The Khmer Affair

It was all set. I was going to Fiji for Chinese New Year. I messaged my friend Taz, who lives in Nadi, and she was delighted at the prospect of a houseguest. I checked Frommer’s Fiji out of the local library and began reading about all the destinations I’d soon be visiting, impossibly excited to discover the legendary South Seas. I also got my hands on the most recent Lonely Planet.

But then, as business trips are wont to do, a business trip came on the horizon and changed everything. I’d have to be in Vietnam and Indonesia the week immediately following Chinese New Year. So while it was still conceivable to squeeze in my Fiji trip, taking any extra days off wouldn’t be an option. And I certainly wouldn’t have time stop by all the places I was adding to my daily-growing list. Not to mention the long flights—it’s ten hours direct from Hong Kong, and I wasn’t even sure I’d be flying direct—which meant very little wiggle room.

Yes, almost in an instant, it seemed sensible to place Savusavu and Levuka in the deep freezer for a future defrosting whose specific timing has yet to be established, when I can take a full two weeks to properly, thoroughly explore.

But I still wanted to travel somewhere over the Chinese New Year public holidays…

My first thought was to get to Vietnam early and spend the week there. But since I’d just been to Hanoi a month before, it felt silly to return so quickly. I also realized that Chinese New Year coincides with the Vietnamese holiday of Tet, and a little research told me that nearly all of the country shuts down to celebrate. Why not, then, I thought, choose a country bordering Vietnam—one of its atmospheric Indochina cousins—so that I could maximize vacation days and make for an easy segue from personal to professional time while still adding some spice to my travel log? Scanning a map of the region, I was suddenly all in for a second visit to Cambodia.

A few days later, I had Frommer’s Cambodia and Laos from the library and, again, the Lonely Planet. And itinerary planning was on!

You may recall that back in 2016, I ventured to Siem Reap with one of my best friends, Heidi, who had come to visit from New York. We spent a memorable string of days hitting up many of the region’s most famous temple ruins at Angkor. And it was pure magic. That was my first, and, to this point, only foray into one of Southeast Asia’s most enchanting locales. And I was oh-so excited to go back. It also meant I could firmly cross Siem Reap off my destination list, since the country holds many more untold treasures worth exploring, and Heidi and I had done that one so thoroughly.  

Firmly on my radar was capital Phnom Penh, which multiple people had told me over the years they had a feeling I would just adore. I planned to fly in and out of there anyway, so, naturally, I wanted to see a bit of the city. Kampot was the second spot that immediately earned a place on my quickly forming schedule, for its pepper plantations and art deco shophouses. (It was not the catalyst, but rather an unexpected bonus, when I later discovered the New York Times had included the riparian reverie on its list of 52 Places to Go in 2020.) And my third choice was Battambang, said to be a sleepy colonial backwater with loads of history and charm to spare.

But then I started reading those guidebooks, where I learned of two far-flung outposts I’d never even heard of before: Rattanakiri and Mondulkiri. Maybe I could include one of these locations on my itinerary? They were described as part of the country’s rugged “Wild East,” Rattanakiri capturing my imagination with talk of a bewitching hotel set on the grounds of the former governor's residence, and Mondulkiri’s Elephant Valley Project standing out as the single attraction that enticed me most. Unable to pick between these two, I eventually decided I’d try squeezing them both in.

I printed off a map of the country to see how it would all work out, in addition to scouring bus and train timetables online to make sure my calendar was feasible. And it became painfully obvious fairly quickly that one destination had to go. Heartbreakingly, it would be Battambang. Not for any reason other than geography. You see, Battambang is actually pretty close to Siem Reap, while all the other locations are more readily accessible from Phnom Penh. So it just made sense to leave Battambang as a side excursion to a future return to the Temple Capital of Southeast Asia.

In spite of this bummer, it was a pretty banging little agenda I had put together by the time I set off, even redeeming some Asia Miles to get me from Hong Kong to my first destination. Of course, I’d head straight on to Saigon and then Jakarta before heading home, with work covering the business-related airfares. So, in the end, the flights didn’t cost me much except for the taxes you’re obliged to cover when you use points to book a journey. Happy Chinese New Year to me!

And before leaving Hong Kong, I got to soak up at least a little bit of the festivities here, spending some time over in Tsim Sha Tsui, where the elegant grand old dame, the Peninsula, really got into the spirit of the season with her annual red lantern display fronting Salisbury Road.

But, before long, it was time for the real fun, as all the effort of planning and preparation reached a climax. That tremendous feeling of adventure, the one that always appears as the hour of departure draws near, reared its most welcome head as I finished a few last minute tasks and made my way to the airport, ready for another great Chinese New Year extravaganza!

I touched down in Phnom Penh just as the sun was setting on a Thursday evening. By the time I had gotten my visa-on-arrival, cleared customs and found my driver, it was already dark out. But we quickly made our way to my hotel, the Villa Langka, where I set out for an introductory stroll around my new neighborhood.

The Independence Monument and Wat Langka were literally just steps away. In fact, my room was complete with a tiny but welcoming balcony with a perfect view of the wat itself. And, after a quick and tasty dinner in the hotel lobby overlooking to lush greenery of the pool, I retired to my comfy room for a good night’s rest.

That next morning, I had breakfast in the same spot and made friends with one of the Villa Langka’s lobby cats, a sweet little guy who lit up at the sign of a bit of affection. In addition to the Western favorites on offer from the buffet, there were also some Khmer options, and I absolutely loved the pho-like beef noodle soup that was made to order.

My first major attraction of the day was the stunning National Museum, an easy twenty minute walk from the hotel, in spite of the ridiculous humidity and the fact that I decided to wear jeans, since I might also be hitting up the Royal Palace a little later, which has a stringent dress code.

The museum was wide-ranging but certainly manageable, a square-shaped series of galleries that flowed effortlessly one into the next, with a lush central courtyard at its core. Statues from all manner of temples and palaces across various centuries had all been brought together under one spectacular roof. (By this, I literally mean that the roofline was a bona fide work of art in and of itself.)

I made two circuits of the exhibits and spent an unholy amount of time lazing in that glorious courtyard, the strong sun shining on the lily ponds flanked by ample flowering flora. True, the artifacts on display within told the whole tale of the country’s storied ancient history, but the beauty of present-day Cambodia was best soaked up in that courtyard. It was a photographer’s paradise.

Frommer’s steered me to an eatery called Friends for lunch. Part of an NGO that takes in Khmer street kids and teaches them the art of hospitality, the restaurant was complete with a small outdoor patio a stone’s throw from the museum, where a frozen Kampot pepper margarita set the scene for a delicious meal.

Apparently, the Royal Palace shuts down for a stretch of hours right square in the middle of the afternoon, so, although I had come prepared wearing jeans, it turns out I could have researched this a little better. Still, simply by strolling the streets that connect Friends to the imperial residence, I was beginning to get a feel for why so many people had predicted I’d take a liking to this town.

It's leafy and languid for a capital city, a bustling metropolis if you compare it to Vientiane in next door Laos, but a sleepy municipality when measured against pretty much any other. The heat and humidity seem to infuse the place with a delightful lethargy. The locals take to sitting under shady trees—sipping cold Angkor beer on small plastic stools—or lounging in hammocks strung up in the back of their tuk tuks, chatting with their buddies similarly swinging in their own vehicles, all parked within whispering distance of one another.

But Phnom Penh seems to come alive as sunset approaches and things cool off a bit. (Just a bit, mind you.) That’s when I saw groups of friends gathering on two feet, engaged in sporting events or simply walking along the grassy plazas beside mist-throwing fountains.

I walked to a rooftop bar I had read about online called Le Moon, where I snagged a corner seat along the railing, looking out over Wat Ounalom, established in 1443 as a hub of Cambodian Buddhism. To the other direction, the mighty Mekong and far humbler Tongle Sap converge, creating a memorable backdrop for Phnom Penh’s bustling riverfront promenade.

It was a lovely—not to mention lively—setting for a few happy hour Angkors, as the sun dipped behind the city’s towers and I worked up an appetite. The din of Friday night conversation carried across with the breeze. And a pair adventuresome cats frolicked on a wee ledge on the other side of the railing, swatting at each other just inches from a sheer drop.

Now hungry, I set off for dinner at highly touted Romdeng, where I had booked a table earlier in the day. Part of the same NGO that runs Friends, this establishment also hires street kids in an attempt to transform their lives, here for a career in a more high-end eatery. The restaurant is housed in a glorious French colonial mansion complete with a delightful garden and al fresco tables, in addition to indoor seating. Obviously, I opted for a spot in the fresh air.

But the main draw for me, the reason I included Romdeng on my Phnom Penh itinerary from the get-go, was because their specialty is fried tarantulas, apparently a local delicacy whose creepy crawly appearance, for foreign visitors, either instantly becomes a ‘must try’ or induces nausea upon sight. Count me among the former.

As the server walked through the picturesque shrubbery with my platter of hairy arachnids, he almost accidentally delivered them to another table, that of an older Western couple seated a few feet away. Their horrified reaction as they inspected the plate quickly signaled to him that he was in error. We made eye contact as I rather sheepishly raised my hand, and a moment later, he was placing twenty-four legs’ worth of delectability in front of the correct hungry patron.

I could feel the mystified glare of the other couple as I prepared for my feast, but these things were truly delicious. They were similar in both taste and texture to softshell crabs, and those critters certainly don’t raise any eyebrows when they’re served in swanky dining rooms across the globe. But even my sister was repulsed when I sent her a photo. “No,” she wrote. “Please tell me that’s chicken or something shaped into a spider.”

A more subtly insectile main course—spicy pork with red ants—also found its way to my table a little bit later in the meal. And it was equally delicious, though you’d actually need to inspect the dish's contents very closely before realizing those small auburn crumbs were not some anonymous spice but rather minuscule heads, thoraxes and abdomens.  

Showing the first symptoms of a novel travel high, I opted to navigate the city’s streamlined grid of boulevards back to the Villa Langka on foot, though a tuk tuk would have only cost a couple of bucks. Still, I loved strolling past the rowdy beer bars, the illuminated side streets, the hushed, deserted markets, and a few drunker-than-expected inhabitants, as I eventually found myself at the Independence Monument and, shortly thereafter, in my lush oasis of a hotel. 

I was up before six-thirty the following morning, very excited for another full day in a place that had won me over pretty fast. I often find it hard to sleep when I’m travelling, so eager for what’s in store that it hardly seems prudent to waste an extra minute with shut eyes than is strictly necessary for the purposes of rejuvenation. This is decidedly not a problem I experience back in Hong Kong. I remember when I returned from Burma four years ago… I couldn’t fathom how I struggled to get out of bed for a nine o'clock start at the office, when a week earlier, Christina, Derek and I were up for sunrise eight days in succession, me fairly bursting out from ‘neath the covers in pitch darkness with a huge smile on my face the second the alarm went off. But there’s the rub.

So it’s a little before seven, and I’ve already hit the streets, wandering down to the waterfront for sunrise this first day of the newly begun Year of the Rat. The streets are desolate, but I love it. In fact, I think I love early morning more than any other time of day, though many Hong Kong friends would probably label nighttime a likelier candidate for my top preference. If I’m in my home city, perhaps… But, when on vacation, anyway—especially if I’m off somewhere exotic, exploring on my own—there’s nothing I like better than reasonably early nights and ridiculously early mornings.

