After all the excitement of our trip to Siem Reap and the Angkor temples, we found ourselves back on familiar territory when we checked back in to the California II guest-house on the waterfront.
The most pressing priority was to post back all the souvenirs we'd been buying recently. We’d read in the guidebook that the Khmer postal service was slightly less than reliable but it would cost an absolute fortune to send the estimated 10 kilos we’d accumulated so we bit the bullet and set out for the main post office next to the Wat Phnom temple.
This was where we were re-acquainted with another of the ailments peculiar to travellers - rip off paranoia! We knew that we were paying over the odds for moto and cyclo trips but we could afford it and who wants to lose face over a few hundred riel, but this was different. The parcel was going to cost a fortune and we weren’t too confident it would even get back home. The fact that the staff took our jam-packed cardboard box into a back room to weigh it didn’t fill us with confidence either. Still, there was no way we could cart the stuff round with us for the next couple of months so we handed over our dollars and crossed our fingers.
We arranged with the ever reliable Mr Thai to take us to the Psar Dang Kor so we could catch a taxi to Kampot down on the south coast near the Vietnamese border. When we arrived at the market next morning it was a maelstrom of dust and commotion as stall-holders set up for the day and prospective passengers wove in and out of a staggering array of vehicles, trying to arrange their passage to various far flung destinations around the country.
We’d decided on Kampot after discarding our original plan to head to Sihanoukville, which had been named in honour of the king. Nestled on Cambodia’s south coast, the riverside town of Kampot’s reputation was founded on it’s rich colonial architecture and production of some of the world’s finest pepper and it sounded as though it would be a perfect base from which to explore the nearby beach resort of Kep and the Bokor Hill Station, the hilltop ghost-town build by the French. We'd read about Sihanoukville and the large ex-pat community, tourist related crime and general dodgyness which immediately turned us off the idea. For the first time on the whole trip, I also had a bad feeling about heading down there and had no desire to put my vibes to the test.
We didn’t totally escape the bad vibes though as our luggage was whisked off through the crowds and into the boot of a taxi we were assured was air-conditioned - a must on the hot and dusty three hour drive south. No sooner had we set off than the driver, who seemed to smell slightly of last nights (hopefully) firewater, announced that, no, he didn’t possess air-con.
The journey through Phnom Penh’s suburbs was a stop-start affair. We regularly found ourselves behind wagons, cows and various other forms of transport, the driver’s thumb continually mashed into the horn to no obvious effect as he was singularly ignored by his fellow road users.
It was only when we got out of town when things got scary. The prospect of an open road ahead of us was too much for the driver and he floored the accelerator, propelling us forward at alarming speed. We appeared to lose contact with the road from time to time as the suspension bottomed out over potholes, launching us upward as we sprang onward. No brakes were necessary and a honk on the horn made no difference to either the driver or the intended recipient of the warning blast as we careered down the road.
After three hours of skipping down the dusty road like a stone skimmed across a pond, we hit the outskirts of Kampot. We'd been expecting some kind of Parisienne scene of street cafes and an air of Gallic sophistication but the reality was somewhat different. The French colonial buildings were there alright but the town was dishevelled and dog-eared. After our journey, it was with great relief when we finally pulled in to the car park of the Borey Bokor Hotel which we’d chosen because it had a restaurant and dining opportunities appeared to be thin on the ground in Kampot. Unfortunately, the restaurant was closed and the hotel was going through a major facelift - a gang of workmen were flailing at the plaster above the main entrance with axes and hammers creating an horrendous din in the process.
Safely ensconced in our room, I glanced in the mirror an realised I’d just checked in resembling a contestant in a Panda look-alike competition. I’d wound the taxi window down to combat the stifling heat and now found that I had ingrained circles of dirt around my eyes which strenuous scrubbing wouldn’t shift. Eventually, I got cleaned up and we set out to explore.
We headed towards the market where there were a couple of options for lunch. The promisingly named International Restaurant turned out to challenge our sensibilities so we had a dented can of Sprite and moved on. Along the way we were accosted by a spiv on a moto who tried to get us to move to his friend’s guest-house - this wouldn’t be the last time we’d be collared and we seemed to spend a fair amount of our time around town trying to avoid his sales pitch.
Back at the Borey Bokor, the building work was recommenced with gusto first thing in the morning, accompanied by the dulcet tones of the resident cockerel. We had a fantastic breakfast at the nearby Bokor Mountain Club and, after checking out their accommodation, decided to de-camp and move in.
Formerly the Marco Polo, the Bokor Mountain Club turned out to be a veritable one stop shop for Kampot. Not only did they offer food and lodging, they also organised trips and tours too. Other places did the same but the Bokor’s location on the banks of the Prek Kampong river with the hills of the Bokor National Park rising up in the distance meant it had the views too.
