Islands are a getaway. They are an opportunity to move at one's own pace. They are a liberation from the tyranny of sightseeing.
Ko Chang gave me a break from temples and the fast pace of big cities, which is why I spent Christmas there.
About the only thing that didn't move at my pace were the taxis, a fleet of pickup trucks, all with black canopies, that acted as the island's public transit. They flew down hills, seemingly without control or brakes, and climbed with difficulty up the next ones only to fly down them again.
All of this happened with a dozen people crammed inside and hanging off the back. On the downward slopes, internal organs moved at their own pace, slammed to a halt on the subsequent climb. They kept going for a split-second longer than our bodies, just long enough to turn a few somersaults. Leaning now towards the road behind, we gripped the iron rail above us, hands sore with the effort.
If the canopy had a hole, we could have thrown our hands up and screamed for joy and sheer panic.
The pace of life was mine again once I reached Lonely Beach. There were a number of restaurants and bars. There was the cool of my room and my books, Leonard's Cuba Libre and Le Carre's The Russia House. There was the beach and any number of outdoor activities. It was all my choice.
My first choice was fishing. I had these Old Man and the Sea visions of struggling against the odds and pulling in the big one. But imagination so often lead us astray; the fish weren't biting.
Shades crooked on his nose and a smoke dangling from his lip, one of the Thai crew, with his fishing line in the water, sang along to a now-mournful Bob Marley. "No fishy, no cry!"
Our boat pulled in three medium-sized fish for the day - I got one. Though my epic visions didn't pan out , the trip got us out in great weather to see the islands that surrounded Ko Chang.
Next day was the beach, an eccentric little walk from the village. Down a dirt track, I faded right past the rocky waterfront and a couple of bare-bones huts set among sparse trees. I arrived at The Treehouse, one of the local bars, discovered the sandbag path across a patch of deep water and continued down the rocks and dirt to the sand.
The walk became even more jungle-like when the Treehouse staff inexplicably erected a barbed wire fence across the path. I and everyone else had to climb through the trees to make the beach.
The beach was lovely. Sand stretchd out in a rough crescent shape, backed up by bungalows and bars. The Gulf of Thailand was warm. I spent a few days removing my tan lines.
While I was finding new ways to relax, the Thai locals moved at their own pace too. They mostly chatted with each other and waited to do business with us tourists. Sell a sarong, do some laundry, book a tour: there was a lot of money in just waiting.
The staff at my guest house, however, entertained themselves with a monkey. He showed up once a day, sent the Thais scurrying. He hissed at them. They edged back to their seats but left a big space underneath his tree and cast suspicious glances upwards.
Sometimes they threw things at him. Balled-up paper, garbage, elastic bands and left-over food all went up and I watched their eyes to determine success or failure. The gleam of pride and cleverness. Wide and beady panic. They hustled past me and my lunch again, screaming and yelling.
The monkey, meanwhile, went back to his apple in the tree.
With very little to do, island life was a getaway to the simpler things. On Ko Chang, I had fishing and the beach. The locals had their waiting to make money. The monkey had his apple. We all got to relax.
Monday, December 29, 2008
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Border Crossings: Cambodia-Thailand
I broke the rule. I broke the rule and flew into Thailand.
Travel must, according to a strict, though unwritten rule among backpackers, occur overland. There are a couple of basic reasons. Obviously, cost is a factor: backpackers live on limited resources. The other and more important thing, however, is pride. Budget travellers want to say they have seen all the people and places and cultures from A to Z, to trace an unbroken red line on a map and say they've been on those roads. Yep, I've been there. Where have you been?
We also get bonus points when the mode of tansport is the cheapest available. That way, we can tell the hardest of hard travel stories. To date in South East Asia, I've done quite well.
There was the local bus to the China-Vietnam border. The creep and dip through road-sized potholes, around village livestock and stray dogs. The driver and his dirty, sweaty towel. The chicken that nearly gained flight only to be silenced with a kick and a shove under the seat.
There was the doomed bus from Nha Trang. Up the hill and down the hill, up and down, up and down - no up again. Much darkly-worded talk, beside the dead vehicle, about the driver and his driving. The savior of a beach town.
And there was the local bus to Chau Doc. The low ceiling at the back, which made introductions with my head on the bumpy roads. Bump. *%^$! Bump. *%^$!! The rice sacks considerately jammed under my feet, knees now up at my chest. The vendor ladies who would have got a smack had they tried to sell me anything - "I make good price just for you!"
There was my unbroken line, that beautiful string of red on a map. I had gone overland all the way from Hong Kong to Siem Reap. On the roads and the rails and in the water, my feet had been firmly planted on the planet - until now.
