Kep

I took the red road from Kampot to Kep. Vast, partially submerged rice fields, dotted with palm trees, bounded either side of the straight flat dirt lane. In the distance were the strange camel backed mountains common to Asia.

The Tuk Tuks here, like the one I was riding, are a hybrid of past and present technologies. It is as if someone took a metal 19th century carriage and attached a motor bike where the horse once trotted. Except for the red cushioned seats there is not much in the way of shock absorption.

Kep is a tiny villiage on the peninsula of a muddy sea. Everywhere there are abandoned 19th century French colonial concrete mansions. Covered with green mosses they look futuristic and ancient simultaneously. Here and there a solitary light bulb, strung to the street, is used to illuminate a permanent encampment within their walls.

I had been recommended Veranda by one of the restaurant owners in Kampot. It was like the Swiss Family Robinson had decided to turn their tree fort into a bed and breakfast. There are ramps meters above the vegetation criss crossing everywhere. The bungalows are simple, wooden, traditional. There are no TV or phones, no AC just a fan and a mosquito net. The bathrooms conversely had elaborate stone and tile work. They also had hot water. The bed was big and comfortable. From my little porch I could see past the palms to the sea.

There was not much to Kep. The main beach had been ruined by a row of seafood shacks built right into the ocean. It would take time to love this place.

I took a day trip out to rabbit island. It is a tiny place of desperate poverty. There is garbage on the beaches and the beaches are not very nice. Still it we had fun, riding inner tubes on the surf in the pouring rain. As the afternoon waned it was me who made the decision to continue around the island instead of heading back along the trail we came on. The place was bigger than I thought. Each cove seemed to be the last only to be followed by another. At one point we had to wade through the mud of a mangrove forest to get to the next beach. Mysterious holes gurgled around us as slogged through.

The next day I decided to try the mountain trail behind Veranda. I walked up the tiny dirt road as it began to rain. It was still warm and I had a hat so I decided to trudge on. About half way up there were massive trees that had somehow escaped logging. I heard a rustling overhead and looking up saw a small tribe of monkeys peering through the leaves at me. There was a thud on the road ahead of me as the biggest beast landed. One of the larger young males dropped down behind him. For an instant we froze. He looked me in the eye, then turned and scampered off into the jungle, the rest of the clan following behind in the branches above. Just as well. The last thing I needed was a big bite from an aggressive male.

Here and there along the trail the trees cleared and I had a sweeping view of Kep as it was battered by a roiling muddy sea. Then it began to rain harder. As hard as I have ever seen. It was like someone was pouring a bucket of water on my head. It was time to turn back. Then it got harder. I tried hiding beneath a tree. Then it got even harder and then it got even harder.

By the time I reached Veranda I was so drenched that water was squishing out of the hard rubber soles of my hiking shoes. I began to feel a little panicky. How was I going to get out of here? How would I get out of Cambodia? There was only one muddy road from here to Kampot and even then I would be still nowhere.

It rained all the night. The next morning it cleared a little but there were still dark clouds to the east, to the west, to the north and to the south. I decided to make a break for it. I hired a tuk tuk and we took off on the red mud road towards Kampot. It began to rain again. On either side of the lane, the water was cresting. It had risen at least a foot on broad rice field plains. I couldn't imagine how the land could take any more.

The next day in Kampot I waited in Lucky's diner for the bus to Shianookville. The skies were clearing and even though the river was terrifyingly high, actually above street level, it seemed like the worst was over. The owner, a fat economics professor from India assured me it was nothing. He pointed to a yellow mark about a half meter up the wall of the restaurant.
"Last year it came up to there. We had no electricity for six days."
Everything is survivable.

Later I would find out that Cambodia had been trapped between two storm systems. A typhoon had it Vietnam while a monsoon was raging in India. In Kampot I heard that twenty people had died. But they were mostly farmers who lived, out there.