We started the morning with coffee, because without it Craig is not fit for public consumption. Then came the sand trudge to Eden Pier, where, for a brief and glorious moment, we were the only souls in sight. It was peaceful in the way early mornings sometimes are, when you briefly believe the world might be organised after all.

Naturally, this illusion lasted about ten minutes. By the twenty-minute mark, at least fifty people had materialised, turning up in tractors as you do. It was as though someone had pressed the “spawn tourists” button: bags, hats, sunburn, the lot.

The Ferry and the Art of Lowered Expectations

The BUVA Sea arrived on time, which was encouraging, though this optimism evaporated the moment we saw the number of passengers and the mountain of luggage waiting to board. We were herded on anyway, like cattle who had paid for the privilege.

It’s always slightly unnerving when a boat is clearly over capacity, the dials don’t work, and the luggage is overflowing down the aisles like a slow-moving avalanche. But this is Cambodia, where the national motto might as well be: It’ll probably be fine.

Once liberated from the boat and the engine fumes, we wandered off and found a tiny bakery. Craig had his first proper coffee in a month, plus an almond and raisin bun that he consumed with the enthusiasm of a man who has been living on hope and instant shit coffee granules.

Back on the Mainland

After nearly two weeks on a tourist island — cool breezes, sanitised menus, everything designed to reassure the Western digestive system — arriving back in Sihanoukville was a reminder of where we truly were.

Cambodia: hot, humid, unapologetically real, and full of food vendors selling things that make you pause, tilt your head, and think, Goodness, I hope that’s not what I think it is.

With two hours to spare, we decided to walk to the train station. It was only thirty minutes, but Cambodia has a firm stance against pavements, so we picked our way along the roadside like two people trying to avoid landmines while also not being run over by every vehicle ever invented.

A bit harrowing but oddly interesting, as we passed truckers having lunch directly on the railway tracks, a salon performing what can only be described as a mop-bucket hair wash, a mobile tuk-tuk puncture repair service, a rickshaw upholsterer working under a tarp, and more dogs than seemed strictly necessary.

Life Along the Tracks

Families were living right on the tracks — children playing, laundry flapping, pots bubbling away. Life unfolding inches from where the trains rumble through, as if this were the most natural arrangement in the world.

It was domesticity with a side of imminent danger. It was equal parts fascinating and heartbreaking.

Sihanoukville itself has been reshaped at astonishing speed by large-scale Chinese investment — casinos, high-rise hotels, and infrastructure projects that loom over everything. Much of it caters to Chinese businesses and visitors, creating a visible cultural and economic divide.

Meanwhile, many Cambodians, displaced by redevelopment or priced out by rising rents, end up in informal settlements like the makeshift homes along the railway tracks. Gleaming towers on one side, precarious living on the other. It’s the kind of contrast that makes you feel guilty for complaining about coffee granules.

Cows, Backpacks, and Plastic Bags

The train arrived on time but left an hour late, which felt about right. It took two hours to reach Kampot, honking its horn most of the way to shoo animals and children off the tracks. It only stopped two or three times while cows considered whether they felt like moving.

Inside, the carriage was a mix of tourists and Cambodians. You didn’t need to look at faces — just look up. Above every tourist, backpacks dangled and swayed like restless sloths. Above every local, rustling plastic bags bulged with little cartons of food.

Cambodia may well be the takeaway capital of the world, perhaps because many homes lack cooking facilities. By the end of the journey, you feel as though you’ve eaten an entire Cambodian meal simply by inhaling the aromas.

The countryside was lovely, though once again marred by litter, which seems to be the national confetti, as if the nation had collectively decided the earth needed more colour.

Kampot and the Luxury of Hot Water

We arrived in Kampot and caught a rickshaw to our hotel, The Cozy Corner. From the outside, it looked awful — cheap, tacky, and the sort of place you’d cross the road to avoid, or book only if you’d lost a bet.

Reception didn’t improve matters, with décor that suggested someone had last updated it during the golden age of fax machines.

But our room on the third floor (no lift, naturally) was a lovely surprise. Very clean, a massive bed, and a bathroom with actual hot water. We haven’t had a hot shower for two weeks, so this felt like winning a small but meaningful lottery.

The colour scheme was a little dated, but the room was bright, and I cannot abide dark, dingy rooms, so it felt like a triumph.

A quick shower, a bite to eat, and then bed.

Tomorrow, Kampot gets its chance to impress.

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