Backpackers are also a deeply gossipy bunch. They talk about what they've done and where they've been and how they got there, and I had heard them say that the trip to the border and on to Bangkok was not a good one. The roads were hell. Poipet, the border town, wasn't much better. I formed an impression of pain that was not worth the effort and decided to break the rule.
I knew what I was getting myself into. Only a few weeks ago, a friend took a plane to Vientiane and was ridiculed by others. High-roller! Big-spender! I still booked a trip from Siem Reap to Bangkok, 55 minutes instead of half a day travel.
When I got there, the airport was a ghost town. Even then, ghosts may not have been there because they had no one to haunt: no one at the airline desks; no one at customer service; not one person inside the terminal. Airport staff showed up and lineups formed an hour later and the nice lady at the counter gave me the exit seat. Long legs, she said with a smile. Oh, bless you!
By 1:00 in the afternoon, we were in the air. The Bankok Airways attendant came by with in-flight meals and offered drinks - all for a one hour trip!
"Coffee, sir?"
"Yes, please."
So I broke a rule. Okay. I still made Bangkok in record time and in style. Now it's on to the rest of my trip.
Travel must, according to a strict, though unwritten rule among backpackers, occur overland. There are a couple of basic reasons. Obviously, cost is a factor: backpackers live on limited resources. The other and more important thing, however, is pride. Budget travellers want to say they have seen all the people and places and cultures from A to Z, to trace an unbroken red line on a map and say they've been on those roads. Yep, I've been there. Where have you been?
We also get bonus points when the mode of tansport is the cheapest available. That way, we can tell the hardest of hard travel stories. To date in South East Asia, I've done quite well.
There was the local bus to the China-Vietnam border. The creep and dip through road-sized potholes, around village livestock and stray dogs. The driver and his dirty, sweaty towel. The chicken that nearly gained flight only to be silenced with a kick and a shove under the seat.
There was the doomed bus from Nha Trang. Up the hill and down the hill, up and down, up and down - no up again. Much darkly-worded talk, beside the dead vehicle, about the driver and his driving. The savior of a beach town.
And there was the local bus to Chau Doc. The low ceiling at the back, which made introductions with my head on the bumpy roads. Bump. *%^$! Bump. *%^$!! The rice sacks considerately jammed under my feet, knees now up at my chest. The vendor ladies who would have got a smack had they tried to sell me anything - "I make good price just for you!"
There was my unbroken line, that beautiful string of red on a map. I had gone overland all the way from Hong Kong to Siem Reap. On the roads and the rails and in the water, my feet had been firmly planted on the planet - until now.
Backpackers are also a deeply gossipy bunch. They talk about what they've done and where they've been and how they got there, and I had heard them say that the trip to the border and on to Bangkok was not a good one. The roads were hell. Poipet, the border town, wasn't much better. I formed an impression of pain that was not worth the effort and decided to break the rule.
I knew what I was getting myself into. Only a few weeks ago, a friend took a plane to Vientiane and was ridiculed by others. High-roller! Big-spender! I still booked a trip from Siem Reap to Bangkok, 55 minutes instead of half a day travel.
When I got there, the airport was a ghost town. Even then, ghosts may not have been there because they had no one to haunt: no one at the airline desks; no one at customer service; not one person inside the terminal. Airport staff showed up and lineups formed an hour later and the nice lady at the counter gave me the exit seat. Long legs, she said with a smile. Oh, bless you!
By 1:00 in the afternoon, we were in the air. The Bankok Airways attendant came by with in-flight meals and offered drinks - all for a one hour trip!
"Coffee, sir?"
"Yes, please."
So I broke a rule. Okay. I still made Bangkok in record time and in style. Now it's on to the rest of my trip.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Cambodia's Ozymandias
"'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away."
- Percy Bysshe Shelley, Ozymandias
The ruins outside Siem Reap are huge. They are spectacular. Their architecture is without equal.
Angkor Wat, Angkor Tom and all of the outlying temples are what remains of the Khmer empire, a tribute to its greatness. These works began with the Khmer belief in the god-king, started by King Jayavarman II and continued by his successors. Furtherance of this divine cult involved reverence of royal ancestors, which led Jayavarman VII to build even more extensively than before.
Cambodia, then, possesses a collection of works in stone, each one of which took tens of thousands of Khmer people to maintain.* Angkor Wat alone, wrote Norman Lewis, could hold "all the monuments of ancient Greece".
More impressive, perhaps, than the size of each temple was the detail and scope of carvings in each one of them. Doors, pillars and walls depicted the Buddha, royal figures and scenes from daily Khmer life - and the carvings were different for each temple.
These works were marvellous to look on. They were, however, also subject to the relentless pressures of nature.
Starting on my first day, I noticed the no-longer-subtle creep of nature's dominance. At Ta Som, a giant tree, growing from the top of the outer wall, draped itself all over the entrance to the temple grounds, roots strangling life out of the stones. Everywhere, the wind and rain and sun had worn away at carvings, faded them almost from existence. Some stones had cracked with decay, laying waste to the face of a forgotten monarch.
