From Bangkok we rode a shaky flight to Phuket, the plane momentary rocked during the initial moments of takeoff. Karen and I had boarded the plane late and were sitting a few rows apart from eachother. After the turbulence, she glanced back at me with an alarmed face. The petite Korean woman in the adjacent seat tugged at my sleeve and asked if I'd flown with Air Asia before.

"Four times," I answered.

"Is the plane supposed to shake like that?" she said.

I considered the question. "No, not really."

We arrived in Phuket without further incident and met up with Manit, the owner of the guesthouse we'd be overnighting at before catching the ferry to Ko Lanta the next morning. Manit drove extremely fast, pounding mid-90's dance music from his mp3 player, weaving in and out of the traffic, pausing only to proudly point out the latest gigantic shopping mall invading the city. To him, it was a sign of money and progress...to us, it was the depressing encroachment of globalization. By the time we pulled into the quiet suburban location of the guesthouse, his stereo was just starting "The Macarena."

Fantastic host that he is, Manit upgraded us to the "Boogey Board" room at no charge, and chatted with us about his own travel experiences. He'd been to San Francisco, New Zealand, London, Australia, and had the enormous blown up photos of himself on the walls to prove it. We asked him about last year's tsunami. He somberly recounted the facts and the deaths, but ended on a cheerful note. "You can't live your life waiting for bad things to happen. They will, it's unavoidable. All you can do is go out and be happy."

In the morning he drove us to the ferry terminal and bid us a genuine goodbye. Karen and I turned to face the tourist horde once again. All the usual suspects were there -- the old and the young clambering for sun space on the ferry deck, attempting to kick off their holiday tans. I couldn't help but feel that they were cheating a bit, as if Karen and I had somehow earned our visit to paradise by trekking through the rural countrysides of the region, braving overcrowded trains, stifling heat, and days on a plank of wood floating down the Mekong River. I was wearing a Cambodia T-shirt for crying out loud...didn't that stand for anything?

I quickly realized I was passing judgement, and could feel the frown of the Buddha on my shoulders. We were tourists just like the rest of them, the coloured stickers on our shirts directing us to our boat, where we would escape to the islands for rest, wonder, and relaxation. Everyone has their own motivations, desires, and perceptions...to pretend to know is the worst quality of character. We settled in for the trip, smiles of anticipation on our lips, just like all the rest.

Hours later we pulled into Ko Lanta's port and hopped onto a makeshift dock (the new one is currently a skeleton of cement pillars) and dodged guesthouse touts to find our own arranged driver. He piled us into a brand new leather seated SUV and drove us to Narima Resort and our roomy bungalow, our home for the next four nights. On the steps of the resort we were met by the tiny Japanese owner, who told us all the information we needed and then some. As Karen and I dumped our bags on our bed, flicked on the ceiling fan, and swept wide the doors of our patio, we both heaved a sigh of relief. After almost 2 months on the road, it was time to relax.

The days were a bit of a blur, a slow experience of beach reading, swimming in the warm pull of the ocean (Karen taught me the front crawl!), and renting a motorbike to explore the island. On the second day we found ourselves lost in an old growth jungle, wandering up a path that could have been 10 years old. We were searching for a waterfall that didn't appear to exist. After turning back amid a swarm of mosquitos, we found the actual trail was the shallow creek itself, as confirmed by a robust speedo-clad German we passed along the way. The waterfall was more of a trickle, but the lagoon-like pool beneath it was worth effort.

On the ride back the motorbike slid on a portion of sand-covered pavement and Karen, attempting to launch herself free in the event of the bike falling over, instead landed on her tailbone and came to rest face down in the dirt. While things could have been much worse, it's the tableau of Karen moaning in the dust, me yelling, "Karen, you have to get out of the road!" and trying to lift her body from the ground, that makes a good story. Luckily, she was able to hobble to the cleansing waters of the ocean at a nearby beach, and the pain receded after a few Advils and an evening bottle of Chang beer.

The third day was filled with snorkeling the blue waters among a chain of local islands, providing the most spectacular underwater scenery we'd encountered this trip. I'd name the types of creatures we saw, but I can't remember any of the names. Instead I'll just say there were fish, colourful fish, and lots of them. Also a pink jellyfish. That was neat.

