Great hotel, but was really looking forward to moving on, via van:
… and “Superdong” (that’s the name of the boat, by the way).
The two-and-a-half-hour crossing would have been quite nice (had an upper-deck seat this time, so could enjoy the view), apart from the very loud, poor-quality Vietnamese “music videos” that played constantly throughout (even my very good earplugs weren’t able to save me). Lu’u Chi Vy and D’u’ong Hong Loan (maybe YouTube them?) were the only two artists, samey songs, with backing dancers from a (poor) local dance school. Lost the will to live.
Is this the Virgin Mary? Certainly looks like it from this distance:
And then the tourist bus from the Rach Gia port (pronounced “reck zah” – yeah exactly, not easy this whole Vietnamese thing). Here is, nominally, a photo of a biscuit, but note the legs behind (he was absolutely tiny, with large hands and ears; I wondered whether, like a puppy, he’d grow into them. A nice lad, but freaked me out when he wanted a selfie with me. No, I don’t know either):
Driving through the Mekong Delta was amazing – worth the bus ticket in itself. Shacks similar to those in Cambodia lined the road which backed right on to the main waterway:
And cables. Lots and lots of cables. I reckon you could quite easily take out large parts of the region with a few choice cuts:
Buildings are similar in style to Cambodia, but made from more robust materials (much more brick and less wood). Roads are narrow, but in fairly good condition. But it was slow going as there’s only one road. Motorbike laws are clearly observed: only one adult and one child passenger per moto and, most importantly, helmets are required for all (and it’s actually enforced, whereas in Cambodia they’ll have the odd day when they warn the locals and then sting the tourists/ex-pats for an $8 fine). Oh, and petrol is 51p per litre:
Eventually arrived in Can Tho at 4pm – nine hours to travel 268km. But it was a really interesting journey 🙂
I felt the adrenaline flood my body. I’d hit the night market in search of street food:
It looked pretty good:
And then “Hello, do you have some time?” from behind me and I turned to see the smiling face of a lad, maybe 13 years old. But out of the corner of my eye, I also saw another four pairs of eyes looking at me.
“No, sorry – not now,” I said and turned my head back in my direction of travel to see another two on a scooter in front of me. Get out of this situation right now, my brain screamed. They left me alone. They may have had honest intentions, but the sweetness in the voice, the distraction from behind (when I carry my bumbag at the front for obvious reasons) and the inexplicable request for some time from the only tourist still makes me wonder… But all is well, and I ordered a rice “pancake”:
I gave her a 10,000 VND note. “One,” she said, pointing to my pancake, “10,000 Dong”. I shook my head – I’d watched three others buy one and they’d all received change from that note. “Change”, I stated gently but firmly and made it clear that I wasn’t going to budge. She repeated. I repeated my response. Then the lady with her said in Vietnamese “She’s seen the others get change.” I can’t speak Vietnamese, but this is exactly what she said. And I got change. Well actually I got short-changed – the right number of notes but the wrong value. But it was close enough. I know the money is worth more to them, but it’s the principle. Why do they have to try it on all the time – it’s just so wearing?
I also bought a wrap, attracted by the yummy-looking fillings and the clearly displayed prices.
Yes, I know I just had one in Kampot, but I’m on holiday and, I’m in charge. Just had a few things to decide and arrange. And noticed that the bananas here are different – very yellow:
Today’s bug:
I first knew I’d over-ordered when the gas stove arrived… I keep forgetting the soup here is a real event. So my “light lunch” turned into a full meal (I didn’t eat again for over 6 hours!). Here you’ll see the drill: the soup (which finishes cooking on your table), the plate of rice, the small dipping bowl (on the right) and the dish on the left into which you transfer some of the soup. I’m a pro:
I wasn’t sure what these were, though:
It was delicious. I’d previously stopped at a place recommended by some westerners, but it was expensive and I didn’t want much. The kiwi owner suggested one of their lunch options. And why, for goodness sake, I thought, do I want a cheese and onion pannini (with NZ cheese), when just beyond your shoulder I can see the fishing boats pootling to and fro?
