I woke up feeling like someone had stuffed my head with damp towels and then sealed all the exits. A stinking cold — part bus germs, part air-con vengeance — and, to add a flourish of glamour, I hadn’t been to the loo for several days. I was bunged up in ways that defy polite vocabulary. If my body were a motorway, every lane was closed and the hard shoulder was on fire.

Still, armed with tissues and the kind of optimism only idiots and travellers possess, we set off to explore Phnom Penh.

The River Walk: Eau de Mekong

Once we escaped the side streets, we wandered along the river where the Mekong meets the Tonle Sap. In guidebooks, this is described as picturesque. In reality, the riverfront smelled like someone had attempted to pickle the entire Mekong. The aroma was extraordinary — a fermented, aquatic mystery that defied both science and basic decency.

The only perk was that we could actually hold hands — a rare treat — because pavements here aren’t pavements. They’re cafés, car parks, motorbike repair shops, family lounges, and occasionally a place to walk if you enjoy flirting with death. Walking wasn’t a mode of transport so much as a series of negotiations with physics.

At one point I stepped aside to avoid a motorbike and found myself stumbling into what I think was someone’s living room. A woman looked at me as if I’d wandered into her bathroom, which, given the layout, was entirely possible.

The Grand Palace: Closed for No Reason

We arrived at the Grand Palace ready for a bit of sparkle. Closed. No explanation. No sign. Just a big, silent nope.

So we wandered instead, peering into alleys and side streets, hoping to stumble upon something — anything — to love. A quirky corner. A charming café. A moment of ah, this is why people come here.

We found nothing. Not even a maybe.

Tuol Sleng & The Killing Fields: A Heavy, Necessary Pause

Late morning, we visited the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum, and the day shifted from irritating to sobering. The former school turned prison is stark and still — metal beds, shackles, and photographs that stop you dead. It isn’t somewhere you “enjoy.” It’s somewhere you absorb. Somewhere that follows you out the door.

S-21 is confronting enough on its own, but pairing it with the Killing Fields feels like being handed the second half of a story you wish had never needed telling. Mass graves. Scraps of clothing. A memorial stupa stacked with skulls. It’s devastating, humbling, and utterly essential.

The only known survivors

Lunch: A Culinary Crime Scene

Lunch was as disastrous as last night’s café hunt. Every place we passed looked like a health inspector’s fever dream. Eventually we found a small restaurant that appeared clean and respectable — which, in hindsight, should have been our first warning sign. Inside, not a single customer. Second warning sign.

We ordered chicken.

It tasted like it had died twice.

We left quickly.

Within half an hour, the chicken left us even quicker.

An explosive betrayal in a temple bathroom the size of a wardrobe.

Evening Meal: Crisp Butty

When all else fails, there’s always the crisp butty. For weeks we’ve walked past food stalls muttering, What on earth is that?

Today, Cambodians walked past us muttering the same thing.

We’d officially swapped roles. Cultural exchange at its finest.

Phnom Penh Wat: A Pleasant Surprise

Somewhere between the fish-head river breeze and our hotel, we squeezed in a visit to Phnom Penh Wat. I’d braced myself for full tourist cheese — neon lights, plastic flowers, maybe a monk with a card machine — but it was surprisingly calm and understated.

The ceiling, painted in rich, storybook colours, was the real showstopper. Even Craig paused long enough to look up, which is high praise from a man who normally reserves upward glances for aircraft and ceiling fans.

It wasn’t life-changing, but it was one of the few moments in the city that felt gentle. A small pocket of ahh in a day full of oh no.

Final Thoughts

Phnom Penh is not climbing our favourites list. In fact, it’s clinging to the bottom like a damp sock. Between the smells, the traffic, the closed attractions, the chicken incident, my head cold, and the emotional weight of genocide museums, I’m counting down the days until we leave.

And just when we thought the day had exhausted its supply of surprises, we returned to our room to find cockroaches doing laps around the bathroom like they owned the place. At this stage, I’m not sure whether to laugh, cry, or charge them rent.