In one temple, a pillar lay broken and strewn across the ground. Half a face began at the top, as if the other half had been buried by the dirt and the grass.
"What do you suppose this place will look like in 500 years?" asked Paul, the English guy who had come with me to see the temples.
It was a good question. In 800 years, nature had waged a pitched battle against the stonework here and started to win. In another 500 years, a rock sticking out of the dirt may be all that's left of the great Khmer empire.
___________________________________________________________________
* Ta Prohm, built for the Queen mother, involved the service of 79, 365 people, where Prah Khan, built for Jayavarman VII's father, required the involvement of 97, 840 people (Norman Lewis, A Dragon Apparent).
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away."
- Percy Bysshe Shelley, Ozymandias
The ruins outside Siem Reap are huge. They are spectacular. Their architecture is without equal.
Angkor Wat, Angkor Tom and all of the outlying temples are what remains of the Khmer empire, a tribute to its greatness. These works began with the Khmer belief in the god-king, started by King Jayavarman II and continued by his successors. Furtherance of this divine cult involved reverence of royal ancestors, which led Jayavarman VII to build even more extensively than before.
Cambodia, then, possesses a collection of works in stone, each one of which took tens of thousands of Khmer people to maintain.* Angkor Wat alone, wrote Norman Lewis, could hold "all the monuments of ancient Greece".
More impressive, perhaps, than the size of each temple was the detail and scope of carvings in each one of them. Doors, pillars and walls depicted the Buddha, royal figures and scenes from daily Khmer life - and the carvings were different for each temple.
These works were marvellous to look on. They were, however, also subject to the relentless pressures of nature.
Starting on my first day, I noticed the no-longer-subtle creep of nature's dominance. At Ta Som, a giant tree, growing from the top of the outer wall, draped itself all over the entrance to the temple grounds, roots strangling life out of the stones. Everywhere, the wind and rain and sun had worn away at carvings, faded them almost from existence. Some stones had cracked with decay, laying waste to the face of a forgotten monarch.
In one temple, a pillar lay broken and strewn across the ground. Half a face began at the top, as if the other half had been buried by the dirt and the grass.
"What do you suppose this place will look like in 500 years?" asked Paul, the English guy who had come with me to see the temples.
It was a good question. In 800 years, nature had waged a pitched battle against the stonework here and started to win. In another 500 years, a rock sticking out of the dirt may be all that's left of the great Khmer empire.
___________________________________________________________________
* Ta Prohm, built for the Queen mother, involved the service of 79, 365 people, where Prah Khan, built for Jayavarman VII's father, required the involvement of 97, 840 people (Norman Lewis, A Dragon Apparent).
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Happy Times in Cambodia
Cambodia is a very happy country. It is peaceful and laid-back. Indeed, Norman Lewis, in his excellent travel narrative of Vietnam, Cambodia and Laos, A Dragon Apparent, writes that Cambodians are, "by their own design, poor, but supremely happy."
The first person I meet really sets the tone for the entire country. A round Cambodian with an open face checks me into my Phnom Penh guesthouse. He always has time to say hello.
"Mi-chael! How are you?" he says with a big handshake and a bigger smile.
"Good, good."
"Where you go today?" He's a moto driver and still has to look after himself.
"Oh, just hanging out today." The response doesn't kill his smile, but he doesn't press me either.
The guesthouse adds to the relaxed feel. In the area known as Lakeside, it has a patio that looks out over the water. I take my breakfast there in the early morning sunlight and look across to the opposite bank. Backpackers routinely fall asleep in the hammocks that are strung up just behind me. They sway and creak in the shade. Other travellers relax over a movie or a game of pool.
The Happy Guesthouse is so quiet that monkeys occasionally drop by to munch on the plants and watch us.
So Lewis is right in his assessment. Cambodia is relaxed, happy. Except for some of the vendors in Sihanoukville, its people do not react angrily, do not get stressed. Even some of those vendors, despite being refused a sale, stop and chat amiably with beach-going tourists. They wave hello when they walk by later on.
But Cambodia is also a Happy country and tuk-tuk drivers are the de facto dealers in Happiness.
"Tuk-tuk?"
"No."
"Smoke?"
"Uhm, no." They still smile despite the refusal.
Every sandwich board on the beach at Sihanoukville advertises Happy Shakes and Happy Pizza. In Siem Reap, I can make my pizza More Happy for a little extra cost. The guesthouse owner lets me know that I can ask for a smoke with no problem at the roof-top bar. Happiness is readily available and no one, not the tuk-tuk drivers, not the restaurants or guesthouses, seems to get any trouble for it.