And the view here was great:
And I managed to get some Vietnamese Dong (VND) – and they’re plasticky. Very practical. I would post a photo, but I’m not sure it’ll get it across. I’ll bring some home, instead. Maybe. If I’ve any left 🙂
Good morning, Vietnam (you see what I did there?).
A beautiful breakfast view:
And then to the pearl farm on the “South Island tour”. An Aussie explained:
only 2% of the world’s pearls are natural – they work their way inside the oyster, taking some 7 – 10 years to be made
artificial insemination uses a seed (created from the crushed shells of oysters) planted straight in the gonads – the good part
they’re put in cages and lowered 2 metres below sea level, identified by black buoys
two metres is the optimum depth as there’s most plankton there
unfortunately, barnacles start growing on the cages (weighing them down) and the oysters (so they can’t close, and that’s when a fish comes in and eats the pearl)
so they have to clean the oysters and cages every 5 – 6 weeks
even then, it takes two years to make a pearl 6mm in diameter
that pearl will then sell for $10
Round here there are two varieties of oyster that are rarely found elsewhere (due to the chemical imbalances resulting from the rice fields upstream in the Delta). These can produce big oysters: as they secrete to feed the pearl, it makes the oyster bigger; over 5 – 6 cycles (each lasting upwards of two years, remember), they can start producing 15mm oysters (which take 7 – 10 years to grow). Not a get-rich-quick scheme, you’ll see. But it must be lucrative because there are three farms along this stretch. And they’re mostly made into jewellery:
This necklace was being sold for c.£200, but as I’ve never bought a pearl necklace, I have no idea whether this is cheap or extortionate.
“Coconut tree prison” was built by the French in 1924. It was used to house POWs in the Vietnam War (which here they call the American War), where the 40,000 inmates were tortured by US troops. Four thousand died, and 10,000 were injured. The displays focused on this torture, with reconstructions of tiger cages:
And some poignant photos:
But it was all too engineered. For example, they showed the escape tunnel that took 41 prisoners to freedom in 1969:
I’m guessing that it didn’t have these inviting steps, though. Surely even Americans would have spotted what was going on here…?! I discovered afterwards that the whole place is a reconstruction, completed in 2013, although it did give a sense of the place:
Fish sauce is a major Phu Quoc export. Except it isn’t, because several airlines have banned it for fear that broken bottles will stink the place out for months, if not years. Anchovies are caught and mixed with salt on the boat (3:1 ratio) and put straight into these vats, which can hold 15 tons. They’re then covered and left for 12 months when the first batch is siphoned off from the tap at the bottom. This is 45% protein. Water is added, the mixture left for another 3 months, and batch two taken: 40% protein. The process is repeated for the third and final batch: less than 40% protein. And then the leftovers are used as fertiliser for the pepper farm. Now that’s what you call recycling. Around 4,000 litres are produced in total, and then the process starts again.
It’s powerful – such a shame photos can’t communicate smells and tastes. The smell catches your throat, but is bearable. It’s fishy, but dull and concentrated. Not pleasant, but only mildly offensive. You wouldn’t want to hang around for long, though. And it’s strong. They don’t use this stuff in cooking – it’s too good – it forms the basis of sauces and dips. The Vietnamese like dipping.
