A beach of one’s own

We made the short journey from Manuel Antonio to Sierpe in less than two hours. We knew that there wasn’t much to do in Sierpe – it’s mainly used by travellers to take the boat to Drake Bay. We hadn’t realised that it would have been very easy to make it to Drake Bay in one day from Manuel Antonio. Anyway, we had a hotel with a pool, so spent the hottest hours swinging in hammocks and reading dozily – appreciating a bit of chill time.

In the late afternoon, we wandered down to the town (which is basically a small park and a restaurant), and met Simone. Simone was not what we expected – a tall, tanned Dutchwoman who has been living in the Osa peninsula for twenty-two years. She explained that it’s not uncommon for people to expect her mangrove tours to be led by a Costa Rican man. I felt contrite in my assumptions. Danny and I boarded a boat, captained by Herman (who was a Costa Rican man), and the four of us set out into the Mangrove. Sierpe is located at the confluence of the mighty River Sierpe, and the Estero Azul – a smaller tributary. Simone pointed out three types of mangroves that are located in the area – the red, the black and the grey. The long grey fingers of their roots dipped into the brackish water, creating lots of nooks for creatures to hide in. We began our tour just as dusk was falling. We saw a boa constrictor, capuchins, and dozens of birds coming in to roost for the night, including herons, egrets, kingfishers, an owl, scarlet macaws, and a very well camouflaged Potoo (otherwise known as a stick bird, for reasons which became obvious once we’d located it with the binoculars). As the birds drifted to sleep and the night awakened, we saw different forms of life emerge. Gaggles of inquisitive raccoons watched us from the banks. A shy kinkajou peeped out from a tree. We saw bats clinging to the underside of a bridge, flitting from their perches as the light passed over them. Most disconcertingly, we caught glimpses of yellow eyes watching us from the surface of the water…crocodiles and caimans (which we were soon able to tell apart). Thankfully, many of them were babies, but we did see some larger specimens.

Three hours later, bewildered, exhilarated and slightly alarmed at the number of baby crocodiles, we disembarked. Although initially we’d had fairly low expectations for our time in Sierpe, we found ourselves incredulous at the amount of life we’d been privileged enough to witness on the water, and agreed that it had been one of the best tours we’d done since arriving in Costa Rica.

We left our hotel in the late morning, and started walking down to the dock where would meet our boat for Drake Bay. A few minutes down the road, a red pick-up truck slowed to a halt. It was a taxi, and there was a local lady sitting shotgun who couldn’t bear to see us dragging ourselves down the road under the the weight of our backpacks. We hopped in, thanked both driver and passenger profusely (to which they replied “Pura Vida, Pura Vida”), and soon found ourselves at the dock. After some controlled chaos we were sat in a boat, heading down the river. Our captain took some nail-biting corners, nearly tipping the boat as we veered along. We passed the mangroves at lightning speed, and occasionally glimpsed a solitary dwelling through the greenness. At one point we saw someone at a distance in a balsa wood boat – I wondered if it was one of the local indigenous people. After a time, we reached the mouth of the river, and found ourselves on the open water of the ocean. Our captain hurled us over the surf, catching gut-wrenching moments of air as we bounced from wave to wave. It was with some relief that our destination came into view. We jumped off the boat into the shallow water, and waded up to the beach. There we were met by Karen, who took us up to our accomodation. She revived us with fruit and juice, and then gave us some tips about the area.

After a quick bite to eat, we headed into the jungle. A rustling cacophony filled our ears, it was almost as if the sound was coming from inside our heads. We stumbled over tree roots and clambered over rocks. We carried on along the path for half an hour, crossing a couple of rickety bridges and occasionally passing some fancy accomodation, or people waddling in soggy swimwear. After a while, we emerged on to Cocalito Beach. Edged with volcanic rocks and dense jungle, it was perfect. But there were a few people there, so we carried on. At the next beach (Paquena), we were alone except for three elderly French people enjoying a dip. We bathed in the warm waters until the sun dipped behind the trees.

At that point, we decided to go a little further round the coast, to see if we could catch more sun. The next beach didn’t have a name, and was completely empty except for us and our footprints. We watched the sun go down and the sky turn pink. The jungle began to emit a heady perfume, sweet and enticing. We stayed until the light began to fade.

