When a ski season goes wrong

We've now moved on to do battle with Cambodian taxi drivers who actually only have a moped, and to stay in hotels that cost the same as a leaky bungalow in Thailand, but with air conditioning and satelite TV and fridge. And sit down loos.

I've been looking forward to Cambodia for one reason. I'd heard that they're mad about Karaoke. For months, I've been tormenting Bruno with threats of searching out the best bars to strut our stuff. I would do 'hit me baby one more time' to deafening applause.

Except that's not the kind of karaoke they have. They have Cambodian music, which I think may have been invented by pol pot. Think of a cat being strangled, and then think that you wish that's all you were hearing. Then add a budget video with a snivelly girl and a creepy man mincing round her.

The boat trip from the Border into Cambodia took five and a half hours. They started the video as we left, and it was still going when we got off. It was so loud, that I couldn't even listen to my walkman to block it out.

As a bonus, after about two hours, the DVD messed up, and the song kept jumping about and letting out screeching sounds where it was scratched.

Welcome to Cambodia!!

Having woefully misplanned our time, we found out we had an extra week for our trip. I know, worse things could happen. We decided to chill out from our hardcore backpacker living for a bit and go to nice touristy Ko Chang for a few days. Seriously, if this place had any more young Brits, it would be Ibiza. But with an idealic beach.

Spurred on by visions of my dad charming five-star hotel receptionists by flashing a smile and a Lufthansa ID, I became convinced that Bruno and I deserved the pool and air conditioning of the only posh resort on the beach. And at a price we could afford. As I confidently marched up to reception, I failed to notice that I was hot and red in the face and heaving a giant backpack.

I haven't seen such a look of disdain since I told the deputy head at Tiffins that I wanted to stay on for the sixth form.

Chastened, we moved on the 'rustic' bamboo bungalows just down the beach, that weren't ten times our daily budget. You could even call it romantic - like castaway, but without a drunk Oliver Reed. The bamboo weave of the walls let in playful beams of light, and a sea breeze blew gently through the gaps at the top. There was even a comedy tumble-down effect from the foot-long hole in the roof.

That night, for the first time in five weeks, it rained.