Bai Sao (“Star beach”, named due to the starfish here) is widely acknowledged as the best beach on the island (this is not actually true – apparently, the military base in the north has commandeered all the best beaches, so it’s more accurate to say it’s the best beach mere mortals can visit):
I’d brought a baguette, but the lunch looked delicious. I should have mentioned – I was the only westerner on the trip – everyone else was Vietnamese. And as the guide spoke little English (yes, I was rather annoyed, too), the majority of the tour was in Vietnamese. But my fellow tourists were wonderful, taking me under their wing, with many of them speaking very good English indeed (two pretty much fluently). They kindly invited me to join their lunch, which was so lovely – we all sat round the table, with the dishes in the middle. Each person got a bowl of rice, and a small plate. You transfer a few mouthfuls of some of the dishes to your plate, and then go back for more when you’re ready. A really social occasion, unlike our “one person to one meal” approach. It was a highlight of my trip. I’ve included this photo for the record, but the sun made everything dark and, not liking having my own photo taken, I’m very uncomfortable taking other people’s so didn’t try again.
We then had another hour or so to relax on the beach, and I went swimming with one of the older Vietnamese ladies (fluent in English – she lived in Australia for 30 years). Educated, intelligent, fascinating, she gave me the entire history of Vietnam. Too much to reproduce here, but I’ll include snippets as they’re relevant. It occurred to me that I hadn’t met her like in Cambodia. And immediately it struck me why: all the intelligencia were killed by the Khmer Rouge. And their families were also “destroyed” (which surely decreased the average IQ in the country quite significantly).
A quick stop at a market to buy fruit:
And fish, if you wanted it:
And then the pagoda. Nice, but very new, so no real character yet. But great views (note the monk in the foreground, who did add to the feel of authenticity!):
Inside:
And I took this so I can find out what on earth they are (I assume they’re here as an offering):
Big, fat columns made of beautiful wood:
Very impressive, as were the rafters:
And then I stepped outside, and was reminded that I was a European giant:
I think the tour guide was enjoying this trip. We had an unscheduled stop at a dried fish shop. Yes, it was as bad as it sounds:
Hygiene was non-existent with flies landing on everything (the incense sticks are a token gesture to keep them away). And some very dubious wares:
This “swimming bladder” was rather perturbing:
Every kind of fish, in every kind of way. And not pretty. But interesting.
I would say I liked the seahorses, but I obviously didn’t like the fact that they were dead and bottled:
Then off to the now obligatory waterfall. It had been developed and in some respects it was done sympathetically, like the path:
But in other ways, it was quite gaudy (no, I don’t know what the tiger is doing there, either):
But the main waterfall was worth the trip, despite the hordes (not pictured):
The SIM wine factory was less interesting. Mostly because it wasn’t much different from wine-making in any country. But I did try the free sample (well, about one sip’s worth), which tasted like neat Ribena, with a hint of alcohol (it was only 1 – 2%).
Other, much stronger, versions are available:
But I was more intrigured by these:
Pepper is another major export from these parts. It only grows on red soil and takes two years to start producing fruit worth using: red ones are dried to become white pepper, and the green ones become black.
Another tasting session. They eat their mango very unripe (have I mentioned this before?), so it’s very bitter. In Cambodia, it was served with chili salt or sugar, but here we tried it with pepper:
All kinds of pepper mixtures: salt and pepper, garlic and pepper, chili and pepper and, of course, fish sauce and pepper.
Back via kicking out time at a local primary school:
And a rush through Duong Dong, which confirmed that it wasn’t worth a bicycle trip here tomorrow. A packed, varied and interesting day with a lovely bunch of people, finished off with a mango smoothie:
Whilst their icecream and yoghurt is pretty good, their milk is not. There’s no fresh milk available. Suddenly, UHT is desirable… it’s either that, or condensed milk (which I like, but only for dessert).
Construction
Cambodia is in the midst of a development boom. As mentioned, vast swathes of the country are being sold off to line the pockets of the rich few, the trees cut down and sold (to Vietnam) and cash crops, or resorts, erected in their place. Foreign ownership of the key areas means that it’s not even Cambodians benefiting. For instance, the “National Park” east of Sihankouville (“Ream”) and the nearby island has been sold to a Chinese businessman who is planning a tourist resort. Is there really a need for this? Would people really travel here to one of these resorts? I guess I’m not their target audience, but…
Chinese input is also being sought for the economic policies in an attempt to copy their “rags to riches” turnaround (recent events apart). I just kinda get the impression that they’re running before they can walk and are charging ahead without proper due diligence. That’s the consensus of the locals, too (those who I’ve spoken to, anyway): too much, too fast. Slow down, Cambodia. Take your time, and get it right. And it could be amazing.