The next morning, we were up before sunrise. We ate a quick breakfast (thanks to Karen and her daughter) then trotted off to the beach. We boarded a boat (which again, involved wading), and zoomed around the bay. The sun rose as we passed acres and acres of rainforest that never seemed to end. After an hour we arrived at Corcovado National Park – one of the most remote parts of the peninsula. As we entered the rainforest, the air seemed to become more humid with each breath we took. Sweat ran down our backs in rivulets, and steam evaporated from the ground. To begin with, we had a moderate amount of success, spotting a pair of toucans, a black iguana, some herons amd some spider monkeys, but the game changer was a tapir. These are one of Costa Rica’s largest mammals (and are much bigger than I thought they were, kind of like a large pig or a small hippo). We found one snoozing in the mud, keeping cool in the midday heat. We also saw a friendly herd of peccaries, carrying on with their snuffly business quite happily as we watched. We had lunch at the ranger’s station, and then just as we were leaving the park (as always seems to be the case), we saw our most exciting animal of all. Clinging to a branch 20 metres high was an anteater. He opened a lazy eye, then shifted his position and fell back into his snooze. He was very cute. Reluctantly we boarded our boat to go back to Drake Bay. We spent the rest of the afternoon chilling at the hotel. I can confirm that hammocks are a form of timewarp, and it’s quite easy to lie in one for two hours without noticing.

Our time in Drake Bay has been filled with adventure and wildlife, as well as calm and solitude (apart from each other). Being in such a remote place, it’s easier to appreciate the majesty of nature, and grant her the respect she deserves.

Mooching in Manuel Antonio

After a magical (but at times slightly windy/wet) time in Monteverde we needed something a bit more tropical, so we headed south towards the Pacific. Over the four and a half hour journey (and two minibuses), we descended from the lofty green peaks to sea-level. When we arrived in Manuel Antonio, we were greeted with warm sun on our skin. We did a quick change at the hostel, then hopped on a bus downtown. We then walked down a winding road past luxury hotels and fancy restaurants. Capuchins crossed over our heads using the telephone wires as tightropes. Eventually we turned off down a rocky path through the jungle. Five minutes later we emerged at Playa Biesanz, a hidden beach preferred by locals. We eagerly plunged into the sea. Danny and I have never been to the beach together (excluding chilly dips at Brighton and Findhorn), so it was a new experience to share. The hours melted away in a dreamy haze of coconuts and novels.

The next morning we watched a pair of Scarlet Macaws swooping against the blue horizon as we ate our breakfast. We hopped back on the bus, and wended down to Parque Nacional Manuel Antonio. We decided not to go for a tour this time, but instead made our own way along the trails, and stopped when we saw crowds of people gawping at something. We saw iguanas, a snake, a toucan, agoutis, squirrel monkeys, sloths, more capuchins – the jungle was bustling with life, reverberating with a steady hum occasionally accompanied by the soothing sound of waves. At a couple of viewpoints the shady jungle opened out to the ocean below.

Once we’d walked enough, we headed through the jungle to one of the two beaches located within the park. Platinum sand was bordered by emerald palms, and a glistening azure ocean. The beach was surprisingly quiet (most people stopped at the other beach, a bit closer to the main path). We relaxed on the sand – well, as much was as possible while warding off nosy capuchins who had the antisocial habit of rifling through unattended bags. We had to be dragged off the beach by a patient ranger, who blew his whistle and tapped his watch to let us know it was time to leave. Just as we were about to pass through the main gate, we noticed a large group huddled beneath a tree. We looked up and saw our first howler monkeys, munching leaves and emitting their eponymous gutteral groans. Feeling satiated with wildlife and beach, we took our leave.

Manuel Antonio has been very different to our experience of Costa Rica so far. The tropical temperatures and freshness of the Pacific breeze has eased us into a new phase of this trip. As well as experiencing the wildlife, we’ve also taken more time to relax. Our London place has slowed to a gentle mooch, and as a result we’re more aware of the life around us.

Bobbing along…

We spent an evening trying to work out the logistics of visiting Ein Gedi, Masada and the Dead Sea in one day via public transport. After a couple of hours we concluded that it couldn’t be done, at least not without military clock-watching, so we signed up for a tour.

We met the mini bus from the lobby of a fancy hotel, full of elderly Americans regaling tales of their intrepid adventures to each other. Fortunately, none of them were on our bus. Our first stop was the Jordan River, where Jesus is said to have been baptised by John. The river was a peaceful oasis in an arid landscape, bordered by wire fences and minefields. We spent ten blissful minutes quietly contemplating the fluvial border with Jordan, before jumping back on the bus and driving to Ein Gedi.

Ein Gedi is a nature reserve famed for its wildlife and natural waterfalls. Its fame attracts a number of visitors, including troops of baying schoolchildren. Rather than try to ascend higher and higher up the trail, at a pace set by the slowest child, we stopped about halfway up and enjoyed a smaller pool. The clear water felt cool and refreshing between our toes, and along with the merciful breeze, did much to revive us.

Our next stop was the ancient fortress of Masada, where rebels held off against Roman invasion, and chose to kill every person in the compound and commit suicide rather than suffer defeat. The foundations of watchtowers, bathouses and the tannery were spread over a substantial area, giving some idea of the scale of the attack. The views out to the haze of the Dead Sea were spectacular; it’s hard to take this cinematic landscape for granted.

