Decided to leave Phnom Penh but first thought we'd better register with our respective embassies ... just incase ... er ... anything should happen in this war ravaged country still filled with unexploded ordnance. Strangely, the women at the embassy was French (outsourcing gone mad I say. Next we'll have the Italians looking after the ministry of defence and the Argentinians the Bank of England ... tsch!). Short for time I help my hand aloft and hailed the transport of choice in these here parts - 90cc motos (mopeds), otherwise known as "chicken chasers" back home. Bizarre hand movements, frantic pointing of fingers at a map, scratching of heads and miming of reving the moped ("Me ... you ... go broom broom ... that way") represented my now well tuned expert communication and bargaining skills. Then a white-knuckle-swerving-hair(or bald patch)-on-fire slalom through the streets of Phnom Phen.
Randevous with the rest of the posse to catch the bus to Sihanoukville. Had the occasional rest stop where we stood at the grassy edge of the service station sucking on bottles of coke and eyeing the landscape looking for suspicious looking landmine type shapes. In this place, popping behind a bush runs more severe risks than the usual chance of stinging your back-side on a nettle or being attacked by ants. Undo ... squat down ... BOOM! No more worries about wipping up ... no arse.