We arrived in the kingdom of Cambodia shortly before sunset. There was an orange red glow on the horizon courtesy of the hastily retreating sun, but the humidity however, was most certainly still present. As were the mosquitoes.

Before I continue I would just like to point out that before officially arriving in Cambodia, in the process we also made our very first overland border crossing. Now isn’t that exciting. There was, contrary to popular rumour among backpackers, no attempted extortion. The guards even smiled. We smiled back. I found myself thinking that the reputation these guys had for being well, a*******s, was quite obviously wrong.

That was until they laughed at my passport picture. a*******s.

After tearing ourselves away from the leather reclining seats that had gathered us up in their comforting embrace for the duration of the journey, we descended the stairs of the bus to the dusty, desolate site that we were informed was the Phnom Penh bus station. It was a little after 21:00. It was also quickly obvious that, much like every other bus station in SE Asia, this was not in fact in Phnom Penh itself, but rather cunningly, several kilometres away, on the outskirts. Just far enough to prevent you walking. Just far enough to ensure a steady stream of business for the local tuk-tuk drivers.

Whilst collecting our rucksacks from the hold beneath the bus we were aware of two shadowy figures close by. They were the wily, opportunistic figures of local tuk-tuk drivers. The shadows quickly emerged into view and we were greeted by Mr. Sun and his friend, Tony. They were both middle aged, quite short and well built. Mr. Sun had a glass eye. Tony, as far as I could tell, didn’t. Ash quickly negotiated a reasonable fare to the centre, telling him that we needed to find a cheap hotel, and we found ourselves climbing aboard Mr. Sun’s green, scooter powered chariot.

We were taken to the Angkor International Hotel, about a ten minute ride from the bus station, after being assured by Mr. Sun that it was in fact, “cheap cheap”. He was no doubt on the payroll here in some way but after we discovered that the rooms were reasonable, as were the rates and well, it was getting late and we were also starving hungry, we decided that this was to be our home for the next few days.

Before retiring for the night we also hired Mr. Sun and his chariot for the following day for our planned tour of the city and some of the various sights, including the Killing fields of Choeung Ek, the Russian market and the notorious, S21 prison.

The sun was already beating down on the weary inhabitants of the Cambodian capital as we emerged from the hotel entrance at 10:00 the following morning, to be greeted with the familiar smiling face and slightly off centre eye of Mr. Sun.

“Where do we go first?” Asked the cheerful driver.

The killing fields was to be our first destination in terms of sights, however, we had not had any breakfast yet.

“Do you know a good bakery?” We enquired in unison.

After parting with a fist full of Dollars (strangely, virtually nowhere in Cambodia will accept their own currency, the Riel. They only want US Dollars, which makes the place much more expensive) in exchange for various baked goods, including a doughnut for our faithful driver, we headed around 15km out of the city, towards the killing fields of Choeung Ek.

Now, ill be the first to admit that before arriving here in Cambodia, I really had absolutely no idea about the tragic history of this country and its incredible, long suffering people. I had heard the name Pol Pot mentioned, but I didn’t know who he was or why his name was known. After planning the trip however, we did research the events of the all too recent past. The fact that it was indeed so recent only served to make it even more uncomfortable reading. No amount of reading however, can prepare you for coming face to face with the consequences of what was no less than genocide.

As we entered the site, along with the guide that we had acquired, it was impossible not to feel the sense of calm tranquillity that seemed to surround the area. There were dozens of butterflies fluttering around the lush, grassy fields that were scattered with wild flowers. The day was warm and clear. And It was quiet. Really quiet. Despite the number of visitors. Considering the tragic history of the place it felt truly strange. Unnerving almost.

Our guide stopped us at the steps of the tall memorial stupa that dominates the area just past the entrance, and began to recount to us some of his countries story.

He told us how the Khmer Rouge, under the orders of Pol Pot, had massacred around 2 million of the Cambodian population during the course of the 1970‘s. Around 30% of the population. This included men, women and children. Crimes such as supporting the previous government, being considered educated (such as having attended university, living in the city, or simply by wearing glasses) or even just wearing colourful clothes, were considered sufficient to amount to a death sentence. Virtually every Cambodian alive today is a victim of the evil brutality of the Khmer Rouge. Our guide even described how he himself had lost two of his sisters.