But can a person be too Happy? It's one thing to be relaxed, to remain peaceful and calm as a way of life; it's quite another to be Happy in a responsible manner. Can Happiness be excessive? As usual, the people I meet on the road are instructive.
An English girl I meet in Sihanoukville says she and her friends had a bad experience with a Happy Shake. "We were like this." Her eyes go wide and beady, her kness come up to her chest and her head twitches back and forth.
In Phnom Penh, I come into the morning sunshine and see a French-Canadian who seems to be having difficulty. Quite tall, he slouches so that his neck rests against the back of his chair and he keeps one hand over his eyes. A bottle of water is never far from his lips. I introduce myself and ask how he's doing.
"I was supposed to go to Battambang today but I moved my ticket. I had a Happy Pizza last night," he explains.
Locals, on the other hand, seem to have an easier time. The Cambodian moto driver in Phnom Penh, who asks if I smoke as soon as I had drop my bag, often seems to have a larger smile than usual. The bartender at the guesthouse in Siem Reap is always mellow and happy. He introduces himself with English that sounds like it comes from a private school in Britain and says, "You need anything, just call."
Later, when I order a pizza, he asks, "More Happy?"
"No thanks." He goes back to the other table with a smile on his face and lights up.
These examples identify a difference in how locals and travellers respond to Happiness. To be fair, I think the difference is mostly one of tolerance. The English girl and the French-Canadian seem to be taken aback by the strength of the shakes and pizzas; they are not used to the contents. For locals - or at least the ones I meet - Happiness is a daily event. They have no difficulty partaking.
Tolerance, though, may distinguish between the outlook of travellers and locals.
Many of the travellers I meet in South East Asia are here to party. Their stories centre on going out in the evening, waking up with a hang-over and doing the same thing the next night. While travellers can afford to go out here, the western world is too expensive and they can't indulge nearly as much at home. This trip is their chance to let go the responsibilities of their daily lives.
Cambodians, though, are laid-back and happy as a matter of course. It's they way the live their lives, as Lewis suggests. They don't get streesed, don't seem to worry about much of anything. If they indulge, they indulge to relax. The indulgence is routine.
So Happiness is here, which may put some people off of coming to Cambodia, but it's also an extremely happy country and would be a shame to miss.
The first person I meet really sets the tone for the entire country. A round Cambodian with an open face checks me into my Phnom Penh guesthouse. He always has time to say hello.
"Mi-chael! How are you?" he says with a big handshake and a bigger smile.
"Good, good."
"Where you go today?" He's a moto driver and still has to look after himself.
"Oh, just hanging out today." The response doesn't kill his smile, but he doesn't press me either.
The guesthouse adds to the relaxed feel. In the area known as Lakeside, it has a patio that looks out over the water. I take my breakfast there in the early morning sunlight and look across to the opposite bank. Backpackers routinely fall asleep in the hammocks that are strung up just behind me. They sway and creak in the shade. Other travellers relax over a movie or a game of pool.
The Happy Guesthouse is so quiet that monkeys occasionally drop by to munch on the plants and watch us.
So Lewis is right in his assessment. Cambodia is relaxed, happy. Except for some of the vendors in Sihanoukville, its people do not react angrily, do not get stressed. Even some of those vendors, despite being refused a sale, stop and chat amiably with beach-going tourists. They wave hello when they walk by later on.
But Cambodia is also a Happy country and tuk-tuk drivers are the de facto dealers in Happiness.
"Tuk-tuk?"
"No."
"Smoke?"
"Uhm, no." They still smile despite the refusal.
Every sandwich board on the beach at Sihanoukville advertises Happy Shakes and Happy Pizza. In Siem Reap, I can make my pizza More Happy for a little extra cost. The guesthouse owner lets me know that I can ask for a smoke with no problem at the roof-top bar. Happiness is readily available and no one, not the tuk-tuk drivers, not the restaurants or guesthouses, seems to get any trouble for it.
But can a person be too Happy? It's one thing to be relaxed, to remain peaceful and calm as a way of life; it's quite another to be Happy in a responsible manner. Can Happiness be excessive? As usual, the people I meet on the road are instructive.
An English girl I meet in Sihanoukville says she and her friends had a bad experience with a Happy Shake. "We were like this." Her eyes go wide and beady, her kness come up to her chest and her head twitches back and forth.
In Phnom Penh, I come into the morning sunshine and see a French-Canadian who seems to be having difficulty. Quite tall, he slouches so that his neck rests against the back of his chair and he keeps one hand over his eyes. A bottle of water is never far from his lips. I introduce myself and ask how he's doing.
"I was supposed to go to Battambang today but I moved my ticket. I had a Happy Pizza last night," he explains.
