Carry on up the Coast

Having had our fill of adventure and sore feet in Da Lat we decided that a shot of beach action was needed to facilitate our recovery. The drive from Da Lat to Nha Trang, on the Eastern Coast of Vietnam, was punctuated with breathtaking scenery as we cut through jungle swathed mountains and swept round corners with perilous, watery views far below. It rained the whole way, and while this added to the drama of the drive, by the time we arrived 5 hours later and were dragging our bags through the drizzly, dark streets it was (predictably) fairly annoying.

Nha Trang is brash, gaudy, brightly lit and absolutely crammed to the hilt with Vietnamese and Western tourists. The beach is long, white and crunchy and we noted with interest that Vietnamese holidaymakers don’t bring any of the seaside gear which the average Brit wouldn’t bother leaving home without: no windbreakers, rugs, scatch, towels, cool boxes...it was disconcerting to say the least.



We spent most of our time in Nha Trang plotting our escape to the much quieter Quy Nhon, about 5 hours further up the coast. No tourist buses go there so we went for the local bus option, gleefully praising ourselves for saving a few dong.

The glee did not last long: local buses are awful. We turned up to find a battered old Ford Transit manned by a weedy driver and a short, gruff man whose job seemed to consist of hanging out of the window for the duration of the trip, dragging people off the side of the road into the van and pushing people out. The first stop we made was 10 minutes after we set off, so the two officials could get out and have a relaxing breakfast while we sweated small puddles onto our tiny, beige, faux leather seats. The smell of burning coming from somewhere inside the engine was offset by our fellow passengers who chain smoked for most of the way and in a further abuse of our senses, the driver insisted on pressing his insanely loud, souped-up horn once every 3 seconds for no apparent reason. We made one comfort break, where Joe observed that one of the rear tyres had a hunk of rubber flapping off it. He attempted to point out that at any second the tyre could blow, causing the van to flip – most likely into the path of a truck – but the driver seemed optimistic we’d make it in one piece.

Luckily, he was right – we did. Quy Nhon is Nah Trang’s poor country cousin: much quieter, a lot less neon (less electricity in general actually – the 2 halves of the town take it turns to have a day of electricity during the hot months) and basically a much nicer place to be. Joe took slightly more convincing, commenting that it made him think of Bournemouth. Joe has never been to Bournemouth, but he decided it’s probably a lot like Quy Nhon nonetheless.



The town snakes alongside the beach, which is about 3 miles long. On the whole, we had the entire beach to ourselves until about 4, when packs of boys appeared from nowhere to play vigorous games of football and locals did a bit of DIY on their nets. Squid boats line the coast and from the look of the bits and pieces left on the beach (as well as restaurant menus) it looked like every kind of crab, prawn and whelk going is fished there. Apart from some ancient towers we forgot to go and look at, Quy Nhon’s main attraction is the leper hospital. We hired bikes to go and look for it, but failed miserably - mainly because of my refusal to cycle uphill. I pushed for a bit while Joe sailed up, but he couldn’t find it so we retreated to the flat promenade of the beach and had a picnic instead.

So far our extended holiday has consisted of temples, forts, towns and more temples, yet there is only so much crumbling stone, dust and ancient artefacts that the combined attention span of Laura and I can tolerate before wanting to kill each other and the smart arse tour guide. For this reason we decided to take a trip to the seaside with, the promise of zero culture and just a dusting of crumbling stone.

We arrived at a town on the south coast of Cambodia called Sihanoukville, aka the Costa del Cambodia. It somewhat lacks the glitter of its Spanish counterpart, but rather oozes with litter and bars blaring out exquisitely tuneless Khmer Karaoke.

The bus came to an abrupt stop in the centre of Sihanoukville tipping us out of our unsecured seats like a dumper truck driven by a drunk. If Megabus get wind of this ingenious way to stuff more victims into their old busses the UK may not be worth returning to. Forget seatbelts, a few nuts and bolts would have been nice.

With a tip off from a nice tuk-tuk driver we found a room just off the beach front. Naively we had been led to a carbon copy of the Slum Dog Millionaire film set complete with tandoor oven and open sewers. Yet tired from travelling we put up with the favela and headed out to get our first swim of the holiday. The sea off the coast of Cambodia is incredibly warm, so understandably it’s a popular attraction with the backpacker crowd and locals alike.

Wading through seafaring crisp packets and water bottles we were immersed in bath-like waters and splashed all the stress of travel away, soaking in the last of the evening sun. It was heaven, until some interfering jelly-like creature decided to maul my bicep. I was lucky to come away with just the sting: maintaining my dignity I limited my whining to just 10 minutes.

A skanky beach and infested shores was not exactly what we were expecting, however there was another way. The guide book suggested heading to one of the many beautiful islands just an hour away by boat, some equipped with shacks and clean beaches. The next morning we miraculously woke up without alarm clock – perhaps the smell of effluent? We lugged our bags on to the small unbalanced boat and were joined by a quartet of Aussies all of whom still managed to smoke without break and improve on their far superior tans despite their hangovers.

After some half hearted snorkelling we found the beach where we planned to stay for the next couple of nights. Our beach hut had a stunning view over the calm clear waters framed by two very tall palms and a ragged old hammock on the veranda - soon to become well aquatinted with my backside. As ever, hunger took over our thoughts so we strolled down the beach looking for edible flotsam and beached jellyfish, but as if luck would have it a bar appeared before us. It was run by an English bloke who immediately informed us that the generator was broken and that the bar would not be open for business. He was heading to the other side of the island for a BBQ and suggested we did the same.

It was beginning to get dark when we set off for the BBQ passing through a narrow track cut through dense jungle, careful to avoid inch ants crossing the path when eventually we came to a crossroads. A sign said ‘No Entry’ with an arrow pointing left, so we took the right hand path down towards the beach and the smell of burning charcoal. As we got nearer, we passed a family of goats and then a roof to the right covering 4 very large guns mounted on wheels. This heavy artillery seemed different to the cannons we had seen at all the old forts in India, roughly 500 years different.

Two boys manning the barbeque noticed our detour and were quick to inform us that we had just walked through a Cambodian military base and suggested only half-jokingly that soldiers would now be after us. The sight of deadly weaponry in such idyllic surroundings is a stark reminder of how recently Cambodia was at war. In fact the last 18 US marines to die in the Vietnam war were killed just one island away from where we stood after a botched mission to recapture an American container ship.