Cambodia

I was determined to beat the fastest recorded internet time from Phu Quoc to Kep of 8 hours and thought we were in with a good chance as although people had used the newly opened border to avoid the circuitous route via Saigon and Phnom Penh they hadn’t apparently used the Ham Tinh – Ha Tien ferry which was much more direct. It was much slower and more decrepit too but luckily the sea was as calm as a Laoatian after a Happy Pizza and despite a couple of fish ‘pit stops’ mid-ocean we arrived safely 3 1/2 hours later. Unfortunately, unaccustomed as they were in Ha Tien to tourists, there was not a single taxi in the entire town. We struggled by foot to the Ha Tien hotel, refusing the kind but rather ambitious offers of transportation by single motorbike for 4 people and 80kg luggage ( piece of cake for Cambodians as we would later discover). Within the hour we had commandeered a local businessman’s van for the last 10km or so to the border. Paperwork on the Vietnamese side was swift and easy but where was Cambodian immigration ? We were pointed in the direction of some stunning scenery on both sides of a tarmac road with a just distinguishable Cambodian flag in the distance about 600m away. It felt like we had been released on a long march to freedom with the most beautiful countryside since Van Vieng surrounding us in this strange almost surreal ‘no man’s land’. Having been stung by customs for an extra $20 but thinking we had got away with a bargain (Adults are $20 each and children free but we thought everybody was $20) and by the department of health for a less ambitious $1 we were then told by the Police department we would have to go back and reclaim our overcharged $20. So much for Cambodian police corruption – this guy must have been from internal affairs. By the time we had recouped the cash and had our visas made up and stamped 16 times each, we were 6 hours into the trip and poor old Mr How, our prearranged taxi driver, had been expecting us 2 hours previously. Still he remained cheerful if somewhat ruddy faced from the midday sun and we embarked on the final 30 km leg to Kep. The first 2km were more moon-cratered than pot-holed but the views more than compensated for the bumpy ride with lush green paddies, wallowing buffalo bollock deep in mud (must be fun when it dries) and pretty thatch and bamboo huts. Giant ceramic pots with fires underneath dotted the landscape in an archaic hot rainwater system and vast numbers of paddy fields were being manually constructed using simple hoes. Massey Ferguson would make a killing here if anyone had any money but the catch 22 is that if they did they wouldn’t be living on mainly rice on an annual salary of around $300 (still three times better of than many in Laos). The rest of the journey was swift once we hit the main road and we got to Kep after 6 hours 45 mins wiping over an hour off the record. Top Travelling.

Phu Quoc

After two months of travelling we finally find our beach paradise. Not only is the sand blissfully clear of rubbish and people but the sea is turquoise and clean disturbed only by the distant chug of the fishing trawlers and flashlight bedecked squid boats. To heighten our already considerable excitement the sun has got its hat on for a change and our chosen ‘res’ is very ‘des’ complete with it’s own pool and palm tree at the photographically perfect 45% angle. Even the NZ Pinot Noir is at a reasonable price…

Even the discovery of a hornet’s nest above our bathroom fails to dampen our spirits despite 3 or 4 permanent waspish incumbents during defenceless ablutions. I decide to seal off the offending suite and report the infestation to our amiable Kiwi manager Jim. He does nothing about it but in a very caring avuncular way so we don’t mind.

Poor old Jim is a bit like a space shuttle with a blaze of activity on arrival and departure but a lot of floating around in between. He did recommend a useful route via the beach to the market on our first morning but for anything else we would have to speak to Tony….
It was fun splashing down the shoreline with the kids and selfishly pleasing to cut through the Vietnam owned Saigon Phu Quoc Resort. This pricey ****hotel was complete with its very own tacky plastic elephant slide and bustling reception crammed with suitcases. Herds of tourists were flocking in and out or simply grazing. We loved our Cassia Cottages with its immaculate adjoining rooms, even if it was named after a non-indigenous type of Cinnamon native mainly to Southern China.
We hopped on ‘motos’ for the last part of the journey to the capital Duang Dong and scooted over the river of the same name to the fruit/fish market – a blaze of colourful stalls with precariously stacked purple dragonfruit, spiky red rambutans and green oranges. Moving on to the fish market we thought we had delved a bit far on coming across a grim faced man with a large saw next to the eel buckets. Happily it turns out he is just the iceman who gives us a quick demonstration of his art. The meat stalls were potentially scarier still as, having just finished Charlotte’s web, Ruby came face to face with Wilbur. Sadly the rest of his body was missing but she wasn’t too fazed and still tucked into her pork chops for dinner.
In our continuing quest to ensure all Harley’s shirts have irremovable chocolate stains we stopped off at Buddy’s ice cream parlour where out of a possible 26 flavours you can guess which one Harley plumped for. The Ozzie owner mentioned that a couple of weeks before a German had managed to get a visa on arrival in Cambodia via the recently opened border near Ha Tine. If true this would save the considerable mileage
and expense of travelling to our next stop Kep via Saigon and Phnom Penh (80km and £8 instead of 800km and £400). I decided we had better check with Tony.

