It felt like the dreamy old days, gripping a battered copy of Southeast Asia on a Shoestring as the train moved out of Phnom Penh. I passed five lovely, languorous hours in the open doorway at the end of the car, forearms in the sun, feet dangling above the tracks, studying the stubbly rice fields long past their green best, the slender sugar palms, and the blue and pink lotus flowers blossoming out of the mud.
Although Royal Railway Cambodia reinstated this route only a few years ago, today there’s absolutely nothing modern about it. When the train arrived at the sleepy town of Doun Kaev, I alighted to buy sliced green mango and sticky rice packaged in palm leaves from platform vendors; then, after the whistle had blown and the brakes were released, I pulled myself back up onto the moving train. It traveled so slowly that we sometimes stopped and rolled backward for no apparent reason.
At my destination, the southern city of Kampot, I found myself standing in the hot sunshine, almost alone. There was a muddled sign listing stations in scattershot fashion, a smiling young ticket seller at a cubbyhole of a window, and a few travelers moseying around as if they had nowhere to go next. Tuk-tuk drivers asked if I needed a ride; when I declined, they pressed their palms together and bowed in the traditional sampeah greeting.
I first came here 20 years ago. This time, as I wandered the tangle of streets lined with Chinese shop-house architecture and faded French colonial villas at its center, past the strip of nondescript bars and restaurants serving fried fish and curries by the river, I was struck to find that Kampot did not appear too different from how it was then. It’s a funny little place, almost 19 miles upstream from the sea, a small, once-important administrative center that lacks the hubris of a maritime port (although rumor has it that it’s been earmarked for foreign investment). Its limbo status has long been its allure, inducing those passing through to stick around—the place is a hub for opt-out expats, who over the years have opened go-slow cafés, art galleries, and secondhand bookshops. It’s impossible not to love Kampot, while also being a little puzzled by it.
Most travelers don’t get this far, though. If they visit Cambodia, they jet in and out of the UNESCO World Heritage sites at Angkor, at most continuing down to the bustling riverside capital of Phnom Penh to visit Tuol Sleng Prison and the Killing Fields, monuments to the genocide that the Khmer Rouge inflicted on the country more than 40 years ago, when a fifth of the population was killed by the regime in its efforts to establish an agrarian, classless state.
But a number of upscale hotels have been opening along the coastal belt, drawing visitors away from the regular circuit, and I wanted to find out how this region was destined to change; places such as Kep, an hour’s drive from Kampot, toward Chhak Kep Bay. I’ve always loved this backwater spot, less a town than a collection of crab shacks, market stalls, and tethered fishing boats. Called Kep-Sur-Mer by the French at the time of Indochina, the 60-odd years of colonial rule that lasted until 1954, this was once a decadent weekend destination for civil servants, royalty, and the wealthy Khmer elite. Their holiday homes are still here, shaped by an architecture style known as New Khmer—a mélange of tropical postmodernism, Art Deco, Bauhaus, and Le Corbusier, designed mostly by protégés of the visionary architect Vann Molyvann, who died in 2017 at age 90. Today they are abandoned, overgrown by creepers and tagged with graffiti, and pockmarked by Khmer Rouge bullets from the 1970s, when Pol Pot’s regime was in full force.
I’ve long loved Molyvann’s unique architecture for the acute way it represents the country’s history, and have winced every time another one of his historic buildings in Phnom Penh has been razed in the name of real estate development. In Kep, I wandered among the fractured concrete ruins he inspired here, designs that prioritize natural light and the movement of air, floating staircases that lead to flat roofs where there would have been breezy all-night parties, with drinking and dancing, and the occasional carouser falling off and landing in a bush—or so I imagined. In the tiers of rotting rooms, there are fragments of hand-painted tiles and the laundry of squatting families strung up between oversized windows. I came across a brood of puppies, yapping territorially. Locals told me a few villas had been purchased since I was last here, but there was little sign of ownership.
One set of buildings brought back from the brink is at Knai Bang Chatt, snapped up in 2006 by a Belgian traveler named Jef Moons, an effusive and evidently impulsive type with a penchant for big projects. I remember visiting soon after he bought it, when there was a sign touting a hotel and a sailing club, but it was deserted except for a solitary Frenchman at the bar. We drank Pastis and talked about land prices, crab season, and the potential of this place to draw in tourists.
