We leave Phnom Penh this morning at 7.00 to drive to Sihanoukville on the south coast to catch the boat to Lazy Beach, on the island of Koh Rong Samlom. We are picked up from the hotel in a new Hyundai people carrier, a major advance on the Arkansas Chuggabug that delivered us to the city in such an entertaining manner. There is to be no repeat of the Battambang - Phnom Penh Wacky Race.
As we leave town it's interesting to note the banners crossing the highway declaring 'November 13th National Sanitation Day'. One day late for us unfortunately. Without going into detail (as far as I'm concerned there's been far too much gratuitous bowel banter in our time here; some members of the party liberated perhaps by their professional insights appear to a laymen like me to be borderline obsessive) the change of diet allied with tap water described in a holiday forum as 'Traveller's Poison' has taken its toll on one or two of our more colonically challenged gutless wonders. Sorry, sympathy quota clearly exhausted.
The 4 1/2 hour journey is remarkably incident-free, the driver being by Cambodian standards quite competent and by Western standards merely reckless. No livestock, farmers or small children were harmed during the making of this journey; as far as we're aware.
Sihanoukville has developed as a popular tourist destination in recent years and has a number of popular beaches. It is seen as an alternative to the more developed areas of neighbouring Thailand but is perhaps in danger of developing too rapidly itself and potentially spoiling its relaxed charm. The Lazy Beach resort (if you can call 14 beach huts a 'resort') is situated on one of a dozen islands in the Gulf Of Thailand off the Cambodian coast and is 2 1/2 hours away by boat. It can be reached in 40 minutes apparently but our quaint little vessel is a tad pedestrian. Judging by its appearance it is clearly a veteran of many trips around the Gulf. Its long no doubt distinguished history does little to assuage T's concerns however. After all, it only has to sink once. And you don't need to be an Engineer with a heightened sense of intrinsic safety values to question the seaworthiness of our decidedly tired looking boat.
We chug-chug along for a couple of hours before our worst fears are realised and a tropical storm blows in. The tarpaulin shutters are rolled down to afford some protection from the rain. The life jackets hang from the rafters (I quickly calculate the number available and wonder if it will be possible to share...) and I mentally 'bagsie' one of the newer ones. The swell throws the passengers into each other's laps in an impromptu 'meet and greet' session. Fortunately we are within reach of our destination and the island probably provides some protection from the worst of the storm. We are grateful to finally pull alongside the jetty, damp, shaken and not a little stirred.
We are greeted by Chris, one of the two partners in the business, and are shown to the reception / bar area for a welcoming drink. As we sit and wait for our bags to be brought in and generally acclimatise, a real humdinger of a storm kicks off and we take stock of our good fortune to be safely on terra firma.
The island of Koh Rong Samlon is owned by the Cambodian Navy (we learn that, bizarrely, the Cambodian Navy doesn't actually have any boats!). Chris and his partner were able to use family connections to secure a short lease to establish the business. He was working in London when he got the call 'I've found an island!'. Four and a half years ago he packed his bags and hasn't looked back. One look around this place and you understand why.
We walk along the beach and take in the island's lush primeval splendour. The crashing of waves and the relentless high pitched drone of the cicadas is all that breaks the silence. The resort consists of 14 beach huts each sleeping up to four with a shower (cold) and a toilet (manual flush - barrel of water with pan scoop) complimented by an item colloquially referred to as a 'bumhose' which has a limited appeal to those with sado-masochistic tendencies and toiletting obsessives. We have a veranda at the front with his and hers hammocks from whence books are read, small talk is spoken, journals are written, regular naps are taken and the world passes by effortlessley in a lazy haze.
We have regular visitor, a large Gecko who we name 'Gordon'. He appears when you least expect it, mostly at night when he makes his presence known with an eerie high-pitched call and a sudden dart. A visit to the bathroom in the early hours is best avoided. Gordon and his family seem settled in our little hut as evidenced by the stock of small eggs tucked in behind the cladding. Which is nice. T & S have their own Gecko, Colin, who has been blamed for gnawing away at Nurse S's copious supply of snake oil and holiday pep pills. This is mentioned to Chris who rather enigmatically says 'we'll call it a Gecko shall we?' hinting that the culprit may be of the genus Rattus. I suspect he's also paid us a visit as there's a bit of rustling in the early hours. Russell will sniff out any food scraps and requires us to be scrupulously clean about the place. All part of the castaway challenge...
We settle into a regular daily routine of answering the cicada dawn chorus, walking the 10 yards to our early morning dip in the already warm ocean, taking a late breakfast / early lunch, sleeping it off in the hammock, taking another dip, sleeping it off in the hammock, perhaps going for a little walk, taking another dip, sleeping it off in the hammock, taking a light tea perhaps followed by another dip, sleeping it off, catching a spectacular sunset before taking supper and quaffing a few sherbets. Food is available in the restaurant / bar all day and is exceptional. The cuisine is Asian, perhaps toned down slightly to accommodate Western tastes. The portions are too generous for us and we frequently share one meal between two. Fresh fish can be ordered a day in advance. It's a rare experience to see your supper arrive in the boat, watch it squirm and wriggle and catch up with it within the hour as it's presented to you on a plate. Now that's fresh! The white fish referred to by Chris as 'Sweet Lips' is cooked to perfection, its soft succulent flesh melting in the mouth.