The sun was busy coloring the streets of the capital with its soft rays that dawn, and, every now and then, a tuk tuk or a motorbike might sputter past. But, pretty much, I had it all to myself. There certainly weren’t any other Western tourists muddling about.

Oh, there was a local lady who stopped a gaggle of saffron-clad monks to offer them some rice in front of the cream yellow walls that separate the palace from the outside world. And there were some peppy citizens out for morning exercise near the river. I also encountered a French expat walking her puppy along Samdach Sothearos Boulevard. And there were even a few overly ambitious tuk tuk drivers fishing for their daily catch, to no avail. But life on the streets of Phnom Penh at that hour was wonderfully quiet.

Both of my guidebooks had stated that the Royal Palace opened at seven-thirty a.m. sharp and advised arriving as early as possible to beat the crowds. I stood by the imposing-yet-graceful turquoise gates as the opening time approached, but nobody appeared on the other side to unlock them. Seven-thirty came and went. 

“Maybe they run on Cambodian time,” I figured, “and will be a few minutes late.” 

No dice.

Unluckily, Frommer's and Lonely Planet were off by a half hour. It seems the new palace opening time is actually eight o’clock. But I took the opportunity to wander about some more and even grabbed a coffee at the charming Palace Gate Hotel. At one minute after eight, I was purchasing my ticket and by three minutes after the hour, I had my guide. And we were in.

The King of Cambodia still lives on the grounds of the Royal Palace, and an aura of majestic pomp somehow manages to pervade the air here. You can instantly tell this is a most important place, both in a historical context and from a modern perspective.

My guide was a very friendly—and very well-informed—little guy named Thom. What’s more, Thom was clearly passionate about sharing his knowledge and love for this place with tourists. I saw the few other visitors wandering about with their guidebooks open, reading about the various structures. But I was so glad I paid the ten bucks to have an expert chaperone take me around.

Thom first lead me to the evocatively named Moonlight Pavilion. It sounds like the name of the stage where Frank Sinatra or Russ Columbo would have crooned back in the good old days for a bevy of adoring female admirers, but this is actually a venue for showcasing Khmer dance performances. And it is still used to the present.

Next, we headed to the majestic Throne Hall, perhaps the most iconic sight in the compound. Needless to say, this is where the king formally receives foreign dignitaries and performs other official royal functions. And it was appropriately regal.

We had both of these grand structures all to ourselves, as Thom told me about their purposes and histories. The graceful Khmer architecture—with ever-so-delicate Gallic touches—was truly breathtaking, especially in the soft morning light, entirely devoid of a crowd!  

From the upper terrace of the Throne Hall, Thom also pointed out the king’s current residence, the Khemarin Palace, and an intriguing little building nearby that once served a very singular purpose: as a royal elephant mounting station. 

You see, in order to get astride these enormous noble creatures, one needed to be ten to twelve feet above ground. Well, this building provided just such an opportunity. The king and queen ascended a grandiose exterior staircase, gaining entry to the pavilion’s second floor, from which they could access a small balcony positioned at the perfect height. The elephant would then pause beneath an opening in the balustrade, allowing the royals to gracefully mount their ride.  

The last of the major points of interest within the perimeters of the palace walls that Thom took me to that morning was the celebrated Silver Pagoda, whose floors are covered in approximately five thousand solid silver tiles, weighing in at a whopping six tons! (Alas, no photography is allowed inside.) Only a few of the tiles are visible, near the entryway, while the rest are obscured beneath carpeting for their own protection. There are hundreds of religious statues inside, some of Cambodia’s most prized possessions, including one life-size golden Buddha studded with nearly ten thousand diamonds and another made entirely of Baccarat crystal.

Thom bid me a fond farewell as he set back for the ticket booth, hoping to find his next visitors to guide around the stunning complex. The crowds were really starting to pour through the gates by now, arriving, as they were, literally by the busload. I did take a last wander, retracing my steps to get a second look at things. As I did, my main emotion was one of gratitude for having showed up the moment the place had opened. The scene was much different a mere hour later, with dozens of pole-toting guides and throngs of tourists following them about everywhere you looked. I felt so fortunate to have seen it all in near solitude. And pretty soon, I headed back to the Villa Langka, where I was still in time for breakfast.

I’d be moving on to Rattanakiri via overnight bus later in the evening, and I had to check out of the hotel room by noon. Of course, the friendly staff behind the front desk graciously kept my bag so I could make the most of my final hours in Phnom Penh without being dragged down by a massive backpack. And so, I again set off on foot, this time for Tuol Sleng, often referred to as S21, Phnom Penh’s somber and sobering Museum of Genocide.

Once a school, the various classrooms and offices were transformed by Pol Pot’s murderous Khmer Rouge into a detention center where seventeen thousand prisoners were confined in appalling conditions, many later executed at the notorious Killing Fields. Equipped with a comprehensive audio guide, I spent hours learning the gruesome details of all that transpired within its walls between 1975 and 1979. From a general overview to very specific individual stories, the afternoon was one of those horrific-yet-necessary experiences.

Rusty barbed wire stands out sharply against beautiful blue skies. Haunting black and white photographs of victims and perpetrators stare back at you in cold silence. Could such a peaceful place really have been so agonizing for so many?  

Tuol Sleng is heartbreaking in every sense of the word. It’s the kind of museum that shocks you to your core. At times, it was difficult for me to walk forward, foreseeing the inevitably gruesome tale awaiting in the next room. Often, I didn’t want to push play to hear more. But an overarching sense of optimism triumphs in the end, made ever so powerful by the daily presence of two of the camp’s survivors who sit near the exit to recount their firsthand experiences, lest anyone should ever forget the misery that existed here within living memory.

It’s difficult to look at Cambodia—even the world in general—in the same light after having learned what happened here in the late 1970s, when nearly a quarter of the population perished. That Tuol Sleng was only one in a network of prisons, that the Killing Fields is plural, not singular—that there were twenty thousand such fields throughout the country—is devastating knowledge. But it is also essential information for visitors, and this history should never be left off a tourist’s itinerary, unpleasant as it may be to confront. 

It’s a challenge to segue into the rest of my afternoon following this. What’s a fitting next act after having listened to firsthand stories of death and torture and man’s unspeakable brutality against his fellow man? It feels weird to simply write that I hopped in a tuk tuk outside the museum and, for three dollars, got driven to the city’s main train station to buy a ticket for the next Friday's train to Kampot. But that’s what happened. I handed over seven bucks, and the girl behind the Royal Cambodian Railways counter passed me my ticket. 

From the station, it was an easy walk to the city’s most famous hotel, Le Royal, built in 1929 and now run by the Raffles Group. Referred to, in various turns, as a classic, an icon, and the jewel in the city’s crown, it was the lodging of choice for the likes of Charles Chaplin and Jacqueline Kennedy when their globetrotting lead them to Cambodia. I was toying with potentially spending my final night there, at the tail end of my trip before flying on to Saigon. The stellar shout outs from both of my guidebooks normally would have sealed the deal.

Lonely Planet: From the golden age of travel, this is one of Asia’s grand old dames, in the illustrious company of the Oriental in Bangkok and Raffles in Singapore. This classic colonial-era property is Phnom Penh’s leading address, with a heritage to match its service and style.

Frommer's: Built in 1929, it is the city’s most atmospheric hotel, an authentic Art Deco and colonial classic. Everything from the vaulted ceilings in the lobby to the classic original central stairs breathes history and charm. Walking down the arched hallways, with sunlight bouncing off the black-and-white floor tiles and streaming in through stone columns, is like walking smack into the extravagance of prewar Indochina.  

But, after reading these reviews, I soon learned online that the hotel was in the midst of a major renovation, and I wasn’t sure whether it would live up to its impressive reputation under the circumstances. Perhaps it might be more appropriate to save the splurge for a future visit, once things were back to normal? Well, to aid me in reaching a conclusion, I figured I ought to drop by to give it the once-over.

Let’s just say, I was sold the minute I walked through the grand foyer, immediately grasping its timeless appeal. And I’m delighted to report that, apart from a few small areas where work is clearly being done, the bulk of the place seems largely unaffected by the renovations, since the carefully considered repairs are being undertaken in equally carefully considered stages. Yes, whoever is overseeing this project has arranged for the place to be restored bit by bit, meaning the whole undertaking might last a little longer than if it were all done concurrently, but guests are spared the impression the entire property has become one massive building site.

I spent the next ten or fifteen minutes exploring the immaculate grounds, complete with two swimming pools and palm-fringed lawns. And I discovered that, while Le Royal is undoubtedly a lulu, her style is far from flamboyant. This is a quietly sublime edifice, radiating equal parts prestige and sophistication. From silent marble corridors to greenery-filled courtyards, every inch of Le Royal whispers—as opposed to shouts—elegance.  

Had my mind not been instantly made up to book a room, I was planning to pop into the Elephant Bar for a drink then and there. But now that I was sure I’d be back in nine days’ time, I opted to hold out, waiting until I could really linger and enjoy the experience.

Instead, I made a beeline for nearby Wat Phnom, the temple-crowned hill from which the capital has taken its name. Back in the fourteenth century, a local lady called Penh discovered four Buddha statues on the shoreline of the nearby Mekong. To house her find, a temple was built on this phnom, or hill—Phnom Penh thus simply meaning Penh’s Hill—which has since stood witness to centuries of Cambodian history.

Being the first day of Chinese New Year—and since many Cambodians are of Chinese descent—the temple was packed with faithful Buddhists marking the start of the Year of the Rat. And I was very glad I got a chance to soak up the spiritual atmosphere of the place on such an auspicious occasion.

It was nearing four o’clock in the afternoon by this point, the sun dipping lower in the sky, and I was already preparing for the coming sunset, which promised to be another beauty. As I had savored my coffee earlier that morning waiting to enter the Royal Palace, I learned that the Palace Gate Hotel also has a rooftop bar that opens each evening at five. And it promised to be the finest spot in town for a sundowner with a view of the Silver Pagoda.

There was no need to rush. It would only take about twenty minutes walking at top speed from Wat Phnom to the Palace Gate Hotel, and I had over an hour. So I decided to meander slowly in that general direction, turning up and down random streets to explore en route.

I paused first at the sumptuous Central Market, one of the capital's most beautiful treasures. With a soaring central dome serving as its nucleus, and four wings radiating outward like the spokes of a bicycle tire, the whole building supports the illusion Hans Dreier may have designed it for one of Cecil B. DeMille’s Paramount epics, an art deco reimagining of an ancient Egyptian bazaar, where Claudette Colbert’s Cleopatra might go shopping with either Warren William or Henry Wilcoxon, key lit amongst a throng of a thousand of extras.

I navigated the maze of stalls around the market selling all manner of goods, mostly—if you’ll pardon my effrontery—junk. But the atmosphere was unreal. And, at one point, a machete-wielding nutjob starting hacking at passersby, before being subdued by the crowd as police arrived to take him into custody. I didn’t really understand exactly what was causing al the commotion until a friendly Frenchman who had witnessed the episode from a closer angle explained it to me. But it certainly injected some excitement into my afternoon jaunt.

