In last month's e-newsletter, we talked about Spain demanding Gibraltar back from the British, and how odd this was when they themselves had two territories in Morocco, (Ceuta and Melilla) that the Moroccans would like back. 

You may have noticed in the news that a couple of weeks ago, on July 11^th, a small band of Moroccan soldiers landed on the unoccupied Spanish owned, but jointly claimed Island of Perejil (Spanish) or Leila (Arabic) or Parsley (English) – unoccupied but for goats, that is, and just 25 metres from the Moroccan shoreline. 

They set up tents and put a Moroccan flag.  The arrival was said to be to celebrate the King of Morocco's wedding.  About a week after that, Spanish troops arrived on the island, escorted by full naval battleships and gained control from the Moroccan army.  Now the Spanish troops have withdrawn from the island and all is well again: foreign ministers of Morocco and Spain have finalised a US-brokered (the EU was snubbed in helping here) resolution to their dispute over the Mediterranean island of Perejil.  Although both countries claim the island, Spain says it had an understanding that neither side would erect a permanent camp there.  The return to the status quo does not mean that Morocco has given up its claim to sovereignty of Pereji.

Morocco was also hoping to take the opportunity to talk about all the issues of contention between the two countries.  These include the Western Sahara, clandestine immigration and fishing, as well as the future of the Spanish sovereign enclaves of Ceuta and Melilla.  Spain said it was willing to talk about anything except the enclaves.

Kompong Chhnang isn't a provincial town that has obvious attractions for the tourist hordes visiting Cambodia these days. For most, they catch a glimpse of it as they whiz by on the speedboat between Phnom Penh and Siem Reap or for a handful, it's a brief stop on Highway 5 as they take the bumpy route between the capital and Battambang. For me, it was an opportunity to while away some time in a sleepy riverside town and to seek out some ancient temples I'd heard about in the area.

It was standing room only for late arrivals as the Ho Wah Genting air-con bus left the southwest side of Phnom Penh's central market on the dot at 8am. Earlier, I'd eaten breakfast at the Dara Reang Sey hotel and got a moto to the bus stop, paid 4,500 riel for my ticket and luckily grabbed the last empty seat. Highway 5, running alongside the Tonle Sap river, was badly rutted and in poor condition and it took ninety minutes to reach the Prek Kdam ferry where a long line of trucks waited their turn to cross.

Once we'd passed the border marker into Kompong Chhnang province the flooded lowlands disappeared and were replaced by bright green rice fields. An hour away from our destination and we came to a grinding halt. The Khmer woman next to me, on holiday from her home in New York, translated the driver's instruction for everyone to get off the bus as the bridge ahead was broken. A short walk through the throng milling around the scene and across the rickety bridge and we were soon on our way aboard the replacement bus, reaching the centre of Kompong Chhnang, half an hour before mid-day.

I'd been warned that accommodation in town was fairly limited, so I established my bearings and headed for the Victory Monument where I knew that Sokha's guesthouse was close by. Located in a quiet, leafy lane, Sokha was on hand to welcome me, his first tourist for a week and in broken English recalled that he'd heard of some old 'prasats' over the river. My second floor room was a comfortable double with fan, TV and bathroom for $8. I headed back out for a look around and was immediately swamped by children from two nearby schools, who enthusiastically shouted their hello's, a feature which became commonplace throughout my short stay in town.

The heat was already unbearable and dust clouds had left a thick coat of brownish-red on everything in sight. Near the central market I collared a group of card-playing moto drivers but none spoke English, although undeterred, I hired the friendliest to drive me around town. Very quickly I realised Kompong Chhnang was well spread out from one end to the other. A two kilometre causeway joins the larger part of town that straddles the Highway with the bustling waterfront area. In between is shanty stilt housing, a distinctive water-tower and a colourful wat, while the boat dock area was a mess, smelly and busy with food traders and rows upon rows of those clay pots that you see everywhere in town. A few run-down French colonial buildings, including a tired-looking hotel, face out onto the Tonle Sap river.

Exploring both halves of town, we stopped at a couple of wats, one by the river and another, Wat Talmiat, both of which had the usual indoor paintings lining the walls, although a couple of friendly monks at the latter pagoda were determined not to let me go until I'd answered every conceivable question they could make up. I saw the gates of the dormant runway, the largest in the country, which has been earmarked for development but the heat was overwhelming so I took a drinks break at the Mekong restaurant, with its English menu, and watched a kick-boxing match on tv with a small posse of policeman. They told me that a bar run by an expat called the Halfway Pub had closed a few months earlier, but only after I returned to the cafe after a fruitless search!