Locals, on the other hand, seem to have an easier time. The Cambodian moto driver in Phnom Penh, who asks if I smoke as soon as I had drop my bag, often seems to have a larger smile than usual. The bartender at the guesthouse in Siem Reap is always mellow and happy. He introduces himself with English that sounds like it comes from a private school in Britain and says, "You need anything, just call."
Later, when I order a pizza, he asks, "More Happy?"
"No thanks." He goes back to the other table with a smile on his face and lights up.
These examples identify a difference in how locals and travellers respond to Happiness. To be fair, I think the difference is mostly one of tolerance. The English girl and the French-Canadian seem to be taken aback by the strength of the shakes and pizzas; they are not used to the contents. For locals - or at least the ones I meet - Happiness is a daily event. They have no difficulty partaking.
Tolerance, though, may distinguish between the outlook of travellers and locals.
Many of the travellers I meet in South East Asia are here to party. Their stories centre on going out in the evening, waking up with a hang-over and doing the same thing the next night. While travellers can afford to go out here, the western world is too expensive and they can't indulge nearly as much at home. This trip is their chance to let go the responsibilities of their daily lives.
Cambodians, though, are laid-back and happy as a matter of course. It's they way the live their lives, as Lewis suggests. They don't get streesed, don't seem to worry about much of anything. If they indulge, they indulge to relax. The indulgence is routine.
So Happiness is here, which may put some people off of coming to Cambodia, but it's also an extremely happy country and would be a shame to miss.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Round Mass of Food: Vietnamese Basics
Vietnam does ordinary food extraordinarily well. There isn't anything complex or delicate about it: no hint of this or dash of that. The best dishes are straight-forward, simple.
Let's start with breakfast. The French left behind them an appreciation of good bread in the morning. Fresh baguettes are a staple, either as a stand-alone dish or as an addition to the main meal. Their insides are light and airy, while their crusts are flaky and crunchy. These baguette should be ripped and torn. They should be pulled apart - slowly. On little side plates with a sliver of butter, they are event in themselves.
Bread, though, is only the beginning of the food available on the breakfast menu. Vietnam offers fruit shakes made from mouth-popping banana and pineapple and mango, fried eggs that sometimes come, marvellously, with soy and chili sauce on top, and thick, rich coffee in the sun. It's easy to let temptation win on a Vietnamese morning.
After a few hours of seeing the sights, I sit down for lunch and, more often than not, choose spring rolls. There are the greasy rolls from a roadside stall in Hanoi, perfect for insatiable munching. There is the lovely mix of bean sprouts and ground meat from a cafe near the war museum in Saigon. There are the chunky and dense rolls from the Banana Split Cafe in Nha Trang. Meat (or vegetables) wrapped in rice paper and lightly deep-fried: a simple Vietnamese food that tastes good and fills a gap.
For dinner, I favour pho and my favourite bowl comes from Hanoi. An old woman, stooped and toothy, sits on her stool and stretches a portion of fresh rice noodle from the pile. She throws it with green onion and cilantro and either chicken or duck in a bowl and ladles boiling hot water over everything. On the table, slices of chili peppers and mini-oranges provide extra flavouring. The old woman sits on her stool and makes the perfect bowl of noodle soup day after day.
(Here I pause for a minor indictment. Farther away from Hanoi, and particularly in Saigon, many cafes have a disturbing habit of using instant noodles in their pho. Bowls come out with the noodles still breaking out of their blocky posture. Pho is better in the north.)
There are other dishes, of course. Vietnam has its share of fried rice and fried noodle and stir fry dishes. But this country has most success with the basics. Basic ingredients, basic preparation - put noodles, greens and meat in a bowl with hot water and serve; place a baguette on a plate and bring it to the table. Basic food, wonderful taste.
Let's start with breakfast. The French left behind them an appreciation of good bread in the morning. Fresh baguettes are a staple, either as a stand-alone dish or as an addition to the main meal. Their insides are light and airy, while their crusts are flaky and crunchy. These baguette should be ripped and torn. They should be pulled apart - slowly. On little side plates with a sliver of butter, they are event in themselves.
Bread, though, is only the beginning of the food available on the breakfast menu. Vietnam offers fruit shakes made from mouth-popping banana and pineapple and mango, fried eggs that sometimes come, marvellously, with soy and chili sauce on top, and thick, rich coffee in the sun. It's easy to let temptation win on a Vietnamese morning.
After a few hours of seeing the sights, I sit down for lunch and, more often than not, choose spring rolls. There are the greasy rolls from a roadside stall in Hanoi, perfect for insatiable munching. There is the lovely mix of bean sprouts and ground meat from a cafe near the war museum in Saigon. There are the chunky and dense rolls from the Banana Split Cafe in Nha Trang. Meat (or vegetables) wrapped in rice paper and lightly deep-fried: a simple Vietnamese food that tastes good and fills a gap.