Even walking slowly, it was only four-thirty when I arrived near the Palace; the hotel bar still had thirty minutes until opening. So I returned to the grounds of the National Museum for a quick and refreshing mixed berry smoothie in their enticing garden while I waited, a truly lovely spot to kill half an hour.

But the real treat of the afternoon was arriving at Organic Skybar, where the view was—as I had predicted—simply stellar. The bar is perched on the fourth floor of this new-ish addition to Phnom Penh’s hotel scene, with an unobstructed view across Samdach Sothearos Boulevard.

In a dizzying city of high-rises like Hong Kong, a fourth-floor watering hole would hardly warrant the label skybar. But in modest Phnom Penh, the descriptor certainly seemed apt. Above the level of the imposing palace walls, about even to the roofline of the atmospheric pagodas, the panorama was pure perfection.

I ordered an ice-cold Angkor and just watched as the light changed, dusk approaching. At one point, a line of over thirty novice monks paraded past the ramparts. And the view was never anything short of arresting.

As an added dividend, I even struck up a conversation with my friendly neighbors, sisters Luci and Irene, from Washington State and New York, respectively. These ladies were on the first stop of a multi-week tour, which would see them heading off to Siem Reap to explore the wonders of Angkor Wat the next day. It was such fun trading travel stories with them, especially since Luci had even spent some memorable time in Hong Kong and was eager to hear about how the city had changed since her last visit.

It was tough for me to tear myself away from our engaging chat—not to mention the still-impressive nocturnal view that now encompassed the illuminated structures on the palace grounds—but we swapped e-mail addresses, and I really hope to keep in touch moving forward. Though now I had to be making tracks or I’d risk missing my night bus to destination number two!

Of course, at pretty much every moment over the past few days, tuk tuk drivers had gently pestered me to offer their services. It seems I couldn’t walk five feet without one pulling up alongside, slowing down, honking and waving. “Tuk tuk, sir?” they’d inevitably say, clearly disappointed at my rejection. Now, of course, I actually needed a lift, but there wasn’t an available ride in sight! And when I finally did spy one parked alongside the road, the driver had no interest in taking me! “I’m on a break right now,” was all he said. Talk about the shoe being on the other foot.

Anyway, I did ultimately get back to the Villa Langka to collect my luggage, and I still wound up at the station with plenty of time before the nine o’clock departure. But I was a little nervous for a minute there!

For the record, I’d like to state that I’ve never ridden anything quite like the overnight bus that took me north that evening from Phnom Penh to Banlung, the capital of Rattanakiri province. In my time, I’ve traveled on conveyances of all manner: trains and vans and boats and planes and trams and trolleys and jitneys and tuk tuks and, of course, many varieties of buses. I’ve ridden school buses and ritzy coaches, Greyhounds and mini-buses, open tops and double deckers.

But this was something entirely new. It was a sort of modern re-imagining of the Pullman car from Forty Second Street, except on a bus instead of a train. There were mattresses lining the entire length of the carriage, left and right, an upper berth and a lower, all huddled into the vehicle’s standard shape, so that, from the outside, it looked like any ordinary bus.

Well, as you can imagine, under this arrangement—with such a short distance between mattress and ceiling—it is impossible to sit upright, as you normally would. Your only option is to lounge horizontally in your assigned spot.

Along the right-hand side, slightly slimmer single mattresses were available, but I had inadvertently booked a spot on the left, the doubles half of the bus. And it turned out we had a full load that night, a last-minute switch across the aisle thus impossible. So I had a mattress mate for the nine hour journey.

It was all actually pretty comfortable. We were each provided with a fluffy pillow and warm blanket. And I made friends not only with the guy with whom I shared that berth, whose English was about as good as my Khmer, but also Pez, the wonderfully agreeable and loquacious gent occupying the single spot directly across from us, who acted as de facto interpreter. His English was almost insanely perfect, to the degree that when he told me his name, and I asked, “Like the candy?” his reply was, “Yes, exactly,” with a chuckle.

Pez is Bunong, one of the ethnic minorities who live in the mountainside villages in Rattanakiri and Mondulkiri, but he also happens to be an English teacher at the local school. It seems he has a very good German friend, whom he’s planning to visit this summer in Europe. So he had to head down to Phnom Penh—his country’s capital—to apply for a passport to make his trip a reality. That was the only reason he was in town, and now, objective completed, he was returning home. We must have chatted for a third of the journey, as he told me about the splendors awaiting discovery in Rattanakiri and freely offered tips on how to make the most of my brief time there.  

In hindsight, I can’t believe I never asked for his phone number or full name, so we could have stayed in touch. I really felt we became friends during the ride, and I would have loved to permanently connect with him. Alas, when our bus arrived at Banlung's station around five in the morning, we shook hands and I hopped in a waiting tuk tuk that would bring me to my accommodation of choice, the incomparable Terres Rouges. Over the next three days, I kept hoping I’d randomly bump into Pez on the streets of Banlung, but, unhappily, I never laid eyes on him again. He certainly touched my life for a brief instant, and I’ll never forget his affability and charm.

Anyway, let me tell you a bit about Terres Rouges, purportedly the ritziest digs in Banlung, which so jumped off the page when I read about it in Frommer’s that the hotel—not anything else in the province—was what convinced me to include this destination on my itinerary.

I’ve always loved Red Dust, the slightly trashy 1932 MGM classic about the assorted characters whose lives entangle at an isolated Indochinese rubber plantation, their strong personalities clashing as rivalries and romances bubble to the surface. It’s a potent story made unforgettable by its dynamite cast, headed by Clark Gable, Jean Harlow and Mary Astor.

And so, I was instantly sold on Terres Rouges from the minute I learned of its existence. Before you ask: no, the estate on which the hotel now sits was never exactly a plantation. But the former governor’s residence since converted into this enchanting boutique inn promised a similarly atmospheric setting. And, with the town itself encircled by rubber trees, it seemed as close as I might ever get.

Terres Rouges even translates as Red Earth—the name instantly conjuring up black and white flickers of the movie in my brain—while the hotel’s website forewarns, “During the dry season a thick cloud of red dust floats constantly above Banlung.”

Since I had called ahead from the Villa Langka to forewarn the staff of my five o'clock arrival time, I had no trouble checking in at that ridiculous hour. And, as I explored the extensive property in the dawn light, I could tell that I had stumbled upon a very special place.

The owners of Terres Rouges have created a veritable paradise, working hard to maintain the impression that French Indochina is alive and kicking. It’s an illusion I wanted to believe as I strolled about the lush grounds that morning, a secluded, leafy refuge far removed from the gritty roads just beyond. The garden of colors presented by the budding trees was simply remarkable, from stately palms to flowering frangipanis. You could spend a solid half hour happily wandering from one intriguing blossom to the next, admiring the hues and trying to capture their ephemeral beauty with your camera.

From those first moments on, my experience at Terres Rouges was nothing short of magical. Every element was pitch perfect, even though the improbability of discovering such luxury in this sleepy corner of the world seems about as unlikely as it was delightful.

I was promptly shown to my lovely room in the main house, which was utterly fantastic, all done up in painted woods, with a huge, comfortable bed, elegant window treatments, charming antiques and intriguing vintage prints adorning the walls. And the bathroom was a far cry from the rain barrel Jean Harlow used back in 1932. In fact, I’d label it downright extravagant, in a rustic sort of way.

After a bit of rest, I headed over to the airy restaurant—a most pleasant spot indeed—to enjoy a quick breakfast. Its enviable position overlooking Kan Seng Lake made for a lovely start to my first day in this new locale, complemented by fresh fruit, strong coffee and a local dish of hearty pork noodles. The best surprise of all, however, was when I went to pay and was instead informed that daily breakfast was included in my room rate!

Still, the diadem in the Terres Rouges treasury has got to be its perfect swimming pool. Fringed by frangipani blossoms whose petals have a beguiling habit of dropping into the cool waters, it’s one of the most tranquil settings I’ve stumbled across in all my globetrotting. And the bonus for me is that it’s also the domain of the hotel’s friendly dogs, who seemed thrilled to have a companion.

What’s more, they just had a litter of puppies, currently housed in a little pen a few meters beyond. I was lucky enough to witness their morning feeding time at several points over the next few days, as the half dozen or so babes furiously went about chowing down on their breakfast. It was a sight to behold!

Leaving through the stately front gates of the hotel, I took an introductory gambol, circumnavigating the sizeable lake. I also made my way to the actual center of town, where I explored the colorful local market. In doing so, I passed all manner of hotels, mostly boxy, chock-a-block, charmless structures of three to eight stories. Why anybody would opt for one of these eyesores when Terres Rouges was less than a ten-minute walk, I’ll never be able to understand.

No, Banlung isn’t exactly what I’d label a photogenic town, yet it exudes its own sort of appeal. You can’t capture it on film, but it does have something. I enjoyed getting my bearings on its dusty roads, but I also knew I’d savor spending quite a bit of my time within the confines of Terres Rouges.

I opted to settle down for lunch at a Lonely Planet-approved spot called The Green Carrot. It was a most fortuitous decision. Not strictly for the cuisine, mind you, which, nonetheless, was actually pretty nice. But because at the next table, there sat a friendly couple with whom I quickly struck up a conversation. Shauna and David, Irish backpackers from Galway who were in the midst of a monster motorbiking journey all across the region, soon became my go to companions for the next string of days.

When we first started chatting, they were finishing off their meal, while I had just ordered my own. After a few minutes of conversation, Shauna convivially asked, “Do you want to ride with us out to a series of waterfalls we’re planning to explore this afternoon? They’re supposed to be really cool.”

Of course, I would have absolutely loved to join them. But, noting the fact that they had already requested their bill and I was still waiting for my food to arrive, I politely declined. Still, we continued to get acquainted. 

It turns out, Shauna was in the middle of a visa nightmare, and David was trying to secure her a spot on a bus back to Phnom Penh at some point in the near future. Taking advantage of Green Carrot’s complimentary wifi, they were looking at the options on their phone, while telling me about their current predicament.

Unbeknownst to both, during the planning stages of this trip, David had obtained a multiple-entry visa for Vietnam while Shauna had only been granted a single-entry permit. It was probably a matter of ticking the wrong box on the application form, but it seems neither of them had even realized they had different versions of the sticker affixed to their passports when they set off. Anyway, having begun their journey by touching down at the airport in Saigon, in the south of Vietnam, Shauna’s visa was cancelled that first moment when she cleared immigration, while David’s would allow him to exit and re-enter the country multiple times within the visa’s validity period, with no issues.

In Saigon, they had bought two motorbikes for a steal of a bargain, which they planned to simply leave at their final destination, either selling them, if they could find willing takers, or abandoning them, if it came to it. And then they just set off exploring. The way Vietnam and Cambodia’s borders sit geographically, it’s easy to cross from one country into the other and then snake back out again. And that’s exactly how their path proceeded.

Thus, when they left Vietnam to cross into Cambodia to continue their adventure, they were unknowingly headed for hardship. And the day before I encountered them, they had again arrived at a Vietnam border check point to re-enter the country, when—wham!—David was allowed to pass through, but Shauna was denied entry for not having a valid visa. Pleading ignorance, begging for an exception to the rule, even offering the customary kickback to the guards…. Nothing worked.

