After a month of relative abstinence, high in the Himalayas, Hilda and I dived into the milling throng, eager to get nice and drunk and make new friends. We accomplished both tasks admirably, and Hilda spent the entire next day in bed, groaning and exclaiming at intervals "but I NEVER get hangovers!" I was fine. Fine, that is, until around four o clock, when my hangover struck with ruthless precision, in the hottest part of the day, just as Hilda had decided she was well enough to emerge and do something fun. I've said it before, and I'll most likely live to say it again: I'm never drinking fifty cent liquor mixed with red bull and coke from a child's sand bucket at one in the morning with a bunch of strangers, EVER again!

On Monday morning we boarded a mini van with about eight other tourists (all French - we discovered quickly that the French are in the vast majority here and in Cambodia) and, in some significant discomfort, made our way across the border into Cambodia to the town of Siem Reap, a place which transpired to have almost nothing to do with Cambodia whatsoever. Siem Reap's claim to tourism fame is the massive temple complex of Angkor Wat (wiki notes: built from the twelfth century onwards, initially Hindu but gradually adapted for Buddhist use, and containing, according to a Western visitor in the sixteenth century, "all the refinements the human genius can conceive of").

Today, it is Cambodia's main tourist attraction, and as a result, Siem Reap has become a bizarre oasis of casinos, resorts, tuk tuks and 'westeraunts' serving food for delicate tourist stomachs. It was here that I first began to notice the diversity between my fellow travelers. Angkor Wat is, it seems, a must see on all Asian itineraries. In the four days we spent in Siem Reap (longer than intended, because poor Hilda had food poisoning) I made friends with a gang of European backpackers, winding their way through Thailand at their leisure, with very little money or time constraints, content to stay in one place until the booze ran out or they got bored.

Since Hilda had taken to her bed, I spent the three days with Tasmin, a lovely English girl who had quit her job and come to Thailand for a month. One day we sweet talked our way into one of the fancier resorts and lolled about in the pool to try and escape the heat. The pool, located as it was in a luxury resort, was not in fact very cold. We got talking with an Australian couple who were staying there, who told us about their journey so far through Vietnam, and their plans for the next two weeks, which included an earnest wish to finish their trip with a stay in "somewhere nice". "Because this place is a dump" I said, trying to keep a straight face. To his credit, the man looked sheepish. "Sorry, that must have sounded a bit precious". It was odd to think we were sharing the same tourist attractions as people who were on their resort get away.

Not five hours later, in the bar in down town Siem Reap, I encountered yet another breed of traveller; a self confessed "flash packer". I've never met a more contemptible individual in my life. Loud, stupid, brash and overwhelmingly self satisfied, utterly unaware of the disgust with which he was regarded by all in his path not suffering from severe brain damage.

"I've spent three thousand dollars in three weeks here" he boasted loudly, "it's just one big party, the bar dudes frigging love me ay." I resisted the urge to throw up, thinking of the man I had bought postcards from earlier that day on the street, both his arms missing from a landmine explosion, while this cocky shit was parading around with his over stuffed wallet. "Can I buy youse girls some drinks? It's just that the mafia are looking for me so I have to stay inside...probably best if I hang out with youse for the night."

Strike me dead if this is not verbatim.

Words failed me. Tasmin snorted. Christina, the other girl with us, laughed so hard her drink dribbled out of her nose. We didn't bother to make excuses, just a hasty exit.

After Hilda had sufficiently recovered and we had all been to see the temples (an amazing sight) we planned to return to Bangkok and catch a night bus north to a Chiang Mai. We were told that under any circumstances, the bus should get us across the border and back to the capital within eight hours.

Ha.

We arrived at the border at eleven, the same as all the other tourist buses, and proceeded to stand in an unmoving line of sweaty tourists in the baking midday sun for two and a half hours. When the line eventually ground into motion, it took us a further hour to reach the front. The cause of the delay? The border officials were all on their lunch hour from midday to one. One hundred hot pissed off tourists waited in the sun while six government officials took a simultaneous hour off from stamping passports. When we arrived at the desks we were stamped and rushed through post haste, with no instructions or questions. Needless to say, we missed the night bus, and discovered that our options were to wait in Bangkok one more day, or to catch the night train, leaving in half an hour.

We sped to the station, bought the only remaining tickets, and boarded the train in third class. As we sat in the hard, square seats, and surveyed the hard, square carriage with its wheezing fans and dirty floor, a feeling of apprehension began to creep into my bones.

"What does it say our arrival time is on the ticket?"

When Hilda told me, I must confess, I may have reacted badly.

Fifteen hours. The train journey was going to take fifteen hours. I had no book, no music, no films. No pillow. No blanket. No space to stretch out. No food or water.

It took all of Hilda's considerable optimism to prevent me taking a flying leap back onto the platform and refusing to get back on the train.

"Just think of it as an adventure" she coaxed "this is how everyone travelled thirty years ago. This is how the locals travel. Can you see even one other backpacker here?"

She was right. A few carriages away, backpackers were dozing off in sleeper compartments, or curling up in second class reclining seats. In our carriage, a five year old Thai girl was making increasingly bold dashes down the aisle to gawp at Hilda's blonde hair, before giggling wildly and running back to her mother.

We slept. Somehow.