The price of the food is reasonable, an average main course (fresh fish excepted) is about $6, a can of beer is $1.50, a glass of wine $4. We run up a daily bill of between $40-$50. This is added to the $40 per night charge per hut and payable in cash at the end of the stay. The bar is the hub of the island and a lot of time is spent there reading, relaxing and socialising so there is an imperative to spend money. It helps that our evenings are generally curtailed as the days are so packed with heady self-indulgence that by 9.00 we're whacked and ready to turn in.
Guests come and go - the average stay seems to be 2 / 3 nights - an eclectic mix of French, Germans, Norwegians, Irish, Brits, Eastern Europeans, Kiwis & Aussies. People are generally friendly, sociable but not imposing, with a shared appreciation that the majority see this stay as an opportunity to get away from their normal routine and to have time to themselves.
We do however have a close call with a couple on the first night. I'd clocked the tubby squeaky-voiced little Aussie when we boarded the boat and took an instant dislike to him for having the crass insensitivity to wear a T shirt with a macho military motif. We've just settled into our comfy chairs in the bar for a quiet read before dinner when Sheila pipes up 'D'you guys fancy a game of caaaards?' My heart sinks. One false move now could have grave consequences. D, because she's a nice person and naively always sees the good in others smiles benignly and moves to join them. I sit rigid, staring blankly into my Kindle and working on an exit strategy. I look up with a disengaged stupid half grin, hopefully implying a kind of friendly indifference, a slight aloofness, as they regale D with their travel tales; how they've done the Killing Fields and the Genocide Museum (as presumably they've 'done' the Nazi concentration camps, clocked the Mona Lisa, had a few tinnies on the Great Wall and wept openly at Gracelands. Tick box tourism. You can travel and never leave home.) The longer they go on the more my faith in the restorative qualities of this tropical idyll is compromised. I'm struggling with the urge to interject with sarcasm, purely as a defensive strike. I know this won't be helpful but it won't be my fault. Just as I'm about to implode after Sheila praises Thatcher for having 'balls' the T & S cavalry arrive and I find an excuse to join T at the bar. As I walk back to the hut after our meal I pass Bruce 'n' Sheila's place. They've placed a huge Aussie flag on their veranda. I rest my case.
The Aussie aberration aside, the guests are fully aware of their good fortune in fetching up in this wonderful place. My favourite exchange is with a Brit on my way to breakfast one day. 'Morning' I say, 'Morning' he says, and looking back after he's passed, 'Another day in paradise...' Nothing more to be said. In advance of the holiday both T and me voiced doubts about how well we would cope with five days of inactivity, both suffering from a low boredom threshold and a nagging guilt and suspicion of the merits of idleness. D & S had no such doubts. On the fourth morning I have a bit of a wobble at the thought of another day without structure or any apparent purpose. It passes. On balance, although D says she could stay here 'forever', my restless soul tells me that three days is probably the optimum stay. It's been a great way to collect our thoughts after the intensity of the preceding 10 days and to reflect on events.
We are greeted by Chris, one of the two partners in the business, and are shown to the reception / bar area for a welcoming drink. As we sit and wait for our bags to be brought in and generally acclimatise, a real humdinger of a storm kicks off and we take stock of our good fortune to be safely on terra firma.
The island of Koh Rong Samlon is owned by the Cambodian Navy (we learn that, bizarrely, the Cambodian Navy doesn't actually have any boats!). Chris and his partner were able to use family connections to secure a short lease to establish the business. He was working in London when he got the call 'I've found an island!'. Four and a half years ago he packed his bags and hasn't looked back. One look around this place and you understand why.
Our hut.
We walk along the beach and take in the island's lush primeval splendour. The crashing of waves and the relentless high pitched drone of the cicadas is all that breaks the silence. The resort consists of 14 beach huts each sleeping up to four with a shower (cold) and a toilet (manual flush - barrel of water with pan scoop) complimented by an item colloquially referred to as a 'bumhose' which has a limited appeal to those with sado-masochistic tendencies and toiletting obsessives. We have a veranda at the front with his and hers hammocks from whence books are read, small talk is spoken, journals are written, regular naps are taken and the world passes by effortlessley in a lazy haze.
We have regular visitor, a large Gecko who we name 'Gordon'. He appears when you least expect it, mostly at night when he makes his presence known with an eerie high-pitched call and a sudden dart. A visit to the bathroom in the early hours is best avoided. Gordon and his family seem settled in our little hut as evidenced by the stock of small eggs tucked in behind the cladding. Which is nice. T & S have their own Gecko, Colin, who has been blamed for gnawing away at Nurse S's copious supply of snake oil and holiday pep pills. This is mentioned to Chris who rather enigmatically says 'we'll call it a Gecko shall we?' hinting that the culprit may be of the genus Rattus. I suspect he's also paid us a visit as there's a bit of rustling in the early hours. Russell will sniff out any food scraps and requires us to be scrupulously clean about the place. All part of the castaway challenge...