So they had little choice but to turn around and retrace their route the forty-five miles to Banlung—where they had previously spent a few days—to plot their next steps. Here, they took the opportunity to appraise the situation, which they reasoned should be straightforward enough. Shauna would just have to get a new Vietnam visa. How hard can that be in a region that depends on tourist dollars to stimulate its economy? Well, not so easy as you might think… You see, the only place to procure a Vietnam visa in Cambodia is at the Vietnamese Embassy. That meant Shauna would actually have to make her way all the way back to Phnom Penh to get the proper entry requirements to continue their journey! 

I think I was most struck by the humor with which both of these guys explained their plight. Far from sounding irked or angered, they found it all perplexingly amusing, their “take the punches as they come” approach very endearing. And while they regaled me with their misadventures over the past twenty-four hours, my food was delivered, consumed and paid for. Simultaneously, David successfully booked Shauna on an eight-thrity departure for the capital later that evening, while he planned to relax in this more languid setting until she would return.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come with us to the waterfall?” David again asked with a wink. Well, now that I wasn’t afraid of holding them up while I finished my lunch, I gratefully accepted the suggestion. And off we went. 

I hopped on the back of David’s motorbike, while Shauna rode alongside. And it was during that short journey that I really learned what everybody was talking about when they warned of the ubiquitous red dirt that seems to float all throughout the region.

Banlung’s main roads are suitably paved, but after passing a prominent roundabout about two miles outside of town, you turn off along a rust-colored dirt road, where every vehicle kicks up dusty clouds in its wake. Now, in a proper car—with closed windows—this wouldn’t be so bad. Sure, you’d have to proceed slowly due to the reduced visibility. But your respiratory system would be none-the-wiser that anything was amiss.

On a motorbike, not so much! Every car that passed us created a nebulous veil of thick fog that obscured our surroundings. At one point, Shauna even had to do a mid-ride pass off of an extra pair of sunglasses, because my eyes were just constantly bombarded with dirt and she felt so bad!

When we arrived in the parking area, both my new travel buddies couldn’t seem to stop giggling at my appearance. “Is it really that awful?” I asked.

“Here, hand me your phone and I’ll take a picture,” Shauna replied. And the instant I looked upon my begrimed visage, I, too, burst into laughter. 

In the end, we spent over two hours at the waterfalls, hiking upstream past the crowds, where we found a secluded spot to drink a few beers in the cool waters while chatting about all manner of subjects. We were fast becoming friends, and I can firmly state that meeting people like Shauna and David is a big part of why I love travelling so much.

Eventually, we decided to head back to their lodging, Tree Tops Ecolodge, for a drink. But, of course, another perilous ride over dusty roads stood between us and those ice-cold Angkors we knew were waiting. Dare I say, the trip back was even more death-defying than the previous journey! You see, with the sun setting, all the locals were departing the waterfalls in their vehicles at the same time, so instead of a trickle of cars going by at a rate of around one every five minutes, there was now a constant stream cruising past!

We had to stop on multiple occasions to wait for the parade, and after one such pause at the bottom of a hill, as David revved the engine attempting to climb, we didn’t gain enough momentum and clumsily toppled over! Don’t worry, we were travelling less than a mile an hour when this happened, and the dirt road at that particular stretch had the consistency of a sandy beach, so we were both unscathed. Yes, it was more of a momentary setback than a full-fledged motorbike accident, but once we had gotten the thing back upright again, I let David surmount the hill on two wheels while I walked up to rejoin him at the summit.

Once back to the roundabout, we were flying along on the paved road and couldn’t stop laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. Dare I say that, looking back in hindsight now, that short ride may have been my favorite moment of my whole trip. It was so unlike anything else I’ve ever experienced. And I loved it. Lonely Planet warned of orange skin and ginger hair at the end of a long day in Banlung, and I can’t say they were wrong.

After dinner with my new pals, Shauna headed off to her bus, but I made plans to meet David the following day, so we exchanged contact details. I walked back to Terres Rouges, where I soaked up the veritable luxury of my room, showering off while doing my best with the nozzle to also rid my clothing of the red tint each item had seemed to absorb over the past stretch of hours. I was only mildly successful in this endeavor, and I imagine that whenever I don these particular permanently-tattooed garments in the future, I’ll always be reminded of my wild Banlung adventure!

Even that next morning as I washed my hair for the second time in ten hours, my fingers and the shampoo created a frothy mixture of burnt sienna, while the water took on a reddish tint.

It was a slow start to the day. I lingered over breakfast. I lingered by the pool. I wandered about the sprawling property again. And I played some more with the friendly hounds. I loved the place so much that it was pushing noon before I finally headed off for the day.

I had lunch directly across the lake, at Pteas Bay Khmer, the restaurant attached to the Rattanakiri Boutique Hotel. Stunningly prepared pork cooked with pineapple and ginger, and, of course an Angkor to wash it down. I can’t believe I didn’t snap a photograph of the delectable dish or the wonderful view.

But my main objective of the day was Yeak Laom, a crater lake forming a nearly-perfect circle. It was about a three-and-a-half-mile walk in each direction, but I actually quite enjoyed taking in the surroundings (except when a few tractor trailers sped by, kicking up the dust). In the end, it took me almost exactly an hour to reach the stunning natural attraction.

The lake holds enormous significance for the indigenous Tampuan people. Their community has a quarter century lease to manage the land surrounding the lake and to control access, but this agreement expires in 2021. Right now, it’s a pristine spot where locals come to enjoy nature in its most unspoiled glory. But if several foreign developers have their way, the land will become the domain of high-end resorts in the not-too-distant future. So, I’m very glad I got to experience it in this untouched form. 

The brief dip I took in the crystal clear waters as the sun set behind the trees was especially invigorating. And I pray the Tampuan are able to extend their lease and maintain the magic of Yeak Laom for generations to come. 

While at the lake, I got a Whatsapp message from David. “Hey Man, so Shauna never got the bus last night, we were up until the wee hours and had a very late sleep in. Actually just having breakfast now…” This was sent at a little before five! “Do you fancy getting dinner together at 6:30pm?”

They asked me to pick the venue, since they got the impression I had more thoroughly researched for my trip than they had, and we agreed to try out a little place I had walked past a few times called Friends, near to The Green Carrot where we had first met the day before.

Shauna—David assured me—was definitely going to get the 8pm bus that evening. And when I made some remark or other about the inconvenience, he wrote back, “It’s not so bad, just pushes plans back a day, we could be stuck in a worse spot!” Like I said from the start, I really loved their attitude.

So, after an hour’s walk back, I duly linked up with them at the restaurant, where, in addition to my scrumptious beef lok lak, we also started talking with an older couple sitting nearby, Ingrid and Paul, from Belgium, who are about as adventurous as anybody I’ve ever met. In fact, Paul even regaled us with the story of his first visit to Cambodia in the 1990s, when he was instructed to walk in the literal footsteps of his tour guide, staying about two meters behind, in case there should be any landmines in their path! 

And even after Shauna headed off for her bus—which she did manage to catch—David and I popped up to a nearby rooftop lounge called Starry Sky Bar that had been recommended by Pez, where we had a last beer and whiled the night away with a view over the tiny village implausibly blessed with a tenth floor watering hole.

Awaking that next morning, I decided I wanted to spend as much time as possible at Terres Rouges on this final day. It had won me over big time. And who knows if I’ll ever make it back? So I just had to revel in it. 

Breakfast… check. 

Puppy visit… check. 

Grounds wander… check.

And even after I had to vacate my room, I simply plopped down by that gorgeous swimming pool with my book. Well, as I’m sure you can imagine, the pool itself, coupled with the helpful staff on hand to supply me with ice cold Angkor as required—served in a frosted glass, a marvelous touch—effectively relieved my of any lingering incentive I may have had to venture beyond the hotel’s front gate.

So I decided to finally take lunch at the airy restaurant. Now I had eaten here for breakfast the past three days in a row, and totally enjoyed both the food and the ambiance. But it’s at lunch (and, I imagine, also at dinner, since the menu is the same) when things are elevated to the sublime.

The local fish cooked in Khmer spices wound up being perhaps the best thing I ate throughout my entire twelve-day adventure around Cambodia. And should I have the good fortune to return to Rattanakiri in the future, I wouldn’t be surprised if I wind up savoring most of my meals here.

I would have been quite content to spend the rest of my afternoon in the same manner as I had spent the morning. But, being the only patron at the restaurant, I struck up a quick friendship with my waiter, Arun, who told me he’d be off in an hour and wanted to know if I’d be interested to try some local street food.

That afternoon, Arun took me for banh chav, a Khmer specialty consisting of pork and baby shrimp—and, crucially, a mystery mixture of exotic spices—all ensconced within an eggy pancake, served with bean sprouts and fresh lettuce for wrapping. We also added a side order of fresh spring rolls, for good measure.

Now remember, I had eaten lunch just an hour before, so I wasn’t strictly hungry so soon. But this was an afternoon snack to remember! And make no mistake, my assessment is purely based on the food. The service was almost non-existent and the setting, on a dusty side street with motorbikes, cars and trucks kicking up dirt whenever they passed, hardly made for a pleasant dining environment. But, oh, that banh chav! I’d go back again and endure it all for another bite!

I met up with David in the airy lobby of Tree Tops—really an open wooden terrace looking across the lush ravine—and we drove back to Terres Rouges on his bike, since he was keen to also spend some time by the pool. There, he caught me on on the Saga of Shauna. Poor girl, she had arrived in Phnom Penh and made her way to the Vietnamese Embassy, only to see sign advising that it was closed for the week due to the Tet holiday! So she booked herself a hostel and would just have to wait it out for the rest of the week. 

As the two of us quaffed Angkor by the pool, late afternoon segued into early evening. And by the time full darkness had descended, I really had to tear myself away from it all to catch my next night bus to destination number three. I was a little jealous at the flexible nature of David's own schedule. Heck, with Shauna's visa issue now keeping her in Phnom Penh for at least five more days, he could really linger. But I had to be moving on. 

It was getting to be a running theme in Cambodia that I didn’t want to leave wherever it was I had been to make tracks. But leaving Phnom Penh brought me to Rattanakiri, a place I just fell in love with. So I knew that leaving Rattanakiri would bring me onwards to a new and exciting place I might come to adore just as much: Mondulkiri.

Cambodian transport isn’t exactly famous for its punctuality. The two-hour journey to Sen Monorom, the capital of the province, took something more akin to four hours. That meant I arrived at Nature Lodge, my accommodation of choice in this new location, after its front desk had shut for the night.

I looked around the reception area, but I couldn’t find a note or key left out for me. And when I called the contact number listed on my reservation, I could actually here the phone ringing a few feet away, so, of course, I knew there was nobody around to pick it up. For a moment, I considered just lying down next to the friendly cats on one of the benches in the lounge-cum-lobby-cum-restaurant-cum-bar area, or perhaps the inviting hammock swaying in the late night breeze.

But there had been a night watchman who opened the gate for me a few minutes earlier when my tuk tuk pulled up. And after a little sign language on my part, he seemed to understand the scenario. He made a quick phone call, grabbed a key and lead me to my cabin, where I settled in for the night.