Our final stop was the one we were most excited about. It hadn’t quite sunk in (hahahah) that we were about to visit the lowest place in earth: the Dead Sea. Upon arrival, we slathered warm goopy mud all over our skin, waiting until it tightened and cracked before washing it off with fresh water. Meanwhile, we had a little float, the salt content of the water making us buoyant, and occasionally forcing us to do an involuntary pencil roll. If we rubbed our hands together underwater, they felt slick and oily. Every sensation inspired novelty, however after a time we had to return to the bus, and to Jerusalem.

We touristed hard, and not in the manner to which we have become accustomed. We’re quite happy to find things ourselves, use public transport, and dicatate our own schedule, however for the sake of expediency (and for the sake of our dogmatic refusal to miss anything), the tour was hugely beneficial. Whilst some of the other tourists had expected to be guided, lectured, and photographed at designated points, we were quite happy to explore the sites in the time slots available, safe in the knowledge that we could get home.

Upon our return, we caught a bus back to Tel Aviv – the final stop of our trip. Upon emerging victorious from our battle with the traffic, we grabbed a sabich (aubergine filled pita) and went to sleep.

Our final days in Israel were spent eating delicious shakshuka and salads aplenty, exploring the old town of Jaffa, and basking in the sun at the beach. We also infiltrated an Irish pub on St Patrick’s Day to watch the rugby, but that’s a story in its own right.

Our time here has been one of immense contrast in terms of history, society and culture. This is even reflected in the landscape, which is both breathtakingly beautiful, and terrifyingly hostile. The people we’ve met here have been hospitable and kind, but despite this I have felt very ‘other’. There’s no ostensible reason for this (apart from security treatment at the airport), but if anything, this has made the whole experience more interesting. Alex and Ricardo have been an absolute breeze to travel with, and I’m immensely grateful to them for letting me tag along. We’ve had experiences and made memories that I’m sure will stick with us for years to come; and I can’t wait to bring them up at (in)opportune moments in the future.

Please don’t Go-a!

We grabbed some lunch at the airport, then had a quick flight to Goa that took less than an hour. The green palm trees trapped the sultry air as we drove down tarmaced roads that occasionally broke out into a view of the sea. We arrived at our hotel, and Ingrid and I were presented with a palatial suite, replete with sitting room and giant balcony overlooking the pool. We wandered down Calangute beach, and felt a little uncomfortable about the men following us and taking photos (yes, we were fully clothed). We arrived in the grimy town, which offered wholesale cashew nuts and an ATM, then made our way back to the hotel to get ready for dinner.

Showered and scrubbed up, we caught some taxis to a restaurant on the beach, and indulged in some fresh seafood as the waves crushed against the shore. We had a few drinks, played some pool, then took the party back to the hotel. I left at 04:30, but the others showed no sign of slowing. I’ve never considered myself very hard-core.

By some miracle most of the group managed to surface the following day, so we dragged ourselves to Anjuna Beach; a short taxi drive north. After a couple of tactical vom-breaks (which weren’t fully utilised, but better to be safe than sorry, eh Rachel?!) we made it to the water. We commandeered some sunbeds and carefully roasted ourselves, occasionally partaking in the sea-rave that the locals were getting involved with. We returned to Calangute, showered, and went out for our last meal as a group which was a typically slow and inefficient affair. Only six of us from the original group are carrying on to Kochi. We said our goodbyes this morning and went our separate ways. I’ve never been good at parting words, and this was no exception. I can only hope that we meet up again; I’d say it’s highly probable.

Goa wasn’t quite the hippie paradise that I was expecting. The towns were a little run-down and the beaches were patrolled by creeps, but the water was warm, the sand was soft, and overall it was a nice place to chill out. I’m not a beach person, but it’s a lot more fun when you’re with other people. I guess most things are.

How many losers can you get in a tuk-tuk?

A couple of days was enough time on Phi Phi for us. We were starting to feel a bit oppressed by the narrow walkways, the pounding bass and the walls of tourists, despite the unquestionable natural beauty of the island. At 11:30 we took the boat over to Ko Lanta (which hilariously autocorrects to No Pants on my phone), arriving an hour later. Once we got past the aggressive tuk-tuk drivers who gain commission from driving unsuspecting tourists to extortionate hotels, the diffence was instantaneous. We walked down a wide, unpopulated street, about thirty metres from the pier to our hostel. After we’d dropped off our bags, Mariana got sucked into an art gallery and was expulsed an eon later armed with three beautiful oil paintings (at a really good price). We then had a late lunch before taking a tuk-tuk down to Lanta Animal Welfare – a charity set up by a Norwegian woman to address the problem of stray and abused animals on the island. We cuddled up to ragged cats, who were sprawled out on the concrete to try and avoid the sun’s pulsing heat. I thought I’d test their method, and found it to be quite effective.

