The tropical sun warm shower washing away the red dirt of Khmer Rouge zones

Man I miss those showers.

The water heated by the sun, washing away that orange dirt picked up from a long day travelling the contours of some contested zone. Government probing Khmer Rouge or Khmer Rouge chasing them. It's all fluid. You gotta be all pert, senses on high alert, locked on, focussed. Then the sun sinks, saying enough for today. So it's back to whatever refuge you have found, hotel, hovel, brothel. And then that shower. Drencher or bucket and scoop, heavenly. The Grand in Siem Reap, like an ageing silent film star, was shabby but still echoed of elegance. It  clung to illusions of grandeur, confident of a comeback.  And all that down to that marvellous Swiss manager - Rudolf was it? - who would do anything to help you and help get your story out, a big deal in those pre-mobile days. The unusual one was him recommending you hit the bath tub if shit hit the fan. Was the only guest in the place for the later three of the six day UN poll in 93. The hotel was packed on day one with global stars and Japanese with almost coffin sized satellite phones. Theywould be outside the hotel trying to align with the gods as I walked out and headed to UN Military Observer office where I would ask to use the phone. I would dictate the copy and an hour later as I entered the Grand my wealthy colleagues were still searching for celestial contact. Then on day one over 85% of the population voted and the Khmer Rouge's odd rocket fire went without dramatic casualties. By day three the stars were bored and the gods were remote. So everyone bailed. I mean everyone. This was The Shining but dreaming of Michelin stars. Walking alone down those colonial corridors heading to bed, it felt like pure Conrad. If the heat wakes you, you sleepwalk to the shower. Then breakfast comes with me sitting by myself being attended to by about 10 staff. And there was a bar. What more could an apprentice foreign correspondent ask for? Spent day 6 touring the temples without seeing a soul. Not even a coke seller. When I got back late afternoon I thought the sun had got to me. I thought I heard voices coming from the bar. A good few of them. And this is getting trippy, They sound Irish. I stroll into the bar to discover three Irish policemen and three Irish election supervisors. So we had a drink. And then another. And many more. Then it was time for a shower, And dinner. At least the guest to staff ratio was now 1:2  as opposed to 1:10.  Oh yeah, I was getting paid too.