Reading an interview with Cambodia’s economic minister (I think that was her title), she explained that the injection of billions of US dollars by well-meaning first-world countries caused the Cambodian Riel to devalue overnight. Hence, there’s this weird combination of larger amounts in USD and smaller amounts in KHR – a bit of a headache for visitors, but a nightmare for her as she’s effectively lost control of her own country’s currency.
“Hello”
I thought it was just tourist places, but most Cambodians answer their phone “hello?”. Odd.
Hip flexibility
Even (especially?) the oldsters have hip flexibility that makes me so envious. Concertina’ed up, squatting with their butts touching the floor. I’m sure some of it is due to their diminutive stature, but most of it will be lifestyle – they squat as part of their everyday lives, so not only do they not lose flexibility, but they actually get more flexible!
Scooter accidents
I’ve seen three in four weeks. Only one involved another vehicle, and all were minor. None of the riders were wearing helmets.
Roads
“Why don’t they ever get round to tarmacking the rest of this road?” asked a naive American (a most obnoxious bloke). Because, I wanted to say to him, it’s better to tarmac just the middle, and do more roads. There’s not an awful lot of traffic, so it’s very sensible – everyone uses the middle, sealed stretch and just moves on to the dirt when something’s coming the other way. Wouldn’t work in America, but he seemed to forget that we’re not in America. Dumbass.
Dogs
Dogs are everywhere and, generally, in surprisingly good condition. Even in the sticks. They trot across the road, at least two to each property. They’re not aggressive, just mind their own business.
Shrines
Religion is so much a part of people’s lives, with Buddhist shrines in the most unusual places. Here, a section of the shop floor of a petrol station, has been dedicated:
Cigarette laws
Laws are, it would appear, non-existent. I’ve never seen them stacked along with the other goods in a shop like this little lot:
Couldn’t change my dollars anywhere – interesting given that Vietnam is a stone’s throw away from this place. A business opportunity that a Pot-pat hasn’t caught on to yet. Then my last van ride through Cambodia:
Scott, Chantal and I burst out laughing. The driver smiled cautiously. He’d just handed us some “border control” forms. We’d all heard about this – a “medical check” that they scam you $1 for. General consensus is to go with it. But when we got the form, we just couldn’t help ourselves:
Apparently, our dollar is helping to prevent an epidemic of hypothermia. Wetting ourselves, we calmed down and tried to take it seriously. But then the guy aimed a laser at us and took our body temperature that was duly noted on our forms (which, interestingly, had no official logo) and asked us whether we’d experienced any nausea, vomiting, and the like (all key symptoms of a condition that I was quite worried about, given the climate out here). It was all I could do to keep a straight face.
He, on the other hand, was taking it seriously. But when he took my dollar and stuffed it into the side of his briefcase, I had to turn away else he’d have seen me crack. Oh my, if you’re going to scam us, do it convincingly please!
Good afternoon, Vietnam.
I was looking forward to standing on the top deck of the ferry and watching the journey. That’s why you travel by boat after all (and to cross water, obviously). But no, it was just like an aeroplane – we had allocated seats down in third class, some cheesy TV, a cold cloth and bottled water. But no safety demonstration, which was a shame.
Tagged along with Scott and Chantal, walked down to the beach from their hotel and then wandered back towards the main town on the island enquiring at places to stay.
Found a steal: a private bungalow at a family-run hotel, with this view from my patio:
… for $25 per night. Decided to stay three instead of the planned two nights. Once again, winging it has worked out (part of the art, of course, is deciding whether pre-booked is better, but I’m kinda getting the hang of it). They even had bottled tap water 😉
Off for a dip in the sea straight away (the sun sets at 5:30pm-ish and it gets very dark, very quickly here). And they’ve even foot taps outside each bungalow to prevent the mass sand invasion that blighted my Sihanoukville place. Then back to watch the sun set.