Considering the place was called Nature Lodge—and consisted of thirty ramshackle wooden bungalows raised on stilts on a hill overlooking the town—I was seriously wowed by my cappuccino that next morning. In fact, I was a fan of the whole set up and would have liked to have spent some more time here. But with only two days in Sen Monorom, I also needed to make the most of my time.

So I enlisted the assistance of the amicable staff, who helped me to book a tuk tuk downtown. It would only have been around a twenty-minute walk, but, then again, it was only a two-dollar ride. So, I splurged.

The place almost feels like the Cambodian version of an Old West boomtown, something out a John Wayne flick where the barkeep removes the mirror from the wall as two quarrelling ruffians—with names like the Tex and Quick Draw—are about to plunge into an all-out brawl. There are bustling street markets, banks, money changers, bars, coffeeshops, and everything else you can imagine, all giving off the appearance of having been built up recently. And in a great hurry. 

In my opinion, the gem of downtown Sen Monorom is a little eatery called Bunong Kitchen. It’s the type of place I find so inviting that was incapable of walking past without popping in for a beer. My feet stopped moving when my eyes spotted it, and I had no choice but to enter.

The cutest little all-white puppy was frolicking around near the entryway. Two Israeli backpackers were also chilling out inside, having just arrived in the town. And a local boy named Nit struck up a conversation with me, and asked if he could pull up a chair. He was full of questions, and kept asking me what certain words meant, writing them down in a journal he keeps.

It turns out that Bunong Kitchen, run by an affable Connecticut native named Richard, is a sort of hub for the Bunong people, the most prominent local ethnic minority around Sen Monorom. Richard’s wife is Bunong, so he’s become a sort of unofficial liaison between them and the expat circle. Formerly an English teacher, he recently had the great idea to open a café where members of the minority community feel instantly comfortable mingling with the Western backpackers who increasingly pass through town as Sen Monorom earns a place on the Banana Pancake Trail, perfecting their language skills while offering visitors a direct insight into local culture. The end result is a little haven where both foreigners and members of the Bunong community feel perfectly welcome.

Richard and I had a long chat and really hit it off. What’s more, his café is home to not one but two friendly dogs, a mother and that newborn pup I had spied earlier, who relished a little attention. And, so, one beer turned into two, while I debated dining options.

Promising Richard I intended to return for dinner but wanted to take advantage of the weather to enjoy an al fresco midday meal, I asked his opinion of a Lonely Planet-recommended restaurant called Oromis.

“Oh, it’s lovely,” he told me. “A river runs through it and you can just plop down at any of the pavilions to enjoy your food. I definitely recommend it, but you’ll have to take a tuk tuk both ways, because it’s about three miles outside of town.”

The food at Oromis was simple—some tasty friend noodles with pork, carrots and greens—but the setting was truly divine. In fact, after cleaning my plate, there was no way I was ready to leave. I just wanted to linger. So I did.

It was already mid-afternoon, and the sun was hanging lower in the sky. I crossed the swinging wooden bridge that spans the gurgling river (more of a brook, really, but officially the Oromis River) and tried to make friends with a timid dog on the other side, who ran away when I motioned towards him. 

Though it felt like I was the only guest during my time here, there were lots of employees who, without any official duties to attend to, seemed to be relaxing in the afternoon shade, chatting with one another or napping. A strain of absolute tranquility seemed to take hold here.

And there were so many colors displayed by the various flowering plants and trees! Purples and pinks, white and oranges, blues and yellows, a veritable rainbow of vegetation. And the mountain air was clear and cool, and when I saw that there were also rooms for rent, I couldn’t help daydreaming about an unhurried future visit when I could just while several days away with a good book or two in this secret slice of paradise.

After my tuk tuk driver dropped me off back in the center of Sen Monorom, I took the time for a sunset stroll, up to the Buffalo Roundabout where the two major streets intersect, forming the de facto town square.

Of course, I made good on my promise to Richard to return to his establishment for dinner, where I had a lovely banana flower soup. As my friendly host explained to me, “Bunong people do not eat their soup like we do in the West, spooning the contents directly from the bowl into the mouth. Instead, they ladle the soup’s contents over steamed rice, allowing the various flavors and ingredients to soak in. Then, they eat the soup-infused rice, which is incredibly tasty.”

He was right. And he also served me multiple glasses of the perfect accompaniment, a homemade passionfruit soda, which as become a sort of signature of the restaurant throughout its brief existence, during which time it’s already garnered a mention on Lonely Planet’s website and worked its way to number one on TripAdvisor’s list of all Sen Monorom restaurants. Hit it up if you’re ever in town!

I opted to walk back to Nature Lodge afterwards, not for any lack of tuk tuks or unwillingness on my part to spend an extra buck or two. No, I decided to walk for one simple reason: because I’d have to journey back to town extremely early the next morning for our departure to the Elephant Valley Project, and on the off chance that I couldn’t get a tuk tuk at such an unholy hour, I wanted to be absolutely certain I knew the route on foot, in case I had no choice but to trudge along.

About twenty minutes later, as I strode through the airy lobby, I spied two familiar faces, Ingrid and Paul, the Belgian couple I had met in Rattanakiri two days earlier! It seems there’s a fairly common path through the eastern stretches of Cambodia, and these guys were only a day behind me! They quickly invited me to join them and another new friend, Marianna, from Italy, as we all chatted about our backgrounds and experiences in Cambodia.

I hinted at this earlier, but Ingrid and Paul are possibly the two most adventurous people I’ve ever encountered. It seems I couldn’t name a place that they hadn’t visited, be it in South America or Africa or Asia. They told me stories about a dim sum feast in Hong Kong with their then-young children, and how they once witnessed a salmon migration in Canada. Now in their sixties, these guys showed no signs of slowing down, and I hope I can keep up a similar level of energy and interest as I get older. And regale youngsters I meet on my future travels with tales of my youthful exploits, if I have the chance!

Like in Banlung, things seem to shut down early here. The front desk crew, who double as waitstaff and bartenders, informed us of last orders around ten and disappeared into the night. Of course, guests are free to sit up chatting as late as they want in the convivial space, but in terms of service, you’re on your own. And, before long, we all called it a night anyway, owing to our early starts the next day, though I did enjoy some reading time on the hammock on my bungalow's private porch before turning in. 

In the end, it wound up being fairly easy to procure a tuk tuk that following morning, so I was spared the rigors of the dawn walk. Yes, I was sipping an ice coffee at the Hefalump Café before seven, as our group gathered at the designated spot.

You may recall, as my Cambodia itinerary came into focus, that the Project was a major justification in my journeying up to this part of the country in the first place. Its reputation is so sterling, and the work they do so incredible, that I knew from pretty much the moment I read about it in Lonely Planet that I had to stop by.

Yes, the Elephant Valley Project (or EVP, for short) has almost single-handedly changed the way Southeast Asian nations promote encounters with these gentle giants. They have pioneered a format called “walking with the herd,” wherein visitors have no direct interaction with the creatures but rather observe them in their natural habitat. This means you get to witness behaviors you might not otherwise see, especially around animals who are accustomed to “performing” before humans.

The Project does all in its power to encourage mahouts to retire their working elephants to this sprawling sanctuary. They pay them a competitive wage based on what they would earn offering elephant rides or otherwise monetizing their pachyderm. Once here, the animals are free to live a life of luxury, foraging through the forest, wading through streams and spending the day with other fortunate pals.

We met four elephants that morning, including MaeNang, the oldest of the bunch. Watching this quartet just being themselves was something extraordinary to view. I’ve seen elephants in Thailand and Cambodia on previous trips. Heck, Heidi and I even rode one back in 2016 at Angkor, though I’m sure I wouldn’t make that same decision today. But that morning spent with the noble beasts at the Elephant Valley Project was a very special encounter, and I’ll remember it for a long while.

Most other guests in my group were participating in a full day retreat—and a few were even staying overnight as part of a multi-day affair—while I only did what is called the Quick Visit, touted on the website as “No added extras, just elephants and the beautiful forest.” So I had returned to the Hefalump Café in time for lunch. But, oh, what a morning! 

Since my bus back to Phnom Penh wasn’t leaving until late at night, I still had a lot of time left to see more of the area. But first up, I wanted to eat. Turning to my trustworthy Lonely Planet, I opted to venture to the Coffee Plantation Restaurant, set—as you would imagine from its name—on the grounds of a rambling farm.

I ordered a second banh chav after having fallen in love with the dish in Banlung, and this version was almost (but not quite) as delicious as that first one, except that the view here over the lake made for much a more attractive ambiance than a dusty street side. Trade off!

After walking back to town, I plopped down at Bamboo Café, which I had strolled past on multiple occasions over the past thirty-six hours and hoped to find the time to drop in. And while there, I struck up a conversation with several of the other customers, including a chain-smoking Australian expat named Mike, who divides his year between Perth and Mondulkiri… what are the chances?

Having covered a load of topics over multiple hours and beers, I eventually mentioned to Mike that I was disappointed I hadn’t had a chance to explore more of the natural beauty of the province, sad that my bus would be leaving in a few short hours, and I have no idea if and when I’ll ever make it back.

“Hang on a minute,” he said. “Let me call my girlfriend Pauline and see if she can swing by in our tuk tuk to show you around! I bought her the damn thing so she could earn a little money. Let’s put her tour guide skills to the test!”

Shortly thereafter, Pauline pulled up outside and took me on an impromptu sunset gallivant around Sen Monorom and its environs. We scaled a small hillock with a splendid view over the low and sprawling town, and she drove me past some of the small lakes which have earned the place the somewhat dubious moniker of “The Switzerland of Cambodia.”

We also paused at a photogenic little evening carnival before she drove me all the way back to Nature Lodge so I could pick up my bags and bid adieu to the folks there. Of course, Ingrid, Paul and Marianna were all together chatting in the lounge when I showed up, so I spent some time with them, too. (And even grabbed a last beer.)

And naturally, I couldn’t leave town without saying goodbye to Richard back at Bunong Kitchen. Most fortuitously, his café is only steps away from the depot where my ride would be departing in an hour’s time. “You can even see the bus turn down the street from here,” he told me, “so you really can stay until the last possible moment.” I did.

While this night bus was possibly even more comfortable that that first one—and it was certainly newer—my mattress mate wasn’t nearly as friendly, and I wound up sleeping for most of the journey back to Phnom Penh. When we arrived, it was pouring rain, but I quickly found a tuk tuk driver to deliver me straight to the train station, minimizing the soaking. Once inside, since I already had my ticket, I just had to wait it out for a mere hour and a half until the departure of the train to Kampot.

I snagged a forward-facing window seat and was stunned as we chugged out of Phnom Penh through one the most trash-filled corridors imaginable. With literal mounds of garbage in the foreground, shantytowns behind them, and, in the far distance, a gleaming temple standing over it all, it was quite a surreal experience. The juxtapositions of Cambodia.

At the interim station of Takeo, quite a few people disembarked, while others took a quick breather in the fresh air, bought some fruit from touts or puffed away on a cigarette. When everybody had re-boarded and the train started chugging along again, an outgoing lady with an American access asked a couple on the other side of the aisle, “Do you know if Kampot is the next station? I don’t want to miss my stop!”

