Category: Travel Stories

At 7 in the morning the following day together with 10 other passengers and luggage we were again tightly packed into yesterday’s mini-van, with the official seating capacity of 8.  People were sitting on top of each other, hugging their rucksacks and suitcases.  Total lack of any luggage compartment in the van did not help things much.  This gave the Israeli girl a perfect reason to start bitching again. All others were simply happy to be on the bus and pretended not hear her.

Even though the storm had passed and the boats were running again, the sea was still rough, and our morning ride on the hydrofoil was not overly pleasant.  The nose of the boat kept lashing up and down, and within minutes of such acrobatics half the passengers turned a tender shade of green, and rushed for the toilet.  The Israeli girl finally shut up for the rest of the boat ride.

On the coast, all passengers going to Cambodia were promptly packed into another mini-van, with an even smaller seating capacity.  To add to the fun there were even more of us now.  The van had a TV screen on the dashboard, showing soft porn.  This was an interesting change from Vietnamese karaoke we experienced so far.  Unfortunately the bus ride was very short, and we missed on the opportunity to follow the plot of the video.  We were unloaded at a small road-side cafe, that doubled-up as a travel agency.  This started to look familiar.  Last year, when getting into Cambodia on a bus from Thailand, our visas were done in a very similar road-side cafe by a girl, stamping them into our passports with one hand, and frying noodles with chicken on a portable gas stove with the other.

This time fried noodles were off the menu, as there was no electricity in the cafe, and they could not serve hot food.  Their Internet was still working, though.  Go figure…

We handed in our passports plus 35 American dollars each, and were told to wait – the bus for Cambodia was leaving in two and a half hours.

The Israeli girl got over her sea sickness and started giving grief to the grandma at the counter, telling her she read in a book the visas should be 25 dollars, and not 35.  Grandma was just smiling and patiently repeating “Visa $35. No $35 – no visa“, which sounded very logical.  This time, all other passengers stood up in grandma’s defense, and explained to the girl that the visas were, indeed, $25, but if she read the rest of the book, in order to get a visa one also required an invitation from Cambodian authorities, and an application form filled out in Cambodian.  She was very welcome to obtain these on her own, or let the grandma earn her tenner by doing the paperwork.  After a brief but emotional exchange in Hebrew with her companion, the girl paid up.

The bus came on time, and we did not even have to hug our luggage – everything fit in nicely, and we moved in the direction of Cambodian border.  Compared to last year’s madness at the Poipet border point between Thailand and Cambodia, this time the crossing was swift and painless.  We got off the bus, walked to the official-looking building, and waited, looking at the Vietnamese border officials staring at us with boredom through their computer screens.  In about fifteen minutes grandma from the roadside cafe whizzed in from nowhere on a scooter with our passports, which already held Cambodian visas, and bore exit stamps for Vietnam.  She ushered us through the Vietnamese border (the officials kept looking through their computer screens and did not participate in the process), handed our passports over to the Cambodian immigration officer, who simply distributed them to the owners.  The bus with luggage was already waiting for us on the other side.

We left the country of hard beds, smelly streets and litter on the roads, and were now in Cambodia!

Differences between neighboring countries are better observed on the road.  Everybody who ever drove from St. Petersburg to Helsinki will tell you that.  The moment you cross the Finnish-Russian border, the scenery looks cleaner, garbage on the sides of the roads disappears, and the trees and the grass seem combed.  The situation with Vietnam and Cambodia was exactly the same.  Right after crossing the border with Cambodia, the litter vanished, the colors became brighter, the scenery got livelier, and the people smilier.  It was again in stark contrast to our last year’s bus crossing into the North of Cambodia from Thailand.  Compared to Thailand the North of the country looked grey, dirty, people were visibly gloomier and unhappier.  Entering from the South, Cambodia was the new Thailand compared to Vietnam.

After just 45 minutes, the bus delivered us to a sleepy coastal town of Kep.  Or, as it was known in it’s better days, Kep-Sur-Mer.  The former French resort could still boast white beaches, turquoise waters, lazy grandeur of the bygone days, and derelict empty villas, tucked into the surrounding jungle.  Three beers and one orange juice later, we secured our lodgings for the next two nights: a nice new Saravoan-Kep Hotel with a sea view and a Lavazza coffee shop on the ground floor.  Tomorrow was Christmas Eve, and we decided to treat ourselves.  The two cheerful Dutch guys, managing the place, eagerly shared that in the good old French Riviera days the hotel used to be a brothel, where wealthy Frenchmen and Vietnamese from the capital used to spend “working weekends” away from the wives.  Humbled at such historic prominence, we took a much needed shower, and after the sunset with a refreshing cup of Italian espresso, set off in search of food.

