Standing in the Immigration Building on the Vietnam–Cambodia Border

Standing in the immigration building on the border of Vietnam and Cambodia, the man just in front of us was pulled aside and informed he was in some trouble. “No correct visa.”  “But I don’t need one,” he replied calmly in a British accent.

“Yes you do,” the lady from Immigration insisted, now waving a blue passport in front of him.

This back‑and‑forth went on for a few minutes. It was a little alarming, as we only had e‑visas printed out and were just hoping everything was correct. Our British‑Indian compatriot began to sweat when the lady, frustrated, started waving a passport in his face and loudly declared: “Every Canadian needs a visa!”

“But I’m not Canadian,” he pleaded.

“Well why has it got Canada written on the passport?” she huffed, clearly losing patience.

“I don’t know? That’s not my passport.”

She looked inside and huffed again. “It looks like you,” she said, studying the picture before calmly calling, “Mr. James Porter, next—come through.”

From behind me, a Mr. James strolled past holding his Canadian visa out to greet the inspector as we all moved one step nearer the border. The man behind me quipped: “We all look the same to them.”

We got through within one hour—almost record‑breaking speed for this border! Back on the coach, we resumed our seven‑hour trip to Phnom Penh, the capital of Cambodia. A pleasant ride all told, with nice scenery and my time taken up writing my last blog.

Coach trip from Vietnam to Cambodia

Phnom Penh: First Impressions

Wow—Phnom Penh was a shock. It was calmer for sure, and our ride to the hotel was, of course, in a tuk‑tuk. Loving it already.
  A tuc tuc ride in Phnom phen Cambodia

Our hotel was posh, and as we stood on the roof by the swimming pool, we looked out in a state of shock. The skyline looked like a wealthy city with a name you’d recognize. Cambodia was not supposed to look like this—I thought it was on its knees! I felt naïve, as in all directions were large towers representing banks, hotels, institutions, and a massive casino. And right through the middle of the city flowed the mighty Mekong, almost three kilometres wide. Exploring this lot was going to be interesting.

Phnom Phen Skyline Cambodia

S‑21: Khmer Rouge Torture Base

At the ticket booth, the lady asked if we wanted an audio guide, but Wendy struggled to hear her through the Perspex screen. I stepped forward, couldn’t understand either, and stepped back. We read the prices, got the correct money, and tried again.

We entered through a turnstile into the former schoolyard—a French colonial square complex with a courtyard surrounded by two‑story buildings. The arrows directed us into the first ground‑floor room. Inside was a metal bed with chains in the centre, a large photograph showing a shackled corpse, and some hard‑to‑read writing. Terrible acts had clearly taken place here.

Outside, I said to Wendy: “I think it’s important we understand what happened here. I’ve read you can get a guide. It doesn’t really matter what it costs, does it?”

Wendy agreed and approached the booth again. Surprisingly, the lady shut her cash desk, came out, and declared: “I’ll take you around.”

I don’t need to describe the unearthly barbaric atrocities that happened in the halls and rooms of the former school, but a couple of things struck me hard.

I asked her: “Were you old enough to remember the Khmer Rouge, or were you too young?”

She pulled us aside and explained softly: “I was 12 years old when I was forced to walk from the city here to the camp. We walked for three long months. I saw dead bodies, lots of bodies by the road, and of course those who fell from that journey.”

Her tone was deathly, haunted. She wore large dark sunglasses—perhaps to hide her sad eyes. Goodness knows how many tears she had shed since 1975.

Pointing to a painting of trenches being dug by hand: “Twelve hours every day. No breaks, no talking, just a cup of watered‑down rice at night.”

I asked: “And your parents?”

She replied: “My mother made it, but the rest of my family were all killed. My father—killing fields. You know what this is?”

I nodded silently, noticing her clenched hands, the hands of manual labour.

The Photographs

Obviously, being shown around and told about the hundreds of thousands of people tortured and murdered in the school camp is harrowing. To get through such an awful place, you almost have to close yourself down slightly. I managed to endure the impromptu cells and the women’s and children’s halls—but I broke down after catching the look in a girl’s face.

All through the building were boards covered with black‑and‑white photographs, reproduced in the 1980s from recovered negatives. Face after face stared back as we moved from room to room, building to building. Nearing one of the most horrific blocks—where the killing of babies was documented—I suddenly caught sight of a young girl’s eyes looking out from a photograph.

She looked about seven or eight, with a fear I could easily recognize from my own daughters’ or granddaughters’ eyes. It was a silent fear, the kind that longs to be scooped up and held safe by a father or granddad. But she had no one. Her father would have been butchered; she herself beaten, electrocuted, subjected to unspeakable cruelty. Those poor eyes, dulled by suffering, still reached out across time.

I wanted to run to her, to lift her from that picture and save her—but she was only a ghost now, trapped in one of the most horrible places I have ever stood. I cried then, and I still feel like crying as I write this. As long as I live, I will always try to be there for my little girls and, of course, my boy. But she had no one—alone, afraid, abused. And for what?