As I walked back to Sokha's through the tree-lined side streets and past numerous colonial buildings in the administrative quarter of town, I got into a conversation with an off-duty policeman outside the local prison. Chhoun Chom-Roune spoke a smattering of English and jumped at the chance to help me find the Angkorean-era temples over the river the next day, as they were located in his home district and it would enable him to visit his family at the same time. After my initial concerns that finding the temples may prove tricky, a plan was forming and we agreed to meet at 6am the following morning.

After a shower and a snooze, I walked into the pitch-black streets to find a place to eat but the lively Samaki restaurant was housing a private party and everywhere else appeared closed. Traffic was light, shadowy figures passed close by and I struck up a conversation with a male student after he opened up with the popular icebreaker, 'hello, what is your name'. He explained that nothing much happened on Friday nights or any night for that matter and I resigned myself to returning to the Mekong restaurant for supper. The tv was switched on as I arrived and the service was lightning quick for their only customer. Unfortunately, the fried chicken and fries were awful.

I searched for a tikalok stand but without success, although a full moon brightened up the walk back to Sokha's and I was back in my room by 8.30pm. In the morning, Chhoun was half an hour late but it didn't matter as we took a moto to the dock and negotiated with the young boatwomen for one of their craft to ferry us across to the other side of the wide river. At $4 it was an expensive ride but turned out to be a pleasant and enjoyable twenty-five minute voyage across a placid and windless Tonle Sap river and past a handful of floating houses and the regular passenger ferry. Waiting for us at the small dock at Kompong Leaeng was one of Chhoun's brothers, Ne, and before we began our exploration, we stopped for a beef and noodle breakfast at a market stall. Around the corner we paused at Chhoun's family home to meet his parents and get another moto, with Nat, another brother, as driver.

Ne, my driver and the youngest of seven brothers, held up three fingers when I asked him how many ancient temples he knew of in the vicinity. His moto was well-padded with good suspension and despite the sandy track, waterlogged in places, was the most comfortable moto I'd ever ridden. We stopped at the hamlet of Phnom Dar where most of the villagers gathered round to see the foreigner playing football with the youngsters and ninety minutes after arriving on the far bank, we saw our first temple, an eighth century structure.

Prasat Srei is a substantial single brick tower with flying palaces (or representations of the temple in miniature) on the sides, three false doors and damaged lintels. It was located in the grounds of a small school and we shared tea with two young monks and two older laymen before moving on. An hour later, we left our moto in Chunok village and walked along the tops of a series of dykes and open fields, past bemused workers, to another brick temple, in the shade of a large tree. This was Prasat Koh Kralor and whilst less imposing than the first temple, it too had flying palaces, denoting the same period of construction, a broken linga inside and part of a lintel on the ground.

The walk back to the village took about ten minutes, so we rested in the shade of one of the houses where girls were pounding and cooking the poorly graded rice. It tasted pretty foul as did their rice wine but they seemed to find my attempt at pounding the rice amusing enough. A few kilometres along the track, Chhoun acknowledged a shout from a police hut at the entrance to a small village and we pulled over to say hello to one of his police colleagues. Word quickly spread and more of his chums arrived, so we took seats inside the hut and enjoyed a half-hour break from the sun, while Chhoun, his brothers and friends enjoyed more rice wine and a plate of dried fish. If this is an example of the life of a village policeman then where do I apply!

An hour later we searched for our final temple after turning back towards our starting point. We were still fifteen kilometres away from Chhoun's family home when we were directed to a temple a little way across the dry fields. It turned out to be a ten minute walk, along a single sandy path, where we saw some local women and children washing in a muddy pool. They showed us how they dug a hole and waited for it to fill with clear water despite the ground being bone dry on the surface. The two brick towers themselves were in a ruined state and devoid of decoration, with the bricks of a middle third tower scattered at our feet. Two young girls who'd followed us across the fields called the temple Prasat Leaq Pdey. Back on the road, we dissected a wedding party which was taking place under an awning stretched across the sandy track before reaching Chhoun's family home just before 1pm.

Our temple-hunting adventures had lasted more than five hours so I was more than happy to accept Chhoun's invitation to eat lunch with his family and to rest before returning across the river. Their large home on stilts had a wide open veranda where all of us sat in shade, Chhoun and myself, his father Sarun and his mother, seven brothers, two sisters and their children, as well as two friends of his father who were a little disappointed that I spoke no French. A tasty meal of chicken and fish, washed down with rice wine and bottled water and followed by a siesta was just what I needed after the morning's exertions. I was keen to return to Phnom Penh for a birthday party later that evening, so at 3pm Chhoun and I said our goodbyes, I paid his two brothers for their services and we chartered a larger boat to return us to the opposite boat dock, across the river which was as still as a millpond.