It was hard to hold yourself together as we listened intently.

We were shown up to the entrance of the memorial stupa, which was erected in 1988 in memory of the victims and houses more than 8000 skulls recovered from the scores of mass graves in the area. As we removed our shoes and entered the building it really hit home just what had gone on here less than three decades ago. The un-comprehensible scale of the barbarity and the reason that it should not, ever, be forgotten. There were several levels in the glass panelled centre, each full of skulls, belonging to men, women and children of all ages. You could clearly see huge fractures in a number of them caused by the Khmer Rouge bludgeoning them to death with clubs and hammers in order to save on expensive ammunition.

We spent the next hour walking almost silently around the area. Past the ‘musical tree’, on which the Khmer Rouge soldiers used to hang a radio to dull the screams of their victims, some of whom were buried still alive. Past the ‘killing tree’, on which it was reported that soldiers had killed babies by holding their feet and smashing their heads against the trunk. Past the dozens of craters that represent the mass graves and past countless bone fragments, teeth and clothing that is continually unearthed by the rain.

There are even dozens more mass graves that have yet to be unearthed and many more that are believed to have been washed away in previous flooding.

If ever there was a place that you wished did not exist, it was this. The only word that comes close to describing it is, simply, horrific. This was an experience we wouldn’t forget in a hurry.

After thanking our guide for sharing his knowledge and experiences with us we slowly made our way back to the front gate and the patiently waiting, Mr. Sun.

We all decided that a break was in order before making our way to the infamous and similarly gruesome former S-21 prison, and we therefore headed for the Russian market as our next stop.

So, would anyone care to guess why it’s called the ‘Russian market‘?

Ok, I’ll tell you: Because Russians, at one stage or another, have been known to shop here. Obviously.

I wondered therefore if, following our visit, it would go on to be called the “English-Cypriot Market“.

Probably not. I think its got a nice ring to it though all the same.

Largely indoors and made up of a narrow maze of stalls selling everything from custom fitted clothing to toothpaste, the market itself is a good place to lose an hour or two simply browsing. Or getting lost. Or both.

I often wonder how they do it. Just how do they make it so complicated to navigate your way around in a market? I assume it is planned that way in order to ensure that once entered, only the fortunate few are likely to find their way out of there again without assistance. The majority, if they wish to inhale that sweet scent of freedom again, are left with one choice. Pay. Buy something and then - before handing over the cash - ask for detailed directions (preferably an illustrated map) for the way out.

In our case, after passing the exact same stall with the same frustrated trader stood beside it time and again as if caught up in an episode of Scooby Doo, even though, as far as we could tell, we were walking in a straight line, we finally emerged back out into the daylight and harsh humidity of the early afternoon. With the addition of a couple of extra bags I might add (1 x traditional Khmer scarf and 2 x T-shirts were purchased). No map was needed on this occasion.

We returned to find Mr. Sun, bless his heart, stretched out, kicking back in his green throne, soaking up some of the atmosphere as the mass of people and machines passed by all around him. As he caught sight of us however, he was up and ready, kick starting the scooter in preparation for departure for the next leg of the tour.

A short ten minute drive away we dismounted again alongside a number of other tuk-tuks, with their drivers, as seems the general custom, lounging in the back. Mr. Sun pointed us back in the direction we had just come, towards the end of the busy street. So off we went. As we turned the corner the gated entrance to the Tuol Sleng Museum came into view. The compound is surrounded by a 10ft wall with barbed wire and broken glass at the top. There were also a number of amputee and burn victims begging around the entrance, one of them struck me as we edged closer, his face completely disfigured, almost like melted wax in appearance. It was horrible. I couldn’t help pitying the guy, especially knowing that there is no such thing as a welfare system here in Cambodia.