We settle into a regular daily routine of answering the cicada dawn chorus, walking the 10 yards to our early morning dip in the already warm ocean, taking a late breakfast / early lunch, sleeping it off in the hammock, taking another dip, sleeping it off in the hammock, perhaps going for a little walk, taking another dip, sleeping it off in the hammock, taking a light tea perhaps followed by another dip, sleeping it off, catching a spectacular sunset before taking supper and quaffing a few sherbets. Food is available in the restaurant / bar all day and is exceptional. The cuisine is Asian, perhaps toned down slightly to accommodate Western tastes. The portions are too generous for us and we frequently share one meal between two. Fresh fish can be ordered a day in advance. It's a rare experience to see your supper arrive in the boat, watch it squirm and wriggle and catch up with it within the hour as it's presented to you on a plate. Now that's fresh! The white fish referred to by Chris as 'Sweet Lips' is cooked to perfection, its soft succulent flesh melting in the mouth.
The price of the food is reasonable, an average main course (fresh fish excepted) is about $6, a can of beer is $1.50, a glass of wine $4. We run up a daily bill of between $40-$50. This is added to the $40 per night charge per hut and payable in cash at the end of the stay. The bar is the hub of the island and a lot of time is spent there reading, relaxing and socialising so there is an imperative to spend money. It helps that our evenings are generally curtailed as the days are so packed with heady self-indulgence that by 9.00 we're whacked and ready to turn in.
Guests come and go - the average stay seems to be 2 / 3 nights - an eclectic mix of French, Germans, Norwegians, Irish, Brits, Eastern Europeans, Kiwis & Aussies. People are generally friendly, sociable but not imposing, with a shared appreciation that the majority see this stay as an opportunity to get away from their normal routine and to have time to themselves.
We do however have a close call with a couple on the first night. I'd clocked the tubby squeaky-voiced little Aussie when we boarded the boat and took an instant dislike to him for having the crass insensitivity to wear a T shirt with a macho military motif. We've just settled into our comfy chairs in the bar for a quiet read before dinner when Sheila pipes up 'D'you guys fancy a game of caaaards?' My heart sinks. One false move now could have grave consequences. D, because she's a nice person and naively always sees the good in others smiles benignly and moves to join them. I sit rigid, staring blankly into my Kindle and working on an exit strategy. I look up with a disengaged stupid half grin, hopefully implying a kind of friendly indifference, a slight aloofness, as they regale D with their travel tales; how they've done the Killing Fields and the Genocide Museum (as presumably they've 'done' the Nazi concentration camps, clocked the Mona Lisa, had a few tinnies on the Great Wall and wept openly at Gracelands. Tick box tourism. You can travel and never leave home.) The longer they go on the more my faith in the restorative qualities of this tropical idyll is compromised. I'm struggling with the urge to interject with sarcasm, purely as a defensive strike. I know this won't be helpful but it won't be my fault. Just as I'm about to implode after Sheila praises Thatcher for having 'balls' the T & S cavalry arrive and I find an excuse to join T at the bar. As I walk back to the hut after our meal I pass Bruce 'n' Sheila's place. They've placed a huge Aussie flag on their veranda. I rest my case.
The Aussie aberration aside, the guests are fully aware of their good fortune in fetching up in this wonderful place. My favourite exchange is with a Brit on my way to breakfast one day. 'Morning' I say, 'Morning' he says, and looking back after he's passed, 'Another day in paradise...' Nothing more to be said. In advance of the holiday both T and me voiced doubts about how well we would cope with five days of inactivity, both suffering from a low boredom threshold and a nagging guilt and suspicion of the merits of idleness. D & S had no such doubts. On the fourth morning I have a bit of a wobble at the thought of another day without structure or any apparent purpose. It passes. On balance, although D says she could stay here 'forever', my restless soul tells me that three days is probably the optimum stay. It's been a great way to collect our thoughts after the intensity of the preceding 10 days and to reflect on events.
Goodnight Lazy Beach...
Day 15 and the boat taking us back to civilisation leaves at 8.30am. This is the start of the 48 hour journey back to the place we call home. A trip Palinesque in scope, it consists of a boat to the mainland, taxi back for an overnight stop in Phnom Penh, a flight from to Singapore where we take in a city tour during the 10 hour wait to catch the 13 1/2 hour flight back to Heathrow, then up the M4 stopping off at Bath and onto the land formerly known as God's Own Country.
It's not possible to adequetely sum up the last couple of weeks in a few short pithy words, so I'm not going to try. I'm done, all blogged out! Making these notes was an attempt to capture moments and moods and experiences in a way that even a good photo can't always match. (There, I've said it.) Clearly it's my interpretation of events; others may have seen certain incidents events and situations differently. One thing we'll all be agreed on though - that was one cracking holiday!
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