We were then given a tour of the faculty by a bubbly Canadian girl with ringworm. She introduced us to the different packs of dogs, who are rotated to different enclosures so that they don’t get too territorial, and to quarantined puppies and convalesing seniors, who were kept in separate accommodation. The acrid smell of ammonia and the dismal howls of a mother separated from her babies made it a little difficult to focus on the guide’s information, but I gathered that lots of good work has been done to rehome abandoned animals and sterilise unmanageable populations. After the tour, Mariana and I offered to take a couple of the dogs out for a walk, to save the volunteers a bit of work. We were presented with Izzy, a timid little lady, and Bambi, possibly the ugliest dog to walk the planet.

Her white mohawk and grey elephantine skin gave her a startling, if memorable appearance – she was definitely my favourite. We took them out for about forty-five minutes, returning them just in time for their dinner. We then caught a tuk-tuk back to the hostel and hung out with the other guests in the common area.

The next day we followed through with a crazy idea that had germinated the previous evening. We rented a tuk-tuk for the day. It’s very popular on Ko Lanta to rent a motorbike to see the island (which is 30 km long, so a bit too far for a bike in this heat), but I promised my Grandad I wouldn’t drive a motorbike here because a) I have no idea how to and b) I have the roadsense of a hedgehog. A tuk-tuk was the perfect alternative: I wouldn’t have to drive, and all six of us could travel together. Sven (not his real name, but we all got nicknames through the course of the day, and they’re easier to remember) was our Swedish driver, seeing as he was the only one with experience, so we all piled in around him, trying to distribute the weight as best we could.

This wasn’t easy, as the bike was on the side of the tuk-tuk, rather than pulling us from the middle (which also would have given us more space) but we managed. We named our chariot Ikea, after the heritage of our esteemed chauffeur, and because she was emblazoned with the colours of the Swedish flag. There’s a pretty big Swedish population on Ko Lanta; there are even Swedish schools, so Ikea definitely didn’t look out of place.

We bombed down the road at a hair-raising 20km per hour, and were frequently overtaken by tourists and locals on motorbikes, who couldn’t help but give us a second glance. We rode over to the east side of the island, urging Ikea up the subtle incline of the occasional hill, as she juddered reluctantly under our weight. We made it to the Old Town after one especially terrifying descent, and had a break, wandering through the tacky shops and down to the end of a pier, where locals were having their lunch in the shade. We then hopped back onboard, and Captain had a little go at driving, having to borrow some flip flops, because he’s too cool to wear shoes under normal circumstances. After about 50m Sven was back behind the wheel (which isn’t an indication of Captain’s driving, we just felt safer like that), and we rode to the beach, where we cooled down in the beautiful water. We then rode back into town, had lunch and visited another beach, where Mariana, Captain and I had a massage as the sun set; a red orb vanishing into the blue haze.

It was a really fun day. We loved meeting Sven, Captain, Aladdin and Juan, and a tuk-tuk was a great way to get around the island. We got a more authentic representation of people’s lives here, and even saw a monkey hitching a lift in the back of a pickup truck laden with coconuts. Maybe it was a metaphor: a tuk-tuk is a pickup truck, we are all coconuts, our spirit of adventure is a monkey. Or not, I’ll let you decide.

That time we got nine piercings.

We arrived at Krabi and walked in the sweltering heat to our hostel. We dropped our bags then did a circuit of the town, which isn’t very big. We found ourselves in a night-market, where Mariana involuntarily doubled her wardrobe. I bought a revolting tie-dye number (that awkward moment when it stops being ironic), and then we returned to the hostel to Skype those left behind.

The following morning we were driven to the pier, where we caught a boat to Ko Phi Phi. We were at the back of the line, so were forced to sit on the bottom deck with the rumbling engine, but it meant that we were first to disembark. We found our guesthouse and then grabbed some lunch, trying to believe that the paradise in which we found ourselves was real.

We thought that this would be a fantastic time to get some piercings. I’ve been thinking about it for a while – I’ve had one in each ear since I was five, and thought it was about time to get something more interesting. Mariana wanted some more too, so we made the decision one evening to get them together. On our third attempt we found a tattoo parlour which also did piercings. I’m not scared of needles – I give blood at home, so I went first in order for Mariana to make an informed decision about the level of pain involved. I watched as Che carefully sterilised the equipment, and snapped on some fresh surgical gloves. He put a clamp on my right ear lobe, and after a brief shot of pain, it was done. He then repeated the process four times on my left ear. I happily preened in front of the mirror, indulging my vanity. Then it was Mariana’s turn. Her face was white, her eyes were wide. She had the first two in quick succession, then after a little hesitation had the third in her cartilage. It looked great, and we left the parlour very content with the results, trying not to brush against our tender ears.

Dear family,
Some of you might not be too happy with this life decision, but I’ve been thinking about it for a while. It’s partly aesthetic, and partly a preventative measure, so I don’t become too boring and corporate when I start working in tax. I hope you understand, and if not, I’ll just hide them when I come and visit.

Kind Regards,
K.

