This photo pretty much sums up my expression when we rocked up to Sihanoukville: meant to be a brilliant party place on the coast where the sun shines constantly, with amazing tropical islands only a boat ride away. Of course us English arrived and it was the first day of rain they'd had in three months or so. And it just continued. So we spent our days holding out for some sun, being let down, missing Jamie and Lily who we had parted ways with in Phnom Penh and eating our way through the Western food menu at Monkey Republic. One of the pluses - they did fantastic fish and chips.

The highlight of the last day (other than having a bus booked to get us the hell out of what can only be described as Magaluf in South East Asia), was catching two hours of sun before the rain started to fall again. In which time one of the ladies who roam the beach persistantly asking you if you want a pedicure whilst tsk-tsking at your lack of groomed toe nails, doled out some abuse of the Cambodian variety. Going something like this: saying to Vicky, "you are so brown, we could be sisters!" Then nodding in my direction..."your friend, not so much". I would like to point out that although I do look like I've gotten straight off the plane from London, Vicky has been travelling for five months and we're pretty sure she must have some African American in her somewhere in her blood line as she goes seriously black within two minutes of being in the rays of the sun.

The most interesting part of our time in Sihanoukville was the bus journey to Vietnam. First off, the bus was late setting off, but that is nothing new in the backpacker world. If the bus leaves on time it's a pleasant surprise. Two hours into our journey, pulling over in the middle of nowhere next to a row of petrol tankers, we smelt the dubious odour of burning. Which is top of your list of things you want to smell when parked next to gallons of petrol. At this point some of the Cambodians get off the bus to have a smoke next to said tankers. Getting off the bus to investigate the situation, Vicky and I were welcomed by the distinct smell of burning rubber. It was at this point I took the time to actually look at our bus properly, and noticed that it appeared to patched together with concrete on the majority of the surface area. Good.

After 45 minutes or so we carry on, our bus driver going significantly slower this time. We are then told to change buses. We were well aware of having to change buses at Phnom Penh, but this is already one unscheduled change. You would think it comforting after the bus breaking down earlier, apart from the new buses' windows are all smashed up and you can actually feel the cracks in the glass. Eventually we get to Phnom Penh and change buses as intended, albeit an hour and a half behind schedule.

Somehow I manage to get a decent amount of shut eye on the next leg of the journey - I think after travelling awhile you learn to sleep almost anywhere. Which could be a useful skill. Around 6.30am we rock up at the side of the road again and Vicky kindly wakes me telling me it's the border crossing and I need my passport. Groggily getting off the bus I see there is no border and it's just a generic pit stop. Thanks Vicky. Figuring as I'm up I may as well take the opportunity to use the bathroom (I say bathroom, I mean squattie) before climbing back onto the bus and falling back to sleep. I wake an hour later to find we're still in the same spot. Soon another tourist tells us we are changing buses AGAIN. Of course no one who actually worked for the bus company bothered to relay this information. So this is our fourth bus. Irritating is not the word, but you learn to expect it.

Half asleep I arsily give my bag to this guy loading luggage onto the new bus, only to later realise that he's a Japanese tourist who was just loading his and his girlfriend's luggage. Kind of mortifying. Then we stand by the bus for half an hour whilst these Cambodian blokes remove huge amounts of cargo from the new bus to our old bus. When they start to take a break two tourists, including kind Japanese man who loaded my luggage, take over and get involved to get them to complete the job. By now we're running three hours late and still haven't reached the border. Then there's some hammered American bloke trying to get back on the bus that will take him not only in the wrong direction, but to the wrong country. Fairly amusing to all aboard.

A relatively smooth run at the border crossing, where scanners for our bags tell us we're definitely entering more Westernized territory. Two hours of sleep peppered with the constant sound of car horns and we finally arrive in Ho Chi Minh City, or Saigon as it is still called by the locals. The most challenging bus journey to date without a doubt. Saigon better be worth it. x