Cambodia offers moments of peace as well as frenetic tourist hot spots. Photo: Adam Curley
The Sydney Morning Herald
September 3, 2011
Cambodia offers moments of peace as well as frenetic tourist hot spots. Photo: Adam Curley
Adam Curley uses a riverside lodge in Cambodia's south as a quiet base for exploring the area's delights.
The alarm sounds and I roll over and lift the bottom of the curtain above my bed. It's dark outside and the fruit bats hanging from the balcony ceiling still form creepy, stationary shapes of black on black. Somewhere in the distance, a dog howls.
It's 4.30am and I'm on the third floor of a French colonial farmhouse just outside Kampot on the south coast of Cambodia. It's the wet off-season, which means I'm also one of only five staying at the expansive Les Manguiers lodge (the name translates to "the mango trees" — and there are plenty), which, as well as rooms inside the main house, offers individual bungalows along the Prek Kampong Bay River.
Travelling alone, I've opted for a small loft, costing about $12 a night. Apart from the bats, it's a perfectly cosy nook that looks over a cluster of palms out to the mountain-backed river.
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Even in the more congenial dry season, Cambodia's coast is rarely overrun. It can't lay claim to the white-sand beaches of Thailand or the ancient majesty of Angkor Wat in the country's biggest tourist stop, Siem Reap. It's largely a getaway for Cambodians and expats living in Phnom Penh, but Kampot still isn't as tempting as neighbouring crab haven Kep or the resorts and clubs of nearby Sihanoukville.
It's hard to see why. I spent my first day at Les Manguiers kayaking a section of the river known as "The Green Cathedral", a spindly, palm-lined water path that led me past men carving longtail boats, women laying fishing nets and a few hefty oxen looking suspiciously at my lone yellow vessel floating past. That same day, I was told by a young Khmer woman working at the lodge that I should get up early and borrow one of the farm's bicycles to do the 30-minute ride to the other side of Kampot town. It was there at about 5am, she said, that I could watch the fishing boats come in from the Gulf of Thailand to sell the night's catch by the road. The next morning, however, had been the same as this one: waking in the dark to semi-conscious wariness. At 4.30am, riding the hole-covered dirt tracks of rural Cambodia alone didn't seem like the safest thing to do.
The following morning at the lodge hadn't offered a solution to my wimpy caution either, mostly due to the fact that I'd slept in following a magical late-night boat trip to see fireflies dance in the trees and phosphorescent algae shimmer silvery green trails up the river. It ended in beers and the alarm had rung out.
Today, however — my last before I have to move on — will be different. I force myself out of bed, throw on some clothes, grab a bike from the rack and bump along through the darkness as roosters crow and invisible insects rain against my skin.
I pass the old market at the edge of town and trundle through the quiet streets and beside the river until I see them: the red and green lights of about 30 wooden boats appearing from the mouth of the river against an emerging purple and pink sunrise.
It's worth some tiredness, worth a bit of fear, worth the trip.
Cambodia offers moments of peace as well as frenetic tourist hot spots. Photo: Adam Curley
Adam Curley uses a riverside lodge in Cambodia's south as a quiet base for exploring the area's delights.
The alarm sounds and I roll over and lift the bottom of the curtain above my bed. It's dark outside and the fruit bats hanging from the balcony ceiling still form creepy, stationary shapes of black on black. Somewhere in the distance, a dog howls.
It's 4.30am and I'm on the third floor of a French colonial farmhouse just outside Kampot on the south coast of Cambodia. It's the wet off-season, which means I'm also one of only five staying at the expansive Les Manguiers lodge (the name translates to "the mango trees" — and there are plenty), which, as well as rooms inside the main house, offers individual bungalows along the Prek Kampong Bay River.
Travelling alone, I've opted for a small loft, costing about $12 a night. Apart from the bats, it's a perfectly cosy nook that looks over a cluster of palms out to the mountain-backed river.
Advertisement: Story continues below
Even in the more congenial dry season, Cambodia's coast is rarely overrun. It can't lay claim to the white-sand beaches of Thailand or the ancient majesty of Angkor Wat in the country's biggest tourist stop, Siem Reap. It's largely a getaway for Cambodians and expats living in Phnom Penh, but Kampot still isn't as tempting as neighbouring crab haven Kep or the resorts and clubs of nearby Sihanoukville.
It's hard to see why. I spent my first day at Les Manguiers kayaking a section of the river known as "The Green Cathedral", a spindly, palm-lined water path that led me past men carving longtail boats, women laying fishing nets and a few hefty oxen looking suspiciously at my lone yellow vessel floating past. That same day, I was told by a young Khmer woman working at the lodge that I should get up early and borrow one of the farm's bicycles to do the 30-minute ride to the other side of Kampot town. It was there at about 5am, she said, that I could watch the fishing boats come in from the Gulf of Thailand to sell the night's catch by the road. The next morning, however, had been the same as this one: waking in the dark to semi-conscious wariness. At 4.30am, riding the hole-covered dirt tracks of rural Cambodia alone didn't seem like the safest thing to do.
The following morning at the lodge hadn't offered a solution to my wimpy caution either, mostly due to the fact that I'd slept in following a magical late-night boat trip to see fireflies dance in the trees and phosphorescent algae shimmer silvery green trails up the river. It ended in beers and the alarm had rung out.
Today, however — my last before I have to move on — will be different. I force myself out of bed, throw on some clothes, grab a bike from the rack and bump along through the darkness as roosters crow and invisible insects rain against my skin.
I pass the old market at the edge of town and trundle through the quiet streets and beside the river until I see them: the red and green lights of about 30 wooden boats appearing from the mouth of the river against an emerging purple and pink sunrise.
It's worth some tiredness, worth a bit of fear, worth the trip.
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