The guidebook said Tony was easy to find and likely that he would find us, so when someone came over to our table that evening during a feast of freshly barbequed squid and prawn, I thought we might be in luck.

“Tony?” I politely enquired thinking the odds were pretty favourable, as there are only 80 thousand people on the whole island. He introduced himself as An Thu, whose parents owned the fabulous shack we were dining in, and he knew Tony as he was in the same line of work – tourist tours. We were duly charmed and 12 hrs + 45$ later we found ourselves crammed into a minibus with 16 other naïve fun seekers on a snorkelling/fishing trip. It was impossible to see more than a few feet even if you could find a mask and flippers to fit your massive head/feet but Ruby did catch her first ever fish and we did visit a couple of beautiful white sandy beaches.

The final day in paradise we trekked up to a jungle waterfall for a cooling dip under the cascade. We then went on to The Mango Bay Resort, which was beautiful in its own remote and rocky way. Lunch was great too particularly if you like mango for starter, main course and desert. In the evening we bumped into another tour guide.

“Tony?” I enquired hopefully. Close but no cigar as it was actually Tony’s son who confirmed it would be possible to get a visa at the border and agreed to take us as far as Ham Tinh port where our guidebook comfortingly informed us that there were “on-again off-again rickety boats to Ha Tien” which were considered to be “dangerous and not worth the risk”. Ho hum in for a penny….

We said our goodbyes to the affable Jim who was in turbo-charged departure mode, assuring us that the hornet’s nest was next on his list of things to do and insisting we take his card in the seemingly quite likely event that we were to encounter some terrible peril on our daring trip through practically unchartered territory. He handed us over to Tony’s son and an older man, surely his father the elusive Tony himself. I presumed this was the case and called him Tony all the way to the longest jetty in Vietnam where we joined a hundred or so Cambodians (definitely no foreigners at all), several tons of fish and a few motorbikes on our characterful vessel bound for Ha Tien and the Cambodian border. Karen is still convinced our driver was far too young to be Tony who must therefore remain at large yet never seen rather like a modern day version of the Scarlet Pimpernel.

Rach Gia

We had booked 4 seats in a minibus for the 7hr trip but the driver insisted on trying to squeeze us into 3. We compromised and adults took turns in the front seat between ‘drives’ and his ticket collector buddy. The ride was worthy of Alton Towers but without the safety measures. We reached speeds of 130 kmh on less than perfect roads and both carriageways were fair game including verges. We stopped for a decent seafood noodle soup lunch for £2 including drinks for the whole family and soon after caught the ferry across the Mekong. At this point our wannabe Michael Schumacher, with added potbelly and stubble, seemed to chill out a bit and cruise the last 60km in as many minutes. Incidentally this was the longest uninterrupted straight road/village I’ve ever seen – the Romans were amateurs.

We were kindly dropped off at our Kim Co hotel, the best in town, at £6 a double room. We splashed out and booked two. Typically Karen and Ruby’s room had rats – shit happens and it had done all over the lovely lino. The other ‘boy’s’ room was fine so we settled down to a double header of Man U v Arsenal + Chelsea v Man City (6-0 you beauty) and re-enacted the day’s rallying with Harley’s ever-growing car collection during the breaks – job done. Call me a 'flashpacker' if you will but if Rach Gia is unspoilt I prefer spoilt. A tourist around here is about as common as mating Jabiru as the plane from Saigon to Phu Quoc is only 40 minutes and about $40 but it was booked up so ‘tant pis’. After wandering for an hour with no sign of restaurant or bar we ended up back near the hotel @ Valentine’s restaurant. Our fellow diners looked exceedingly well travelled as did the chicken but the pork was ok for the kids and the seafood soup fine, although I’m glad I didn’t have a list of ingredients.

Next morning we keenly boarded the first boat out to Phu Quoc island @ 8am. Karen had cunningly topped up our Absolut vodka with lemon juice 1:1 and chilled it overnight so it seemed a shame to let it warm up. We polished off the whole bottle by 8.30am by which time our chosen boat with the porn star name ‘Super Dong’ was ploughing a furrow through the 6ft waves undaunted and unslowed. This caused semi-seismic shock waves to the stomach and turned our recently consumed beverage into a vodka martini. 3 bumpy hours later we arrived at An Thoi at the southern tip of Phu Quoc shaken but not stirred…