“It’s supposed to be,” I took it upon myself to butt in at this point. “I’m also getting off there, so I’ll make sure to let you know when we’ve arrived.” 

That was how Rebecca and I kicked off our friendship.

For the rest of the ride, we just chatted away and became fast buddies. While she regaled me with the tales of her trip up to this point—which had seen her travelling with friends all throughout Thailand and then crossing into Cambodia to explore Angkor and Phnom Penh—I filled her in on the particulars of my own situation.

It quickly became clear that our personalities and circumstances meshed very nicely, similar in some ways and divergent in others, all the perfect match. The main difference was that while I was on a quick trip and had to make the most of every moment, Rebecca was on a leisurely romp for six weeks, and thus had a more flexible itinerary. Apart from that fairly important distinction, we share most personality traits. We are both outgoing, adventurous and motivated; we are both blessed with a positive attitude; and we are both Southeast Asia enthusiasts who are passionate about this charming corner of the globe.

“You seem like you’ve really done your homework on this place,” Rebecca observed as we neared Kampot and I told her about the pepper plantations and Bokor Hill Station, the attractions I was most excited to explore there. “I’ve done next to no research. I was just planning to arrive and see what I found.”

And, so, we hatched a plot. Since we were both flying solo, why not explore Kampot as a dynamic duo over the next couple of days? With Rebecca keen to link up with somebody who had a plan, and me thrilled at the prospect of such a delightful travel companion, we decided to stick together after our train pulled into the station somewhat earlier than expected! 

The weather was far from promising, but, as I stepped off that train, something just told me I was going to love this place. After walking to the main road and haggling with a tuk tuk driver, Rebecca and I were soon en route to our respective accommodations. She was staying in a place called the Golden Sponge, while I had chosen the newly-opened Hotel Old Cinema, like Terres Rouges, a spot where I promptly reserved a room pretty much the moment I learned of its existence, thanks to a mention on that New York Times list I cited earlier.

As we cruised along the drizzly streets towards our destinations, Kampot’s charms first came into sight. Lonely Planet intoned, it’s “as if someone pressed the snooze button a few years back and the whole town forgot to wake up.” Spot on. 

Dilapidated old buildings crying out for restoration… Once-glorious colonials slowly succumbing to decades of neglect and humidity… Bygone relics of a golden age… You find them by the score here. And they all seem to have tales to tell.

Until 2016, a shuttered movie theater on Street 700 was just another of these crumbling treasures. But after a prolonged and meticulous multi-year refurbishment, a Technicolor façade now glistens, undoubtedly overjoyed at the wild success of its much-needed facelift. Someone, go grab Mr. DeMille… The Hotel Old Cinema is ready for its close-up. 

I was truly transported into a bygone age as I crossed the threshold to check in, Rebecca zooming off in the tuk tuk after we made plans to link up again once we'd both had a chance to get settled. And then I was able to appraise my new surroundings.

Bedecked in dazzling, contrasting shades of canary and teal—and, as I would later learn, swathed in glorious floodlights by night—the hotel evokes all the romance of an adventure abroad in the glamour days of yesteryear. I didn't need much imagination to convince myself the past lives on here; Pauline and Bas—the charismatic French-Dutch duo whose talent and sweat are the driving forces behind this six-month-old bijou—had already done everything for me.

Yes, if ever a hotel was deserving of the label “boutique,” the Hotel Old Cinema is it. There are only eight rooms in this tiny charmer. But the hosts told me two more are currently nearing completion, which will soon bring the tally to ten. Still, if you’re headed to Kampot any time soon, my advice would be to book as early as possible to ensure you snag one. It’s a safe bet that, before long, sightseers from far and wide will be clamoring to get in, especially after that New York Times shout out.

Any conversation with either of the two proprietors will inevitably drift towards the hotel's painstaking renovation, an epic labor of love that witnessed the theater’s transformation from derelict to divine. The shoot may have been arduous, but the final cut is nothing short of showstopping.

Pauline and Bas have combined their skills to create a masterpiece, pouring an astonishing amount of thought and energy into the project. The attention to detail is exquisite, from the striking floor tiles (made to order at a studio in Siem Reap) to the stylized art deco room numbers (painted on each door by Pauline herself). There are stories hiding within every alcove, and the hosts are delighted to share them with their guests.

And then there’s a little scene-stealer named Marcel, the Old Cinema’s resident house cat. If you’re not careful, I was warned, the affable little imp might even try to sneak into your room. Otherwise, he’s usually to be found lounging somewhere near the front desk, always happy to be the object of your affection.

And if you’ve come to Cambodia on the hunt for fading vestiges of French-Indochina, you’ll likely give up the search upon eyeing the impossibly elegant restaurant-bar that’s at the heart of the Old Cinema’s lobby. Wherever you look, you’re surrounded by an undeniable, omnipresent magic. To one side, a greenery-studded courtyard where ambient light spills effortlessly downwards, bathing the airy interiors in a soft glow; to the other, an attractive swimming pool that appears all the more inviting when it catches the morning sun.

Bas checked me in, but as my room wasn’t ready, I relished the opportunity to plop down at that bar, the perfect setting to quaff a local brew while I awaited news from Rebecca. And chat further with the charming hosts. 

Pauline and Bas are obviously seasoned travelers themselves, with a litany of trips in their wake that has provided ample opportunity to study what’s worked—and what hasn’t—in other hotels. These guys have learned that it’s the little things that make the difference. And while I sipped, they filled me in on some of the charming touches of which they were noticeably proud.

For starters, breakfast—included in the rate—is served until 2pm, so you’ll never risk sleeping so late you’ve missed it. (Well, unless you're Shauna and David, that is.) They’ll also fill up reusable bottles with potable water whenever needed. And once you've removed the key from the wall upon leaving your room, the electricity automatically shuts off except for the power sockets. So you can leave a phone or laptop charging while you’re down in the lounge or out exploring the town.

While I was soaking it all in, I received a message from Rebecca asking if I wanted to make my way to her guest house—not her hostel, as she had mistakenly referred to the place in front of its owner, who promptly, and forcefully, corrected her—for lunch, as she had been told it’s famous for its bargain Indian curries. Learning from Bas it was only a ten-minute walk, I finished my beer and headed straight over.

The portions at the Golden Sponge were absolutely massive, and the food was very tasty, to boot. We made friends with a somewhat shy and quiet British backpacker named Jamie, with whom we shared a table, and as we sipped cheap beer and feasted on spicy delights, that inkling I had identified stepping off the train—that I was going to love my short Kampot interlude—started to crescendo. It was all but certain now.  

The city first appeared on my travel radar when I was in Siem Reap in 2016 and had a cocktail one night incorporating Kampot pepper. I don’t think I’d heard of the place before—and if I had, it certainly didn’t make any significant impression—but one taste of that magical concoction, and I wanted to learn more.

It seems that Kampot peppercorns are world famous, at least in culinary circles, and a visit to one of the nearly five hundred pepper farms that surround the town is de rigueur for any out-of-towner. Back at the Old Cinema, Bas recommended an organic plantation called Sothy's Pepper Farm that offered free tours and tastings, and he then helped us arrange a driver to take us there.

After the tour, of course, both Rebecca and I loaded up on the goods in the gift shop. I know what you’re thinking: you don’t cook or ever even eat at home, so why on earth would you need expensive pepper? Truth be told, I bought it to send back to my dad in New Jersey, and I fully expect the master chef to dazzle me with new recipes incorporating the stuff on my next trip.

Well, where there is pepper, there ought to be salt, right? Of course, our driver found the time to squeeze in a quick stop at a salt farm as we cruised back to the hotel, where a supplemental video explained how this second flavorful product is harvested nearby and sent all across the country. There was even a tasting, not quite as entertaining as chewing on spicy peppercorns in the idyllic orchard-like setting of Sothy's, but interesting nonetheless.

Earlier, I had noticed that the dessert section of the Old Cinema’s bar menu included locally-made Kampot pepper chocolate ice cream. And, so, before Rebecca and I returned to our respective rooms to freshen up before dinner, I convinced her to indulge with me, a scoop each by the charming pool.

The ice cream had totally sealed the deal. By now, I knew my instinct had been correct. I was already in love with this new destination. 

And I was especially thrilled to be back in something that at least resembled a city, after almost a week in the provincial villages of Banlung and Sen Monorom. True, Kampot is fairly small as metropolises go, with a population of around fifty thousand. But Banlung has less than twenty thousand inhabitants and Sen Monorom has fewer than ten thousand! So it felt like I’d returned to Cosmopolitan Land here, complete with swanky restaurants, cocktail bars, properly illuminated streets and a vibrant expat population.

Bas recommended a top pick each for food and drinks, and Rebecca and I heeded his advice. He steered us to Portuguese-owned Tertula for dinner, where we took our seats on the covered colonnade, as Friday evening activity buzzed around us on the streets.

One of the owners, Miguel, attentively walked us through the menu offering suggestions, and I wound up with two sensational options: braised tuna in a Kampot pepper crust and tuna tartare mixed with wasabi Chantilly and Southeast Asian spices. Ordinarily, I would have diversified my portfolio a bit, declining to double up on tuna dishes. But helpful Miguel assured me that the preparation and tastes of these two plates were so wholly different that you’d almost refuse to believe they stemmed from the same fish.

He was right. And as I’ve observed before, when main courses so impress me, I won’t even contemplate skipping out on dessert. This attitude has served me well in the past, and it proved again why it’s a solid philosophy at Tertula. Think filo pastry filled with a sweetened egg yolk custard and decadent chocolate mousse with peanut nougat.

Coincidentally, the watering hole Bas recommended for postprandial libations happened to be just next door, so in we went to Voodoo Boulevard, where the bartender asked us a bit about our preferred spirits and flavors before improvising a pair of cocktails that knocked both of our socks off. Striking up conversations with the talkative French patrons who filled the place, Rebecca and I had a memorable nightcap indeed.

My room at the Old Cinema was exceedingly comfortable, and after having slept in a wooden bungalow those two nights in Sen Monorom and then on a bus to Phnom Penh the night before, you better believe I relished every moment I spent in the comfortable bed.

But I didn’t sleep too late that next morning, because it was to be my only full day in Kampot, since I’d have to be heading north, back to Phnom Penh, the next afternoon. Apart from the pepper plantations and the generally languid air that was said to infuse the town with an addictive riverine charm, the other main draw this place held for me was its proximity to Bokor Hill Station, a sight I was just itching to see.

Pauline and Baz had advised a morning visit to increase the chances of clear visibility from the summit, which they said was more likely the earlier in the day you arrived. And so, Rebecca and I agreed on an 8:30am start. What’s more, we had planned to make a full day of it, with the idea of continuing on to Kep for a seaside lunch after we’d had our fill of the mountain, before enjoying a sunset cruise back to Kampot.

It was just nearing nine o’clock as our tuk tuk whizzed through the imposingly impressive gate that grants entry to Preah Monivong Bokor National Park, a government-protected area some five hundred and fifty square miles in size, chock full of stunning natural scenery peppered with the tattered remnants of both colonial and Khmer grandeur.

There’s the so-called Black Palace, an eerily abandoned summer villa of King Sihanouk, built in 1936 but deserted decades ago, and hiding few hints that it was once the dwelling of a monarch. You really need some imagination to picture it.