Aftermath

We walked around the central market, but it didn’t grab us. We tried the waterfront, swam at the hotel, even worked out with improvised weights on the roof. Still, a sense of melancholy hung over us.

That evening, Wendy declared she wanted to go home. It sunk in—we were depressed by what we had seen earlier. Without knowing it, we had let the evils of the past make us miserable today.

I quoted Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar: “The evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones.”

We decided not to visit the Killing Fields. We already knew the history, had read extensively about Pol Pot’s regime. Going felt like dark tourism. We weren’t sheep—we’ve always lived on our own terms.

I’m glad we made that decision. The same applied when we visited Krakow in Poland. We had already seen a concentration camp with our kids. We didn’t need reminding of Auschwitz.

We lost one day of fun, but gained perspective. The next day we were out again, refusing to let anything but joy in.

Reflections

It’s hard to believe how stupid and horrible humans can be. As I write, BBC World News reports Thai jets bombing Cambodia. Will we ever learn?

If you don’t know about the Khmer Rouge and Pol Pot, I suggest you read John Pilger’s Heroes—the most impressive book I’ve ever read. Pilger highlights the genocide (2–3 million murdered out of 7 million), compares Pol Pot’s regime to Nazism, and exposes Western complicity. He shows the resilience of Cambodians as true heroes.

When my children were young, I read chapters to them so they could understand history not taught in school. If I had my way, history at school would be simple: just read Heroes.

One thing the book leaves you with is the urge to question everything you read and consume. Will we ever find the truth behind the headlines? Maybe not—but we should keep trying.

Crossing to Silk Island

Ferry across the mekong river to find silk island cambodia Ferry across the mekong river to find silk island cambodia Ferry across the mekong river to find silk island cambodia Ferry across the mekong river to find silk island cambodia

No matter what I said or did, the ladies were not letting me on the ferry to Silk Island. We needed another plan to get on one of the many ferries carrying cars across the Mekong. The roll-on roll-off boats rammed into the sandy shoreline below, and motorcycles, tuk-tuks, and cars rushed on, along with the odd person running up the ramp.

“There are five ferries—let’s pick the red one in the middle. I reckon it heads towards that island,” I said, pointing. “We can then try and get across that one and get another crossing to Silk.” “OK, let’s go.”

We rushed toward the ticket lady, and as we passed I placed a 1000 note into her hand (about 20p), then hurried down to the sand and across to our ferry. She didn’t look happy, but we were onboard! A few cars but mostly tuk-tuks soon filled the ferry, and we were off. Struggling against the ripping tide, the old diesel engine spewed out dark smoke in protest but slowly, surely, headed across the water. With no health and safety here, I wandered right up to the slightly raised ramp, looked into the water, and took in my surroundings. Wow—I was in the middle of the Mekong on a ferry to who knows where. How exciting was this!

The boat was driven right into the bank, and immediately the traffic was driving off as the ramp came down. It was a complete free-for-all, but it made you smile. Taking our time, we strolled up the bank to the road and noticed we were right in the middle of a fishing village. The mostly blue-coloured vessels were tied up just offshore or resting on the muddy banks. Families lived on these small boats under tarpaulins—cooking, washing, and fishing all from a tiny space. In the mud and dirt, some kids had set up a volleyball net and were amusing themselves sitting under it. A little girl walked down the slipway towards the boats, dressed in a crisp, very clean white school uniform—amazing against the backdrop of dirty boats and muddy shore.

Fishing Village on the Mekong river Cambodia

After about twenty minutes it was clear we were lost! Google Maps was no help, and the area we were walking through was looking decidedly unappealing. We did, however, manage to get a tuk-tuk ride to what we were told was another ferry to Silk Island. Boy, were we relieved—we really needed that ride, it was absolutely miles!

Just before boarding this latest ferry, a motorcycle with a massive trailer full of cut palm leaves slowly ground to a halt on the steep hill up from the ferry. I crossed the road quickly and helped it over the brow of the hill by pushing hard at the back while the grateful driver revved it within an inch of its life. Just in time, I turned and made the ferry before it left us behind.

Motorcycle and farmer on the mekong river Cambodia

On the crossing we met a young Cambodian woman who, although friendly, was quite pushy about hiring us some bikes from her sister. Well, to cut a long story short, we tried to lose her for about forty minutes, but no matter where we headed on foot she seemed to pop up. We relented and acknowledged she had won the little battle of wills, and we hired two quite nice bicycles for the rest of the day—for the princely sum of $4 US.

It was quite simply magical. We were off the beaten track, cycling through beautiful farmland and small rural villages. Every person we encountered smiled and waved, and children often ran out to the road to greet us.