Now the Knai Bang Chatt hotel is full, made up of three Molyvann-esque buildings previously owned by the head of customs, the governor, and a relative of the king. There’s a busy restaurant with tables and chairs along the jetty, while the Sailing Club, once such in name only, harbors a fleet of Hobie Cats. Moons, tall and lean, points to a small island across the sea called Koh Karang. “I want to create a marine national park out there,” he says, full of excitement. “But we must also generate alternative incomes for fishermen. It has to be sustainable, otherwise it’ll never work.”
Moons grasps acutely that this coastline, like so many others in the region, is gradually succumbing to the commercial pressures of development. Still, for now, coming here is about kicking back and taking in the traditional coastal way of life. Each morning I watch the fishermen dressed in loose-fitting clothes return, their baskets full of Kep’s famous blue swimmer crabs. In the row of seafront shacks and restaurants east of the hotel, they serve them steamed with fresh peppercorns, a revered seasoning the French called poivre de Kampot, which used to grace the table of every self-respecting restaurant in Paris and was awarded geographical-indicator status—the same designation that means only Champagne from Champagne can carry that name.
This is why I return to Cambodia—for its complicated history, its resilient people, and their remarkably gentle disposition. But others will come for the dozens of islands out on the hazy horizon. There have always been low-key guesthouses and backpacker bungalows here; I remember spending weeks on Koh Thonsáy (called Rabbit Island by visitors) and, farther west, Koh Rong, when my budget was just a dollar a day. I’d pass long afternoons in a hammock under a palm tree, reading dog-eared books that had been swapped among travelers and weighed down our backpacks, the hours punctuated by endless lime juices and bowls of fried rice, and dashes to the sea for long swims—that is, before the waters became threatened by overfishing and single-use plastic flotsam.
For decades, the Cambodian coast managed to retain its natural contours, largely owing to its imperfections—a raw, rocky shoreline and churning waters, with few beaches. The new Six Senses on Koh Krabey and the Alila Villas on Koh Russey will likely change that. Their aim is to attract weary, templed-out travelers, rather than lose them to beaches in the Gulf of Thailand. It’s impossible to compete with the cerulean waters and the soft white sand of Thailand’s Koh Samet and Koh Kood, but Cambodia has something else—a peeling back of time. On this trip, my watch stopped as I cruised between the islands, and I smiled at what that might suggest.
Both hotels focus on wellness, offering guests an antidote to the history lessons at Angkor, where multiple-day excursions can demand a lot of walking and reflection. Neither property was fully open when I arrived; workers were still pouring concrete, raising roofs, and laying down pipework. At Six Senses, I headed to the makeshift water-sports center down on the shore of this steepsided, craggy outcrop and circumnavigated the island by surf ski, a kind of slender kayak with steering. It was liberating to be alone on the water; I felt like I could continue all the way across the South China Sea to somewhere uncharted.
At the hotel’s hilltop spa, I spent time with the delightful Lackhena “Lucky” Chum, who taught me how to mix local ingredients such as lemongrass, turmeric, and Kampot pepper to create potions and poultices, which she packaged up for me to take home. “Add this to a bowl of hot water for a foot bath,” she said, holding up a jar. “Make time for yourself.” While the southern coast may soon swell with visitors, a trickle of them will also be coming for the interior. About a decade ago, the respected Cambodian philanthropist and hotelier Sokoun Chanpreda and the Bangkok-based hotel designer Bill Bensley attended a logging auction. Their covert goal was not to come in and cut down the rosewood, ironwood, and teak trees growing in this gently undulating landscape but to save the 850-acre parcel of hardwood forest hemmed in by the South Cardamom and Kirirom national parks.
The pair scored the winning bid. However, the government threatened to take back the land if they would not “conduct economic development.” Their original output includes Bensley’s daring, theatrical designs for hotels like the Siam, in Bangkok, and Capella Ubud, in Bali; and Chanpreda’s four beloved Shinta Mani properties, with their free hospitality-training school for disadvantaged youth. Given their backgrounds, the two men did not hesitate to set about drawing up plans for a tented camp.
A few hours’ drive from the coast, along a road lined with commercial ventures and industrial buildings, my driver pulled off the highway. A dirt track led to an incongruously high platform built in the forest, which I reached by climbing a twisting staircase. From this high perch, I stared down a wire that ended a fifth of a mile away somewhere in the trees. It might sound gimmicky, but sailing by zip line above the canopy—slicing through the humid air, feeling the freshness on my face, and moving above this great expanse of forest as birds rose up from the treetops—I couldn’t help but fall under the spell of the wilderness. I landed next to a small bar by a waterfall, and even before I’d removed my harness I was offered a shot of tequila in my iced pineapple cordial.
