With our $7 ferry ticket clutched in hand, we arrived at the pier for the 9am crossing. Only us turned up. Excellent. Our own private boat.

Correction: speedboat. The kind that makes you wonder if your teeth will still be aligned when you arrive. The kind of luxury you don’t expect for seven dollars.

Thirty minutes of sea breeze battering our faces later, we were skimming into Koh Rong Sanloem, the quieter little sister of Koh Rong.

The boat dropped us at Rumi Pier on Saracen Bay. Quiet. Peaceful. A complete contrast to the chaos we’d just left behind. Much more our pace. Craig had booked five nights at Kamaku Bungalows, tucked away on the far side of the island. The catch? The only way to get there was on foot.

The Jungle Trek

Cue jungle trek.

Uphill. Rough terrain. Roots laid out like booby traps. Humidity thick enough to chew. I carried the hand luggage; Craig carried everything else. It was bloody hard going. Every step felt like a test of character we hadn’t revised for.

This was no gentle stroll—more a full‑blown jungle march, straight up the hill and sharply down the other side.

Huge boulders tangled with slick roots, polished by relentless rain, turned the path into a mud slide. The “steps” were so high that sometimes the only option was to sit down and slide on your arse, dignity abandoned somewhere near the summit.

Craig became He‑Man in that moment. He carried both big bags, never once complaining, never once faltering. His determination got us through that brutal trek. Without him, we wouldn’t have made it.

And then came the real enemy: mosquitoes. Not your casual, half‑hearted biters. These were huge, organised, and operating in squads. They had a rota system—one squad drained us dry while the next lined up for their shift, wings whining like tiny chainsaws. The moment we slowed, they swarmed—ears, ankles, any exposed skin not actively marinating in repellent. It felt less like a walk and more like a survival challenge: carry the bags, dodge the roots, fend off the flying vampires.

It was brutal—but the moment we arrived, it was instantly worth every muddy, bitten step.

When we finally stumbled out of the trees—sweat‑soaked, bitten, and plastered in mud—the sight of Kamaku Bungalows felt like discovering El Dorado.

Life at Kamaku

Owned by a Spanish couple, Kamaku welcomed us with big smiles and homemade lemonade. After that trek, it felt borderline emotional. Our little wooden hut sat just metres from the beach—the kind of place you instantly know will ruin future accommodation for you.

The hut itself was simple: a bed and a small table. Toilets and showers were shared—not just with other guests, but with the local mosquito population, who seemed to think they’d paid for all‑inclusive. At night, our bowl for washing sand off our feet became a makeshift potty. Squatting at 3am with ants nibbling your ankles and mosquitoes biting your bum is highly entertaining—mainly for the person who isn’t desperate for a wee.

The room was £31 per night. Food on this side of the island was pricier than the mainland simply because everything arrives by boat: beer $2, cocktails $5, fruit platter $3.50, burger $10, Khmer dishes $6, salads $6, sandwiches $7.

The island has a fascinating past—once a quiet fishing community before tourism crept in—but it still feels raw and largely untouched. At night, fishing boats lit up the horizon, their engines droning through the darkness like distant Apache helicopters.

Days slipped into an easy rhythm of swimming, snorkelling, reading, eating, and doing absolutely nothing useful. Meals rotated between Kamaku, Tiki Bar, and Paradise, each with its own laid‑back charm.

Storms, Critters, and Pig Roasts

The first two nights delivered storms so intense the rain battered our hut like a drum solo from a band that never rehearsed. Sleep became optional. But even lying awake, listening to the sea rage and the wind howl, felt strangely exhilarating—like being briefly allowed into the island’s wild inner life.

Our hut came with a resident gecko—enormous, silent, and oddly reassuring. The crickets, less so, chirped relentlessly like a malfunctioning festive playlist. One night Kamaku roasted a pig and half the beach turned up. Cocktails flowed, laughter drifted across the sand, and the atmosphere was spot on. Our plate was more bone than pork, but the laughter and cocktails were the real feast.

Sunsets and Monkey Business

Sunsets here were pure magic—fiery skies melting into the sea, best enjoyed with a cocktail in hand. Internet was virtually nonexistent, which turned out to be a gift. Days stretched, conversations slowed, and the outside world quietly faded away.

Then came the monkeys. A family appeared one morning, including a tiny baby clinging tightly to its mother. One youngster misjudged a leap from a roof and landed with a thud—a hard but necessary lesson. They were hunting beach nuts—whatever those are. Craig tried to help, but apparently monkey etiquette is stricter than we realised. Lesson learned: never interfere with monkey snacks.

Leaving (Reluctantly)

Koh Rong Sanloem isn’t polished, convenient, or predictable—and that’s exactly its charm. It gets under your skin in ways that linger long after the bites have healed. We left salt‑streaked, slightly feral, and already nostalgic for the storms, the darkness, and the simplicity of island life.

Some places impress you. Others quietly claim a bit of you. Sanloem did the latter—and thanks to Craig’s He‑Man grit, we got to love every minute of it.