquired, it turned out it was already rented—by a writer.

“Are we there yet?” Exploring the valley. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The light is sinking, the long slow slog back out of the valley has the kids primed for one more swim. Then it’s up to the rooftop to watch the sun fall into the Pacific again.

Tomorrow morning, back to the south side.

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I leave Nan extra early on a hired scooter, heading up Route 101 to Pua, then take a right onto Route 1256 at Pua. From there the ride is wild and undulating as the road leads up to Doi Phukha National Park. Except I’m not going to the park—well not yet, anyway.

Once all of this was jungle. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Just shy of the park boundary a small sealed road runs off to the north. It tracks the ridge line and the scenery is fab. After about three kilometres I pull up at my goal for the day—the Lawa–Thai village of Ban Toei (map link).

Well Bamboo Hut* to be exact. Run by affable local man William, Bamboo Hut is famous among backpackers for trekking.

William is a pleasant enough guy and is straight down to business. I’d called the previous day and wanted to get walking today. No problem he had said, he has a two-day trek going with two Brits lined up for it already. They’re happy to wait for me if I get there early. Great news.

Too hot. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The Brits are in their thirties, on their first trip to Thailand. How on earth did you find here? I wonder. Lost backpackers—you find them in the strangest places.

Pleasantries over, William talks us through the trek. The morning is spent hiking out of Ban Toei, then through jungle on the periphery of the park. We then enter a cave system, where we’ll spend four to five hours underground, emerging in a sinkhole. There we camp for the night, then into another cave system, out a few hours later, and then a long circle back to Ban Toei.

William is our main guide, along with two crew—one with a machete and the other a porter. Oh, and a black dog. The cave, William says, is remote. He only took seven people through it last year. The sun is shining and the skies are crystal. Time to get moving.

Too humid. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

A good trek needs a few things to come together to become great. I’ve trekked with William before so have no concerns on that count. The other travellers are the unknown.

Fifteen minutes out of the village, the complaining starts.

Anyone with kids will be familiar with the phrase, “Are we there yet?” Within an hour I’m wondering how many variations the English guy has on this phrase. I mean, at the briefing William did say four hours—what part of this is confusing to you?

We walk through harvested dry rice fields and the heat is blistering.

“It is too hot.”

The rocks are too hard to sit on. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Later we have to cross a rickety wooden bridge—I’d have ridden a motorbike on it without a thought, but the Brits are worried. The bridge is maybe 20 metres long and we can see the river bed underneath it.

“Is it safe?”

I mean, what do you say to this? No, it’s not, if you stand on it you will die?

On we go. Patient William answers their non–stop queries. It’s good to ask questions as they can help to improve your own knowledge. But did we need to stop for five minutes to discuss where the random dude on a scooter in the distance was going?

Always remember to look up. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

We leave the fields behind and plunge into the jungle. The canopy protects us from the searing heat, but the humidity goes up a notch or ten.

“It is too humid here.”

We reach a dry river bed—the river base is large uneven rocks (“too difficult to walk on”). After an hour we break for lunch in the shadow of an outcrop that cradles a waterfall in wet season. The jungle setting is beautiful.

“Is there somewhere else to sit? The rocks are too hard.”

THEY ARE ROCKS!

We have some downtime, then continue on, back into the jungle then revert to the river bed. Another hour and we reach the moment I knew was coming and was dreading. The cave entrance.

I’ve never taken a decent stalactite photo in my life. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

It’s a sheer limestone face with a gap at the base of about 50 centimetres in height. The porter drops to his stomach, pushes his gear through ahead of him, starts wriggling in the dirt, and vanishes.

The two Brits look at one another then at William.

“No.”

Here we go.

Fifteen minutes later, William has cajoled them through the slot in the ground. On the other side a rickety wooden ladder climbs a sheer stone face, depositing us in a larger cavern. We’re standing there, in the pitch black save our torches. The cave air is far cooler than outside, a relief. Still they are moaning.

“How far is it to the exit? Is it always this dark? Will it get much colder?”

Two guides, one with two legs, one with four. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The cave is tight in places, but William knows that now he has got them through the slot there is no going back. Step by step we follow passages, then need to climb through narrow crevices bracing against one wall. The cave system swings back and forward between large and tight tunnels. A ladder here and there. Often there is no room to stand. It is claustrophobic. The Brits ask about flooding dangers. How do we get out if we get lost?

Their moaning is incessant and gets increasingly negative in tone. At one stage the dog vanishes and we spend 20 minutes searching for her. “What if she is trapped and dies?” they ask.

