The first thing I saw in my £1 hostel was a half naked man

The first thing that hit me wasn’t the smell – a rather distinct stench of musty body odour and yeast. 

Nor was it the sight of 15 metal bed frames crammed side-by-side into a single yellow-walled room.

None of that fazed me in comparison to the sight of a half-naked man snoring in tiny boxers while a small boy hummed and ate biscuits beside him, ants swarming around the crumbs. 

In one moment, a tiny dog ran in, barked once, and ran back out.

Despite the odd welcome, I didn’t feel afraid or even uncomfortable. Instead, I found myself curious about what would happen next.

It was March 2024 and I was in Siem Reap in Cambodia for one reason: tea. It was my first time in Cambodia, and part of my first ever trip to Asia.

As a writer, I had been writing about hot drinks around the world, and Cambodia promised pandan tea. I wanted to learn how Cambodians experience their tea, so thought of no better way than by living among them.

After scouring many popular booking websites, I came to realise that most budget hostels in Cambodia cost a mere £3 or £5. They come with swimming pools, bars, and new travel friends, but I decided to see what you get when you push the price down to the very bottom: to just £1.

To get there, I first had to weave past endless packs of territorial street dogs and step into what seemed like a simple family living space, where I was greeted by an 11 year old child in nothing but shorts and a pair of sandals. 

He repeated my name to his father, who gestured towards a door, and just like that, I was standing in front of a man with tiny boxers and a young biscuit chewer, in what was going to be my home for the next two weeks.

I walked into the dormitory, squeezed my bag down between two bunks, and realised very quickly that I was the only woman there. For a moment, I felt disorientated but as I looked around, nothing about the situation was threatening.

The residents were all local men, and they weren’t just passing through – instead, they seemed to be living there. I saw plastic bags filled with basic necessities beside each bed occupied by men – all who appeared to be in their forties or fifties. 

After a quick glance across at me, the men returned to their meals, naps, or muted conversations, and despite the strangeness of my being there, I felt at ease. Something about the indifference was oddly reassuring.

The room was loud, but no more loud than the streets outside. And despite the fact that the single shared bathroom had no toilet seat, paper, or soap, it was cleaner than expected. 

I had braced for something much worse, but for a pound a night, it seemed almost underpriced. My bed was clean and that was all that mattered to me.

My bunk was positioned in the very middle of the room, beneath a single fan that clinked in a way that made me worry it might fall off at any moment. The room was hot and sticky, and yet, that evening, I slept surprisingly easily. 

Several of the men slipped away into the night, others quietly woke before dawn to head out for work. There was a clear routine to the place, and nobody seemed transient except for me.

Over the next few days, the vague ‘hellos’ and head nods turned into something warmer. One evening, a group of men covered in bruises and dirt – fresh from a day of manual labour – invited me to eat with them, as the youngest had made fish amok: a dish of fish steamed in banana leaves with coconut milk and lemongrass. 

I hesitated only briefly before accepting and after my first sip, I realised it was absolutely bloody delicious.

As women – especially those travelling alone – we are taught to be wary of unfamiliar men. Too often, that fear is amplified when those men are from outside of our own cultures. But in that room, I felt none of the menace I had been warned about

Instead, I witnessed only coexistence, generosity, and an unexpected routine.

In return for the men’s kindness, I offered to brew rooibos, a herbal tea from Southern Africa but discovered that my bag had been overrun by ants. 

Without hesitation, one of the men grabbed a spoon and together we sat at a small table and removed all ants from the mixture until it was usable. I brewed it in a large saucepan and we all took turns scooping it into our cups, which we sipped side-by-side.

Through Google Translate, I explained that I’d come to Cambodia to find pandan tea, and one man suggested that the next day we go as a group together to a nearby stall. And so, almost as soon as morning came, we headed out; them in their work uniforms, me in the same travel outfit I’d worn for days.

At the tea stall, a local child who knew one of the men translated between us, and it seemed that we could communicate clearly for the first time.

I learnt that all the men were married, and their families lived in nearby villages but rather than pay for travel back and forth every day, it made sense for them to stay in the city. 

The £1 hostel meant that they could save money for what really mattered: food and water for their families.

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We shared the pandan tea, and even when the translating child left, we continued to try our best to communicate. The drink was lovely, but even nicer was the sensation of being accepted into their circle.

Would I stay at the £1 hostel again? Probably not; once was enough.

But it wasn’t frightening, and it certainly wasn’t lonely. It was raw, unpolished, and deeply human. 

The hostel offered a glimpse at an ‘ultra-budget’ world few backpackers would stumble into, and was a reminder that for many, budget accommodation isn’t about Instagrammable hammocks or cocktails. 

It’s about necessity: a roof, a fan, a bed, and kindness from locals.

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