Warning: contains 'makes me feel sick' content .
 
Last year at about this time, Elenka and I visited the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum in Phnom Penh. Tuol Sleng was once the main interrogation and torture centre of the Khmer Rouge, under the leadership of the notorious Pol Pot. We're back in Cambodia and have taken the next step, a visit to the killing fields.
 
During the early to mid-70s there were many killing fields in Cambodia, where an estimated 25 per cent of the population was put to death during the Pol Pot regime. Most everyone who had been tortured at Tuol Sleng wound up being taken blindfolded in the back of a truck on the 15 kilometre journey to Choeung Ek, the killing fields on the outskirts of Phnom Penh.
 
New arrivals were held in detention while those before them were slaughtered during the night just metres away. Loud music was played to disguise the horrid sounding daily atrocities. As we stood where this happened, the same music these people heard as they died was played for us. It's not known how many perished at these particular killing fields, but more than 5,000 skulls are on display at the entrance in a massive Buddhist stupa.
 
Elenka and I came back here in part to be among the friendly Khmers; to eat their food; and to chill out in a pleasant beach vibe. But there was another reason: On the final day of our 2016 trip we found paradise. Perched 10 metres above the sea on a rocky, forest-like area, sits the Queen Hill Resort. Each cabina with its own balcony overlooking the sea; a constant breeze off the water . We didn't talk about this place at all over the months that followed, but deep down I think we both knew we'd be back to visit the Queen.
 
We booked a cabina back in December, and last week flew 22 hours and then bussed six more to be here. The Queen looked a little rough around the edges when we entered our 'hard fought for' new digs, but the view was as idyllic as we remembered. So what if the electrical outlets didn't work and it was a bit rundown.
 
We were feeling a little better after three days of jet-lag and hit the sack just after nine o'clock. At midnight I was almost thrown out of bed by electronic music, that loud, monotonous, never-ending shit that has been created solely for the brain dead. Three hours later, for no apparent reason, I was bombarded by crazy thoughts: Pol Pot; Toronto's former mayor, Rob Ford; Donald Trump; Brexit; and dudes who've had the names of one night stands tattooed on their arms. Just like the music, my deranged thoughts went on and on and on. If nothing else, I was able to put a finger on why so many guys have their arms covered in tattoo markings - to hide the one night stands.
 
As I type, it's almost five-thirty in the morning; the monotonous pounding continues. I don't know where we'll be sleeping tonight, but I know it won't be here.

 
Update:
 
At seven o'clock, after the sun had risen, Elenka and I followed the sound and found it. A bar, about 500 metres from Queen Hill, does this three times a week. As the booming went on, we stopped and I listened: Europeans, Brits, Aussies, Americans and likely Canadians. All stoned, all arseholes. All night long I'd felt like strangling the owners of the Queen Hill Resort, now I feel sorry for them. 

 Later in the day I spoke to a hotel owner who had called the police about the bar. He never heard from them again and believes a twenty dollar bill would have been all that was needed to shoo the police off.