The dog resurfaces from nowhere, scampering between our legs, unphased by our journey to the centre of the earth. The tunnel threads up and doubles back on itself then the air flow suddenly seems different and I feel like we’re in a larger cavern. William has us pause to catch our breath.

Like something out of Alien. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

“Turn off your lamps and be super quiet,” he says. He’s probably been wanting to say that for the last few hours I think.

How can it be darker than pitch black? I hold my hand in front of my face and can’t see it. I’m invisible. Save our laboured breathing, it is almost silent. I can hear one of the crew fiddling somewhere out of reach, and then he turns on an extra bright light.

We all lose our breath.

We’re in a large cavern, roof pierced by stalactite, the walls embedded with a million dancing diamonds. We stand, mesmerised, soaking it up, then it is big light off and we continue.

In the tunnels I have no sensation of direction. Up or down, left or right. It is beyond disorientating. Then, in the distance, there is the slightest murmuring of light and life.

Oh salvation! Photo: Stuart McDonald.

We round a bend and the tunnel widens. A steep incline curls to a glowing emerald green half crescent. The two Brits almost levitate to the light, but it is a tricky climb, taking us 20 minutes to escape.

We’re at the sinkhole. I feel like I’m on the set of Jurassic Park. William explains that millions of years ago this was a part of the cave system we just left, then the roof collapsed. Since then a jungle has grown.

We’re in the land the world forgot.

One of the crew starts to set up camp—a tarp on the dirt and a tarp tied to trees overhead. The other is over fiddling in the trees.

Out of the cave, into the sinkhole. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I walk over and ask him what he is doing.

“Setting traps for breakfast,” he says. “I want to catch some rats.”

Don’t tell the Brits, I think.

More tomorrow.

*Bamboo Huts permanently closed years ago.

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit couchfish.substack.com

The “traveller fixer”. Many second–tier traveller towns in Cambodia used to have them. Mr Leng in Banlung and Mr T in Stung Treng were near legends on the traveller trail back in the day. Guys who could arrange anything—for a fee.

Smooth operators, with excellent English and a penchant for knowing just what travellers wanted. So it was, in Takeo, a scratch of a town about 75 kilometres south of Phnom Penh, that I met Mr Souphal*.

Or rather, he met me.

Meet Takeo. Photo: Mark Ord.

Downtown Takeo isn’t exactly overrun with sights and attractions. It is a thrown-together-around-a-market kind of a joint, set on the rim of a vast floodplain. The province punches above its weight history–wise though. It hosted the Funan capital, and later was an outpost of the Khmer empire.

It was these relics of past grandeur I was pondering when Mr Souphal introduced himself.

“I’m Mr Souphal,” he said. “I would like to welcome you to Takeo. I have a tuk tuk and a boat. How long do you stay?”

He looks about 30, though he turns out to be in his late forties. Leather-creased skin thanks to a lifetime in the sun, his hands calloused, one finger missing. Carrying a bit of extra weight that I think came with bounty later in life. He has an honest smile and keeps wiping the sweat off his forehead as he orders a warm beer and sits down with me.

Takeo: Better supplied with beer than ice. Photo: Mark Ord.

We get through the typical pleasantries over warm beer and shard ice. My nationality, age, marital status and need for a Khmer girlfriend.

“So I think this afternoon we should go to Phnom Da and Angkor Borei. There is a lot of water now so it will be easy in the boat and I will show you things nobody else sees.”

Little did I realise how true that last bit was.

Angkor Borei and Phnom Da are about 30 kilometres due east of Takeo. The former was the capital of the Funan Empire from the fourth to the sixth century. At peak times it prevailed over a vast canal network that stretched as far east as Oc Eo in the Mekong Delta. Phnom Da, a twin hillock (“da” means breast in Khmer) nearby, has ancient temples.

Mr Souphal suggests we go to Angkor Borei first. The late afternoon light will be better appreciated at Phnom Da he says. We negotiate a price, buy a few more warm beers with a bag of shard ice to go and walk down to the water.

Pick your chariot. Photo: Mark Ord.

His boat is a fibreglass runabout with a clapped-out outboard. There’s no roof nor lifejackets (the floodplain is shallow, he says), and I wait while he dashes off to get petrol. The heat is bleeding from the ears hot, and the flood plain just goes and goes. I am going to get so sunburnt.

Gassed up, we get going. The water is smooth as silk and we skate across its surface. Two guys on a boat. Not a cloud in sight. Huge skies, sugar palms. His engine whines and the boat fishtails now and then as he dislodges weed.