Our last day arrived with the bittersweet recognition that it was almost time to begin the long journey home. We spent the day once again on the beach, in the swimming pool, on a motorbike buzzing along the winding roads and the steep vistas. (Careful to avoid the sandy patches, of course). With the sun easing into it's fiery descent from the sky, Karen and I packed two glasses and a bottle of wine, and nimbly picked a spot on the charcoal-coloured rocks adjacent to our resort. (Karen somehow managed to cut a gash in her heel, but a bandaid patched her up quick).

We reflected upon our journey; the cities, people, settings, and lessons we'd learned, just as any journey should inspire. We thanked all the friends we'd met and shared with along the way, grateful for their stories and conversation. And when our first glasses of wine were drained, I put them aside and watched the sun for a moment, then remarked to Karen, "I think we should get married."

By 6am we arrived at the main gate and had our pictures taken and laminated on our passes ($40 for 3 days). The pitch black sky revealed little beyond the palms trees lining the road, though traffic thickened as the hour slipped away. Suddenly we could make out the muted water of a river, wide and straight as a highway. As we rounded the corner and approached a massive sandstone causeway, I realized it wasn't a river that hugged the grassy banks -- it was a moat.

A trickling of tourists made their way across the causeway with us, as the sky turned purple with the anticipation of dawn. We passed through a stone arch, into a much larger 300m long interior area with palm trees, green fields, and a walkway leading directly towards the three enormous "lotus bud" towers that soar out of the earth. A mass of photographers mill about a large pond, awaiting the perfect shot of the towers and their reflection in the water. Karen and I waste little time in approaching the temple and entering it's corridors, our footsteps echoing on the stone, through the ages of time.

We were standing in Angkor Wat, built in the 12th century, and the largest and most famous of the Angkor era temples. The period, according to my guidebook, was marked by imaginative building projects, the construction of inspirational temples and palaces (such as Angkor Wat), the creation of complex irrigation systems and the development of magnificent walled cities. However, as Angkor was continually a target for attack from neighbouring Siam (present day Thailand), they were eventually sacked in the 15th century, and Angkor was abandoned to the jungle.

Today, the temples are the only reminders of the era, spread over 300km in the region. Most tourists follow two main tracks, the Mini-tour and Grand-tour, which we spent the following two days tuk-tuking around. Each temple offered something unique, whether in the design, layout, grandiose scale, or state of disarray. Particularly interesting were the smiling faces of Bayon, which could have fit easily into an Indiana Jones movie, and the overgrown temple of Ta Prohm, which would have been even more stunning without the hordes of Korean and Japanese tourists.

After two days exploring the temples, Karen and I opted for the boat trip to the western city of Battambang. Our tickets depicted a smart-looking yacht, gleaming white, speeding past the Angkor temples. On the morning of our departure, we quickly found it was an exercise in false advertising, (1) because the temples are located miles away from the river, and (2) the transport vessel we packed ourselves onto was perhaps the exact opposite of the smart-looking yacht depicted on the ticket.

No matter, Karen and I shrugged off the discrepancy and settled in for our leisurely 5 hour journey. At this point, if this was a regular travel dispatch, I would proceed to describe how everything from that point on degenerated into a boat ride from hell -- the sun scorching us as we sat on the rooftop, the variety of uncomfortable positions we twisted ourselves into, the even smaller boat to which we were transferred that could barely navigate the sometimes inch-deep water of the river, the rudder malfunctioning and slamming us repeatedly into the riverbank until our captain dove into the muck, knife clenched between his teeth, to hack the seaweed into submission, until we finally rolled into port 11 hours after departure -- no, I won't be describing those events.

Instead, it's much better to remember the words of another man that was on our boat, who chatted good-naturedly with Karen in the lobby of the hotel as we waited to check into our rooms. "Well, we certainly got our money's worth," he said, with a twinkle in his eye. "The children waving hello, the fishermen in their boats, the scenery...I'll just never forget it." Karen searched him for a hint of sarcasm. Finding none, she contemplated this new perspective on the journey. Memorable, certainly.

We spent the following day riding around with Tin-Tin from Cambodia, a local guide who had lost his entire family to the Khmer Rouge regime. En route to our visit of some local caves, he related his history intertwined with the history of the country. Perhaps the most disturbing part was when he switched from the general, to the personal, (ie. "When the Khmer Rouge ordered everyone out of the city, they made us walk very far...") It was then his experience really came home, and throughout the day as we explored local temples and the countryside, past weddings with music blaring from outdoor speakers, above glittering rivers and weaving around disinterested cattle, past children that waved and held their hands out for a high-fives, and finally to a farm to sample their pineapple and rice wine, we thanked Tin-Tin for his knowledge and for the courage to share it with us.