Presumably lavish in its former incarnation, but now lacking windowpanes and floor tiles, with rusting wrought iron railings swathed in vines—and surprisingly attractive graffiti adorning its mildewed walls, both inside and out—this was our introduction to the assortment of atmospheric ruins decaying in suitably photogenic fashion atop Bokor Mountain.

A quick stop at a currently-dry waterfall, which will rage again in the coming rainy season, gave us an opportunity to see a bit more of the natural side of the area, as I stood on the precarious precipice looking down over the vast abyss below.

But I think it was next two sites that most impressed me.

First up was Wat Sampov Pram, oozing oodles of character, perched at the very edge of a cliff with a stunning view to the sea. I was so grateful we had listened to Pauline and Baz’s advice, because it now proved very sound. Indeed, the panorama on display before our eyes was simply stunning. Considering some people get nothing but clouds, I felt very lucky.

Dating to 1924, the temple complex was among the most intricate and moody shrines I had the chance to discover during this trip, with elaborately detailed embellishments gracing every eave, and hidden side stupas secluded among thickets of overgrown brush.

And—as is so often the case with a sacred site, irrespective of the particular religion associated with it—an undeniably spiritual ambiance was perceptible throughout. We had largely beaten the crowds, too, though a small trickle of guests started arriving during our exploration up there. Still, it couldn’t dim the ineffable appeal of this old stunner.

Switching from Buddhism to Christianity, our next stop was a crumbling Catholic church, built for the French colonials who flocked to Bokor back in the 1920s and 30s to escape the stifling heat that plagued Phnom Penh.

Its walls are mostly bare now, weeds sprout from cracks in the masonry, the stained glass has all but vanished, and there isn’t a front door these days to keep out the elements. But it was easy to close my eyes and envision the place filled with faithful colonial bigwigs, worshipping far from home on a Sunday morning during the height of French Indochina.

And, hearteningly, there were signs that the church’s spiritual life is not completely dormant. An unknown visitor had positioned an artificial Christmas tree near the empty altar. And, although there was some graffiti, there were also pots of flowers and holy statuary that appeared well-tended, as if members of the local religious community pop in with some degree of constancy to ensure the place does not completely fall into rack and ruin.

Back outside, we hiked up the small headland behind the church, looking down on this modest but dignified edifice that has stood proud for nearly a century, witness to the tumultuous history that has played out before its very eyes. Its silent stones have watched as the verdant slopes of Bokor, once the domain of French dignitaries, were abandoned in the 1940s only for the area to regain popularity a generation later with the establishment of local casinos and hotels, to be forsaken yet again in 1972, when the Khmer Rouge took and held control of it until the 1990s, when it remained one of their last strongholds before finally losing power.

I had known all along that Bokor was going to be a highlight of my trip. But it really came together for me as I stood with Rebecca atop that crested peak looking down upon the church, as the stories that had played out here all crystallized in an instant.

Our last visit of the morning was to the recently re-opened Bokor Palace Hotel, a 1925 landmark whose newfound impeccability couldn’t have been more of a surprise. You see, my Lonely Planet had still noted the place was abandoned and appropriately spooky for visitors. “As you wander through the building,” it warns, “you’ll need your imagination to envisage the lavish interiors that adorned the opulent ballroom and guestrooms as today the hotel is a vast, empty shell with just scraps of original floor tilework still hanging on.”

Well, as fun as that would have been, it became clear in an instant that things had obviously changed since the guidebook’s publication in August 2018, only eighteen months ago. Yes, in that short stretch, an immaculate renaissance has taken place, and the Bokor Palace is now once again fit to receive guests. Imagination is no longer a requirement to "envision the lavish interiors." A pair of eyes will do. 

We met two Canadian sisters in the lobby, who had stayed for a few nights and were preparing to check out. “It’s like The Shining,” they told us. “We were literally the only people in the place except for the staff. And when all but the night man departed around eleven, we were completely on our own. But it’s sheer luxury.”

I have a feeling a return visit to Kampot might see me snagging a room for a night or two. But on this occasion, we didn’t linger long. After considering—but ultimately deciding against—stopping for a quick drink at the bar, we were once again winding along the snaking roads that delivered us back down towards the entry to the park, our exploration of Bokor Hill Station complete.   

Kep ho!

It was about a fifty-minute journey to the sea, but it was well worth the drive. Rebecca was actually planning to head to Kep the following afternoon anyway, to take part in a weeklong yoga retreat, but this was to be my sole chance to pay a visit. My easygoing travel buddy assured me she didn’t mind visiting twice, which sealed the deal.

This breezy seaside town—not much more than a market, a few beaches and a disparate assemblage of modernist mid-century villas—was established as a maritime getaway for the elites of the colonial set all the way back in 1908. According to Frommer, it was once a veritable Cambodian Riviera, the Khmer peer of Antibes or Juan-les-Pins, before all that tragedy of the 1970s and beyond. Only a few vestiges of that more glamorous past survive today. 

Now, it’s exceedingly sleepy, but it really shines in terms of its cuisine. You see, the waters off Kep are known to shelter some of the best crab in Asia, and—as has already been established—neighboring Kampot produces perhaps the finest pepper on earth. Well, you don’t have to be a genius to work it out… And I think Frommer summed it up best: “Like the work of a culinary Lennon and McCartney, this geographical accident results in the serving of sublime seafood all along the waterfront. People travel far to sample the Kep crab in Kampot pepper at the source. Once you have tried it you will know why.”

Let’s just say, after our lunch at Holy Crab, Rebecca and I knew exactly why. In addition to the signature fried crab in pepper sauce, we also ordered oversized fresh spring rolls generously studded with hearty chunks of lump crab meat, clearly visible through the translucent rice paper. Accompanied alongside a tangy peanut chili dip, these puppies were pure delight.

We also complemented the star dish with battered squid served with a rich homemade mayonnaise. Six perfectly prepared skewered cephalopods, with the crunchiest imaginable coating while the inside remained soft and juicy.

But, as I’m sure I don’t have to tell you, the real standout was undoubtedly that piquant crustacean with its divine dressing. They could have served that sauce as a soup and I would have lapped it all up gleefully and licked the bowl. In fact, after we had eaten all the crab meat, I mobilized the remaining squid to minimize waste, sopping up all the peppery-eggy-oniony goodness that was left on that plate that I could! There was no way I could let it be squandered.  

In the one small disappointment of the day, we arrived at the Kampot Cruiser—the sunset boat meant to lull us back to town beneath the cover of kaleidoscopic skies—only to learn it was experiencing engine trouble that day and would not be able to fulfil its obligation. We compensated by returning to the chaotic Crab Market for supplementary wandering, where we also stocked up on coffee and beer for the tuk tuk ride to our respective hotels.

Rebecca felt pangs of fatigue and thought a nice nap ought to be in the cards. There may have been a few pangs I experienced myself, but, if so, they were pangs of a different variety: thirst. So when our tuk tuk deposited us back in the center of town, we temporarily went our separate ways. 

While Rebecca headed off to the Golden Sponge for a snooze, I took a meandering stroll under the photogenic late afternoon light, headed towards a bar called the Fish Market, said to be the best spot in Kampot for a sundowner.

The space—yes, it was once a fish market, before serving several other functions throughout the building’s long history—had apparently fallen into disrepair but has recently been transmuted into a spiffy drinking and dining venue with an enviable position jutting out into the Kampong Bay River. And I snagged a prime spot to quench that thirst.

To boot, it was happy hour, meaning pints of Angkor draft cost a whopping $1.25! So I settled in, as the evening boat traffic plied its way back and forth across the scene, and a gorgeous sun descended behind it all. Yes, a leisurely cruise would have been a nice way to soak it all in. But this was a pretty perfect alternative. And so I indulged in a second beer to celebrate.

After darkness had thoroughly settled in, I noticed tiny little winged creatures fluttering about in the air. Not one or two, mind you, but hundreds. Someone remarked they were birds, and they certainly flew with a bird's grace. But, owing to the hour of their flight, I couldn't help wondering if they might be bats. I never found out for sure, but I was certainly intrigued watching the spectacle.

Rebecca suggested that, after that whale of a lunch we had indulged in earlier, we forego a proper restaurant dinner in favor of live music at her guest house, where we could also order some snacks if we chose. 

So I met her back there, in the large garden fronting the building, where an American musician named Greg Beshers played original songs, which he accompanied on his guitar. At one point, he coaxed a fellow singer, this one a Brit, out of the audience to regale us with a few tunes. And it was a fun way to spend my final evening in this utterly charming town.

Post-concert, friendly Greg took me around with some new friends to a watering hole called the Rusty Nail II, where I encountered the true night owls of Kampot, before we ultimately called it a day.

Sadly, I awoke the next morning to the stark reality that, now Sunday, it was my last full day of vacation. But I knew a way to console myself. At the Fish Market the previous evening, I had spotted an item on the cocktail list called a Kampot Pepper Bloody Mary. You can bet I asked about their opening hour before departing for the Magic Sponge, and, after breakfast at the Old Cinema, I headed right over to the waterfront for a morning pick-me-up.

There was also one last attraction I wanted to check off my to do list: the Kampot Provincial Museum. Pint-sized but lovely, the museum is housed in the former governor’s residence, a handsome old French colonial mansion on the river that has been loving restored to showcase a few small exhibition rooms.

But more than the artifacts on display on the ground floor, I think my favorite part of the museum was ascending to the empty upper level, which lets visitors appreciate simple features like window shutters, light fixtures, balustrades and floor tiles, all of which radiate the gracefulness and impeccable taste of whomever was responsible for the interior design of the place. Ernst Lubitsch could have fashioned a marvelous romantic comedy within these rooms, an alluring clotheshorse like Kay Francis seducing Herbert Marshall with some chic little frock by Travis Banton and a string of pearls.    

                       

I kept visualizing a 1920s soiree being hosted here by Monsieur le Gouverneur, complete with an elegant orchestra playing the tunes of Cole Porter and George Gershwin on the outdoor patio, champagne corks popping in the moonlight while elegant expatriates made grand entrances before proceeding to dance the night away. It was all so palpable that I could almost eavesdrop on the diplomats indiscreetly spilling consular secrets over a few too many bubbles as furtive couples snuck upstairs to steal some alone time in the more private second floor.

Alas, 2020 came a-knocking with the impending arrival of my eleven o’clock check out time, so I had to tear myself from the illusion and retrace my steps back to the hotel. Rebecca met me in the lobby as I settled by tab with Baz and handed over my backpack for safekeeping, so we could try our best to make the most of the three hours remaining before the departure of my bus to Phnom Penh.

We filled those hours with a little shopping, an ice cream pit stop, and a stellar lunch at Twenty Three Bistro. And I mean stellar. Seared snapper in Kampot red pepper cream and fillet of seabass with cauliflower puree and caper brown butter sauce. And delectable bread. And local microbrews. Plus friendly service and a charming outdoor patio. Coupled with our dinner two nights earlier at Tertula—the only other truly proper meal I savored in Kampot—it was enough to blow my mind that a tiny town of a mere fifty thousand inhabitants had multiple restaurants that could hold their own in any cosmopolitan world capital.