I’m sitting near the prow, taking photos, when he slows, and gestures to me to move back to within earshot.

“So how long have you been in Cambodia?” he asks.

“About one year now,” I reply.

“So you already know about the magic in Cambodia? It is strong. Strong. I can help you.”

In season, Cambodia is not short of water (at least before the dams). Photo: Mark Ord.

At first I think I’ve misheard him, but I haven’t. I think about a trip to Kratie a few months earlier, when locals insisted a cow had given birth to two baby girls. At the time I’d called a friend at the AFP bureau in Phnom Penh and handed him my phone to get the bottom of it. When I got the phone back he told me it wasn’t worth following up.

I nod. “Yes, I have heard of it”.

“I can help you. When we get to Phnom Da.”

I go back to watching the water sheet past. It is so beautiful and smooth. Hypnotising. At least the breeze is taking the bite out of the heat. Mr Souphal points out the double breasted hill we’re nearing. “Phnom Da. But we go there later. I’ll help you then!”

I’m sure I haven’t asked for any other–worldly help, but the ice has melted. Maybe he’ll divine a beer–cooler.

Colonial period mansion, Angkor Borei. Photo: Mark Ord.

Fifteen minutes later we get to Angkor Borei. A small museum. Priceless Khmer period lintels and other artefacts lay around on the lawn. Inside it is a small and dusty, but amazing collection.

“All the good things they take to Phnom Penh,” Mr Souphal mumbles.

From here it is not long on the boat to Phnom Da. It is much more Tomb Raider. Overgrown trees and bulbous root fingers entangle and grasp the masonry as if trying to suck it back into the earth. The trees feeding on history one block at a time.

The first hillock has a brick tower. It is impressive, though has little in the way of decorative features remaining to my novice eye.

Mr Souphal gives me the canned history and we press on. Ashram Maharose is an older monument, dedicated to Vishnu, from the sixth century, during the reign of Bhavarvarman I. The small grey basalt tower is almost enveloped in the trees, a dark entrance beckons. Capital C creepy.

The brick tower. Photo: Mark Ord.

We stand before it. Mr Souphal is beside me, so close I can hear his breath. I try to edge away but there is nowhere to go except closer to the monument.

“This place has strong magic,” whispers Mr Souphal. “Strong.”

I’ve stopped thinking about the magical beer cooler and am starting to get creeped out. He picks up on my edginess and steps into the undergrowth. There he gathers dry leaves from the forest floor then steps towards the dark entrance.

“Come, come,” he gestures.

I follow, feet in molasses–soaked lead boots.

Where the magic happens… Ashram Maharose. Photo: Mark Ord.

He squats by the entrance, not inside mind you, and places the leaves in a small orderly pile. He then pulls from his pocket a small translucent eye–drops bottle containing a clear liquid. He sets it beside the leaves. Next is a half dozen incense sticks out of another pocket. He snaps them in half in a cloud of incense, laying the top halves atop the leaves, bottom half in his hand.

He mumbles a bit, then turns, looking up at me.

“Are you ready?”

At this stage it is fair to say I’m weirded out. I wouldn’t have been surprised if the Kratie cow giving birth to two girls walked out of the sanctuary doorway at this point. I nod.

He goes back to his mumbling then lights the short sticks and holds them between his palms in a praying gesture. He drops the burning sticks into the dry leaves, picks up the small bottle and squirts it into the leaves. There’s a flash of flame. He half burps and half groans right over the fire, breathing in deep as a waft of smoke rises and wraps around his head. I’m barely breathing. The smoke clears and he reaches down, cradling the smouldering lot in his palms, he bumps past me, and steps down the steps.

“Come, come!”

The smouldering pile has now been placed on the bottom step, he’s hunched over it, babbling. He looks up at me.

Faceless onlookers to the magic. Photo: Mark Ord.

“Come here. Now. Give me your arm!”

“What?!”

“Your arm, I need it!”

“What? All of it?” I blurt out. “No, you can’t have it.”

He looks at me like I’m the crazy one.

“No. Your hair. On your arm. I need it.”

Before I can say anything else stupider than I’ve already managed, he reaches out and grabs my wrist. It happens so fast I’m shocked. His grip is vice–like. It hurts.

I’m scared now.

He reaches over with his other arm and one, two, three, pulls three hairs off my forearm in a second. He has clearly done this before. It stings, but I don’t care, I am scared and just want the rest of my arm back.

