Kampot – A Riverside retreat

Bones disintegrated but spirits still high, we had completed our partially paved journey from Phnom Penh to Kampot. As we arrived the city sprawled itself lazily along the Kampot river, the slowly degrading 19^thcentury French colonial architecture oozing an insouciant charm that hung in the air. We breathed it in, but it was nothing more than a distraction. Our first footfalls on the wide streets weren’t those of wonder or appreciation, they were footsteps weighted by hunger’s leaden burden. After skirting a roundabout dedicated to a smelly fruit, we found somewhere to lay down our heavy bags and relax while consuming whatever it took for me to feel well with the world again. 

Papa’s Café was one of the many cafés tucked away from the roadside along the empty streets of Kampot. Having been brought plenty of free cold water to revitalise our languishing appearances, we started to relax among the homely atmosphere of the café. Run by an old couple from somewhere vaguely Scandinavian but hiring local people, the immediate impression I got from them was they loved Kampot and Cambodia. The man was learning Khmer at every opportunity and his wife directed operations in the kitchen, but they seemed totally relaxed in their tiny slice of paradise. After a lifetime deliberating over the incredible menu choices, we ordered and the service proceeded much like the town itself, unconcerned with time’s indomitable march onwards. Our soul destroying foodless existence trudged on for a while longer but the fact we were comfortable, cool and relaxed brought us some solace. 

Eventually, I got to tuck into a truly enormous velvety egg pancake served with marinated beef and fried veggies. The intense happiness that permeated through my body sent my mind swimming in the ethereal light of a utopian plane of existence. Who needs psychedelic drugs when you’ve got impeccably marinated beef? 

Afterwards I ordered some warm coconut cakes (which were served with an assortment of homemade jams and syrups) and a well-balanced fruit salad to finish off the lunch perfectly. Being someone who’s mood hangs in the balance at every meal, where lasting disappointment is only a mouthful away, I take my food seriously. I’m the opposite of a picky eater, I’ll eat anything under the sun, but I do find myself judging my food and thinking how I could improve it. Therefore, my experience in Papa’s was a rare one. Everything I ordered was perfect. 

We walked from Papa’s and away from the centre of Kampot to get to our hostel Mad Monkey which is a popular chain of party hostels in Cambodia. Excited for whatever the evening may have in store for us, we had a relaxed day swimming and attempting to play pool on the worst table I’ve ever used and then we wandered about town to find food. However, the evening at the hostel didn’t bring much excitement so we set our focus on the morning. 

Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers

Despite assurances made throughout the entirety of this first day in Kampot, we had no idea about Kampot pepper and its supposed culinary superiority. Nevertheless, we had organised a pepper plantation tour and set off with our friendly rickshaw driver for the day. First, we went to a tiny locally run plantation within the city, there we were shown the process of growing pepper and allowed to try some straight off the plant. After Brendan had bought some for his family we hopped back in our rickshaw and continued our journey.

As soon as our rickshaw reached the edge of Kampot the tarmac gave way to a bumpy dirt road. We quickly turned off this main “highway” and onto smaller dirt roads that led us deeper into the bucolic heartland of rural Cambodia. The somewhat grand buildings of the city had completely disappeared, replaced by simple wooden houses on stilts that watched over the expansive rice fields. The ride was bumpy but completely absorbing, watching life unfold in the small villages felt special and the simple beauty couldn’t have been any further from the interwoven complexities of city life we had spent so much time exploring over the last few weeks. Eventually we stopped to see some caves and a viewpoint. Much like at the Fairytale Canyon on the shores of Issyk-kul, we were told multiple rocks looked like animals which I suppose if you had cataracts in both eyes and a very loose grasp on animal basic animal morphologies then they did. 

We continued with our rickshaw journey, eventually stopping at the shores of a large lake. Almost certain this wasn’t the plantation we were heading to we got out and looked at the expanse of water called ‘Secret Lake’. To be perfectly honest it wasn’t all that beautiful or interesting to look at so I was a little confused as to why we had stopped, we got back in the rickshaw and yet our driver didn’t start up his bike. He turned and told us that the road we were currently sat on had been built using forced labour during the Khmer Rouge rule and it was in fact an earthen embankment dam. The history behind the lake suddenly made the scene more poignant and impressive, as we imagined the scene without any water. Our driver continued to explain that his father had worked on the dam and had seen hundreds die in its construction only for their bodies to be interred in the road itself or nearby in mass graves. His father had been an educated man working for the government but his strong ties to his village community saved his life when the Khmer Rouge came into power. As the regime laid siege to the intellectual community and sought to drag Cambodia back to a solely agricultural society, the village rallied behind our driver’s father and convinced the Khmer Rouge that he was nothing but a dedicated farmer. After the Khmer Rouge’s defeat and ousting from power in 1979, they retreated to the jungles that they had formed their party in and continued to assert their ideologies onto the rural communities until the mid 90s. Therefore, in a time of political uncertainty as the Cambodian-Vietnamese war continued, the rural communities we had been driving through continued to live under the thumb of sporadic Khmer Rouge interventions.

