Vietnam

The boys sang out songs in Lao to the rhythm of music on a tipped beer crate. Each consumed bottle, along with sticks split from a bamboo pole, provided yet another instrument for growing numbers of band members.

At this time of year, the river is at its lowest. This leaves a wide, endlessly long sandy playground for football, motorbikes and barbeque, and also acres of rich-soil for farmers to plant.

Further south, on the Gulf of Thailand, a tiny Cambodian town called Kep rests in near-ruins. It reminds me of inner city Detroit, with burned out mansions, never reclaimed or rebuilt, only here the deeply insecure Pol Pot exterminated or chased away the owners. Now vine-covered and decaying, these French colonial villas line a gentle curving seaside. The palm-lined beach has a few long-tail boats rocking, half in, half out of a gentle surf. Wading men toss small nets. Women cook fish on charcoal in small glowing stoves in the beached boats. Just north of this activity, a half-dozen wooden shacks stand on stilts waiting for hungry travelers like us. The shacks double as homes and restaurants; babies swing in hammocks, squid sizzles in woks, tourists eat at wooden tables, and wormy cats wander between stacks of beer crates.

Due west along the Gulf, three hours of red dirt roads and Japanese-sponsored bridge projects lead to Sihanoukville. We checked in to a bungalow hotel, fell asleep and woke up to noises and bugs, so we paid the six dollar a night bill, and called the Sokha Resort to come rescue us. We swam in acres of blue pools, kayaked, jet-skied, and after the latest possible late check out, we had Khmer massage in the adjacent hotel spa. Heavenly luxury and careless fun did not prepare us in any way to feel good when we encountered so many battered, hungry and filthily clothed children in Phnom Penh's public markets

Back in Phnom Penh, an afternoon was spent kissing babies, patting mothers, and handing 500 Riel notes to children while wandering the labyrinthine central market.

From Phnom Penh to Siem Riep a jet-boat ferry runs. It sounds convenient enough on the brochure, but riding atop a jet engine with a few seats in the front part of its cowl is deafening and cramped. Life along the Mekong passed by at 40 knots for over six hours of kerosene burning madness. Our human fuel: two baguettes, four cans of beer, and 5mg of Valium. Jet-boat passengers transfer to a wooden long-tail boat for a ride up a muddy side stream. We pushed through a floating city of fishermen and women, and passed by a floating elementary school with attached floating basketball court for their endless reproduction.

Siem Riep is near the Angkor temple complex, a complex of temples dating from the 9th to the 15th century. The temples have created something of a tourist town in Siem Reap. Temple-opulent hotels from Raffles to Hotel de la Paix for the jet-set line the road to Angkor. In the back alleys, mosquito-ridden bungalows provide sleeping spaces for all everlasting bohemians with Nikon cameras and all wide-eyed backpacker couples with “Let's Go!” books and maps tucked in their fanny sack.

An early dawn visit to the temples found us enjoying the orangest sun reflecting light off the decaying Angkor Wat's ornate decadence. A few horses, completely unimpressed by the Wat, grazed in the surrounding grass. Monks in robes rested on the temple steps, enduring sun-up to sun-down photography by thousands of temple visitors who offer subdued hand waves to indicate "thanks for letting me sheepishly take your picture, you cute little monks.”

An article about human trafficking in Cambodia can be read in Mother Jones.