He releases me and rocks back on his haunches. More mumbling and he carefully drops the hairs one at a time into the still smouldering pile. Another squirt of his juice, another flash of flame, another guttural burp groan. I think he is going to throw up.

Not creepy enough? Try here. Photo: Mark Ord.

Then he stands, brushes off his hands on his trousers, turns and looks me in the eye.

“Ok, piss on it.”

“What?”

“You have to piss on it. Now, before the fire goes out.”

“No.”

“You have to. I said I’d help you. No piss, no help.”

“I don’t want your help. I never asked for your help.”

“You said you wanted what nobody sees. I will give you that. This is good fortune for your life.” He is pleading. He hasn’t broken my gaze since standing.

We stand there, facing one another. I’m not petrified, but I’m not far off it. I keep thinking of a machete for some bizarre reason. Does he have one? What would he cut off? Your mind works funny in moments like this.

“Ok, move aside. Whatever.”

He makes room, but wants to watch. I step up. I’m in front of a jungle-wrapped sixth century temple on a hill in the middle of a floodplain in offbeat Cambodia. My only companion is someone who is clearly not just a guide.

Love me a sunset. Photo: Mark Ord.

I think, if you’re going to piss out a magic fire burning up your body hair for good fortune then this setting is as good as any.

I piss the fire out.

Mr Souphal slaps me on the shoulder with a beaming smile.

“Ok, lets go.”

We walk back down to the boat and I’m shaking all over. What just happened?

Five minutes later, we’re skating back across the floodplain. The sinking sun sears the surface in shades of tangerine and dragonfruit. It is beyond beautiful. No words. Cambodia is such a gobsmackingly beautiful country.

I sit at the prow.

The engine dies and we float around for an hour, into dusk, while he fixes it.

So much for good fortune.

* Not his real name.

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Phrae (map link) sits out of sight and out of mind for many. North of the railway to Chiang Mai, the city attracts few foreigners—I’m perhaps the only one in town. This, despite a rich and varied history and a lip–smacking culinary scene. All the more reason to visit, I think.

Founded in the eighth century, the isolation that keeps tourists away also assisted Phrae’s relatively long period of independence. It wasn’t till the 19th century, in the midst of a teak logging boom, that the region fell into line.  

As with other Thai walled cities, Phrae long ago burst beyond its more than 1,000-year-old red brick walls. For me though, the downtown attractions are all within the city walls, making it a great walking town. I’m staying in the old city, at the cute meets slightly cooky Priwan’s Homestay. Priwan is on my case to take one of her free bicycles but, for the umpteenth time, I say I’m happy to walk. She relents, and I’m off.

I start not far from Priwan’s, at the intersection of Charoen Muang and Rop Muang Roads. Heading north along the latter, I follow the original wall. It is a public park of sorts today with a moat on the far side. 

I pass by the Baan Thep Museum, one of a number of spectacular teak buildings in Phrae, then curl to the northwest. The outline of Phrae’s city wall is avocado shaped, and just shy of the tip, I dogleg in one block to a local khanom jeen place. Time for a second breakfast.

Temple detail at Wat Luang. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Served up by older Thai women on the ground floor of a pretty wooden house, the bowl is delicious. The fresh white noodles have that perfect texture. In a nod to Phrae’s meat obsession, aside from fresh bean sprouts, cubes of congealed blood gently bounce on top.

Continuing south on Kham Saen, I reach Wat Hua Khuang with an ancient brick chedi overlooking a modern temple.  Then, reaching Charoen Muang, I turn north (right) and on my left, across the road is Wat Si Chum. Just before reaching the wat, I turn left down Soi Si Chum, passing with the temple on my right. I have a different wat in my sights.

All in a row at Wat Luang. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

A couple of blocks down on my right is Wat Luang—believed to be the oldest wat in the city. The large brick construction is not a chedi, but was originally another city gate: Prathu Khong—for the use of royals only. Today Phrae locals believe it houses the spirits of royalty and former rulers.

At this point I break my walk for a real meal break. Phrae is famous for Phrae–style laap. Writes Austin Bush in The Food of Northern Thailand:

“In Phrae, laap and similar dishes are probably most notable for being eaten uncooked. It’s sweeter, more delicious, I was told by many a diner. Yet locals’ preferences don’t stop at raw beef; Phrae–style meat dishes also include ingredients such as pork, blood, liver, tripe and beef bile, all of which are often served uncooked.”