As the sun disappeared behind the horizon, we boarded the Bamboo Train, a remnant of the colonial French, now used to transport wood and occasionally, tourists. Soon the tracks blurred beneath us, and the landscape slid into the evening light. A day later and now we're back in Phnom Penh. Tomorrow marks the end of our time in Cambodia, a painful, marvelous place, a hint of which we will take with us as we board the plane to Bangkok. We aim to spend our last week on the southern Thai beaches of Ko Lanta.

"Really?" I ask. "I didn't think the ride was that bad." Sean nods in agreement. Five hours earlier we'd set out from Louang Prabang, the mini-bus precariously hugging the high mountain curves that wound through village after modest village, dodging cyclists, large-eyed children, and the occasional farmer busy thrashing stalks of some plant against the pot-holed pavement.

"I was white-knuckled the entire way! Every cliff I pictured us careening off the edge," Karen cries. I reflect on the trip again. Truthfully, I'd cruised along without thinking much of the consequences of our driver's ability to navigate the moutain passes. With my mp3 player humming, the journey had a soundtrack. Karen, on the other hand, sitting two seats ahead of me, had little else to do but watch each terrifying curve unfold. Also, the fact that we'd encountered an already rolled mini-bus, it's frame twisted and windshield gone, didn't help to offer reassurance.

"Yeah, I guess it could have been better," I reply.

We turn our attention to the city of Vang Viang. At first glance, it appears to have been bombed the week before. The streets are mostly dirt, and where there's any concrete, it lies in piled rubble in front of ramshackle buildings, some already stripped to their foundations. We wonder why the place could possibly exist as a favourite backpacker hangout -- until we head down to the banks of the Nam Xong River and discover rows of bungalows in the water, cast in the purple glow of the sunset as it dips behind the magnificent fringe of mountains towering overhead. Bob Marley drifts from the speakers of two separate bars on the shore. Sean and I glance at each other. "THIS is how you get stuck here," he says.

Four nights later we've tubed and kayaked the Nam Xong, visited the annals of an underground cave, been mildly amused by a visit to The Buddha's Footprint, and swung tandem from an enormous rope swing hung high above the green waters of the river. Rumour has it that many travelers become sick during their time in Vang Viang, and I was no exception. The dust in the air (presumbly mixed with 1950's style asbestos leaking from the rubble) kept my sinuses irritated the entire time. Despite our adventures in the city, I was happy to leave it behind for the cosmopolitan setting of Laos' capital city, Vientiane.

Thankfully, the ride was short and uneventful. We pulled into city centre and were immediately surprised with its wide streets and proximity to the Mekong River. Numerous upscale restaurants and bars catered to the tourists, while locals watched the sunset from seats on the miles-long beach. It was apparent Vientiane had enormous potential to become a cultured Bangkok; a new hub into the Southeast-Asian region. Except there weren't any people. We couldn't understand it. The streets weren't exactly deserted, though there was nowhere near the hustle of every other city we'd encountered in the past month. Even dusty Vang Viang was crawling with crowds. Here was a different story.

No matter, we secured a room and set out to discover the sights. First stop, the bizarre Buddha Park. Created under the direction of self-styled holy man Luang Surirat in the late 1950's, the park is a collection of concrete Hindu and Buddhist statues arranged in surreal tableaus; there's a gigantic reclining Buddha, a tomato shaped structure with a demon-mouthed entrance, elephants trampling heretics, a fish-monster eating the moon, and many more. It's like Buddha wandered through Alice's looking glass...easily one of my favourite spots so far. The afternoon we tuk-tuked back to the city and stood before the golden spires of That Luang; apparently the most-photographed building in Laos.

At dinner, Sean, Karen and I realized it was our last night together. It was an odd feeling, as our threesome had been together for the majority of our trips so far, and the inevitable split weighed heavy on our hearts. We toasted our adventures, past and future, before being joined unexpectedly by some friends we'd met along the way. That's the thing with the beaten track -- you tend to continously meet the same travellers.