In the afternoon we walked over to Long Beach. I couldn’t have been happier, bobbing in the turquoise water. We then trekked (the hard way) up to the Viewpoint, and watched the sun set behind some mountains. We returned to the hostel, showered, and made ourselves beautiful before heading out. We went to Hippies Bar, where a skinny Thai guy with a long moustache was playing beautifully unique covers. Just after we finished eating, the fire show started. We watched in awe as three guys writhed across the stage with lighted batons and numchucks, tossing them in the air and creating elegant shapes with the flame. The deafening soundtrack (comprising solely of Linking Park) added to the drama, and covered up those frequent moments when a baton was dropped. We were disappointed when the show was over, but to make up for it we headed over to the other side of the island, to check out the clubs on the beach. We had only had a mojito each, but Mariana is one of the few people I know who, like me, doesn’t need alcohol to dance. We chose a club, then wildly flailed about, dancing like no one was watching. Well, if you could call it dancing. We leaped around, throwing in a few slow motion interpretive moves and yoga poses for variety. Despite our best efforts, our efforts to repulse grubby men were unsuccessful. We were continually interrupted, to be asked where we were from, after which the men would stand there awkwardly as we continued to boogie. After a couple of hours the interruptions became annoying, so we went back to the hostel.

We slept late the next morning, for a change. We went back to Che and I got another piercing (which explains the extra one in the photo – that’s the last one, I promise), before heading to the beach with two dreadlocked Thai guys we met there. We hung out for two hours, then Mariana and I came back into town for our cooking class. It was my fourth class, but Thai food is so delicious that I was just as excited as Mariana to see how to make it. We spent the next three hours learning how to balance flavours, frying in the heat, and sharing our creations.

Mariana got her exam results (she smashed them), so we celebrated by going to a bar and watching drunk guys beat each other up in a Muay Thai boxing ring. What could be more appropriate?

It’s all gone Koh Rong.

I arrived at the pier in Sihanoukville, only to be told that the boat was delayed due to strong winds. Unperturbed, I sat with two Swedish girls and waited for more information. An hour later the boat arrived, and we strategically chose seats in the middle to avoid the worst of the spray. The journey started out well enough, but we soon got caught in the ravages of the winds. The boat rocked from side to side as the four-metre waves surged beneath the hull. We were offered plastic bags as the sickly smoke from the diesel engine seeped on deck, making the irregular movement of the boat almost unbearable. My stomach skipped as the waves nonchalantly tossed us in the air, the propellers occasionally losing contact with the water, and all the time I was counting the minutes until it would be over. We mercifully arrived a couple of hours later, and me and the girls managed to get a bungalow to share. We were later joined by Jessica, who Louise knew from home, and a couple from Marseille that the former had met on her own horrific boat journey across the water. The six of us divided into two beds, and because of the intensity of our ordeal, the fresh sea air, or a couple of glasses of wine, we all slept soundly.

The next day we got up refreshed, to tackle the one-hour hike through the jungle to the esoteric Long Beach. The path was easy enough to follow, minus a few humongous boulders and shaley inclines, but we made good time and soon arrived on the other side. The beach isn’t really esoteric at all – it is, as the name suggests, very long. It’s just the difficulty in getting there that renders it almost uninhabited. We were relieved to reach the cool water and rinse the sweat off our shining faces. We bobbed in the turquoise waves, unable to comprehend why more people wouldn’t make the trek. After a while we decided to walk to the small village at the other end of the white sand. We walked, and walked, and walked a bit more before realising the scale of the task we had undertaken. The harder we tried to make progress, the more we felt that we weren’t moving at all. After about an hour we crumpled into a small restaurant on a pier at the opposite end of the beach, greedily devoured some amok, and had a little nap in some soft round cushions. Semi-revitalised, we managed to summon the courage and strength to get back to the top of the beach, and find a boat to take us home after the sunset. At the moment I’m watching sunsets like other people watch the six-o’clock news, but I’ll always appreciate their beauty. Once the sky had turned an inky black, we stepped into the water and were able to see phosphorescent specks of plankton glittering in the water like stars. It was beautiful.

It was at this point that we acknowledged our growing concern for the absence of our boat. We found the guy that had sold us the tickets, but he was clueless. By now we could only distinguish shadows in the darkness. We paced up and down the sand like agitated lions, our impatience trickling into anxiety. We formed an action plan of phoning the hostel and getting them to find us a boat, but just at the last moment, a light began to grow brighter as it drew towards us. It was a large cargo boat, dropping off supplies for the bar. After some confusion it transpired that this was indeed the boat to take us back, but only after we’d helped unload – we happily complied, glad to expend out nervous energy. The size of the boat meant that it couldn’t get very close to the shore. This posed a new problem, given that many of us had electronics in our bags, and couldn’t swim out. This was solved by the use of a large tub half filled with water, which six of us could sit in at a time. The locals and Cèdric hauled us out to the boat, where we gratefully scrambled up to comparable safety. The waves gleefully toyed with us along the way, but by this point all we could think of was getting back. After an age, the lights of the main beach welcomed us back to civilisation. We celebrated our return with an Eighties Night, held at the bar where we were staying. I bumped into the London lads (there’s no such thing as goodbye) and we all danced into the early hours, until the power was cut off.

