When I'm 64 (Sal Salis, Cape Range National Park)

The night was calmer, although colder until the early morning when the wind whipped up again. No drama. The tent stayed anchored to the ground. We heard the sound of distant voices heading off to early morning adventures and dozed on. 

Those voices became the soundtrack to our week. We heard them on the plane up from Perth, on the shuttle to Sal Salis, in the morning as they went on their dawn walk, in the Lodge. I named them Tinnitus because they were always in my head.

Today is Jayne’s birthday (August 19 if you’re reading this out of sync) and the intention is to be as relaxed as possible and just go with whatever takes us. It is also responsible for today's title, When I'm 64 by the best band ever, The Beatles. 

Breakfast was the usual offerings, although this morning we tried the coffee machine. I know, dear reader, there are multitudes of people who believe the new-age machine does good coffee, but I am not among their number. What appeared in a cup this morning, masquerading as an espresso, did little to alter my perspective. I drank it and then opted for a cup of tea.

Stunning every morning.

Following breakfast, we were fitted out for our snorkelling gear, sans wetsuits. The water temperature is remarkably warm and we felt we wouldn’t require them. Back to the tent to change and then it was straight across the sand dune to the water. The reef is less than 10 metres away but the south-north current ensures you need to walk many metres down the beach to allow your snorkel to bring you home. Otherwise, it’s Mauritius or Madagascar, as I’ve heard the guides say.

We walked maybe 500 metres up the beach and then it was into the gutter between the shore and the coral. Mask adjusted, flippers on, into the current, over the coral and let the ocean do the rest. Visibility was still not as good as we’d hoped. The fringing coral was in various states of life or death; it wasn’t easy to tell the difference at times. It’s a spectrum I guess and the opposite ends share some similarities. The coral closest to the shore was covered in sediment which was unsurprising given the current and the nature of the reef.

There was a variety of coral but the abundance and diversity of fish life was astounding. Regardless of whether we were over sand or coral, there were fish. All shapes and sizes and colours. Large schooling fish I would have liked to have taken home for dinner. Trumpeter fish with their oversized beaks. Leather jacket, angel fish, Nemo (well, his relatives) and so many more I didn’t recognise. Magic.

Pretty and  slightly over-exposed.

Back on shore, we retired to our tent for showers and a spot of reading on the verandah. The sun and the breeze ensured our gear dried quickly. The only disturbance was the aircraft. Planes heading out to the reef whale spotting or just sight-seeing and the jets. I assume they were heading for Learmonth which is, after all, a Defence base. And Tinnitus droning away in their tent.

A Nankeen Kestrel falcon.

Sal Salis is one of those resorts where everything is included in the price. Unlike some cruises we’ve been on that profess the same, Sal Salis is the real deal, we paid for nothing after we arrived. An ordinary day offered breakfast, lunch, canapes and dinner with the alcohol cupboard being freely accessed whenever you like. It being Jayne’s birthday, we thought lunch might be nice. The choice was burrata and whatever or bugs and a capsicum (muhammara style) sauce.

Bugs. Wow. Two full bugs with the capsicum sauce and a baguette. I didn’t need to eat that much, but it would have been wasteful not to finish. Absolutely delicious. Even the two corellas that wanted to share my lunch could not distract me. Corellas and bugs despatched, we repaired to the Lodge interior to avoid the sun and consume some more Chardy.

He was uninvited.

Horror of horrors. I pulled the wine bottle from the fridge and commenced to pour. The pour was terminated abruptly with a gasp loud enough for Jayne to hear 15 metres away. Some philistine had returned a red wine bottle to the row of chardonnay and I had inadvertently poured red wine into Jayne’s glass. In my defence, the bottles were similar. And who expects to find a red in the fridge? Even up here.

Lunch done, it was back to the tent for a rest before our next meal. It’s a tough life. OK, maybe I spent time writing this blog and reading. What am I reading you enquire? Evie Wyld’s latest, The Echoes. I wanted to dislike it because I haven’t forgiven the Miles Franklin judges for awarding her the Miles over Flanagan’s Narrow Road to the Deep North. The latter did go on to win the Booker so my judgement was vindicated. Quite like the new book though. About half way through. We’ll see. The ending may disappoint, like that of Immaculate By Anna McGahan. Discuss.

A wine induced afternoon snooze followed (for me) before we raised ourselves and changed for dinner. Another excellent three courses: scallops for entrée, rib eye for main and a white chocolate mousse for dessert. As it was Jayne’s birthday, her mousse came resplendent with a ‘happy birthday’ chocolate disc. And a rousing version of ‘happy birthday’, kicked off by the staff and taken up by the guests.

A starry night.

Back at the tent I attempted some night photography. “Attempted” is the correct verb, dear reader. Over exposed. I blame the full moon and will try again tomorrow night. At least I know how to shoot the stars now, Dave. Sadly, they are not as impressive as the night sky on the Larapinta. There is potential, but not with a full moon.

Too much light from the moon.

Until tomorrow.

When I'm 64 (Phnom Penh, the killing fileds)

Happy birthday to me (and happy anniversary to one special reader). Yes, dear reader, it’s my birthday. Well, not when you are reading this post because we have fallen behind because of the patchy internet.You can probably guess my age by the title of today’s blog. A classic from the greatest band ever, from their 1967 Sgt Pepper’s album, When I’m 64. Sadly, there was no sleep-in and my choice of ‘experience’ today is to visit the Genocide Museum and the Killing Fields. There are more uplifting ways to celebrate a birthday, however, it wasn’t meant to be this way. Yesterday’s Independence Day and commensurate celebrations necessitated a day swap.

Now that is street food.

The Palace. Maybe next time.