The map, provided by the cheerful Dutch guys, had “Crab Market” written in big letters somewhere in the center of Kep.  That sounded about right. We were intent to find it, and eat all the crab we could lay our eyes and hands on. In the dark of the night Kep looked almost deserted.  Come to think of that – it can hardly be called a town at all…  Rather a small peninsular, with only a hint of a downtown at the place’s only beach, random houses scattered all over the area, often tucked away in the surrounding jungle in a not-so-obvious way.

The big road, that judging by the map should have brought us right to the market, looked utterly deserted, and to add to the fun of the evening, after about 10 min all lights in the area went off, and we found ourselves in pitch darkness, surrounded by the jungle.  We bravely continued on, supported by the flashlights of two iPhones.  The blackout did not last long, though, and after another 10 minutes the lights came back, and we finally made it to a turn that led us to civilization. Kep‘s Crab Market turned out to be an assortment of seaside restaurants, all offering fresh crab, proudly displayed in water tanks.  The crabs looked too good to eat – big, with blue legs, scurrying rapidly and hiding one under the other.

There is something stopping you from eating a creature you just looked in the face. Vegetarians might have a point there, after all…  Nevertheless, we guiltily dined on crab – they did look too good to pass on the menu – and walked back to the hotel in pitch darkness in the unsteady lights of iPhones.

On recommendation of our Dutch hosts, we made reservations for Christmas Eve at the fancy local Sailing Club.  They were throwing a mega Christmas seafood barbecue party in a restaurant on the shore for an exorbitant by local standards price of $20 per head.  We were now officially part of the local dining elite!

But before the evening, we intended to scout out the area.  Even though according to official sources, the town of Kep had a population of 36 thousand people, it was hard to tell where they were all hiding.  The place did not look overpopulated by any stretch of imagination. In addition to the already visited and admired Crab Market, the map promised a pepper plantation, and some sort of a ghost town of abandoned villas.  They were all on our agenda for today.

The hotel boasted a beautiful swimming pool, that we were hoping to enjoy later, but in the morning it became a set for a rather unusual show.  The area was swarming with monkeys, who we briefly spotted the previous evening – they were raiding the garbage cans in the neighbourhood, and stalking people on the road.  In the morning, the three most adventurous ones of the gang came to our swimming pool for what looked like their daily ritual.  They gathered at the corner of the pool, that bordered on a protective wall covered with greens and flowers, and scouted the area.  Not seeing any worrying signs, they each took a refreshing drink from the pool, splashed some water on their faces, and smugly sat on the brim, visibly content with themselves.  The two younger ones started getting fidgety very quickly, though.  They ran along the brim of the pool a couple of times, and then took well-choreographed dives into the pool one after the other.  Refreshed and empowered, they sat on the corner, basking in the rays of the morning sun, chatting amicably.  The older one was still indecisive about a swim.  He kept dipping the tip of his tail into the pool, with a doubtful face of a scientist, conducting an experiment he knew was bound to fail.  He obviously was not convinced that the water was warm enough for him just yet.

We observed all this from behind the big potted tree on the other side of the pool.  Our enthusiasm about the afternoon swim diminished slightly, but the monkey swim show was very entertaining.  We moved on in the direction of breakfast, and the monkeys jumped onto the adjacent wall, and disappeared into the jungle.

When we excitedly shared the monkey story over our morning cappuccinos with one of the managers, he did not seem to share our joy, and just gloomily muttered “These bastards!…” Turned out, there was an ongoing war between the monkeys and the two Dutch guys. The former liked their morning swims in the pool, totally ignoring the wishes of the latter to keep the pool for the paying customers. The monkeys were clearly winning, though. Trying to keep them away, the Dutch guys already lost their WiFi connection for a week, when the monkeys, upset at being shushed away from the pool, tore out the hotel’s Internet cables. By the time we arrived at Kep, the feud seemed to have reached the Cold War stage: the monkeys behaved as though they owned the place, and the Dutch guys pretended not to notice them, hoping that neither would the customers.