As we passed the bus stop near the Victory Monument, I asked the bus driver to wait for five minutes while I collected my bag from Sokha's, which he did. I thanked Chhoun for his help and friendship and gave him a small gift before ending my brief stay in Kompong Chhnang. With the bridge still down, we changed buses again and finally rolled into Phnom Penh's central market at 7pm. The ride was terribly bumpy and that induced one youngster near me to suffer acute travel sickness for the whole trip.

After a quick shower at my hotel, I joined the party at the Wang Dome restaurant in 240 Street celebrating the birthday of a friend, Kulikar, the partner of Nick, Lonely Planet's Cambodia author. The buffet was delicious and far removed from my meal at the Mekong restaurant in Kompong Chhnang the night before and amongst the guests I met a VSO worker from my hometown – a small world indeed. Srun and Reangsey picked me up and delivered me back to my hotel a little before midnight to round off a contrasting but thoroughly enjoyable two days.

For more information on Andy's travels, visit his website which has lots of travelogue stories with pictures. http://www.btinternet.com/~andy.brouwer/index.htm

Under a bridge in a vast city dominated by a powerful empire, lives a giant troll. A short walk from the beast's dark hiding spot stands a statue of a faraway leader where the locals drink a potent brew for stamina. This is not a hobbit town in Middle Earth. This is Fremont, a suburb of Seattle, the self-declared Centre of the Universe.

Since the Centre of the Universe was 'discovered' in 1991, Fremont has become known for a growing collection of public art that all manages to live up to the official motto, De Libertas Quirkas, or Freedom to be Peculiar.

On a cold, grey day in April, a six block walking tour is a great way to exercise the body and mind.  I walked east from the colourful signpost that points to the major attractions, 'LENIN 2 BLKS' in ochre and 'ATLANTIS 663 FATHOMS' in aquamarine.  A block from the sign is a cold-war missile that once adorned the side of a surplus store in nearby Belltown. Now painted with the crest of the Fremont republic, the 'Rocket' is lucky to be there at all. The first attempt to erect the rocket in 1993 failed, allowing the locals to make a joke about the committee not 'being able to get it up'. The rocket was finally installed in time for the 1994 summer solstice and the liberation of Fremont.  

A short walk north from the Rocket, amongst the pink blossoms, next to the 'Taco Del Mar' sign, is a 16 foot bronze sculpture of Vladimir Lenin. Weighing 7 tons, the statue is the only known representation of the Russian leader that shows him surrounded by guns and flames instead of holding a book or waving his hat. Lewis Carpenter, an American working in Slovakia, found the statue lying face down after it was toppled in the revolution of 1989 and mortgaged his house to pay for the shipping back to the US. Carpenter planned to sell the sculpture as the world's most unique garden gnome. The statue is still for sale for $US 150,000.

I was not wearing a long thick coat designed for Russian winter, so I moved on to boost my energy the way the locals do. In 'Still Life', a bohemian coffee shop, artists, writers and students buzzed. The drug of choice for these urban rebels was the same as the Microsoft campus dwellers, caffeine. I was still getting used to the super-brew and even with an asparagus and red pepper omelette on thick brown toast I could feel my eyes jolt open and my pulse speed up.

With the java beans aid I walked up the hill and under the north end of the Aurora Bridge I found the Fremont Troll.  Sculptured in 1990 by four local artists – Steve Badanes, Will Martin, Donna Walter and Ross Whitehead – who won a Fremont Arts Council competition, the 18ft concrete beast munches on a full size Volkswagen Beetle and leers at visitors with a shiny metal eye. As with much of the community's installations, the Troll is a living exhibit that reflects local feeling. In 1998, when a man shot a bus driver causing the bus to crash off the bridge into the apartment building next to the Troll, a glistening tear appeared under his eye. The creature is also the guest of honour at “Trollaween” every October.

The wind rushed up under the concrete pillars of the bridge and bit deeper and colder than the cement Troll's teeth ever could. The weather also drained the colour of the faces of the five passengers 'Waiting for the Interurban'. The cold aluminium statues looked resigned to their fate, wrapped in the sporting colours of a local winning team. I paid special attention to the face of the dog with a man's face, brought about by a dispute between sculptor Richard Beyer and aluminium recycler Armen Stepanian, the one-time honorary mayor of Fremont.