No wonder it took 90 mins to get there – the driver crawled along. And then it occurred to me that he’d rarely drive up a hill, because Cambodia don’t have many and those that do exist are dirt tracks, so a tourist bus wouldn’t venture there. Seriously slow. I’d be surprised if we hit 15mph at any point on the journey (even coming down). And he took all the hairpin bends very tightly, and used the brake a lot, rather than the gears – all signs of a driver inexperienced in steep hills. But we were safe.
The King’s former residence was built in 1934 by the French as a holiday home.
Complete with conservatory:
And some interesting artwork:
This spot was chosen because of the views (but not today!):
Then to the “old casino”. I don’t know about gambling, but it would have made an awesome venue for night-time hide-and-seek (I actually won a game of this by just lying down on the landing – in the dark I couldn’t be seen and the seeker scoured all the bedrooms but not the landing!):
And guess who this is?
Go on, have a guess. No, it’s not Buddha (give away: Buddha didn’t have chesticles). It’s Ya Mao – the guardian of travellers. She was lost at sea travelling to see her husband… so it’s assumed that she was, er, “wanting sausage” (the guidebook’s phrase, not mine). Ergo, leaving phallic symbols, such as bananas, ensures pleasant onward travel.
Judging by this lot, she’ll be well-satisfied.
And you may have spotted the woman whispering into the rabbit’s ear:
I’m not sure what this was about. Further research required.
Others were praying to the stones with incense sticks to their heads:
… whilst a westerner judged it appropriate to climb on their religious monuments: #facepalm
A history lesson followed. It turns out that 1979 wasn’t the end of the Khmer Rouge. Although they were booted out of the cities, they controlled (terrorised?) the countryside, including this hill station that was built by the French in 1924. Rural areas were out-of-bounds for Cambodians, with the Khmer Rouge planting landmines and dominating the countryside. King Sihanouk returned from China in 1991 and brokered a deal with Khmer Rouge: you stop killing and we won’t send you to jail. It wasn’t until Pol Pot’s death in 1998 (which the guide advised was because he got sick and died of natural causes) that the regime finally fell. Between 1998 and 2000, landmines were cleared from the region and tourists started visiting again. But it was a ghost town here: 42km from Kampot along “the dancing road” took three hours, so to see anything tourists would have to stay overnight. The only accommodation was a rangers’ station. So the government allowed the development of the hill station, selling it to a private company. They built roads, a new casino and everything else a holiday-maker apparently wants.
Yet, it’s destroyed the place – when you step into the casino, you could be anywhere in the world. The new casino opened in 2012… but it’s very expensive to stay, so people now do day tours. A classic example of a lack of user research.
Another example of this was the waterfall:
Very pretty, but this is what, rather incongruously, you saw looking the other way:
Eating our pre-packed lunch of meat and rice here was surreal.
Whilst I’m no stranger to Catholic churches, it felt odd seeing one here:
With some fantastic views:
And then the slow drive back. Very slow drive back. I’m pretty sure could have biked it in half the time.
A quick kip back at the hotel and then off for the sunset cruise. How different this one was from the one in Phnom Penh – relaxed, nice music, chilling out on the top deck with Jack the Scot, just watching the world go by.
But not the sunset, because the mountain blocked the whole thing!
Fireflies on the way back (no photo as my phone camera wasn’t even close to being capable, and that’s without factoring in my poor photography skills). And then out for dinner with a group from the boat. Overall, a pretty good day with a really nice bunch of people.