The next day was reserved for recovery – we were locked in a hazy cycle of eating and sleeping, which had the potential to be perpetual. The only excitement was the brief disappearance of my flipflops. I found them an hour later on the feet of a Cambodian guy that works at the bungalows – excellent detective work if I do say so myself. Our boat left at 10:00 the next morning. We were slightly surprised to find that our vessel was doubling as a rubbish truck, appointed to take a mountain of sprawling black sacks to the mainland for disposal, but we shrugged this off as a “classic Cambodia” moment, and found a spot on the deck. It was actually quite nice to sit in the sun, until two monstrous waves crushed over the side of the boat, engulfing us in their watery jaws. At this point we moved to the back, preferring the smell of decomposing waste to the threat of wet valuables. After two hours we reached the mainland, but not the port that we had anticipated. We patiently hauled ourselves into some trucks, and once seventeen of us (plus bags) had been slotted in (Cèdric forced to stand, clinging to a metal bar above his head), we made the short journey into town. We were too late to catch a bus out, so resigned ourselves to a night in Sihanoukville, but to cheer ourselves up, we caught a tuk-tuk to Otres to watch that sunset one more time. Leaving Otres gave me the same sinking feeling that I had on the morning that I left Oxford. These two sentiments should have been diametrically incomparable, but they weren’t. I guess it’s always hard to leave somewhere you love, no matter how long you’ve been there. We walked down to the hippie-commune-market, but didn’t stay long. Ana had sunstroke and I was grating myself away, failing to abstain from scratching the plague of bedbug/sandfly bites that I’ve sustained over the past few days. We returned to Sihanoukville, where I discovered that the charger for my tablet and phone was broken, and went to bed.

Cèdric saved the day again in the morning by waking me up after my phone alarm failed me (for obvious reasons). We said goodbye to Olivia, made it to the bus, and went as far as Phnom Penh, where Ana and Cèdric, and I parted ways (after I had been kindly furnished with a replacement charger, by the most prepared travellers in the world). A few niggling inconveniences have started to occur, but considering I’m nearly four months in, that’s to be expected. The good thing is they can be resolved. I have a new charger, industrial bite cream, and the drive to keep going. At the moment I don’t need much else.

Beached.

A minibus arrived two hours later than anticipated to take me to Sihanoukville. I’m learning some travel tactics, like to take the front seat when available – you have more space and benefit from the air-conditioning. As we drove through the countryside I felt really comfortable – and not just because I had lots of room. A sense of reassurance, acceptance and peace infiltrated my thoughts, as I admired the green fields and the small villages – for no ostensible reason. We arrived at our destination, where I immediately took a tuk-tuk twenty minutes down the coast to the secluded beach of Otres 2. I’d heard negative reviews about Serendipity, which is closer to the centre, so decided to stay further out. I’m so glad I did. I arrived at the hostel, which is right on the beach, and watched the sunset with a couple of Dutch girls, and a group of cheeky London chappies that I’d met briefly in Kampot. Their witty rejoinders glistened with hilarious similes, impossible metaphors, polished one-liners and impenetrable slang – their linguistic acrobatics made my head spin.

In the evening we all piled into a tuk-tuk (having negotiated the price with a game of “Rock, Paper, Scissors”) and headed to the Night Market. It was unlike any other that I’ve visited. We passed through a fairy-lit archway, into a small square bustling with people. It was a festival, run by a commune of expats. Gourmet food stands offered Italian sausage, French baguettes, wood-fired pizzas and chocolate fondue. A spoken-word performer, an acoustic guitarist, and a didgeridoo coterie all offered their talents to the audience, who were sat captivated on reed mats. We drank cocktails as we took in the bizarre scene in front of us, admiring the outlandish calibre of our comrades (one of whom wore a pineapple on her head), and getting sucked in to the intoxicating ambience. We eventually went home, and I fell asleep in an open dorm, listening to the waves crash on the beach below.

The next morning I made the spontaneous decision to go with the group to Koh Ta Kiev – a small island just off the coast. The boat dropped us off in paradise. Coral Beach was bedecked with hammocks, pontoons and cushions, where you could sit and lose all concept of time and reality. The French couple who own the place are chefs, and plied us with gorgeous salads, fresh tuna, and addictive mojitos. We played volleyball, swam, napped, talked and laughed until the stars peeped out of their velvet cloak. I fell asleep watching the twinkling lights from the safety of my hammock, unable to accept the Elysian reality that I’m living.

Another morning passed imperceptibly on the island in a haze of sunshine and sea, but after lunch it was time for us to return to the world. We reluctantly got on the boat and arrived back at Otres, where we moulded into the beach and watched the sunset – to be honest reality still felt pretty far away.