I grab a motorbike taxi and scoot a little out of town to a place recommended by Austin, named Jin Sot—an open air place boasting a veritable cornucopia of uncooked animal. I pass on a serving of luu muu (raw pig’s blood with a heavy dose of spices over crispy noodles and offal) and instead go for the classic Phrae–style laap. It would be an understatement to describe it as a gamey version of the more typical laap I’m used to, but, accompanied by sticky rice, a plate loaded with fresh herbs, and a couple of frosty Chang beers, it goes down a treat.

Sated, I get a scooter back to where I left off and continue, pressing on to Wongburi House—Phrae’s most memorable relic of the teak period. Dating to the late 19th century, the two-storey teak mansion has housed both royalty and teak magnates in its time.

Who hasn’t made one of these out of dough? Photo: Mark Ord.

Today it is an excellent museum. An amalgam of Thai and European influences, this is in part a Thai take on the “gingerbread” form. A late 19th century colonial invention that originated from French mansions in Haiti. Gingerbread houses make use of elaborate, flamboyant features and bright colours. Why? To resemble model houses built by children out of gingerbread dough.

If I had any doubts about the wealth floating around teak, they’re dispelled at Wat Phong Sunan next door. It was once the private family temple for those living in the Gingerbread House.

My last sightseeing stop is the Khum Chao Luang Museum, further up Kham Lue Road. Built in 1892 during peak teak times, this is as grand as teak mansions in Phrae get. 

No shortage of tusks back then. Photo: Mark Ord.

The presentation is as exotic as it is romantic. Faded photos cover many of the walls. Beautiful but long-dead princesses, elephants haul logs through forests, dignitaries with toy-town uniformed bodyguards. While off-limits to the public, the basement is where slaves and misbehaving staff were punished and hidden away. Note this isn’t on the regular tour.

From here it is just a short walk back to where I started and lo and behold the night market is just setting up. How convenient!

More on Phrae tomorrow. See you then.

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I’m in Mai Chau, a few hours west of Hanoi when I post a photo of lush rice fields in the valley on my Instagram account. The rain has eased, but the mist is still entangled with the peaks ringing the valley. It is lovely.

This drone video really captures the beauty of the terraces.

Not long later I post the photo, I receive a message from a follower on Instagram. Am I in Pu Luong? I’ve never heard of the place, but after a quick search decide I need to go there. If you’re in Hanoi and looking for a diversion, check it out (map link).

The next morning I grab a quick pho then leave Mai Chau, heading west on Route 15. Soon I start sidling along the east bank of the Ma River and not long after, Route 15C veers off to the south. I follow, leaving what little traffic there was behind me.

Hello greenery. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

While just as easily done by hired car, the road is terrific motorbiking. Winding but well sealed, I cruise southeast along the valley wall. While I’m surrounded by forest, when I grab a glimpse of the valley floor, it is all terraced fields. I pause at a few viewpoints along the way. At one, perched above a tiny village, I watch life go on from my vantage point way up above. 

Later the valley opens and the terraces just go and go and go. The sky filled with heavy, low slung cloud, paddies below, forest to the left and right. It is stunning.

Moody weather. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

After about an hour of riding I start to hit some scattered tourist services. A homestay here, a viewpoint restaurant there, but then I reach the turn–off to the main deal.

I’m being a bit generous calling it a turn–off. It is more a narrow concrete (in places) road. There’s a signboard with an indecipherable map illustrating where a few dozen homestays are. 

Of course the place I booked, Puluong Mr Thinh Treehouse, isn’t on the map. 

By the top of the trail there is a resort so I wander in and ask if they know where my place is. Of course they know the owner and give him a call. Fifteen minutes later someone shows up—relieved to see I’m on a scooter rather than in a car. 

A blanket of rice laid over the valley floor. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

He beckons me to follow. The road narrows, becoming a trail then a track,  then something less. We pull over to the side to let domestic tourists walk past us, then continue on. 

The scenery is sublime.

We arrive. I’d booked a US$25 “tree house” but when the friendly owner sees my height he suggests I take a look first. The tree house is a wooden platform with four walls and a roof and just big enough to fit a mattress on the floor. It overlooks the horizon pool (yes really) but I ask if I can see something else please.

My humble abode. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I end up in a more than comfortable two bed bungalow with my own bathroom and a balcony taking in the view. I love it.

I’m the only guest, and not long after a knock at my door summons me for lunch. The deal is full board—so three meals a day ... plus rice wine. Lunch is enough to keep me going for an entire day and yet the food just keeps on coming. Simple but delicious.

I try to walk off lunch exploring the fields. There’s a good network of trails and I spend the afternoon walking, reading and taking photos. I’ve seen more than my fair share of terraced rice fields, but it is lovely.

