Cambodian roads are not as bad as everyone makes out. Okay, they are not tarmac, and turn to sludge in the rain, but they still join places up: a vital part of roadness. The trick on a motorbike is not to slow down; stay at the top of potholes and glide man, just glide. The half-built bridges, with gaping holes designed especially to sink your front tyre are a bit of a laugh though. Gliding carefully.
Angkor is just as they say. Perfect with your own vehicle. Wind in hair; low yellow sun; bike purring; ancient jungle cities of stone all around. Oh yes, this works for me.

The ancients

A cop tries to stop me on way back for doing a correct left turn at the traffic lights, instead of forcing my way across the minor road entrance blocking everyone’s way. This seems to constitute dangerous driving. He jumps out into the middle of the road and furiously waves a battery-powered baton at me. It is like a light sabre toy. I can hardly see the red plastic tip flash pathetically in the sun. Hilarious. I accelerate towards him broadly grinning. He steps aside astutely. No bribe for you matey.

Delayed a day at the port. They won’t accept my signature—“on passport it is different”. I lose the debate. It’s not that different, and I have lots of ID. “Still, it’s different.” Thankfully the guy comes up with a solution. For a small fee, they send it to their in-house forger, who does a far better Simon Kennedy than me.