13/02/03: Breakfast at Sunset
Restaurant, minibus to Kampot, book into Mealy Chenda Guesthouse – O is there!
14/02/03: O leaves. Bokor
National Park with the rest, dinner back at guesthouse, Little Garden for
drinks – many drinks.
Accommodation is reasonably
priced in Cambodia and generally of a high standard, but transport works out
at about four times the amount you expect to pay in Thailand. Considering
Cambodia’s infrastructure is not nearly as advanced, it's hard to understand why. Despite this, it is still well worth the $13 it costs to visit Bokor National Park. Resting on the edge of a plateau some 1000 metres above
sea level, there nestles a ruined town that was once the playground for French
colonists, before it was evacuated around the time of the Khmer uprising. The
view of the surrounding Cambodian coastline is impressive. The feeder town for
such a jaunt is Kampot. Once renowned for its high quality pepper, there is little
now that singles it out. Despite its commercial isolation, the residents are by
no means hostile, although walking the dimly lit streets at night is akin to finding
yourself on the set of the 80's horror flick Vamp.
I’d started my day with breakfast at Sunset Restaurant. The food in Cambodia was proving to be most agreeable: of a satisfactory
standing, reasonably priced, from menus that offered much choice.
You couldn’t really complain
about the standard of accommodation either. The two places at which we’d taken
up residence thus far had televisions (not that we used them), their own
bathrooms and tiled floors. In this respect, these commodious
lodgings were more akin to what had been available in Laos, but with a
patina that insinuated they’d been built more recently. This, coupled with our
hosts’ somewhat stand-offish manner, indicated to me that tourism of our sort
was a relatively new phenomenon here.
And so on to Kampot. It might stretch the imagination a bit,
comparing south-western Cambodia to Somerset, but it is the flat plains of the
North Somerset Levels that come to mind when driving from one Cambodian range
to the next. Taking National Highway Number 3, arching around Veal Rinh Bay,
Bokor National Park looms larger as we approach it, and Somerset’s Mendips are
found wanting by comparison.
Welsh L is making an effort
not to get caught up in the transport/accommodation loop again and insists that
we’re to be taken directly to Mealy Chenda Guesthouse, an old colonial French
villa recommended in his guidebook. It’s a good choice. The garden is set at
the back of the building, as opposed to directly overlooking the street, and
the rooms are furnished to a high standard – they’ve even gone to the
trouble of providing doilies. What’s more, O, who had left Koh Chang the day
before we did, is present and in high spirits.
We have given ourselves one
day and two nights to explore the area. Here, if you didn’t know any
better, you could be forgiven for thinking that the country was still at war. The
place is dusty and dirty, and there are derelict buildings and there are ruins,
making me suddenly aware of the troubles visited upon this state over the
course of the last 30 years. I walk a block or so in search of bottled water –
a daily task – and attract surprisingly little attention. I take the opportunity to peruse the indoor market across the street
with F. I’m still wary of my surroundings, although I like the faded colonial
tenements I notice about town, reminiscent of those older buildings in
Vientiane, expect with added neglect and a hint of misery.
Our reason for stopping off
in Kampot is to explore Bokor National Park. Insurmountable by the foot, one
has to take a 4x4 to get there. O has been already and can confirm it’s worth
the bother. Located 8 km west of Kampot, it’s then a farther 32 km up Bokor’s
steep slopes to reach the summit. It’s an organised tour setting you back about
20 dollars, and for that you’re also taken for a trek through the surrounding
jungle. I say jungle – and they say jungle – but the foliage isn’t typically
tropical. There aren’t half the palms there are in Thailand and, like in Laos,
there’s little humidity. The walk follows in the footsteps of
the Khmer Rouge, who hid out here during the infighting. Stray from the path
and there’s the mild risk of stepping on unexploded ordnance. Tigers also inhabit
this plateau but they only really show themselves at night, or so we’re told.
We didn’t come to traipse
through the local woodland, though. We came to see the remains of the Bokor
Hill Station and accompanying utilities. The French put all
this stuff here so they had somewhere to take refuge from the heat, and to
enjoy themselves while doing so. They built a casino, a hotel, a chapel and
even a post office. Inside the ruins of
Bokor’s hotel there’s little evidence of what we are assured was once an
opulent interior – just graffiti and crumbling plaster. These buildings are
mere shells now, but you’re free to explore the many floors at your leisure. The sense of death
and melancholy is almost palpable – and there’s a retired gun emplacement, for
the Vietnamese had it out here against the Khmer Rouge. Bullet holes, liberally
spread over the weather beaten concrete, testify to this.
It is the view out over the Gulf of Thailand I like best and the tree-covered
hillside that leads the eye down towards it. Looking out to sea, I swear I can
define the curvature of the Earth.
Our drinking has settled down of late: steady but not overly
inebriating, the last blast worthy of mention was five days ago now. Tonight we
will rectify this.
After eating at
our guesthouse, out of convenience as much as anything else, we head to the
Little Garden overlooking the river, an establishment owned by the only living
westerner in Kampot (or at least the only bar run by a westerner, pandering to
backpackers and open long enough to satisfy our needs). An Italian by birth,
he’s a nice guy, and we drink there until late. About half way through the
evening the smokers among us run out of things to smoke. Our Italian friend
doesn’t sell tobacco, which seems odd for a place like his. In a fairly
excitable state of mind, I offer to accompany Welsh L in search of
nicotine-based solutions.
You’d think that
Kampot was subject to a curfew of sorts: the streets are virtually deserted. If
I wasn’t half-cut, and if Welsh L wasn’t so unflappable, I'd be nervous wandering around this town at such an hour. It’s not the dereliction that bothers me but something
about Cambodia itself: an eeriness and a suspicious silence about the place
very different to that found in some of Thailand’s quieter backwaters.
After wandering
Kampot’s grid system for five minutes or so, Welsh L and I think we see a shop ahead of us. It’s more of a kiosk, actually, selling the regular
consumables that people in these parts must regularly consume: soft drinks,
toilet roll, petrol, tinned fish, tobacco. We gesture that we’re looking
for cigarettes and are pointed in the direction of a blind man. This
cataracts-afflicted gentleman effortlessly sifts through our change and hands
us over the appropriate number of packs, while his friend tries to communicate
something to us in his native tongue – we haven’t a clue what. I hear a queer
giggle emanating from over my right shoulder and turn around to observe a
young, naked man rocking back and forth on the edge of the pavement (possibly
starving and hysterical, and certainly destroyed by madness).
On the opposing
side of the street women sit and talk; children play in the road in-between. In
an open building behind the kiosk, men sit and play cards, an old
television hazing from a shelf attached high up on the wall. It’s like we’ve
walked onto a film set for David Lynch’s latest picture, with all the weirdness
that one might associate with that.
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