The struggle is real. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

There are a smattering of local tourists about and no shortage of selfie moments. Then it is time to hike back up from the valley floor for dinner—which puts lunch to shame.

Pu Luong has a bunch of kind of contrived “attractions”, but the true beauty of the place is what comes naturally. While I spend some of the next day walking, I also spend a much of it camped on my deck. Drinking coffee, reading, snoozing.

And that’s a large part of the appeal here. Yes, you can go out and do stuff, or you can just appreciate it for what it is—a beautiful hideaway. And at just three or so hours from Hanoi by minibus, how’s that for a diversion?

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With a couple of exceptions, the further east in Indonesia you go, the better it gets. One of the places out east that is closest to my heart is a blip of an island off the west coast of Alor called Kepa.

Sunset at Kepa. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

We’ve been there a few times—we rent a large but basic wooden house on the cliff. When I say basic, I mean if you want hot water you heat it up in black rubber bags on the grass during the day. But there’s a desk and a great window looking out to sea, plus baby reef sharks swimming out front. Bliss.

The next island to the west is Pantar and in its southern reaches rises Gunung Sirung. I’m always one for a climb, so on this trip I decide to give it a go. 

My day office at Kepa. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

There’s a daily public ferry from Kalabahi on Alor, to Baranusa on Pantar so I aim for that. Due to gas-bagging with staff at the guesthouse then struggling to find an ojek, I miss the ferry.

I’ve missed more than my share of flights, and arriving at the pier seeing my boat chugging away was all too familiar. Chatting to a couple of guys at the wharf, they tell me there is boat to Kabir in an hour or so, so why don’t I get that?

Chugging up the west coast of Pantar. Classic Indonesia. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

In a case of framing the question perfectly wrong, I say:

“Ok great. So from there I can get a bike to Baranusa right?”

"Boleh!” (Sure, in Indonesian.)

Sure enough, a couple of hours later a wooden freighter pulls up. The captain is bemused to see me get on, but whatever, he doesn’t mind and we’re off.

Cargo class works for me. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Pantar kind of looks like something out of Thunderbirds, flying off to the northeast. By Google Maps, roads are, well, limited. My freighter rounds the northeast point and we start chugging down the coast. By my calculations, Baranusa can’t be more than 25 kilometres away ... as the crow flies.

I’m no crow.

About 10 kilometres down the coast, we veer in towards the shoreline. A long slender pier, anchored to the coast by an enormous tree, juts out to sea. Kabir. The boat leans to by the pier, and a guy I’d been chatting to along the way asks if I want to stay in his house.

Kabir in sight. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

“Thanks, but I want to go to Baranusa.”

“How?”

“The guys in Kalabahi told me I could get an ojek there.”

Much laughter. 

There are no ojeks, according to my new friend, because there is no road.

We all get off the boat. Because, well, when the boat stops and is going nowhere, that is what you do.

A huddle emerges as some of the locals discuss what to do with me. A young woman says her father has a boat, perhaps I could charter that?

Welcome to Kabir. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Next thing I know we’re on scooters heading south to her Dad’s house, I dunno, a few kilometres away. This is typical rural Indonesia. The road painted on five years ago, today is more potholes than blue steel. My driver weaves through, just about eyes closed. Off onto a dirt road and we pull up at her family home. Simple, plain, basic—they all fit. But Mum is out in no time, ushering me to sit and put my bag down. Before I know it I’m on a plastic chair, cowboy coffee on knee, sharing cigarettes and waiting for Dad.

He surfaces. I’d guess early forties, thin but fit, with ruffly hair and a dark cap. Open shirt, cigarettes in pocket, sarong. No b******t.

He eyes me up. Yes, he has a boat, I can charter it. Here we go, I think. His opening price seems so reasonable though, I don’t even want to bargain—like I said, no b******t. 

Gunung Sirung. Where I am actually trying to get to. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Of course, he says, I’m welcome to stay in his house and get the public ferry the next day. His daughter chimes in they can sort me out with dinner and so on, but I reply I’d like to go to Baranusa today if possible. I’d like to climb the volcano tomorrow I say. 

“Sirung?” Eyes roll.

“Ok we go,” he says.

The entire family walk with me down to the beach where his sampan sits there, well above the high tide mark. The father, his sons and I try to push it into the water but it ain’t going anywhere. Wood is heavy, you know.

Thumbs up! Lets go! Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Before I know it, a half dozen or so are helping us get it into the water. Cheers and thumbs up as it hits the wet. Then a few minutes to top up the gas and then we’re off.