For dinner, I favour pho and my favourite bowl comes from Hanoi. An old woman, stooped and toothy, sits on her stool and stretches a portion of fresh rice noodle from the pile. She throws it with green onion and cilantro and either chicken or duck in a bowl and ladles boiling hot water over everything. On the table, slices of chili peppers and mini-oranges provide extra flavouring. The old woman sits on her stool and makes the perfect bowl of noodle soup day after day.
(Here I pause for a minor indictment. Farther away from Hanoi, and particularly in Saigon, many cafes have a disturbing habit of using instant noodles in their pho. Bowls come out with the noodles still breaking out of their blocky posture. Pho is better in the north.)
There are other dishes, of course. Vietnam has its share of fried rice and fried noodle and stir fry dishes. But this country has most success with the basics. Basic ingredients, basic preparation - put noodles, greens and meat in a bowl with hot water and serve; place a baguette on a plate and bring it to the table. Basic food, wonderful taste.
Friday, December 5, 2008
Sihanoukville: A Review
Most of my posts come out sounding like stories. To change gears and practice my travel writing a little more, I thought it might be an idea to do a proper review of a city. So, here's a review of Sihanoukville based on my visit.
Sihanoukville is the perfect chance to relax.
Only four hours by bus from Phnom Penh, this beach town in the south of Cambodia is close enough to the capital for weekend visitors to catch a piece of sun and a quick dip. It also has enough to do for bone-weary travellers to enjoy a long stay.
Serendipity Beach, to the south of the city centre, has gorgeous beaches and clear, warm water. Sunbathers can lounge in a beach chair the entire day for the cost of a drink and a meal - roughly $5 (all figures in USD) - at one of the many restaurants.
Such inexpensive living means that the beach can get crowded. Most visitors don't venture too far from their guesthouses and vendors stroll up and down, hawking bracelets and massages and fruit. At night, beach-front bars offer happy hour specials and big plates of barbequed meat and seafood from massive grills.
One of the bars, the Dolphin Shack, employs a local who twirls fire, two ends of a big staff lit and flaming, to the delight of everyone on the beach, while other party-goers crack the night with mini-fireworks.
This is a place to have fun into the wee hours.
People who want a quiet vacation, however, away from the party, won't have trouble relaxing. They can walk down the beach, or catch a moto for $1 or $2, and find solace in a wider, emptier beach. There are still restaurants and bars that poke out onto the sand but they are fewer and farther between, as are the people and the boats in the water.
If the beach becomes tiresome, there are plenty of other distractions. Top Cat Cinema, just up from the beach, airs four movies a day at $3 per show. Guesthouses and travel agents in the area also organize trips to the nearby national park and the islands just off the coast.
Staying near the beach is very easy. The Monkey Republic offers inexpensive bungalows with fan and cold-water showers for $5-$10 per night. Their bar also does a well-priced mix of Western and Khmer food.
Just across the street, $15 a day at the Beach Road Resort is good for the addition of cable TV and a warm-water shower while $5 more will get a room with air-conditioning.
The Golden Sands Hotel, in the up-market range, has a standard room with a double bed for $30 and an executive suite for $70. These rates apply to the high season, from October to December, and are subject to a %10 increase for international guests. Breakfast will be included for $4.50.
Sihanoukville is also an excellent stop-over for travellers continuing on to Thailand. Buses go to the Thai border and beyond, to locations like Ko Chang, Pattaya and Bangkok, for very reasonable prices. Guesthouses will most likely be able to book a ticket for the trip.
So come down to Sihanoukville for a little fun. It's full of relaxation and partying, by turns, and may even set the stage for an upcoming journey. It's worth a stop.
Sihanoukville is the perfect chance to relax.
Only four hours by bus from Phnom Penh, this beach town in the south of Cambodia is close enough to the capital for weekend visitors to catch a piece of sun and a quick dip. It also has enough to do for bone-weary travellers to enjoy a long stay.
Serendipity Beach, to the south of the city centre, has gorgeous beaches and clear, warm water. Sunbathers can lounge in a beach chair the entire day for the cost of a drink and a meal - roughly $5 (all figures in USD) - at one of the many restaurants.
Such inexpensive living means that the beach can get crowded. Most visitors don't venture too far from their guesthouses and vendors stroll up and down, hawking bracelets and massages and fruit. At night, beach-front bars offer happy hour specials and big plates of barbequed meat and seafood from massive grills.
One of the bars, the Dolphin Shack, employs a local who twirls fire, two ends of a big staff lit and flaming, to the delight of everyone on the beach, while other party-goers crack the night with mini-fireworks.
This is a place to have fun into the wee hours.
People who want a quiet vacation, however, away from the party, won't have trouble relaxing. They can walk down the beach, or catch a moto for $1 or $2, and find solace in a wider, emptier beach. There are still restaurants and bars that poke out onto the sand but they are fewer and farther between, as are the people and the boats in the water.