We took a taxi down to the beach resort of Kep, where King Sihanouk once had a palace and had been a holiday destination for everyone form the French colonialists to the Phnom Penh big wigs until the civil war had put an abrupt end to the fun. Lavish architectural plans posted outside the abandoned beach resort suggested that a renaissance may be in the offing but the buildings remained shells and only a handful of holidaymakers were frolicking in the warm waters of the Gulf of Thailand.
We wandered round the beach, checked out the mermaid statue which stood on a small promontory and wondered what we could do to justify the time and expense incurred getting here. We decided on an early lunch at one of the small bamboo bedecked eateries near the beach and failed dismally in our attempts to communicate in Khmer with the young girl who tried to take our order.
It was interesting to see where monied Cambodians had once taken their holidays - a Khmer Cote d’Azure I guess but we soon found ourselves back at the Mountain Club – taxied back by our driver who had once driven down this same road as a Vietnamese tank commander when they had swept over the border in the late 70’s.
We arrived back just in time to take a sunset cruise down the river and were joined by another Brit couple and two German guys with their Cambodian friend - the only other travellers I remember seeing during our stay. We chugged down river towards the sea, passing river-side shacks and small fishing boats along the way - several craft seemed to be crewed by husband and wife teams, the man stood, gondola fashion steering/rowing, while his spouse nonchalantly bailed out with a plastic tub.
As the sun dipped behind the Elephant Mountains, creating a beautiful salmon pink tinted sunset, we turned and motored back to town - the vibration of the boat’s ancient diesel engine sending shudders from our numb bums through to the very tips of our hair!
The following day, we boarded the Mountain Club’s Land Rover and set off for the Bokor Hill Station, which the French had built high in the hills to escape the heat and humidity on the plains below. Boasting a hotel, palaces a post office and casino, we were intrigued at what we’d discover - once we’d negotiated the tortuous winding road up to the settlement.
We jiggled, bounced and rattled upwards along the fragmented surface until we reached the first of the buildings, the Black Palace. Grandly named but barely a shell we soon moved on to the Wat Sampeau Moi Roi where a tame monkey followed us around the small but beautiful temple.
The temperatures were appreciably cooler when we stopped at the Catholic church and tried to imagine what it would have been like to be a Vietnamese soldier holed up here, exchanging fire with the Khmer Rouge in the hotel a few hundred yards away.
The Bokor Palace Hotel was eerily silent when we pulled up outside and wisps of misty cloud began to circle round in the chilly air as we began snooping through the derelict building. The ballroom and terrace suggested opulence but discarded ammunition cases and what appeared to be a blood spattered stretcher combined with the cold air to send a chill down our spines.
We went down stairs and checked out the kitchen area and then headed upwards - and made a shocking discovery - there on the stairs was a mummified severed finger. Knowing the history of the place, our find was pretty shocking but, when I plucked up the courage to poke the digit with the toe of my shoe, we could see it wasn’t stiff and hard but soft and spongy which led to the question - What was a joke severed finger doing in this abandoned hotel in a ghost town on top of a rarely visited mountain?
The mysteries deepened when we went outside and discovered a heap of crosses inscribed in French, piled up under the hotel’s terrace. We assumed we’d chanced upon the evidence of a hushed up massacre from way back in the Hill Station’s history.
Of course, our overactive imaginations had been at work once more. We bumped into our fellow river cruisers who’d arrived on a different tour and they informed us that our macabre discoveries were nothing more than props from a recently shot movie!
On the way back down the hill, we stopped off at the Popkvil Falls, popular with the locals but reduced to a mere trickle by the recent dry spell. We were enjoying our packed lunch when we heard rustling in the bushes. Given the fact that the forest was inhabited by everything from monkeys and elephants to tigers, we weren’t about to investigate and beat a hasty retreat to the safety of the Land Rover.
Back in Kampot, we had a last wander round the streets, taking photos of the French houses that weren’t falling to bits and sitting near a grassy area where a football match was taking place. As we walked round to watch the action, several kids came up to us to say hello, the braver ones taking Alex by the hand and walking for a few steps before running away giggling. A young lad walked over to chat and practice his English. We also paid a visit to the shop where I'd been buying our provisions where the only person in the family that could speak English was Pisa, a bright nine-year-old who watched the Premiership Football games on satellite TV and knew all about Man Utd, Arsenal, Liverpool and even the Toon and Alan Shearer!
It had taken a while but Kampot had grown on us, especially the unassuming and friendly people but it was time to go. We organised a taxi with the Mountain Club and were assured that the driver drove unusually slowly and we’d have a lovely journey on the way back with plenty of time for photos - unsurprisingly this was the opposite of what actually happened and we finally pulled up - shell-shocked - outside the California II for our final stay in the Phnom Penh.
|
