Romancing the locals

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Things started in the right foot in Kampot when I alighted from the bus, collected my bag, and hired a moto driver to driver me to my chosen hotel.... all of 200 feet away. Of course I should by now be used to the wiley ways of moto/tuk tuk/taxi drivers. For the uninitiated among you here's a short example of a very probable conversation between new tourist in town and their driver:

Driver: Where you stay?
Tourist: Happy Land Hotel Please.
Driver: Ah, so sorry, Happy Land out of business last year.
Toursit: Really? But I booked with them last week?
Driver: Yep, Yep, burned down Tuesday night, very sad.
Tourist: Oh, but I emailed them only yesterday and they said all OK.
Driver: Hmmm, Happy Land many prostitute, you stay my hotel, better for you.
Toursit: But I have already paid, please take me to Happy Land.
Driver: But very bad, water there make you very sick, better you stay my hotel.
Tourist: I have booking and I have paid, Happy Land Hotel please.
Driver: *sighing* OK.
So finally the tourist is dropped off at his hotel, or so he thinks (and the driver was right, it's a pretty terrible hotel), next morning he makes to leave and is surprised to find the staff demanding $10. All protestations that he has booked and paid fall on deaf ears. Finally, it transpires the cunning driver actually took him to Happy Land II hotel, totally different management and on the other side of town. Wearily he hands over $10 and chalks it up to experience.

I tell you, these drivers are cunning devils when they put their mind to it. Am at a total loss as to why I fell for the "very far" line and I cheerfully berated my driver for his lies about 10 seconds after I got on the bike (and then caught sight of the hotel sign), he laughed, I laughed, the hotel staff laughed (I suspect at me rather than with me, but I should be used to that by now). Nothing like setting off on the right foot (and this was nothing like setting off on the right foot), a pattern that was to continue throughout my stay here.

Next day I spent lounging in my room reading. T'would appear this is not normal and come 4pm the worried owner of the hotel was banging on my door to check I was still alive (in fairness I had vacated the premises for a good few hours for lunch and a stroll - but this forray had gone unobserved it seemed). Being a particularly sociable person she could not understand why I did not want to take my book onto the balcony (had tried this, people kept wanting to talk), it may be I am the only person in Cambodia who craves alone time.

Next day I ventured out to see some sights, found a very nice moto driver by the name of Rugby who drove me round. It was a good day all things considered, we saw a pepper farm, some beautiful countryside (none of which I photographed for if there is one talent Rugby has it's finding the only un-photogenic spot in a particularly scenic area - I had to laugh after passing through a beautiful village when he stopped in a dusty lane lined with half dead bushes to ask if maybe I wanted to take a photo. (and this was not a once off by any means, truly bizarre). We were getting along great the only irksome thing (aside from odd choice of photographic scenery) being Rugby's habit of asking to taste my drinks. Being too polite to say no I continually watched in horror as he tasted my drinks using my straw. Aaaaaaargh, I hate that and once he'd committed his unknowing faux pas I could not drink any more.

Eventually we made it to Kep where we bought some crab and ventured down to a beach platform to wolf it down. It was divine, I have always wanted to enjoy crab but never really liked it, what a difference. Sweet and succulent (if incredibly difficult to get in to) and very moreish indeed. Crab over Rugby cracked a beer, then another. Was a little surprised to find one proffered my way and politely declined. Like all good men he huffed at this and wondered why I had not told him before he'd gone and bought them (a gentle reminisce that in fact I had done exactly this did little to appease him - have I mentioned that listening was very much not one of his talents). However I remained steadfast in my refusal until he sulkily announced that fine, he would drink them all and we would both die on the way home when he crashed. I had to laugh and advised that if that were the case I would simply hire a sober driver for the return journey. Harrumphing his displeasure he crept into a hammock to sulk. (as it happens a serendipitous gust of wind turned over three of his cans so he lost more beer than he drunk)

I positioned myself as far as I could from him (not wanting to give off mixed signals) and began to read. It was a good book, I became quite engrossed so got a bit of a start when I lazily glanced over to find Rugby's grinning face but 2 inches from mine. At some point he'd come and lay right along side me (how on earth had I not noticed him do this?). He gave me a cheerful (and somewhat beery) Hello. I gave a slightly less cheerful "ERK!" and instinctively turned away from him. Alas, a fatal flaw in my positioning plan meant that this cunning maneuver sent me hurtling off the platform and two foot down onto the sand below. Laying there like a plonker I looker up at Rugby peering over the edge. I do wonder at what point in my life I will achieve some dignity (clearly not quite yet alas). Clambering back onto the platform I thought perhaps to read some more, this plan was quickly foiled when we became engaged in a slightly modified (and much slower) game of kiss chase.

I spent the next five minutes scrabbling crab wise around the platform snatching bits of myself back from Rugby's grabbing hands advising that no I did not want my foot/hands/love handles! massaged. Things were getting ridiculous, clearly I was not handling the situation well at all (in my defense I am not used to young men throwing themselves at me, or any men at all come to that). So summoning up my most teacher like stare I waggled my finger sternly and admonished "No massage! No touching! time to go."

It worked. Wish I'd tried it earlier.

And that was Kep, I suspect I did not see the best it had to offer. On the way home we stopped to drink palm wine, I have no idea how potent it is but I can tell you it is quite, quite foul. I let Rugby drink the entire jug (bar my one glass) and instead I ate most of the frogs (which were uncommonly good). I was confident that should inebriation over come my erstwhile driver that I was close enough to town to be able to walk. He seemed OK though so all was well.

The only tricky part was what to write in his comment book, things had been a little uncomfortable for me but I suspect that with a man, or a group he would make a great driver. I settled for using big words that he may not understand (he did not, phew!) and was particularly loose in my translation of them for him. All in we parted on good terms.

The next couple of days I ambled aimlessly around, unsure of where to go or what to do. I had thought I was waiting for the music festival in Kep so no one was more surprised than I to find that instead of lounging on the sand, music blasting my ears, I was instead ensconced on a bus heading for Kompong Cham. The more astute among you will already have picked up on the fact that I have already passed through Kompong cham, not once but twice on this trip. Have no idea what drew me back here, but am grateful to whatever it was for Kompong Cham turned out to be a gem of a place.

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Photos

Nice flowers
Trying to find the picturesque in one of Rugby's many photo stops.

Cooking the Crab
Ours was in the smaller pot (just incase you were curious)

Palm wine and fried frogs
note how much Rugby has drunk compared to me. In the end I had to resort to the old trick of holding my nose and downing the remainder (I know, I too never thought anyone actually did this, you live and learn)

Row row row your boat
this looked like REALLY hard work!

The scene of the seduction
I did wonder why we were off the the end of the beach with no other customers...

Salt fields
erm, very picturesque no?

sugar cane juice
very refreshing in this heat and only 25 cents a glass

Young girl
I thought I'd got my numbers wrong when she told me she was "dat pii" (12), she looked about 7.

Old house
You can clearly see the bullet hoies from the Khmer Rouge

Rabbit Island
I had thought to stay here for a few days but then remembered I'm not really a beachy person

Keeping the crab fesh
well ostensibly so, smells not a little like sewage in the water though so just how fresh remains to be seen, if I die from gastro enteritis this will probably be the cause. Fingers crossed!