We took our time enjoying the monkey show and the cappuccinos, and when we were ready to make a move, all the scooters in the area seemed to have been rented.  This did not prevent us from exploring the area, though.  One of the Dutch guys quickly telephoned a couple of neighbors, and secured us a Tuk-tuk for the “not screw me in my ass” price (his words).

On the way to the pepper plantation we stopped by something I never thought existed – the swallow nest factory.  It was a tall concrete building with tiny holes for windows on the very top, standing in the middle of a huge field, with nothing close-by, and upon approach we understood the desolate location.  From within the building came unbelievably loud chirping noise, made by hundreds, if not thousands of birds.  Our Tuk-tuk driver explained to us, that swallow nests were an extremely profitable business.  Chunks of clay and straw, cemented together by the birds’ saliva and shit were sold for up to $400 a kilo to neighboring China, where it was considered a delicacy.  That’s the weirdest business enterprise I have ever seen or heard about!…

The pepper plantation was owned by an elderly German guy, and in addition to pepper per se, had acres of fruit orchards with mango, rambutan and durian trees.  None of the fruit were in season yet, but we were happy at the chance to get to know more about the peppers from the plantation’s agricultural manager, who also doubled up as a guide.  I have seen plenty of paprika and chili plants, but somehow, never thought about what regular black and white pepper corns grow on.  Turned out, that green, black, white and red peppers came from one and the same plant, that looked a lot like a vine.  The color depended on the maturity of the peppercorns.  Green were the youngest, harvested right after forming; red were the medium-aged ones, hand-picked from the peppercorns as soon as they started ripening, usually one or two per cluster.  Black were the ripened and mature ones, and white were the skinned, washed, and dried black ones.  Quite interesting, how such a wide variety of colors and tastes came from one and the same plant.

Pepper vines take 7 years to mature and start bearing “fruit”, but the peppers then can be harvested all year round, as the plants never stop blossoming.  They have to be shaded from midday heat – completely when they are young, and at least partially after they mature, so the whole plantation was covered by elaborate sheds made of palm tree leaves.

However, the strongest impression of the day was yet to come.  It was the ghost-town promised by guide-books, integrated into the town of Kep.  In the good old days, Kep was the French Riviera of Cambodia, attracting the rich and wealthy, that streamed there for their weekends, summer vacations, and retirements.  It was that same thing, however, that brought in the town’s demise in the dark Khmer Rouge years.  Embodying everything the new regime hated and wanted to destroy, Kep took a serious blow: the wealthy residents were rounded up, and shipped to the Killing Fields of Phnom Pehn, and their villas were looted, burned, and blown up.  The few that remained were in a pitiful state, their darkened carcasses sticking out as sorry remnants of former grandeur.

All villas in the area were built around mid-20th century, and some boasted very modernistic lines.  Several of the better preserved ones were occupied by squatters, who tried their best to make their adopted residences look deserted to avoid any problems.  Some buildings have been taken over by the jungle, and the trees and vines sprouted through the empty window frames, spreading their roots all over the remaining floor surface.  These new invaders made the villas look surprisingly alive – even if the intended residents were no longer there, life continued between the walls of the buildings, and the jungle embraced them as part of itself in an endless continuation of the circle of life.  In their best days the villas must have been impressive with all the swank and glitter of the parties they housed.  However, even in their demise these architectural gems managed to keep their face, and reinvent themselves in all the pride and glory they could summon.  The sun setting over the eerie villas, primly propped against the jungle backdrop in the afternoon heat spiked with the mad buzz of crickets and cicadas was one of the most cherished memories of the trip.

We dined on spectacular seafood barbecue spread at The Sailing Club, with Christmas songs sounding exceptionally out of place on the tropical beach, and a poor skinny Cambodian guy in a fat suit desperately posing as Santa Claus.  He gave up trying to sing to the music, and instead was teaching the kids the moonwalk dance.  The restaurant was decorated with fairy lights, tables spilling out into the sandy beach adorned with candles, and big fat geckos hiding behind doors and ceiling lights were accompanying the music in their surprisingly loud voices.  You can’t wish for a more perfect Christmas Eve than that!…