The boat is a bit dinky and by this stage the afternoon breeze is picking up. It is more bang bang bang than smooth cruising as Dad and his son and me belt our way through the chop. 

At one stage we pull to while Dad tops up the gas. I can feel the current pushing and twisting us the wrong way as soon as the engine is off, but they seem unconcerned. Baranusa is maybe five kilometres away, I can just make it out, but the swell, wind and current are pushing us off.

Are we there yet? Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The engines roars again (I’m being generous here) and we’re off. Like pinnacling a volcano I feel like it is one wave forward, two waves back. Nevertheless, as the sun sinks, Baranusa inches closer.

Finally we pull up at the pier. I pay Dad, adding a generous tip, and both he and the son high five me before spinning the boat around and heading back. At least now they have the current, wind and chop in their favour.

Baranusa be pretty. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I walk into Baranusa—little more than a crossroads village—and I find a losmen. The owner, Mukhtar, walks out and and introduces himself. He shows me through his lodgings, tells me where I can buy beer (“the Chinese shop” of course), and we relax.

His English is excellent. Turns out he used to work on the trains out of Hornsby—my home town in Australia.

I stay in Pantar longer than planned. 

Always get off the boat.

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While I love getting around by scooter, the downside is needing to take the bike back. I rise early, grab a coffee and jump back on two wheels, retracing my route south to Sukhothai. 

Despite having ridden in Thailand for years, the frosty early-morning air never fails to startle. On the upside few are as silly as me to be out at this hour, and Route 1113 is devoid of traffic for almost the entire ride back. I return the bike to TR Guesthouse, still early enough in the day that a staffer offers me a ride to the bus station. Early bird gets the worm.

A good drone video showing the lay of the land around Phitsanulok.

Phitsanulok (P’Lok to friends) is an hour east by bus and I wait almost that long before the bus decides to get going. It is late morning by the time I’m off the bus in my destination.

To many, Phitsanulok (map link) is but a transit point to Sukhothai or a passing station from the train window. Like almost everywhere though, it is worth a night. I skip the grubby hotels near the train station and instead go for the comfortable P1 House, a 10-minute walk to the north.

All that many travellers see of Phitsanulok. Photo: David Luekens.

While this is a large provincial capital, all the main points of interest are central to the train station. This includes my first grazing stop, Ban Mai, just around the corner from my guesthouse.

By my standards, it’s a pretty upmarket affair, but the air-con is a welcome relief from the outdoor heat. I go for a salad double header—yam tua poo (wing bean salad) and a spicy lemongrass salad with jumbo prawns. The prawns are perfect. Buried in a mountain of lemongrass and chillies, each bite delivers an explosion of flavour. Yummo.

The Phra Phuttha Chinnarat glows. Photo: David Luekens.

Downtown P’Lok has two primary attractions—Wat Phra Si Rattana Mahathat and a folklore museum. The former is just a short walk away, so I start there. 

Better known as Wat Yai, the temple is famous for the Phra Phuttha Chinnarat. This stunning bronze seated Buddha image dates back to when Phitsanulok was the capital of the Sukhothai Kingdom. It has to be one of the shiniest Buddhas I’ve ever seen—it almost glows. The temple is also worth a look for its murals, many with explanations in English—unusual for a Thai temple.

There’s always lotus buds. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

From Wat Yai it is a 45-minute walk south to the curious Sgt. Maj. Thawee Folk Museum. This is the personal collection of Sgt. Maj. Thawee, who is clearly a pack–rat of epic proportions. Divided across a few traditional Thai houses, the collection runs from coins and ceramics to fish traps and ox carts.

I take in the photographic display of a buffalo castration. Way too much information, thank you. Across the road, a small centre casts Buddha images using the lost wax process. It helps to take my mind off the poor buffalo.  

About one zillionth of the full collection. Photo: David Luekens.

That evening, I amble down to the Nam River, whose banks are sprinkled with a bunch of eating options. Open-air restaurants rub shoulders with upmarket digs along both sides of the river. It is still early though, so I walk a little down the east bank to Rasta Raft Bar. The bar and restaurant is a classic from the Thai school of hippy chic meets wood, imaginative art, good food and friendly staff. It is also the perfect spot to relax as the sun sets.

Tomorrow: Back into nature.

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit couchfish.substack.com

What is a Couchfish Diversion? Sometimes you’re in a well-travelled spot and you're looking for something a bit different. Perhaps just for a night, perhaps for 10 nights ...