The journey on the bus was about 45 minutes to the first stop. Tek, our guide provided historical background to the rise of Pol Pot as well as S21 and the killing fields. While not a survivor, his mother-in-law is, although from a different camp. This made the story all the more poignant. Apparently 2 million Phnom Penh residents were convinced to move to the countryside and only 400,000 returned. During Pol Pot’s reign of terror, about one third of the Cambodian population was murdered.

A torture room.

The Genocide Museum or S21 as it was known during Pol Pot’s reign, was a former school converted into a place of torture. It is one of almost 200 such centres across the country. The final numbers are adjusted as more information comes to light, but currently it is believed that 18,145 people passed through this detention centre. Of that number, only 7 survived and there are 2 still alive today.

The survivors.

The Cambodian government is intent that the atrocities of the Democratic Kampuchean government, are remembered as the memorial state. However, I have been very selective in the photos that I took and even more so with the ones published in this post. We can remember without some of the chilling, graphic detail being made available here. Even the mugshot style photos of the prisoners are confronting.

The inscription says it all.

The first rooms that we visited were torture chambers. When the Vietnamese forces liberated those still alive in the camp, there were twelve chambers that contained the bodies of the last victims. On the wall of these rooms is a black and white photo of the body. On the bed where they were manacled sits a box that was used as a toilet. The bodies of these people were interred in the compound in individual graves.

The cells.

The other buildings had been converted into ‘dormitories’ containing individual cells where the prisoners were chained. Torture of inmates was carried out twice a day. Until you confessed. Once a confession was obtained you were executed. Prisoners were regularly moved on to the nearest killing field on the promise of a new beginning. Seem familiar? Hitleresque. Although Pol Pot claimed he was a genius and thought up everything on his own. The more Tek talked about this crazed dictator, the more he sounded like Donald Trump.

The painting speaks for itself.

The survivors were fortunate to do so because they had specific skills that Khmer Rouge required or valued. The gentleman we spoke with was able to repair typewriters. The other survivor was a painter and his work in painting portraits of Pol Pot was highly valued. He later painted scenes of torture that occurred at S21.

That's a lot of wire.

The reigning forces were determined that no-one could enter or leave the precinct. The barbed wire and razor wire on the perimeter fences made that clear. As did the wire covering the verandahs to the cells.

Obedience and silence were significant aspects of the control wielded by the captors, as evidenced by the rules of the camp.

Rule 6!

It was a very sombre group that returned to the bus, despite listening to Chum Mey who said he had to put aside his hatred for his captors or it would destroy him. Tek continued that theme and spoke of the rules of amnesty that had allowed the country to grow and develop despite this horrific period in their history. It was, “Accept and move on,” he said, or forever be at war. A pity the Israelis don’t adopt the same approach.

There was a 15 minute drive to the killing field. The Cambodian people don’t like the term killing field. It is viewed as western, emanating from Hollywood. As the sign states, it a genocide centre. They also prefer Kampuchea to Cambodia. The latter is courtesy of the United Nations when the country was granted independence from France.

Not a killing field, but genocidal centre.

There are signs at the entrance to the genocide centre stipulating the dress code, as there are at Buddhist temples. The baseline is respect. No uncovered knees or shoulders. Not a difficult ask particularly at such a significant site. Unless, it appears you are on our tour and British. I’m still shaking my head as I write this, dear reader. It was just rude, or arrogant. Or both. It’s not our country or culture. Toe the line or stay home.

Aside from the 'lost in translation' last line, it's pretty obvious.

Tek walked us around the site and related stories of what had occurred. In the centre is an ossuary. I actually thought it was a temple. Inside were the bones of 9,000 victims exhumed from 86 mass grave sites. There are many more identified graves but they are no longer exhuming the bodies. It is time to let them rest in peace.

The ossuary.

There were graves where the bodies had been decapitated before burial because the ‘contaminated’ mind had to be removed from the Kampuchean body. There were mass graves for children because if the adult was ‘infected’ it would spread to the rest of the family. Close by the grave of the children was the killing tree. Hanging from the tree were speakers that blared music. Why, you ask? Secrecy. Those in charge didn’t want anyone to know what was happening behind the fences. No guns were used in these mass murders. They make too much noise and bullets are too expensive. Knives and other cutting instruments were used along with bludgeoning tools.

It is, obviously, an intense experience to visit such a place. This was one of over 400 across the country. It is requested that you don’t laugh or make jokes and dress respectfully, as I mentioned. So the sight of 2 men taking multiple selfies in front of the ossuary both angered and infuriated me. I’d seen similar behaviour at the 911 memorial in New York. I wasn’t prepared for the fact that these men were Japanese. The land of the atomic bomb. The land of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. I would have thought they’d understand the significance and importance of such a memorial.

The killing tree.

Tek talked us through some more history on the return journey and answered any questions. We opted not to attend the afternoon excursion. It was another trip to a river village producing silk, although apparently this time there were silkworms. How can you produce silk and not acknowledge the humble little silkworm? Instead, we sat in the lounge and blogged and contacted the kids on Messenger. Having the ship almost to ourselves meant a strong internet connection.

The face. The eyes. Just tragic.

That night we had arranged dinner in the Indochine Restaurant. It’s a similar concept to the Captain’s Table. Limited numbers of people are invited to eat the best food on offer. The food was excellent, a six course degustation of local dishes. We dined with some of our original group. I’d hoped by escaping to the far end of the ship, I might avoid the song and dance show that accompanies the delivery of the birthday cake. Not so. There was also a 50th wedding anniversary at another table and they scored the treatment as well. The cake would have to be refrigerated for another time, no one could eat another bite.

Until next time.