Trying to rid my bloodstream of caffeine, I walked away from the centre, along the cycle path lining the edge of Lake Union, past the houseboats made famous in Sleepless in Seattle to the decaying metal structures of Gasworks Park. In the shadow of the rusted boilers covered in bright swirls of graffiti I looked back at the Seattle skyline as the Fremont drawbridge tooted, cutting the republic off completely from the city, just the way the locals liked it.

David is trying to combine careers in internet, marketing and travel. Travel Writing and Photography is one of several projects he is currently working on.  Information about other projects can be found at www.dmfreedom.com.  David can be contacted by email at dave@dmfreedom.com

I wanted to spend a week away with my younger daughter – age 18 at the time (June 2001) having had to leave her behind on a previous trip with my other daughter. Instead of me making all the arrangements as I always had done in the past, I ended up leaving a lot to her – a valuable exercise in itself for both of us!

Liz chose Venice and I intervened here to suggest we explore some other places nearby too. Liz impressed me with her competence in booking a flight through the internet on Ryan Air at one of those ridiculously low prices – a month before due to fly. Although I then immediately started making enquiries re accommodation, everything appeared to be booked up – or we could not book as it was on a first arrival first served basis – although used to travel, I was intimidated by this and going to such a touristy place as Venice, and therefore glad we decided to go directly from the airport to Verona.

With 24 hours to go I discovered the policy of booking hostels was to ring about 7am on the morning due to arrive. In the event it worked out – but I think that area of Italy would be best visited before the tourist rush – which seems to be from end May through to September.

I found Ryan Air comforting – the pilot chatted to us and everything was very efficient. The planes do not land at the main airport Venice but at small Treviso airport – 20 – 30 miles away. Told we could not get a bus or train directly to Verona we bought return tickets for the airport bus. Got off at the train station at Metre – the area of Venice on the mainland. Train to Verona – I didn't realise I had to validate my ticket in a little box on the platform but the inspector looked at our luggage, then at us – we looked a bit jaded by then – shrugged and punched our tickets without complaint. 

Caught a local bus that took us halfway to the hostel Casa Giovanni – a catholic, women's only hostel – cool and pleasant (so hot out). Then we had a bit of a problem finding food – 9pm and only expensive looking restaurants – eventually found a snack bar. By the time we arrived back at the hostel the other beds had now been occupied and we turned the lights out at 11pm. A street market nearby – not cheap by English standards but we used this for our breakfast. Spent the day exploring on foot – a beautiful city. 

Cheapest and best value meal we found was a Chinese take-away – not the usual stuff – things like battered frogs legs. Sat by the river watching the sun set – tired and content – and finally feeling relaxed. Earlier we'd walked to the YH (further out of the centre than where we were staying) hoping the warden would make the booking for us for our next night's accommodation.

They couldn't but did give us the correct number – in the book it was the fax number! The warden of Montagagna YH didn't speak a word of English – somehow I mustered enough Italian and we understood each other (it is French I speak, not Italian – despite my Italian name!) Next morning it was lucky we got to the station early – queues to buy tickets and then another to obtain information so we could find the right train! Discovered we had to change trains at Nagara – and the leaving time for Montagnana was the same as the arrival of our train. However, everyone very relaxed – it seems the trains wait for each other. Montagnana – a sleepy town – and a good place to relax. The YH (in a watch tower in the ancient town walls) had only 4 of us staying there. Friendly warden, despite the language barrier.

Next day to Venice – up very early to go to the unmanned little station. At Mestre I bought a 3 day pass to use on the canal boats and local buses – well worth it, but not quite the deal I thought – it did not cover the boat from the camping site at Fusima, where we were staying, to Venice. So we mostly used the bus via Mestre each time – only 1 an hour. Fusima is not somewhere I would recommend – it is a campsite for 18-30 type clubs – very noisy for much of the night and the cabin we were in was not any more sound-proofed than a tent… apart from the difficulty in transport.

Venice was crowded in the tourist areas – such as St Marks Square – but not so bad a bit more off the beaten track. I did find the locals unfriendly and not many appeared to speak English – they must be fed up with being besieged by foreigners, even though that is how they make their money – and everything is expensive. We found a supermarket at long last and I stopped feeling so anxious about how we were going to afford to eat.

Some highlights for me were Santa Maria della Salute and the orchestra (including piano!) outside, Peggy Guggenheim exhibition, street music in the Jewish quarter, and the island of Burano (brightly painted little houses, 'granny' underwear on the washing line in a little park, wine and fresh fish in a little restaurant), and discovering an Italian 'fast food' restaurant in Mestre – Bis (does not resemble an English fast food establishment!).