If the beach becomes tiresome, there are plenty of other distractions. Top Cat Cinema, just up from the beach, airs four movies a day at $3 per show. Guesthouses and travel agents in the area also organize trips to the nearby national park and the islands just off the coast.
Staying near the beach is very easy. The Monkey Republic offers inexpensive bungalows with fan and cold-water showers for $5-$10 per night. Their bar also does a well-priced mix of Western and Khmer food.
Just across the street, $15 a day at the Beach Road Resort is good for the addition of cable TV and a warm-water shower while $5 more will get a room with air-conditioning.
The Golden Sands Hotel, in the up-market range, has a standard room with a double bed for $30 and an executive suite for $70. These rates apply to the high season, from October to December, and are subject to a %10 increase for international guests. Breakfast will be included for $4.50.
Sihanoukville is also an excellent stop-over for travellers continuing on to Thailand. Buses go to the Thai border and beyond, to locations like Ko Chang, Pattaya and Bangkok, for very reasonable prices. Guesthouses will most likely be able to book a ticket for the trip.
So come down to Sihanoukville for a little fun. It's full of relaxation and partying, by turns, and may even set the stage for an upcoming journey. It's worth a stop.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Border Crossings: Vietnam-Cambodia
Borders are a strange invention.
The landscape across a border, from one side to the other, does not change, nor do the people. Trees and streets and fields stay the same. Ethnic groups mix for kilometers on both sides. To the naked eye, difference does not exist.
By crossing a border, however, travellers are technically in a different place, with a different official language, different institutions and laws. Everything formal says that they are no longer in the country they once were.
This oddity - technical, but no tangible difference - demonstrates the relationship between the line drawn on a map and the people and places that exist on either side of it. It is the marvelous contradiction of a border.
The contradiction has always made me delight in borders, and crossing them, and I took great pleasure in entering Cambodia on a speedboat up the Mekong River.
The day started early. I was up and out of my room by 6am to board the boat for a 7am departure.
A throng occupied the dock in early morning sunshine - passengers ensuring the sanctity of their luggage, hotel staff clattering the bags this way and that and chattering at each other in their native language. Many boats from different travel agencies would all make the same journey.
Once bags and people had settled, our driver pushed off from the dock, ran us past the other still moored boats. He folded himself in behind the steering wheel and kicked the engine into high gear. The stocky, round-headed man who served as our guide went over our day's agenda. One hour to the border and five overall, including the time to satisfy immigration officials and their stamps.
We started close to the muddy, reedy riverbank, saw river people go about their day. A old woman poked her head out of a small shack, haphazardly perched on the water, to see about all the engine noise. Fishermen worked in their low-lying boats, untangling nets.
At the first border post, the Vietnamese made our exit official. Thump! You have exited Vietnam at this place at this time. Have a good day. Next. Red ink dried on the pages of my passport.
Our progress was not that simple or quick, however. Money-changers, the last of the Vietnamese vendors, lay in wait for us as we arrived at the dock. These little girls jumped aboard, crowded down the two-foot wide aisle and waved huge stacks of American currency under our noses. "Change money?"
There was conflict among the passengers: did the girls offer a good deal or not?
"I don't know the rate," complained one Auzzie as he handed over his dong.
"Don't do it," nagged his wife from the front seat. "Don't do it!"
We worked out that their rate was extortionate. "Give me back my dong!"
The girls tried for the sale a little longer, then gave up. There were other boats just behind us.
With Vietnamese exit stamps now in hand, we moved down the river to meet the Cambodian border guards. We had left one country but had not officially entered the other. For ten minutes, we were travellers without a current location, on a boat somewhere in between Vietnam and Cambodia.
We hit a new dock and our guide sprang into action. He leaped onto dry land and sprinted to hand our passports to the authorities. We strolled up the path to wait; no vendors impeded us. The other boats had also arrived, though, and guides flitted back and forth to arrange the travel visas. The one who could get through that step the quickest would also get entry stamps for his passengers first and avoid any long wait at the border. The race was on.
Fortunately, I had arranged my visa at the consulate in Saigon and got to go first. The officer filled out an entry card for me, stapled it into my passport and stamped everything four times - one stamp for the place of entry, one for my latest exit date in my passport and repeat for the entry card. I was in Cambodia.
Meanwhile, our man seemed to be winning the battle of the guides. He handed out passports to his remaining passengers and they queued to get their stamps. They all got through in minutes. We walked back down the path while the passengers from other boats began to line up, stretching on forever.
"Some people wait one, two hours at the border," said our guide. I was glad of my seat and the wind beating across my forehead.