Cate’s been in Kampot for four years. She lost her house in the US with the economic crash (living in it for three years without paying because it took so long for them to get round to evicting her due to the number of repossessions they had to deal with). “Somewhere near water, not too big, cheap to live with a sense of community” was her criteria, someone suggested Kampot and six weeks later she was here. She’d never been to Cambodia before, let alone Kampot. Problem is, she now can’t move back: she’s on a Cambodian wage (personal training and teaching yoga) and airfares are $850pp.
But I can confirm she’s a fantastic yoga teacher – it was one of the best classes I’ve ever done. Bordering on bikram yoga in this heat, but that just contributed to the workout.
Another day off to just be in Cambodia. After lunch I went to a screening of “The Killing Fields” – in a lovely, casual cinema:
The film seemed more relevant here than watching it back home. Whilst it showed some of the atrocities, it concentrated on the relationship between a journalist and his Cambodian sidekick. But it certainly brought it to life.
And then I summoned up the courage to try crab for dinner. I like crab (that’s not why I needed courage) it’s just that I had no idea what I’d actually get. Exactly what I ordered, it turns out – a pile of cooked crab!
Nice, and surprisingly filling. And then another thing struck me that I’d noticed, but needed to verify: Cambodians don’t like touching money. When you pay at a restaurant, handing them cash directly makes them uncomfortable – you need to put it on the table, or in the folder the menu comes in.
And now, let’s talk toilets. Unless you’re in a tourist resort (so paying decent money), they have no paper and they’re bucket flush (there’s a vat of water, you scoop some with a small, handled bucket and pour it down the pan).
But there’s always this spray next to it:
It amused me that, despite having no flush and no paper, they always made time to give you a spray to rinse down the pan. Turns out this is exactly why they have the spray. Whilst it is, apparently, very good at killing mosquitos (just aim in the general direction and gravity does the rest), it is, in fact “the bum gun*”.
*I can actually hear my dad laughing (which, to me, is one of the most wonderful sounds in the whole world 🙂
Today was a good or bad day, depending on how you look at it. At times, it felt like one disaster after another. But it wasn’t really.
I’ve never driven a motorbike. I like being alive so never bothered to learn. At $5 for the day (versus $20 for a moto driver), it was much cheaper to drive myself, so we went to practise on the scrubland across from hotel. Straight ahead, I could do. But I failed to get it to turn – it either didn’t move, or shot ahead and tried to throw me off. Eventually it succeeded. I don’t particularly like driving anyway, and my sense of direction (or lack of) is legendary, so reasoned that an extra $15 (about £10) was worth it to not get lost in the Cambodia countryside and prevent a potential insurance claim.
Tourists rule here: the money to be made means it’s worth locals dropping everything to do what you want, when you want. It still makes me feel uneasy, but I’ve learnt to deal with it as, ultimately, it’s mutually beneficial. So ten minutes later, my moto instructor reappeared as my moto driver for the day.
I have long legs. The footrests on the moto were obviously designed by and for Cambodians, who do not. My knees were by my ears (ok, ok, but it’s only a slight exaggeration) and my feet kept sliding off the footrests. A day like this was not going to be fun. My driver tried wedging some stones into the mechanism to improve things, but they just got crushed, so we proceeded. As we went through a local “town” I noticed he kept slowing down, looking around. And then we pulled up to a moto repair shop where he proceeded to hammer nails into the footrests to make them more comfortable for me! What a gem 🙂
“You have a head torch?” the lad asked me. I’m guessing he was about 13 (which, in English terms, is the equivalent of 24). “Yes!” The tourists at the guesthouse had advised I should take one. I rummaged in my bumbag. No head torch. I sat down in a rock and searched each compartment thoroughly. Still no head torch. Pants – what had I done with it? So my phone torch acted as an inferior substitute whilst he showed me the bats, and the temple that was built by the cave’s occupants and is now slowly being claimed by the mountain with an impressive stalagtite as its centrepiece:
He proceeded to tell me that rising up to meet it was a stalagmite called a Shiva Linga. It was, indeed, a Shiva Linga but quite clearly not a stalagmite. His prediction that in a thousand years they’d meet in the middle seemed unlikely seeing that the drips from the stalagtite were actually eroding the Shiva Linga!