Couchfish Diversion is all about this. Each Tuesday at 5pm GMT+8 I’ll send paid and free subscribers to Couchfish a piece that recommends a diversion in a popular Southeast Asian spot.

Let's gets diverted!

I wake up in Phnom Penh at a bit of a loose end. I’ve been busy ticking off the main sights for days and today I want something different. Still work, but more play ... what could be better than Kien Svay? Hey that rhymes!

Kien Svay (map link) is around 15 kilometres to the southeast of Phnom Penh. A diversion that involves nothing but hammocks and eating—how much more perfect could a diversion be?

Kien Svay in sight. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I check Passapp for a fare and the app quotes me US$8 each way. That in hand, I go ask one of the guesthouse tuk tuk guys what he’ll do it for. He says $20 return trip, including waiting time—deal.

The outskirts of Phnom Penh, while not a scratch on vile Sihanoukville, are not great for tuk tuk-ing. At least (for a change) the traffic is light, and after 30 minutes the dust clears … a bit.

We have beer and beer … and beer. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

We turn off the main road, then onto a smaller road, take a right, then cross a bridge over a “river” and then a left. I say “river” because Kien Svay looks over the lee side of a small island on the Mekong, but with the river so low it is almost a canal. After we turn, we’re greeted by bright red Ganzberg and Angkor beer signs that go on and on. Each fronts a bamboo and wooden bridge running down to the water’s edge.

“Which place do you want?” my tuk tuk driver asks.

“I dunno!”

“Ok, let’s take this one, I think it’s good!” he says, stopping immediately.

Pathway to paradise. Kind of. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The place is unassuming, to say the least. A littered dirt path runs down the slope to a series of wooden planks set on floating blue barrels. The planks guide us out to a gaggle of floating wooden salas to the left and right.

Each sala has a simple woven but faded mat on the floor and a couple of well-loved string hammocks slung up. A sheet of paper nailed to an upright pole has the WiFi password and a mobile phone number. The latter is for ordering.

Doing the hard yards: Photo: My tuk tuk driver!

It is midweek, not yet 11am, and the place is almost deserted. We take a raft out by the water’s edge, tossing our flip flops upon entry and grabbing a hammock each. A few minutes later a girl from the restaurant walks down with three buckets. 

One is full of ice. One is full of bottled water. One is full of cans of beer. 

Did I mention is wasn’t 11am yet? 

Look, it was hot enough to be at least midday, so the tuk tuk driver and I dive into the beers. He tells me his life story and asks plenty of questions of mine. 

You want a ride? Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The setting, while a bit grubby, is beautiful in its own way. Sampans glide past with people net fishing. Kids in another sala jump into the water, screaming and laughing. The vibe is sedate and comfortable. Time slows down.

“Do you want something to eat?” my driver asks.

“What do they have?”

“Chicken.”

I was expecting further options, but he isn’t forthcoming. Chicken, then.

We order a whole barbecue chicken, then sink back into our hammocks, chatting and bantering. Another bucket of beer arrives. I’m sure they cook the chicken slow to allow for more beer carnage.

Catching up with the neighbours. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Every now and then another sampan pulls up, asking if I’d like a float. There’s no real hassle—they quietly push off and float away. Despite the place being quiet, a few groups are out on the boats—local kids and teenagers for the most part.

Across the water, there’s an elevated restaurant with stilts four or five metres tall. My driver explains that’s to allow for the rise and fall of the Mekong. This is January, so the river is quite low. 

Lunch arrives. Indeed, it’s an entire chicken, with sides of beans and various dipping sauces. The food is simple but good. We sit in the shade, tearing the chicken off by hand, eating green beans with rice, all washed down with more beer.

Meet lunch. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Some kids swim up for a closer look. Pushing aside hyacinth, they hang off our railing, asking kid questions, my driver translating. Eventually they get bored and swim off. The hyacinth is an invasive species brought from South America on account of the pretty lilac flowers—it has been clogging waterways and destroying plant and marine life ever since. Cambodia never seems to get a break.

The light starts to sink and we enter into that perfect 30 to 45 minutes where everything just seems to glow. No, not because of the beer! At the same time, raft houses start to fill up as the evening shift rolls in, BYO music, with plenty of off-tune crooning starts up. My driver’s feet are starting to itch.

Mood. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

My driver calls (literally!) for the bill and then asks do I mind if he takes the leftovers back for his family. Of course, I say no problem. It’s a sobering end to a relaxing day by the water just 45 minutes from the capital of Cambodia.

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit couchfish.substack.com