The following day Nina, Anne, Theresa and I felt like it was time to be a bit more active, so we took the hour-long walk along the beach to Sihanoukville. As the waves splashed our ankles we began to notice the brilliant serenity of Otres 2 fading into the more resort-like Otres 1, with its beach bungalows and wide choice of restaurants, before completely discolouring into the smelly, scummy beach of the ironically named Serendipity Beach. Tacky restaurants and grimy bars boasted western food and drinks deals, exhaling the stale aroma of alcohol and urine, as their patrons gazed blearily out of the shadow. We got to the town, made some purchases, and got out as quickly as we could. It was a relief to return to our paradise, and I couldn’t help pitying the people staying in Sihanoukville, when Otres is only a little way further up the coast. I spent my last night gazing up at the moon from my bed, battling with the desire to stay in paradise, and the compulsion to move on.

I can definitely say that I’ve relaxed over the past few days – to the point where I’ve found myself sinking away from purpose, obligation, and reason. Beaches are more enjoyable when you have people to hang out with, and I’ve loved being part of such a fun-loving, ever-joking, belly-laughing group. It was hard to say goodbye, but even harder to believe that we won’t cross paths again.

Learning to relax.

Kep is a sleepy seaside town thirty minutes away from Kampot. I took a minibus to the ‘centre’, and on this occasion deigned to let myself be transported to the hostel. After a couple of attempts I managed to rent a bicycle (I’ve learnt that if someone says something isn’t possible, available, or close by, it usually is) and cycled past a kitch crab statue to the beach.

I bought a coconut, and sat supping its milk as the fine sand blew into my hair and eyes. After recovering from the mortification of asking a complete stranger to put suncream on my back, I started to chill out, alternating between Victor Hugo’s ‘Les Misèrables’, and brief naps. I find relaxing extremely difficult, especially on beaches. I pedantically time how long I’ve been lying on each side, so as not to burn unevenly, and I spend a lot of time thinking about how I should be enjoying myself, but really how I’m very hot, and sweaty, and sandy, and self-conscious, and worried about leaving my stuff unattended, and burning. After a couple of hours I gave up and cycled to the crab market. Shacks of corrugated iron were daringly poised above the impatient waves, teasing them with the inevitability of eventually tumbling into the briny depths. These unassuming shacks were in fact restaurants; I resolved to try one out. In the evening I returned with my friend Chiara, who I met while canyoning in Dalat. We watched the sunset from the pier, and then had a beer as the sky transmorphed through a kaleidoscope, eventually tiring and melting into darkness. When we were unable to contain our anticipation further, we went next door to try the local specialty – crab with Kampot pepper. Presented with two gargantuan plates of crustacean, we sank into heaven with every bite; the subtle flavour of the meaty crab augmented and improved by the perfectly balanced sauce. We couldn’t have been more content.

Fully satisfied, we walked back into town – a necessity that was rendered more exciting by the absence of streetlights. The universe exploded into view, like a glass shattered into a billion pieces. The stars seemed to roll over our heads, as if they were being shown on a projector; they seemed impossibly bright, and impossibly close. We eventually reached civilisation, and the light pollution forced the zenith back into obscurity. We hailed a tuk-tuk, and got back to a hostel, where a very French party was beginning to flicker into life. I’m an expert sleeper, and managed to maintain unconsciousnness through most of it. I was occasionally roused by a particularly enthusiastic chorus, but otherwise remained peacefully oblivious.

The following morning I took a boat to the confusingly named Rabbit Island. There are no rabbits, and it’s not shaped like a rabbit, but maybe there is some esoteric reasoning behind its appellation. The tiny boat deposited us on the sand, and I quickly found a bungalow in which to drop my things. The flimsy bamboo walls revealed furtive glimpses of the sea outside, and of my own personal hammock swinging in the breeze. I met a French group, and managed to persuade Cècile and Sarah to join me on an intrepid circumnavigation of the island. We stumbled over jagged rocks, fought our way through clinging ferns, and waded through squelching kelp to find a deserted beach, occupied only by a couple gathering their fishing nets. We swam in the shallow waters, awestruck by beauty and solitude. We returned from our sojourn two hours later, and I spent the rest of the day swinging in a hammock, until a dusky pink strip descend on the shoreline, plummeting us into darkness.

I woke up at six, and swung mechanically as I watched the sun begin to peep over the jungle, and the island flicker into life. A family of playful puppies sat with me as staff swept the sandy pathways and replenished the empty drinks cabinet. I decided against taking a morning boat back to the mainland, and instead worked on my ‘beach-relaxation’ skills, which are visibly improving. I got back to Kep in the evening, and enjoyed a delicious vegetable curry with some expats (picking up a few local tips at the same time), before chilling out in the hostel with some more Gallic travellers – I’m speaking a lot more French than I’d anticipated; at least I’m using my brain in some capacity.