When the Khmer Rouge heard of the community living here, they invaded, found them hiding further into the caves and murdered the lot of them.
He also pointed out lots of rather dubious “animals” in the rock (“all natural”) – elephant heads, a crocodile body and a footprint of King Kong. And this cow (can ya see it?):
But he was a lovely, pleasant lad and was happy to answer all my questions, so an enjoyable visit.
I passed on the option of the scenic (read “for experienced climbers only”) route back. A pleasant visit to some impressive caves, with spectacular views:
As we sped (ok, well, trundled at least) through the Cambodian countryside to our next stop I realised my mind was preoccupied with losing my head torch (I’d texted Seb at the hotel who confirmed I hadn’t left it there). It’s annoying, but not the end of the world, I told myself. I knew I wouldn’t get another like it here and it’s been so useful already, but I decided to put it out if my head and enjoy the moment.
The “secret lake” was clearly not secret, with the same raised platforms with hammocks and mats, with thatched roofs like those at the crater lake near Banlung:
Apparently there is a proper secret lake near here – it’s said that less than ten westerners have seen it since its discovery in the early 1900s. Young people gathered for a meal:
… and even the monks came out to play (no photo). Unfortunately, once again rubbish everywhere kinda spoilt it much more than you’d expect.
Pagoda. That’s what these (233) steps lead to:
And here’s what was at the top:
The observant among you will have spotted the conspicuous absence of a pagoda… because apparently it’s still being built. Hmm, maybe he just thought I needed the exercise!
The pepper farm must have been good… even my guide was taking photos:
They grow round columns of brick. That’s all I know because he didn’t speak English, and my knowledge of pepper farming is, shall we say, work in progress:
Ah, this was the pagoda we were meant to visit:
Small, local and obviously used by the community… and it’s already been built, which is obviously a bonus.
Kep’s crab market was the highlight of the trip:
But it would appear that the concept of sustainable fishing has not reached these shores, and I fear that it won’t until it’s too late. Thousands of crabs were being hauled out of the ocean and sold by the kilo.
And they’ll even cook them up there and then:
Don’t like crab? How about a ray?
And the market was, once again, multiple versions of the same stall. These sell various seafood on a stick (perhaps this is where Dibbler started life..?*)
Lunch was a kilo of lychees (in the vein of most of the native fruit – rough skin, slightly sweet fleshy inner with a stone – but a better ROI as they’re easier to peel and much larger than lonigans) and a great view:
Unless you looked closer to home:
Or behind you:
And then the pre-storm winds came, and the stench of sewage offended the nostrils. It offends my eyes, but the locals don’t seem bothered by the sight or the smell (one Pot-pat suggested that tuk-tuk drivers should be employed as litter pickers during the low season; this idea works on many levels).
*You’ll understand this comment if you read Pratchett. If you don’t read Pratchett, then I envy you as you have a whole wonderful (Disc)world to discover.
