TONLE SAP

He calls himself Stephen but his name is Hun. 

He lives with his widowed father and speaks Korean too.

He likes motocrossing but for the whole of Saturday, we stirred red dust from the mostly upaved hematite trails as we pedalled through villages and a vast expanse of green ricefields, around the no-ticket zone of the first Khmer temple mountain before finishing in a tongue of dry land sticking into the water world of Tonle Sap.        

He made quick stops to show me the catch from a variety of casting nets, fishing rods and fish traps.

He waved and greeted back at children who seemed happy to see us and, after 20 kilometers, led me to an unfenced yard with a picturesque garden where a farmer's wife fed us with an amazing lunch of stir fried pork and vegetables, yellow noodles, and freshly picked chico and longan before hitting the hammocks to while the heat of the midday sun.  

I smelled of the gurami and basil leaves from our first two stops, and the taste of local snacks from a small village market near the Bakong Temple lingered with images of the crabs and snails gathered by two children fishing in a bridge. 

He said I looked 20 years young than 53 as we left our Merida bikes in the jetty for a boat ride to the Kampong Phluk Floating Village whose houses don't actually float but are built on stilts.

I smelled rotting fish and gave away notebooks and pencils at the village temple.

We waited for the sunset with two cans of cold Cambodia beer from the Bamboor Bar at the mangrove park but the huge golden sun I saw from pictures never came.

He was finally able to change my $100 with smaller bills after returning to Siem Reap by tuktuk.

I gave him a $30 tip as my appreciation of his effort to ensure that I enjoyed, which I did immensely.

I treated myself with a disppointing whiskey sour at Hanuman's then walked away from Pub Street as the crowd gathered for a halloween street party, to the street food stalls of Pokambor where I ended the day with a superb barbecued beef and an array of average grilled pork parts.

I walked back to the Old Market on Sunday afternoon for a futile search of Viet Cong souvenir caps and ended up with a cold beer at the Cozy Bar without the old and sad white tourists, and a succession of cuba libre, long island iced tea and mojito at Home Cocktail sans the mostly local crowd. 

I'm flying out later in the night and I want to leave happy.