Siem Reap Airport - Wednesday afternoon.

This may be hurried as we take off in about 30 minutes for Vietnam, our first visit to a Communist country. Having read recently a book by Warren Fellows who was jailed for 12 years in a hell-hole in Thailand for smuggling drugs, airports have assumed a certain dread, even though my most potent medication, paracetamol, lies securely hidden from sniffer dogs. Janet and I joke about certain individuals at the airport who look suspiciously at us. I fact, they look quite normal but since reading that book...

Another bout of food poisoning. This time from an Indian cafe and a bowl of vegetable soup. Gurgles through the night and a sudden dash to the bathroom at 3am. I was going to spend part of next day, Christmas Day, at Raffles Grand Hotel in their splendid bar, sipping pink gins, as suggested by a friend in Bangkok. But Lomotil and alcohol don't mix.

Today, we went to Para's hometown, a village about 30 kms out from Siem Reap. The last 15 kms was over a road with foot-deep pot-holes and depressions. Janet's ribs have still not recovered from her fall earlier this week and she emerged at Para's mother's house nursing herself.

The house itself is basically a wooden room on stilts with entrance gained by climbing up a wide ladder. There were no furnishings in the room, just a few mats and a piece of string over which clothes were hung. There was a kitten and a broom, no electricity. The toilet is any convenient tree at a safe distance from the house. The kitchen is a room at ground floor and it is surrounded by dozens of scrawny chickens and their brood. A few featureless dogs lay around and a dozen or so neighbours came to see people with blond hair for the first time in their lives. Lots of kids, a deranged uncle, toothless women holding babies, shy schoolchildren sent home to look at the aliens. I filmed them with the camcamera (or rather, Para tried with mixed success) and they stared and stared at them while we stared at them.

Para's mother, widowed in April this year, brought out photos of her late husband and a coloured photograph. He was a handsome man, much bigger and taller than Para, and a leader in the community. His fight with hepatitis B and subsequent hepatoma devastated the village. The pictures taken at the funeral and the preparation of the body were very moving. He had been washed before cremation with suitable fluids, Para said. "What were they?" I asked. Para replied they only had tea and gasoline so that's what they used. At least the fire was spectacular.

Time to board. Speak to you from Hanoi.