La Plantation

A few kilometres further and we arrived at the peppercorn plantation we had come to see. After being pointed the way we arrived at the magnificent main building. The entirely wooden structure had been spotted by the owners years before and was going to be demolished so they bought it and moved it piece by piece to the plantation. Inside, we relaxed in the shade and were given pepper spiced snacks while we waited for our free tour to begin. 

All in all, our tour didn’t provide much extra knowledge after our little city pepper farm excursion earlier in the day, but the scale of the operation at La Plantation was impressive and we got to try more varieties of pepper straight from the plant. The thing that surprised us the most about the whole experience was the extent to which we could taste the differences between the pepper varieties. This gave us a new-found sense superiority that sommeliers and other insufferable know-it-alls must feel. Sommeliers, you keep your heavily embellished tasting notes to yourself and I’ll keep my equally impressive and sought after pepper knowledge to myself. 

La Plantation’s social projects also impressed us but unfortunately the utterly ridiculous amount of pepper I had eaten in a day seemed to occupy all of my body’s attention. While my brain processed the pungency of the peppers and what reasons could’ve compelled me to ingest so much of a basic seasoning, it shoved all the wholesome information on social projects by the wayside. So, if you want more information (i.e. any information) just go to Cambodia (or their website). We returned to the main building and munched on even more pepper and pepper spice blends in a full-on tasting session. Afterwards, we showed an immense level of self-restraint to stop ourselves buying something off the menu or something in the shop. While everything looked and smelt amazing we were very aware that we could get food in town for a quarter of the price and another hit of any kind of pepper might actually kill us. 

Shakira’s shabby tribute act 

We drove back as the sun was setting and reached town in time for dinner, so we said goodbye to our driver and began the hunt for scran. The hunt lasted no more than 10 minutes as we found ourselves back in the same restaurant as the night before, where I had had a Massaman curry. On our first visit to the restaurant it did look a bit terrible. The menus had bad pictures and the vibe was that of imminent disappointment from the low budget tourist food but after my first spoonful of curry I was a man obsessed. So, on our return I had the same dish which is an action that Brendan often rebukes, but if you’ve tasted perfection why risk getting mediocrity? (This philosophy was also used when we returned to Papa’s for another lunch).

On our final evening in Kampot, we decided to treat ourselves. We had walked past the fancy restaurant ‘Rikitikitavi’ on many a stroll along the riverfront but never dared to enter. This time looking at the menu we were surprised that the prices weren’t as horrific as we had expected but this wasn’t the clincher. The thing that roped us in was the two for one happy hour deal on cocktails. Sold; hook, line and sinker. We embraced our brief moment in the upper echelons of society for the evening. We sipped cocktails to our heart’s content, I ordered three courses of truly delicious food and, well, the cocktails took their toll and we got unapologetically drunk. If you’re going to do it, do it in style.

We returned to the hostel feeling merry, then we once again we got embroiled in a beer pong tournament. To our utter shock we tossed aside much more skilled opposition, letting their trash talk wash off us like water off a duck’s back. Acting like this was just a another day at the office, we kept our cool and won the second beer pong competition we had entered on this trip and continued drinking (Hanoi being the previous scene of unjustifiable beer pong domination). The hostel had some fun people but more that I found obnoxious, so I slowed my pace and retired to my bunk. Brendan on the other hand had decided to go out, he had wet the whistle now it was time to soak it. He had gone out with a couple of English guys and Americans but in the early hours of the morning he had returned alone and inexplicably topless. Seeing that I was now awake, he decided to channel his inner Shakira and practically gyrate in the middle of the dorm. Thinking that I would enjoy giving this sweaty drunk mess a hug for his dancing efforts, he climbed up to my bunk and I proceeded to gently keep him off my nice clean bed. Feeling slighted he skulked down to his bed and passed out. 

Final thoughts

Kampot provided a relaxed interlude in the South-East Asia saga. We reignited our self belief that we could actually be decent at beer pong, we ate some incredible food and balanced out that incredible food with an indecent amount of pepper. Kampot isn’t one of the most memorable stops on our big trip but there was plenty more to do that we didn’t investigate, all things considered I’d still recommend it just for Papa’s food. 

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