Wendy was behind me on a dusty stretch of road when I heard talking. I looked around and she had company. “Where are you from?” a little girl asked from a motorcycle beside her (yes, a motorcycle). “England,” Wendy smiled and replied. “So why are you in my village? What are you doing here?”

There were two young girls, so Wendy pulled over to chat with them and I pedalled back to join. They were eight and ten years old and spoke amazing English. They told us their names and how they learned English at school, and they genuinely welcomed us to Cambodia. It was a lovely ten minutes or so chatting before they headed off back to their village beside the road.

Young Girls On motor scooters silk Island cambodia

We stopped at a temple beside the Mekong and watched the water in the shade for a while, while some young boy monks played and tended the grounds. We saw water buffalo and a cow tied to a gatepost on the road. Exotic fruits, bananas, nuts, and many crops we did not recognise lined the way, and we glimpsed into and around the wooden homes along the road.

Silk Island Cambodia Silk Island Cambodia

Bhudist Temple by the Mekong River Cambodia Silk Island

Bannanas on trees Cambodia Silk Island

We spent a whole afternoon cycling miles across the island and saw so many sights and sounds that gave clues to what life is all about in this beautifully green but very hot country. We even had a strange encounter with a smartly dressed Australian when we rocked up at a family’s house that offered tinned drinks. There, at a plastic table having a Fanta, was a tall young man in a white shirt and pressed trousers, alongside a Cambodian young man dressed equally smartly.

“I didn’t expect to see you guys here. Are you holiday tour reps or something?” I asked as we sat at another plastic table. “No, we are missionaries,” he replied. “And you?” he asked, equally puzzled.

We sat and chatted for a good twenty minutes about all sorts of random things, but it was really odd—he had no knowledge of anything you would normally take for granted. “Convict immigrants from Britain to Australia and ten-pound Poms?” Never heard of it. “Angkor Wat?” Never heard of it. “Thailand?” Nope. “Vietnam War?” Nope. “My brother lives in Tasmania.” Never heard of it.

He came across as a very polite young man, but it was as if he had been brought up in a commune under a stone or something. Not once did he and his pal mention religion, thank goodness, but it did make you wonder just what the hell his mission was—especially in a country almost completely Buddhist.

He did have one good use, though: he asked if I could use the lady’s toilet in her house, as his mate spoke Cambodian. A nice hole in the floor with a pail and jug to chuck down after it.

I could hear the very loud clatter of machinery at the entrance to a house beside the road. I peered in and saw what looked like a 19th-century wooden loom manically shaking itself to within an inch of destruction. A fairly old man spotted me being nosy, but he wasn’t cross—in fact, he smiled and gestured for me to come in. He was making a long sheet of beautiful blue silk and was constantly tending the wooden mechanism as it creaked and rocked back and forth. The real loud noise was the hardwood shuttle, which was so fast it was invisible as it raced from one side of the machine to the other. He spoke no English—and you couldn’t have heard him anyway—but he showed us the raw coloured threads and the completed silks, all produced in the front of his home. Yet another memory to treasure from what was the most wonderful of adventures.

Gentleman on a spinning loom for silk Cambodia 2025

We dropped off the bikes late in the day and were soon on another ferry in the right direction. Ferry across the Mekong river Cambodia Ferry across the Mekong river Cambodia

We ended up back in the capital after a good hours Tuc Tuc ride and just in time for the amazing walking street night market. Thousands of little marques stretch along the main road alongside the river.The road it seems is closed of from 5pm every Saturday and Sunday and all manner of food and crafts are sold along with festival attractions such as music and street entertainers. Free music and balloons on sticks looked wonderful for the many bare footed street children who watched and played on the pavements in front of the singers

Child with balloon Cambodia

And apart from New Year’s Eve at the Brandenburg Gate Berlin I have never ever seen so many people in a single space within a city. It had the most wonderful atmosphere and the colourful lamp lit stalls are just amazing. It was a real privilege to spend the end of a wonderful day strolling through the happy throngs of people and feeling the most positive vibes from Cambodia.

Cambodian Market Food

Walking Street Phenom Phen Cambodia

Walking Street Phenom Phen Cambodia Walking Street Phenom Phen Cambodia Walking Street Phenom Phen Cambodia Walking Street Phenom Phen Cambodia Walking Street Phenom Phen Cambodia Walking Street Phenom Phen Cambodia Walking Street Phenom Phen Cambodia Walking Street Phenom Phen Cambodia

Selection Of Photographs from Cambodian Capital:

Cambodia Cambodia Cambodia Cambodia

Silk Island Phnom Phen Cambodia Silk Island Phnom Phen Cambodia Silk Island Phnom Phen Cambodia Silk Island Phnom Phen Cambodia Silk Island Phnom Phen Cambodia Silk Island Phnom Phen Cambodia Silk Island Phnom Phen Cambodia Silk Island Phnom Phen Cambodia Silk Island Phnom Phen Cambodia Silk Island Phnom Phen Cambodia