The following morning I visited the local market, on the recommendation of the expats. I had noodle soup for breakfast, with diverse meat-parts that rendered every mouthful a surprise. As I was walking back to the hostel I saw an old pier, constructed of mismatched planks that shifted tauntingly under my weight. A group of young girls laughed at my instability, before taking my hand and offering to share their breakfast. They posed for the camera, laughing as their hair blew into their faces. Then it was time for me to leave.

It’s been a very chilled few days. I like the ambience of Kep a lot – it feels very authentic. The absence of WiFi, herds of cows crossing the road, and children playing with kites made of plastic bags have made me feel a lot more like an active observer than a traveller – which is really what I want to be. I’m learning to slow my pace, and to enjoy the luxuries of time and leisure, but it does feel unnatural – even after three months. My next stops are also going to be beachy – perhaps after a bit more practice I’ll be able to relax like a normal person.

More mud, and a bit of beach.

Another sleepless sleeper bus brought me to Nha Trang, just as the sun was rising over the South China Sea. A pinky glow stretched across the waves as they gushed into the shore with a soothing regularity, forming a stark contrast with the driver’s erratic changes of direction. I met a couple of Scottish girls who were booked into the same hostel, so we walked together. We dumped our bags, shovelled down some breakfast, and then made some enquiries about a mud bath.

We caught a ‘bus’ that was more closely related to a golf buggy, and bombed along the road, waving to children on the motorbikes that were overtaking us. After about twenty minutes we arrived at I Resort, a new spa complex dripping in luxury and Russians. Ali, Laura and I put our things in a locker, and then walked through to the baths. A wooden tub was filled with warm mud; we cautiously slid into the goop. Unlike Sapa mud, this didn’t harbour an interesting odour. The greeny brown slime felt silky against our skin, and we soon relaxed into sensation.

After about half an hour, the mud was getting cool, so we clambered out and rinsed off, before getting pounded by the waterfalls and sprayed by the ‘hydrotherapy cave’. We then secured our loungers in the sun, and crashed, to make up for our journey the previous night. A few hours dissolved, and we decided it was time to head back to the beach. The shuttle dropped us across the road from the sand, and a nice man herded us over the triple carriageway with a condescending smile. We found a spot and watched the sun disappear behind the high rise hotels that guard the front.

Later that evening, we explored the tat of the night market, which was identical to the tat at the other markets that I’ve visited. As we turned the corner we came across a performance showing the different masks and face-paints of traditional Vietnamese theatre. Four characters leaped around the square, their gorgeous costumes and impossible shoes making their acrobatics even more impressive. We then grabbed a bowl of pho and headed back for an early night.

This morning the sun was burning again. We hired bikes and headed north on a terrifying road, punctuated by chaotic roundabouts, to the Po Nagar Cham Towers. The beautiful red brick structures were unlike anything I’ve seen so far; ornate yet practical as they shielded worshippers in their cool, cavernous shrines. As we rested in the shade from the piercing heat, we admired the magnificent view of the harbour, the distance making the traffic seem to flow organically across the bridges.

We got back on our bikes and successfully cycled to the Long Son Pagoda. The pagoda itself was fairly standard, but behind it loomed a gigantic white Buddha, looking out across the city. We stood in awe of its sheer size, and read the plaques dedicated to Thich Quang Duc, and six other monks who self-immolated in 1963. A ‘monk’ then emerged from the shade, told me to bow (which I did) and took me round to see the gravestones set behind the Buddha. He then asked for a fee, but as I doubted his legitimacy (his head wasn’t shaved, and he was wearing a shirt and jeans) I deferred my gift, deciding to wait until I could be sure my money would be received where it was needed.

At this point Ali and Laura headed back to the beach, while I visited the Long Thanh Gallery. Mr Thanh welcomed me in, and offered me a cigarette, which I politely declined. I then surveyed the stunning black and white images that he had captured. The stories of laughing children, working mothers, and gossiping old women, poured out from his work. I was particularly taken by the agile movement of a young boy hopping across the backs of water buffalo as they followed a stream, and the portrait of one woman whose eyes burned out from her papery skin, exuding wisdom, fortitude, and weariness. I hope one day I’ll have enough money to justify buying these photos and having them shipped. I then went to the Do Dien Khanh Gallery, which had similar subjects, but less of the artistry of Mr. Thanh. The light lacked mysticism, and the faces were harder to read, but there was still an impressive collection on display. I then returned my bike and went to the beach, however my inclination to relaxation was thwarted by the spitting rain. I chilled out at the hostel before heading to the cinema with some French-Canadians to watch the new Hunger Games, gilded with Vietnamese subtitles.

I was warned before I arrived that Nha Trang was seedy and full of Russians. The latter was true, but I’ve had a great couple of days. I’ve had a lot of new experiences, which have rejuvenated my enthusiasm and reminded me that I have a lot left to see. Its also been nice to chill out – something that I often forget to do. Two days was enough, but I’m so glad that I had the chance to form my own opinion. That’s an important lesson in itself.