We had an early boat crossing and so took breakfast at 6am. Expecting to be the first there, we were surprised to join a number of older, French-speaking guests. I took an omelette whipped up by the chef to complement the air of colonialism created by the sound of the French tongue.
On the speedboat, we raced up the Mekong river in the opposite direction to the water hyacinth making its way languorously towards the sea. We were the fastest thing on the water, speeding by small fishing boats, mighty bassacs and ferries laden with motorbikes. Having left the floating villages behind, the riverbank was host only to the odd tin shack, outside of which was a solitary boat.
Within the hour we docked briefly at the visa office. The paperwork was smooth, being handled largely by our escort, so we stood waiting, as though anticipating the result of a test. I peered idly into a fridge filled with cans. Some of them had 'Angkor' written on them. The eager assistant came over, declaring "Beer! One dollar!" At 8am, I felt it was a little early.
Soon after, we crossed the border into Cambodian water - the frontier marked only by two flags a few feet apart. K and I tried to discern a noticeable difference having passed into a new country, but the river scenery was similar.
We stopped briefly on the other side for immigration control. Here the distinctive Khmer influence on the architecture was apparent. A small but intricately designed temple with the native and unfamiliar script stood in the grounds, demonstrating that we had entered another culture.
Back on the boat, we were served tea and a very European picnic box containing triangular cheese and cucumber sandwiches, crisps, a muffin, and fruit. I wondered whether they had received complaints for serving anything too outlandish.
The banks of the Mekong on this side seemed even less developed than in Vietnam. They were lined with white cows sporting a pronounced hump, prominent ribs, and ears flopping like a goat's. Boys stood waving on the bank, casting their nets hopefully into the brown water. Many children ran towards us from their houses and waved cheerfully as the boat roared by.
With a certain regularity, a temple would appear on the riverbank, its distinctive ornate rooftop and gilded spire towering over the surrounding treeline and its rich architecture contrasting with the humble simplicity of the houses.
As we neared the city, wooden shacks replaced the rusting corrugated metal sheets, which gave way to brick and stone structures, until eventually large concrete and steel buildings predominated.
We discovered shortly before leaving Vietnam that a water festival was to take place in Phnom Penh precisely on the few days we had booked to be there, almost as though it were planned. Bon Om Tuk is a festival celebrating the naturally occurring reversal of the flow of the Tonle Sap river. This happens at the end of the rainy season, which has caused the Mekong river to swell and back up the Tonle Sap. As the level of the Mekong drops, the water from Tonle Sap lake can start again to flow into it and out to sea.
Chaktomuk is the confluence of the two rivers and Sisowath Quay was the intended landing point for our boat but also the heart of the river festivities. Unable to land there, we diverted to the peninsula between the two rivers and took a tuk-tuk to the hotel, crossing a bridge that we were told had only been open for two days. Our driver, dressed in neat white shirt and white baseball cap, called himself Lucky.
The tuk-tuks in Cambodia are less a monolithic, purpose-built vehicle - like the Thai version - and more a composite of a palanquin pulled by a motorbike.
Our hotel was close to the original disembarkation point and so the road was blocked for the festival. We got out and walked the last stretch. Lucky gave us directions: "Do you see the tall, white hotel?" We saw an imposing and expensive-looking hotel. "Yours is the one next to it," he said.
Despite this inauspicious contrast to the neighbouring posh hotel, our accommodation exceeded our expectations. The top-floor room had a view over the impressive roofs of the Royal Palace and National Museum, while the location meant that we were only a few steps from the festivities.
Stepping down to the riverside gave us our first impression of Phnom Penh. We were among a throng of revellers sat and stood on the sloped banks of the river all watching the boat race. On the water, long boats of around thirty men, cruised up river in preparation for the race back down. The river was alive with the colour of the teams' uniform shirts.
Some teams were singing or chanting to fire themselves up. The rowers stood, two abreast, in the narrow boats, each manning an oar. They disappeared out of sight, only to reappear moments after the starter's pistol sounded, hurtling down stream to the whoops of the crowd.
Meanwhile, hawkers made their way nimbly through the people, selling fried crickets (!), bamboo packed with unidentifiable food matter (which we later discovered was sweetened roasted sticky rice called krolan), and baguette sandwiches like the bánh mì of Vietnam.
We walked in the sea of people, absorbing the cheerful atmosphere and excitement of the festival, for which people travel from all over the country to the capital. We felt safe and uplifted. It was a perfect introduction to Cambodia.
Sadly, but expectedly, we discovered that the Royal Palace was closed for the three days of the public holiday. We walked around the clean and broad avenues of Phnom Penh's quayside until we decided it was too hot.
Retreating to the cool confines of The Empire cinema, we planned to watch the 1984 film The Killing Fields, which is shown every single day, for some education on the country's past. Sat on the cushion-scattered floor of the cinema, which was more like someone's front room, we braced ourselves.
I had never before seen the film, which tells a story of true events from the lives of a US and Cambodian reporter in Phnom Penh against the backdrop of the Khmer Rouge and Pol Pot's rise to power in the 1970s. The Cambodian reporter is captured and undergoes 're-education' at one of the rural camps run by Angkar (lit. The Organisation), in which the captors attempt to establish their anti-intellectual ideology. The reporter later escapes and stumbles on the graves of those who were deemed unnecessary or dangerous to the new order. We would learn more about these atrocities tomorrow, but the film opened many questions about how such a despotic regime can be allowed to come to power.
In deference to narrative, it was light on detail regarding the coup against Prince Norodom by Lon Nol and the subsequent seizing of power by the Khmer Rouge, instead laying much of the blame for the political situation at the door of the US, who carried out a secret bombing campaign of Cambodia as part of the war in Vietnam. The story was affecting and well told, but I did not feel informed about events leading up to the atrocities or about the wider campaign of genocide outside of the sphere of the protagonists' experiences.
Part way through the showing, the screen went dark and we were plunged into an absolute blackness. In the sealed cinema room no outside light could enter. Power cuts are apparently not uncommon here.
After the film ended, we emerged into a different kind of darkness - the sun had set and the regatta had finished, but had been replaced by a dozen enormous illuminated floats. A carnival atmosphere reigned along the quayside as revellers enjoyed the gamelan-style music and bats swooped overhead. The contrast between the atmosphere created by the film and the jubilant environment outside was disorientating.
Having seen the floats parade for a few circuits, we sought food. We discovered that many restaurants are also closed for the holiday period, so we went upstairs in the three-storey colonial-era Foreign Correspondents' Club (FCC) for a view over the proceedings and some good, if expensive, beer and food.
Cambodia's beer scene seems to be dominated by a few interchangeable lager brands - Angkor, Anchor, Cambodia, Leo - and a couple that boast German master brewers: Ganzberg and Kingdom. I haven't tried the former German lager, but the latter has a good reputation for its pilsener and its dunkel. With that knowledge, we ordered a light and dark - both of which were good examples of their style and a boon to the bland domestic beers.
With the beer, we enjoyed an excellent wood-fired pizza topped with juicy sun-dried tomatoes, goat's cheese, and courgette. It was an unexpected but welcome familiar taste experience. We attempted to make it a little more Asian with a warm tofu salad. Great, if inauthentic fare.
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