Twenties tones sweeten the humid air surrounding the Two Moons Hotel. Amok and Anchor set the pace for a relaxing stay in this sleepy town at the base of Bokor National Park, The Hill as it’s locally known. Retired teachers, wayward Dutchmen, and renegade backpackers gel together with a glue long forgotten in the bustling cities of The West.
The fresher mornings bring with them a cacophony of tired engine splutters as eager adventurers mount their cheap steeds and head off into early morning mists.
It’s only just light but the beer still flows in the local bar, music spilling out across the neighborhood un-apologetically. Ex-rockers, aging hippies, millionaires and wannabe gangsters hug the bar to refill their glasses and tell tall stories to friends old and new alike. As stories go, you can’t get much taller; Vintage guitars are tonight’s topic as a once superstar drummer-turned-guitar-mechanic recounts his hedonistic history of American stardom to eager ears and full glasses. Retiring to my eight dollar room at the Two Moons Lodge next door, I can still hear the gentle laughter and gasps, the clinking of glass on wood, and catch a sweet smell of sticky bud carrying gently on the evening air.
A small table-fan bolted to the wall provides mild relief from the heavy summer night-sweats, Geckos chat happily all night long about the latest gossip from Kep, and the local dog pack digs up our freshly preened garden.
This place is blissfully untouched by commercial tourism, but with cruise ships smudging the horizon and Casino skeletons on The Hill, an apocalypse is coming.