Earlier that day, I'd had a subtle ripple of deja vu. Some believe it occurs because the two parts of the brain responsible for recognition and retrieval experience a momentary lag. Others believe it's simply a foretold dream coming true. Liz, a fellow backpacker from England, leans over and tells me deja vu is a good sign. "It means you're on the right track," she says. Perhaps she's right. Perhaps it's the universe's way of confirming a positive alignment of purpose, whatever that purpose may be. Or perhaps after a while, all cities and weary eyed backpackers appear the same (ourselves included).

The following afternoon, we crossed the Laos border and bid Sean goodbye, him destined to spend the next 20 hours or so navigating his way to the Western border of Thailand to volunteer at a Burmese refugee camp.

Karen and I caught a plane to Bangkok, spent a night in the city, and dreamt of the sticky humidity that awaits us in our next destination: Cambodia.

The bamboo floor creaks as I crawl out of bed and step outside, into the early morning silence that can only arise in a Karen village, a Thai hilltribe in the jungles of northern Chiang Mai. We're on the last day of our 3 day trek through the region; crossing steep pine encrusted plateaus, through dense, vine choked valleys, to finally reach here, our second village.

Last night, it was late evening when we arrived, though crowds of children were playing soccer in an open field, and tethered mountain buffalos eyed us lazily from underneath their owner's huts. A number of locals passed us on our way, some offering a sly smile, others barely noticing us at all. Some were dressed in colourful, handwoven garb, while others, especially the children, wore regular T-shirts and pants that you'd easily find in any number of Thai nightmarket stalls.

Darkness had fallen quickly, so our guide "Sunshine" urged us toward our sleeping hut for the night, and soon whipped up a batch of rice and pumpkin curry. Sunshine was a member of the Karen tribe, though not originally from this particular village. He liked to nickname 'jungle' anything we found or did during the trek; for example, we'd point to an interesting fruit and he'd say, "Oh, that's jungle fruit." Then he'd hack up a bamboo tree into a number of bowls and chopsticks, and he'd call it "jungle lunch." We learned a few years before becoming a tour guide, he'd spent a year working at a Burmese refugee camp on the Thai border.

Now it was morning on our last day, and I found Sean sitting by the modest campfire. We'd met up in Bangkok a week earlier, and had taken the train up to Chiang Mai soon after. "I just got up to go to the bathroom and realized it was warmer out here," he says. I nod my head, wondering when Sunshine will bring out the kettle and instant coffee. Karen emerges from the hut and makes her way down to the river to stretch and wash her face. Hard to believe it's only been 72 hours since she'd spent an evening in the hospital for food poisoning.

After a modest breakfast of toast and boiled eggs, our group is split up for the last leg of our trek - bamboo rafting down the river. Sean, myself, 3 others and our other guide, "Noogie" (also a Karen tribemember), climb onto our raft. It sinks a few inches until our toes are completely submerged. Noogie reshuffles us until he's satisfied, and hands Sean and I bamboo poles to aid in navigation. Karen is on the other raft with Sunshine and the rest of our group. Before long, we shove off and the current grabs us with its persistent, icy fingers.

The river starts out calm and the journey is pleasant. During the rainy season, the water level is much higher, and the current much faster. Today, Noogie, Sean and I push the raft along, digging our poles into the river mud, stray rocks, or whatever else offers satisfying resistance. The jungle slides past us on both sides, rays of sun mingling with thick banana leaves, stray vines, and the odd remnants of clothing washed away in the flood a few weeks earlier.

"Okay, please sit down now," says Noogie to the middle members in our raft. They don't believe him at first, since Noogie has told a number of jokes during the 3 days of our trek. "No really, need to sit for balance," he urges. Sean and I glance further down the river and watch the white tips of tell-tale rapids appear from around the bend. The girls sit down.

Events suddenly careen faster than Noogie can command. Our raft butts against a rock and we're thrown to our knees. Noogie jumps down into the water, hoarsely shouting at us to join him and lift the raft, away from its perch, before our bags, perilously strung from their bamboo teepee, flip into the water and disappear into the churning river. The raft is momentarily freed, and for a second, we experience glorious momentum.

Yet again, we crash into another rock and are forced to our knees. Noogie is somewhere at the front of the bamboo raft. Sean and I struggle to our feet and jam our poles into the water. Sunlight, jungle, waves and sound collide until suddenly, we're breathing again and the raft is adrift, all of us intact, the rapids behind us. Humbled, Sean and I steel ourselves for the next bout around the river bend. We knock our poles together and steady our feet on the bamboo.

I wave to Karen on the other raft. It's hard, if not impossible to grasp the beauty and simplicity of the moment.