To give you a quick rundown on this place, up until 1975 it was known as Tuol Svay High School. That was until Pol Pots ‘security’ forces seized the building and turned it into the largest centre of detention and torture in the country. The infamous ‘Security Prison 21’ (or S21 as it was more widely known) was born. In the three years that followed, it is estimated that around 17,000 people were detained, tortured and eventually either killed here or transferred to the killing fields of Choeung Ek for execution. Rough figures suggest that at its busiest around 100 people a day passed through this awful place. A total of seven came out alive when the Vietnamese eventually liberated the city. Seven. Out of around 17,000.

Full records of every single victim was kept by the Khmer Rouge. Photographs of thousands of the victims as they arrived here are on display in one of the wings of this former school. There are also photographs of a number victims - following torture - whose decomposing bodies were discovered by the Vietnamese. Their graves are now situated on the former playing field. There are still blackboards present in a number of the rooms alongside instruments of torture that were found there. It leaves absolutely crystal clear, the stark contrast between the two very different stories that these walls hold within them. From a school at the centre of a healthy society to a torture chamber at the centre of a barbaric one.

Unlike at Choeung Ek, we opted not to hire a guide here and looking back, we both regret that decision. If anyone reading this is thinking about heading here I would definitely advise it as the basic information around the site, although it is in English, is also, as it suggests, very basic. A lot of the time, frankly, you don’t really know what your looking at.

Finally, before leaving S21 we made our way to the movie room to catch the documentary on the prison that is shown daily and came highly recommended.

Now, I’m not doubting that it is indeed a very accurate and telling historical account, however, we had two main problems as we took our seats in said movie room. First, it was bloody hot. Second, and this refers only to my good self - there were lots of subtitles. Now I, for those of you unaware, am a touch short sighted. To the point of blindness. The television could most definitely not be described in any way close to being large. This therefore, posed a problem. If I squinted and concentrated really hard I could, almost, see the TV in the distance. I had absolutely no chance with the subtitles.

Myself, Aimee and Ash entered the room at 15:00. By 15:15 I was looking in the vague direction of where I believed the TV to be situated, whilst nodding from time to time to give the impression that I was indeed absorbing the information on offer. Aimee, sitting to my left, was a little less cordial, huffing something about being ‘boiling’ and Ash, well from the snoring coming from his direction, was really enjoying himself.

This continued for another 45 minutes before a figure appeared before us. A familiar figure with a slightly off centre eye. Neither myself, or Aimee to my left, were sure which one of us he was looking at. It was of course, none other than Mr. Sun. Apparently Becca, not knowing where we were, had sought the assistance of our trusted driver to locate us. We saw it more as a rescue and a chance to escape from the narrow room filled with the stench of sweat and boredom. We didn’t need asking twice.

All that was left to do for the day was to book our bus north to Siem Reap for the following day. Mr. Sun, as ever, knew just the place. The place that awarded him the most commission. Obviously. He’s a cunning old goat, this lad. Fair play to him though.

In fairness to Mr. S, it duly transpired that his place was actually also the cheapest (on that particular road at least) so we did book with them, and he did get his commission.

I shall pause here for a moment to inform you that we also spotted some wildlife here at the travel shop. Well, on top of it in fact. Now, please bare in mind that we are in the middle of the Cambodian capital here. Nothing around us but concrete and cars. What did we see? None other than a troop of monkeys casually making their merry way along the roof tops, only pausing occasionally to attempt to chew the scruffily hanging electric power cables (ahh, so THAT’S why there seems to be blackouts every so often…). It was a truly odd sight.

Anyway, back at the travel shop, with everything booked Mr S whisked us back to our starting point and we duly got out and thanked his good self for his wonderful service, paying him his prior agreed fee in the process.

We stood on the path beside him and his chariot and smiled, waiting for him to smile back. No smile was returned and a few extremely long and uncomfortable seconds passed before the silence was broken…

“No tip?” Came the blunt response to our stupid grins.

“Oh well, at least I got the commission…”

And that was it. Into the tuk-tuk and off he went in a cloud of smoke. Out of our lives forever.

All I could think as he turned the corner was: “We bought you a doughnut, ungrateful b******…”.