But perhaps even more difficult to believe was that Rebecca and I had only first met forty-eight hours earlier yet by this point felt like we were pals for life. Yes, we had instantly connected on that train ride and enjoyed so many wonderful shared moments these past days. So as we said our goodbyes, I promised her that she and her family always have a place to stay in Hong Kong—and a dedicated tour guide to show them around—while she assured me the same was true when I made my way to Kentucky, perhaps, some day, for the Derby! I’ve made lots of friends through lots of travel, but I don’t know that I’ve ever bonded quite so quickly with someone as I did with Rebecca. And I hope we remain friends for a long time.

As I reclined in my window seat on that bus as it waited to depart for the capital, I pulled out my book, content to finally give it some love. But fate had other plans in store. For just beside me in the aisle seat was David, a Floridian who had come to Cambodia, where he had lived a decade ago, on the hunt for a potential bride. I’m not kidding. He had fallen in love with the country—and its women—so deeply during his time in residence there, that he decided to return on vacation to look for wife material. “A good excuse to move back for good,” he said.

Well, I don’t think a four-and-a-half-hour bus ride has ever dissipated in so engaging a conversation. But, before I knew it, we were in Phnom Penh and I was seated at the Elephant Bar ready to savor the little time I had left in the most opulent of settings fathomable.

Since my last visit, work had progressed on the ongoing renovation at Le Royal, with incoming visitors temporarily diverted directly into the fabled watering hole via its exterior side door while the grand front entrance of the hotel was now sheathed in scaffolds. The upside? I didn’t have to wait long at all for a thirst quencher, since a welcome drink was offered to me immediately upon my arrival in the historic setting.

After downing the (non-alcoholic yet still delectable) concoction, I was escorted to my room overlooking one of the pools. It was luxe all the way. I've popped into the Raffles in Singapore for several visits to their storied Long Bar. And Heidi and I had also grabbed a round of drinks at the Elephant Bar at the Raffles in Siem Reap. Even the hotel where I normally stay in Beijing, now called the Nuo, was formerly a Raffles. Yet this was the first time I'd actually be spending the night in one of the toniest hotel brands on earth. My room was so comfortable with its extravagant amenities, so airy with its comically high ceiling, so inviting with its combination of a stocked mini-fridge and spacious balcony, that I was almost tempted to linger. 

But before long, I was back at the Elephant Bar again, for a dose of something more potent. It was happy hour, after all. And, oh, what a spot to unwind over an amazing cocktail or four!

I had a Gibson to start, naturally, then something called a Kampot Pepper (with gin, fresh pepper, celery bitters, cucumber and lime), then a Phnom Neang Korng Rey Gin and Tonic (of which the bar is very proud, as this creation took top prize at a 2015 gin jubilee), and finally another Gibson. I also squeezed in an order of lobster amok, a ritzy riff on one of Khmer cuisine's stalwarts. (It wound up being the only amok I consumed during this trip.)

And the bartenders! They talked me through each drink, let me taste special spirits, and asked me all sorts of questions about the time I’d spent in their country. The staff throughout the entire hotel were helpful and courteous to a fault, but the team in charge of the Elephant Bar was so incredibly friendly that I almost felt like I was spending an evening with old pals, until the bill arrived. (I charged it to the room, of course, and snagged a coaster as a souvenir.)

Four sheets to the wind, I indulged in a nocturnal dip in the illuminated pool before retiring to my ever-so-elegant quarters, where I flung open the French doors and switched on the whirring ceiling fan, which lulled me to sleep in a reverie of gin and nostalgia.

That next morning, I discovered more of the small, fairy-tale touches that abound at Le Royal: the immaculately uniformed doormen; the antique armoires that occupy hallway niches; the Khmer musician who serenades sunbathers with his traditional wooden xylophone from a shaded colonnade discretely tucked between the two pools. 

While I was at breakfast, the resident shoeshine boy even approached to offer a complimentary spruce up. Yes, it's that type of place, where you can fall into an endless cycle, drifting from room to restaurant to pool to bar—and back again.

As I had learned already, Phnom Penh is an intoxicating city, with museums, temples, intriguing architecture and historic sights all deserving attention. I was glad I had taken care of all of that already, and I would caution any future visitors to stay here at your own risk: you may wind up spending all your hours on the premises, for Le Royal is the kind of hotel that erases all motivation in its guests to travel any further than the front door. You’ve been warned!

I did have one compelling reason to venture further afield that day: to procure a suit. You see, as I’ve already pointed out, I was segueing straight into a work trip in a few hours’ time, and I had decided against bringing one of my own with me from Hong Kong. It seemed silly to drag an extra bundle around on the sundry stops I had squeezed into this whirlwind itinerary. Why not—I had reasoned while packing—just put some time aside on my final day to purchase new, ready-to-wear attire in the capital? It couldn’t be very expensive in a city like Phnom Penh.

Ironically, the moment I stepped onto the sidewalk that morning, the strap on my flip flop decided to break. Not in the wilds of eastern Cambodia, mind you, seeking out waterfalls or trekking through the jungle with elephants, or down south, hiking atop a remote mountain hill station. But simply walking down a level, well-paved city street.

A quick return to my room. On with the dress shoes, the only other pair I had brought. Plus a pair of jeans so the new footwear wouldn’t look silly, as it certainly would coupled with the shorts I had originally donned.

Next, back to that gorgeous Central Market, within an easy walk of my hotel, where I snatched a three-dollar pair of sandals and did a little window shopping. There was a boutique a few stalls away selling suits of endless diversity, and I tried one on, which fit like a glove. 

After settling on the price, I told the friendly salesgirl I’d return later to pick it up. Another trip to the ATM would be necessary, so I wanted to be sure to withdraw adequate funds to see me through the day, without going overboard. Thus, I needed to be sure exactly how much cash I’d require.

Anyway, the suits look great and they were a steal of a bargain. Suits? They? Yes, you read it right: I wound up with two. There was a purple number that I just fell in love with, though it was far from work appropriate. Still, I knew I’d regret not buying it, especially at those prices, so I snapped it up, perhaps for use at an upcoming wedding. Accordingly, in addition to the blander grey job I selected to see me through those business meetings, I also added a more attention-grabbing garment to my wardrobe.  

I celebrated by picking up the Cambodia Starbucks mug at a nearby mall, and then celebrated further with a final tuk tuk ride back to the Raffles, even though I could have certainly walked it. I wanted to treat myself, and rid my wallet of a few thousand remaining riels, the local currency that is jointly accepted alongside ubiquitous US dollars. Of course, any of the latter left over upon my departure could easily be put to use elsewhere. But the riel isn’t exactly among the world’s most convertible currencies.

As I probably don’t need to tell you, I spent my final moments back at the Elephant Bar, setting aside just enough time for one last tipple. Thumbing through the extensive ginventory—as the menu dubs its gin selection—I spied a house-infused Kampot pepper variation I just had to try. Consequently, a spicy gin and tonic served as my farewell to the delightful hotel and to the entertainment portion of the trip.

It was all work-related from here on out. But, after quite a bit of practice, I have a honed a skill for finding ways to inject some jollity into even the most important official duties. And the two stellar locations awaiting my arrival, Saigon and Jakarta, make such endeavors effortless.

Saigon—officially called Ho Chi Minh City but almost universally referred to be its former name—is a picture of loveliness: French colonial architecture, beautiful people, incredible food and wonderful hotels. In fact, I stayed in the oldest lodging in the country that week, the Continental. (You can’t follow up Hotel Le Royal with just any old flophouse.)

I also had the good fortune of invaluable cohorts. My company director Dan and his wife Nicole were joining for the Vietnam portion of the trip, while an insurer representative named Winnie, whom I know very well from Hong Kong, was tagging along to both cities.

In fact, I met Dan and Nicole at Saigon Saigon, a great rooftop bar atop the nearby Caravelle Hotel, almost immediately upon my arrival. And after a round of drinks, I brought them back to Rice Field, the fantastic restaurant Hayley had introduced me to on last year’s trip to the city. It was so nice to be back in this hyper-charged metropolis.

Before moving on, I even found the time to meet up with Hayley, who again happened to be in town during my stint. She took me for a fabulous dinner of Vietnamese tapas overlooking the city, before we capped off our night with a few beers on the patio in front of the atmospheric Continental, looking across to Saigon's famed opera house.

Jakarta was also a delight, as always, in spite of its horrendous traffic. On the hotel front, I opted to return to the marble-clad halls of the Hermitage in Menteng, which impressed Winnie with its air of bygone glamour and rooftop swimming pool. It’s a bit out of the way, but since Jakarta is decidedly not a walking city and you have to take a taxi pretty much anywhere, it doesn’t exactly pay to book a place that may appear closer to your meeting location. With unpredictable road conditions, you wind up setting off hours early anyway. And, so, I decided to re-visit the colonial stunner that had so wowed me on my inaugural visit to this city back in 2016.

Another pleasure of any trip here is the hearty local cuisine, which has got to be among the best anywhere. It always strikes me as odd that it’s less popular in the States than its Southeast Asian neighbors like Malaysia, Thailand or even Vietnam, because in my book, many Indonesian specialties are among my all-time top dishes.

Our first night, we visited Lara Djonggrang, a bric-a-brac filled series of dining rooms that showcases the countries flavors in a most delicious light. I was very impressed that, in spite of the fact that we made our reservation only fifteen minutes before we arrived, the staff still managed to paint my name on a leaf, which was waiting to greet Winnie and me as the maître d’ showed us to our table. It’s that kind of place, where the attention to detail is exquisite.

Hands down, my favorite regional dish is gado gado, a simple salad with the most addictive peanut dressing imaginable, and the version here was spot on. And, among a bevvy of other tasty plates, I can assure you that both Winnie and I waddled out of there a few pounds heavier than we had entered. But it was undoubtedly worth it.

And you can bet I made sure I took Winnie to Kota Tua—with its impressive traces of the colonial Dutch town—for a scrumptious breakfast at Café Batavia on the main square the next morning. I think I can safely say that I’ve never dined at a restaurant with more celebrity photographs lining its walls. It’s like Sardi’s on crack. And, whether it’s for breakfast, lunch or dinner, or even a quick snack, or just a drink, I can’t imagine I’ll ever pay a visit to Jakarta without a stop here.  

On Friday evening, after a successful meeting, Winnie and I wound up at the National Golf Club with one of the senior insurance directors of the local office, savoring a bottle of wine alongside Jakarta's glitterati. It was a fitting end to a fruitful work week. And by the time I was aboard my Cathay jet ready to whisk me back to Hong Kong on Saturday afternoon, I couldn’t stop smiling at the improbably perfection of the past fortnight.

I’ve often pointed out that my Chinese New Year trips have provided me with some of the greatest travel memories of my adult life. And I can safely say that the 2020 installment was a worthy successor to all those that had come before. I can’t recall ever having made so many new pals over the course of a single vacation. From engrossing conversations with Luci and Irene, to spontaneous adventures with Shauna and David, to spellbinding storytelling from Ingrid and Paul, and a combination of all of this with Rebecca, I felt like I returned to Hong Kong richer in both memories and friendships. And I plan to stay in touch with these guys for a long while.

Happy Year of the Rat, everybody! I hope it’s gotten off to a running start for you, as well, and may it bring us all good health, happiness and prosperity!