A small rural guesthouse, somewhere in the backwaters of Cambodia:
I return to the guesthouse after spending the entire day in the sun up on the mountain. I am thirsty and hungry and tired and my arms are itching from a light sunburn. There is a minibus in front of the place, having spewed its cargo of about fifty Cambodian tourists into the premise. I step over a field of flip-flops by the door and into the noise. The hallway is crowded with children playing and their parents eating snacks, while the washing-area is overflowing with people cleaning themselves. An old woman gives me an evil look while I push my way into my room, which is right next to the washing-area. I close the door behind me, open the window. When I close my eyes it sounds like the noise of the mass of people now filling the guesthouse is right in the room with me. I do not care, crash after the strains of the day and fall asleep for an hour or so. Then my hunger wakes me up, the only thing I have eaten this day being a baguette I had bought early in the morning at the local market. Time to check out the only restaurant in this town that I have read about on the internet: Pkay Prek. I am hungry and thirsty and I have reached the main goal of my trip. I feel just fine, as I make my way through the noisy crowd in the hallway, down the stairs and into the dusky glow of the setting sun.
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