It was another three hours to Phnom Penh and the crack-of-dawn wake up call began to catch up with everyone. The tour group that had been so boisterous and full of jokes at the beginning went quiet. One or two dozed in their seats. The man next to me read a magazine article about the Australian Prime Minister.
I looked out the window. Narrow strips of green spread out on either side of the river. Trees towered over the banks. Cows grazed.
Temples and office blocks, those markers of antiquity and progress in the same spot, soon faded into view on the banks ahead of us. We cut through the water for half hour more and landed. As the passengers disembarked in the Cambodian capital, I heard a familiar question.
"You need tuk-tuk? Moto?"
"No man, I'm gonna walk. But thanks."
"You gonna put tuk-tuk drivers out of work."
It might be a different country with a different language and different laws, but a border can't change everything.
The landscape across a border, from one side to the other, does not change, nor do the people. Trees and streets and fields stay the same. Ethnic groups mix for kilometers on both sides. To the naked eye, difference does not exist.
By crossing a border, however, travellers are technically in a different place, with a different official language, different institutions and laws. Everything formal says that they are no longer in the country they once were.
This oddity - technical, but no tangible difference - demonstrates the relationship between the line drawn on a map and the people and places that exist on either side of it. It is the marvelous contradiction of a border.
The contradiction has always made me delight in borders, and crossing them, and I took great pleasure in entering Cambodia on a speedboat up the Mekong River.
The day started early. I was up and out of my room by 6am to board the boat for a 7am departure.
A throng occupied the dock in early morning sunshine - passengers ensuring the sanctity of their luggage, hotel staff clattering the bags this way and that and chattering at each other in their native language. Many boats from different travel agencies would all make the same journey.
Once bags and people had settled, our driver pushed off from the dock, ran us past the other still moored boats. He folded himself in behind the steering wheel and kicked the engine into high gear. The stocky, round-headed man who served as our guide went over our day's agenda. One hour to the border and five overall, including the time to satisfy immigration officials and their stamps.
We started close to the muddy, reedy riverbank, saw river people go about their day. A old woman poked her head out of a small shack, haphazardly perched on the water, to see about all the engine noise. Fishermen worked in their low-lying boats, untangling nets.
At the first border post, the Vietnamese made our exit official. Thump! You have exited Vietnam at this place at this time. Have a good day. Next. Red ink dried on the pages of my passport.
Our progress was not that simple or quick, however. Money-changers, the last of the Vietnamese vendors, lay in wait for us as we arrived at the dock. These little girls jumped aboard, crowded down the two-foot wide aisle and waved huge stacks of American currency under our noses. "Change money?"
There was conflict among the passengers: did the girls offer a good deal or not?
"I don't know the rate," complained one Auzzie as he handed over his dong.
"Don't do it," nagged his wife from the front seat. "Don't do it!"
We worked out that their rate was extortionate. "Give me back my dong!"
The girls tried for the sale a little longer, then gave up. There were other boats just behind us.
With Vietnamese exit stamps now in hand, we moved down the river to meet the Cambodian border guards. We had left one country but had not officially entered the other. For ten minutes, we were travellers without a current location, on a boat somewhere in between Vietnam and Cambodia.
We hit a new dock and our guide sprang into action. He leaped onto dry land and sprinted to hand our passports to the authorities. We strolled up the path to wait; no vendors impeded us. The other boats had also arrived, though, and guides flitted back and forth to arrange the travel visas. The one who could get through that step the quickest would also get entry stamps for his passengers first and avoid any long wait at the border. The race was on.
Fortunately, I had arranged my visa at the consulate in Saigon and got to go first. The officer filled out an entry card for me, stapled it into my passport and stamped everything four times - one stamp for the place of entry, one for my latest exit date in my passport and repeat for the entry card. I was in Cambodia.
Meanwhile, our man seemed to be winning the battle of the guides. He handed out passports to his remaining passengers and they queued to get their stamps. They all got through in minutes. We walked back down the path while the passengers from other boats began to line up, stretching on forever.
"Some people wait one, two hours at the border," said our guide. I was glad of my seat and the wind beating across my forehead.
It was another three hours to Phnom Penh and the crack-of-dawn wake up call began to catch up with everyone. The tour group that had been so boisterous and full of jokes at the beginning went quiet. One or two dozed in their seats. The man next to me read a magazine article about the Australian Prime Minister.
I looked out the window. Narrow strips of green spread out on either side of the river. Trees towered over the banks. Cows grazed.
Temples and office blocks, those markers of antiquity and progress in the same spot, soon faded into view on the banks ahead of us. We cut through the water for half hour more and landed. As the passengers disembarked in the Cambodian capital, I heard a familiar question.
"You need tuk-tuk? Moto?"
"No man, I'm gonna walk. But thanks."
"You gonna put tuk-tuk drivers out of work."
It might be a different country with a different language and different laws, but a border can't change everything.
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