Shinta Mani Wild (see this year’s Hot List) is not just a hotel thrust into the forest but also a flamboyantly designed camp, as eccentric as it is classic, like it might have been pegged here for passing royalty or a celebrity back in the day. Sumptuous double loungers and leather club chairs armed with binoculars and birding books are arranged around a waterfall next to painted antique wooden horses. The tented rooms are seductively vintage, overlooking the cascading river and a jumble of props—faded framed photographs of Jacqueline Kennedy studying the bas-reliefs at Angkor, dressmaking mannequins, metal trunks, and piles of antique books. Not a single tree was chopped down in the making of this place, so funny little holes puncture the decking and tent material to allow branches to pass through, grow, and swing about in the breeze.
I went fly-fishing with Tulga, Bensley’s personal guide in Mongolia, who’ll be coming here for stints throughout the year. We were joined by the general manager, Sangjay Choegyal, who grew up in rural Nepal, where he developed an instinctive feel for the bush. The three of us sat on rocks by the waterfall pool, casting into the gloam and hoping for a bite from a Waanders’s hardlipped barb or hampala, sometimes using a classic rod, sometimes the purist’s choice, a tenkara, without a reel. Choegyal caught something small and whiskered, which we released back into the water, while I inevitably tangled my fly in an overhanging branch. Looking around in silence, I was filled with wonder to find somewhere like this—without crowds, kiosks, or souvenir stands—in Southeast Asia, where the environment has been so roundly shattered in places.
Above all, I loved my time with Munny, the soft-spoken head naturalist, who talks about wild elephants and gibbons in the same tender tone that parents use to refer to their newborns. He sets camera traps around the property and recently captured an image of a leopard cat with kittens. I rode on the back of his motorcycle as part of an anti-poaching team with the NGO Wildlife Alliance, which is trying to spread its conservation efforts throughout the surrounding national parks. The patrolmen looked like a ragtag bunch with their Honda scooters and rusty AK-47s, but I soon saw that there’s nothing like conviction to get you through the day. As we motored along the main road, they spotted poachers driving in the opposite direction, so we made a U-turn and gave chase. We were never going to catch them, but our persistence forced the thieves to chuck their booty; we stopped and scoured the bushes, but we never did find what we worried might be a pangolin or porcupine in a sack. We had more success deeper in the forest, where we discovered a half-dozen wire snares targeting wild pig and civet cats. We saw a site where illegal loggers had chainsawed down a hardwood tree, and later came across an entire poachers’ camp. I watched the team prepare the gasoline to burn it to the ground and pleaded with them to find another way, but Munny replied that there was too much to carry out. “We’d only burn the stuff later,” he said. I silenced myself, humbled by their efforts and embarrassed by my interference, while they set fire to the camp, watching the plastic shrink with the acrid smoke swirling around us.
As we drove back to camp along the main road, past billboards proclaiming the next middle-class residential complex and a new highway, I reflected on how unbearably fragile the future seems here, especially with such rapid growth spurred by increasing overseas interest. I returned to my tent by the river—more of a trickle at this time of year, but with beautifully rounded boulders strewn about—and watched a stock-still heron silhouetted against the dark trees. There is always hope, I thought—which has been Cambodia’s script for as long as I can remember.
Where to Stay
Rosewood Phnom Penh
On the 25th to 39th floors of the capital’s second-tallest building, this opening, also in our Hot List, resets hotel standards in the city with its Japanese restaurant and 37th-floor terrace bar.
Knai Bang Chatt
This 18-room hotel on the southeast coast cleverly connects guests with the local culture and community. Its sustainability manager, Ehren Garner, leads guided walks around the organic gardens.
Song Saa
This pair of islands linked by a walkway is a 40-minute boat ride from Sihanoukville port. One island has been left untouched; the other has overwater villas as well as lodgings scattered in the forest.
Alila Villas Koh Russey
The sleek new 63-room property, which is just 10 minutes by boat from the mainland, faces a strip of copper-colored sand that is one of the best beaches in the area.
Six Senses Krabey Island
Set on its own island, Six Senses has 40 villas and a vast spa. Villas are along the waterline or cliffside, and each comes with its own pool.
Shinta Mani Wild
This hotel is made up of 15 tents on protected private land and offers a range of excursions such as mountain biking, kayaking, orchid hunting, and catch-and-release fly-fishing.
