Phu Quoc Vietnam

April 10, 2009

For the last two weeks we've been here on Phu Quoc Island, not far off the south-western shore of Vietnam. It's actually closer to Cambodia, and Cambodia does 'claim' it, but Vietnam's got the bigger army, so Vietnam's it is. 

In a word, for us, it's perfect. A tropical island with golden sand, dark aquamarine waters, hot sunny days – but very little humidity, and almost always a freshening breeze. Graceful palms and thatch-topped palapas that look like toadstools line the beach. The nights are warm enough to be sleeveless for dinner, then just cool enough to sleep without a fan. 

We are happily ensconced in a little bungalow about 100 yards from the beach. There's no development in front of us: we look out over a field of sedge grass and a placid lily pond to the open waters of the Gulf of Thailand. Most days a small herd of cows – two of whom have new-born calves – roam the grassy verge alongside the beach. A guy and his wife come with a net. He wades into the pond, splashing the water with a stick to scare the fish into his net. A few birds flit about over the pond, catching insects. 

Our bungalow is basic, with no phone, no tv, and no hot water. But we set a jug and a pail of water in the sun around noon, and by late afternoon they're piping hot. “Give me the warm power of the sun!” We have a fan, which we hardly use, and a fridge, which we use a lot. Water and beer are icy cold. For all of this we pay just $15 a night. 

We go to sleep to a chorus of frogs, and awake to the pre-dawn reveille of roosters. Just like home. We don't get up until a thermos of hot water is delivered to our door. Then we make tea and coffee, and sit out on our patio deck drinking copious cups. An hour or two later a breakfast of eggs and bread arrives. 

We spend the morning sitting or laying in hammocks reading. We listen to the BBC World News on the radio. Fidel is dying, Hugo Chavez is making ridiculous remarks, Israel is bombing Gaza, and the economic situation everywhere just keeps getting worse. Doug sweeps yesterday's sand from the patio. I imagine the news going with it, over the edge. I write for hours, trying to make sense of the torrent of notes from previous trips. 

Around mid-day, when the sun's too hot to sit in comfortably, we retreat inside and make ourselves some lunch. Before we came out to the beach we went to the market in town and bought oranges, tomatoes, cucumbers and bread. Then to a store for cheese, yogurt, and crackers. As my Aunt Syl used to say: “We just want a light lunch – nothing to fill us up!” 

Then we head to the beach. There's seldom anyone on our stretch of beach, which is the least developed section. To our left there's almost nothing – one more small resort and cafe, and then just miles of beach. 

To the right, which is towards town, there's more development. Several hotels, resorts, cafes and restaurants. So we are gloriously alone. We swim in water that is only just cool enough to be refreshing. We bob up and down in the waves. We loll. Then we sit and drip dry, looking out on an endless sea. We watch the waves. Each one is different, unique, like a snowflake, with its own personality – turbulent or tame, roaring or whispering. 

The horizon before us is so wide that we can see the earth's curve – or we imagine we can, which is just as good. Way out there, a well-spaced line of little fishing boats reminds me of ants on a log. Just as insignificant, and vulnerable. They don't go out when it's windy, and there's no fish in the restaurants those days. 

Sometimes we take a walk along the beach. If we scuff our feet when we walk in the dry sand, it makes a squeaking noise. Why is that we wonder? When we walk in the wet sand, it squelches. We leave deep, neat foot-prints that the waves wash away within seconds. Like the ants, we're insignificant, and hopelessly transient. 

When the sun starts dropping towards the horizon, and it cools off a little, we head back up to our bungalow to have our bucket-baths. 

We sit on the deck again and count our blessings for having found this perfect place. Sometimes we visit with other travelers. There's a couple from Lasqueti Island in the bungalow behind us, and a lovely young German gal in the one beside us. 

And then it's time for dinner. We walk barefoot along the beach to our favourite restaurant, the Nhat Lan. Most of its tables are right on the beach, and we always manage to get one up front, with an unimpeded view of the ocean, the bruised-purple sky, the fading light, and then the stars as they begin to pierce the darkness. The food is fabulous – especially of course, the fish, caught that day and cooked to perfection. 

We walk back in the dark, our attention drawn up to the now bright stars, and then down to the equally tiny and bright – almost electric – blue lights of the plankton at the water's edge. Each wave casts a new pattern of lights on shore – magical like night-fairy dust. 

The sound of the waves is drowned out by the raucous croaking of frogs and the shrill chirping of crickets as we cross the little bridge that leads from the beach to our bungalow. We lower our lovely lacy, lily-patterned mosquito net draped over the bed – protection from the odd mosquito – and read until we fall asleep. 

We revel in the glorious emptiness of our days. 

We relish the quiet, the peace. We plan no activities. It is enough just to be here and enjoy this place. 

If we could, we'd stay here for weeks, perhaps months. But our Vietnam visa expires on January 25, and we've already extended it once, which is all that's allowed. So we're off to Cambodia, with the hope that we might find something almost as perfect there.