Just south of Kep is Rabbit Island, named for its shape apparently but we couldn’t work out from which perspective. It’s a small island with accommodation that was only just on the right side of rustic for us, drop toilets and spider-infested toilets was our limit it seemed. We spent our time sleeping and swimming and carefully considering the optimum combination of naps and showers. I decided on Nap, Shower but others went crazy for nap, nap, shower, nap.
We were treated to a cultural experience when the local drunk, or possibly witch-doctor, appeared to engage us in conversation. As he spoke to us in broken, mostly incomprehensible English, tugging at his ripped wife-beater we donned polite, interested faces suitable for conversing with the locals. He began to get agitated when he was unable to convey his unfathomable message and took to pointing and shouting in frustration. Our expressions became a little strained as his cloudy eyes gave us a measured stare while raving in Khymer, punctured with ‘Do you understand?’ and a wild chuckle that convinced us all separately that he was going to try and kill at some point.
Surprised that we’d survived the night we jumped in a boat and went back to the mainland to be greeted by a very cunning fellow. Scrambling out of the boat a smiling man approached us waving 5 tickets for a bus to Kampot. We were pretty sure we hadn’t asked for them or made any kind of booking but we admired his psychic ability and allowed him to usher us away. He loaded our bags into his tuk-tuk, along with the pathetic women, and took the whole lot 100m down the road. Thank god our pretty ankles and fluffy minds were spared the trek.
Kampot was a little further west along the southern coast. It’s a pretty town on the river surrounded by the vista of the national park, which we explored on creaking bicycles. Our guest-house was on the river, which we jumped into during the day and swung our feet amongst the phosphorescent plankton at night. It was run by an Australian couple with Cambodian staff who were living the dream in Asia, surrounded by lounging Westerners who seemed to spend hour upon hour updating their status on Facebook. It’s important everybody you ever spoke to to appreciates what a nice time you will be having as soon as you log-off.
Our second night was Friday, which was live-music night, a highlight of the Kampot social calendar. We watched, with shoulders hunched in a cringe, as the aging ‘muso’ owner tried to cling on to his youth. The smack of indulgent posturing gave me a bad taste that the free tequila couldn’t quite shift and we left him to his moment of rock stardom.
The next day we explored the near-by caves. Westerners on bikes are a natural magnet at the best of times but in a tourist area the children flock to be your guides. Their practised lines were repeated in unison as a babbling group forcefully escorted us round. The main activity on the tour seemed to be pointing out rock formations with ever more loose claims of animal resemblance. Everyone was reasonably satisfied with the inevitably awkward money discussion, except the rude kid who was demanded money in a sulky voice unsure why his technique of repeating everything we said in a high-pitched mocking voice hadn’t worked. Alan Sugar would sort him out.
While the less-energetic of us rested Andy decided to create his own adventure straight out of The Beach and find the secret lake. He returned sometime later pleased, dirty and $10 lighter, with a map that had ‘The Secret Lake’ clearing marked in large letter. A modern day explorer in our midst, we’ll make a Lonely Planet writer out of him yet.
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