A trainee Diane Warren. That’s who is composing music throughout Cambodia – slick, but badly written power ballads rule. I managed to not burst into song as I dined (this wasn’t difficult), and then guess what I did? Yep, another sunset to end another wonderful day. And this was stupendous – the most spectacular sunset I’ve ever seen:
Let’s start with a “wildlife” review, with these two still sleeping when I arrived for my pick-up:
Finally checked out of my “hotel”. I’d probably have stayed another night here if it’d been good, but I just couldn’t wait to leave. And nowhere to dry my clothes meant that I was down to my last pair of pants. So glad I brought three spares 🙂 On a positive note, Steve tried to make it up to me by providing an enormous breakfast. Here’s what a full English cooked by an Englishman in Cambodia looks like:
But then the “baguette and jam” arrived. It wasn’t so much the radioactive colour of the jam that perturbed me…
… it was the dead ants in it. But hey, this is Cambodia (and in Mondulkiri, I did actually consider eating ants… but didn’t summon up the courage before they’d all been eaten), so I scraped them out and down it went. Then down to the beach to soak up this view before the van arrived:
… when I was accosted by a lady offering any beauty treatment you could desire. There was no way she was getting her hands (and thread) on my eyebrows (what *is* that all about?!), but a quick haggle and she effectively waxed my legs using cotton thread. It stung a little, and took a lot longer than waxing, but it was pretty effective. I’ll report back whether it stayed away for the advertised “4 or 5 weeks”:
I like Kampot. It reminds me of Kratie (a coastal, functional town that’s alive, but not too touristy). Stopped at another local joint for lunch where there were only four things on the menu (and one was pudding!). And then a minor slip… off to find a massage place and inadvertently ended up at a brothel (or “massage with happy ending”). I can’t comment on her, er, “night job” but I hope she’s better at it than her day job – woke up with bruises down my legs. Will be more careful next time!
Loads of ex-pats here (or “Pot-pats” as they’re called). This may be exacerbated by the lack of locals due to Phjum Benh – the end of the 15-day festival when people return to their old country. Apparently, the temple visits are to “feed” the ghosts: when someone dies but doesn’t make it to the planned place they stay on earth as ghosts. Some of these may be your ancestors. So you go to the temple to feed the ghosts… whilst they’re working out a way to get where they want to be, I assume.
I really needed a ballet class (I’d even do adage;), but yoga was the next best thing and a lovely way to kick off Kampot 🙂
A quick risk assessment. Safe. I collected myself, took two confident steps forward… and jumped.
After breakfast and this view:
… we’d quickly piled on to the boats, people suddenly appearing from nowhere, and we were off into the beautiful waters of Cambodia’s southern coast.
First stop was snorkelling (at Koh Praeus?).
Grabbed some googles, jumped in and promptly choked. As a sprint swimmer I’m conditioned to “explosive breathe” when I’m in the water: inhale quickly, hold my breath (this aids buoyancy), then exhale quickly before the next inhalation. Doesn’t work with a snorkel, it just makes you splutter. Ok, I thought, better teach yourself how to snorkel. And fast. It took ten minutes to retrain a lifetime of breathing 🙂
And I was off. But without a waterproof camera so here’s what I saw, courtesy of Google images:
A leisurely lunch stop followed at a beautiful beach with clear water:
A hammock:
Fantastic views (note the cow):
And a ton of litter:
Or rubbish, really. To me, litter implies a bottle or two, but this was like fly tipping. It’s everywhere – beaches, streets, people’s houses. Cambodia is one big rubbish heap.
Back on the boat, we pulled up here:
Everyone fell silent, not sure what was happening. Snorkelling again? “Jump”, said the guide in his basic English. Err, what? People started looking round at each other. “Oh no, I didn’t sign up to this,” said a voice behind me.
But we did it! Almost everyone had a go. Standing on the top, I could fully experience how the kids I teach feel standing on the poolside, toes curled over the edge, trying to summon up the courage to jump in for the first time. I also knew that the longer I contemplated my fate, the more difficult it would be. So I checked that the water was safe to jump, collected myself, took two steps forward… and jumped.
I was in the air for ages – we guessed it was about 7m high. And didn’t do what I teach (keeping your feet together – it’s really difficult when you’re falling). Let’s just say that it wasn’t the most elegant water entry I’ve ever made. But I did it (no photo – I was otherwise engaged). And I felt a real sense of achievement 🙂
One final snorkel stop (not good visibility as last night’s rain had churned things up here) where we spotted this beggar floating nonchalantly around us:
… and then back to the number we first thought of tired, happy, wet and very very sandy. A quick shower and back to the beach for sunset.
But it would appear that the concept of sustainable fishing has not reached these shores, and I fear that it won’t until it’s too late. Thousands of crabs were being hauled out of the ocean and sold by the kilo.
