The following entries were found in a journal, the contents of which seem to refer to events dating to early November 2014. Through the unknown author’s words, we can piece together a picture of the authentic experience of tropical island beach bums.

Captain’s Log, Day 1:

I find myself unsure of where to go and what to do out here. Earlier today, I took a bus and a boat, two hours and then another, respectively, to make my way out here to the island of Koh Rong. I’ve surrounded myself with something of a posse; there’s strength in numbers, both in bargaining and safety. After some first impressions, the savages, local and foreign alike, seem to accept me, albeit warily. I’ve been doing my best to assimilate into their culture, already having forsworn wearing a shirt of any kind until I return to the mainland.

If I return.

The beach of Koh Rong, the main beach that all the boats come in on, is awash with small pieces of styrofoam and bags, caught in the wavelets of the tide. For the entirety of the mile-long stretch of sand. The garbage is from the revelers, more and more coming every season, so many that the island can barely contain them. Though not for lack of trying. From just after sunrise until just before sunset, the sounds of hammers, saws, and power drills can be heard, expanding the Cambodian island’s tourist capacity.

It hasn’t always been this way. According to the ex-pats living here, a not insignificant portion of the small island’s ~1,000 inhabitants, a few years ago hardly any tourists bothered coming. In fact, before the year 2000, no one even lived here. And now each season sees huge swells in the travel numbers. Who knows? Maybe they’ll even have a refrigerator out here soon?

Though the tourism industry is booming, with every day seeing new backpackers spilling out from the speedboats originating in the coastal city of Sihanoukville, much of the island is still, well, island-y. Electricity goes out around midnight and doesn’t come back on until 9am (though the more enterprising hostels run their generators longer). Food and fuel come in on the same boats as the tourists, with the most important of the shipments being the morning ice delivery.

Everyone has a bit of that ice shipment blocked off. It’s the only thing keeping their food from spoiling. Fresh meat is something to be ordered before mid-afternoon, when all the ice has melted, not for dinner. It’s why Matt is having such a difficult time convincing himself that he won’t be one of the several people he’s met in his travels that have gotten food poisoning on the charming island.

He rolls the dice. “I’ll take the pork rice.”

The waitress looks flustered, and as she should. She’s the only one manning the four trestle tables of people. And tonight she’s the only cook. “No pork, no rice. Only chicken, only noodle.”

Matt looks at his dinner companions. Spencer and Matthew (it’s a terribly common name) are brothers from Toronto. Not just brothers, but twins. And not just twin brothers, but brothers (they’re black). Like most twins, they’ve sought to carve out their own identities. Where Spencer is athletic and into academics, Matthew is a bit more into academics, but still athletic. Basically, Matthew is the one who wears his glasses. Joining them is Selene, a young German girl who says little, but takes in everything around her with an icy blue stare. Getting her to smile, both on the boat ride out and as they haggled for four-bed bungalows this afternoon, had been an achievement worth celebrating.

They all order the chicken noodles.

As they wait, they watch. It’s already early evening, and while the stars have come out and the sounds of merrymaking and carousing have started up at CoCo’s and Island Boys (the two most prominent party hostels), none of the bio-luminescent plankton are to be seen. Koh Rong was once known for its wondrous nature and pristine beaches. No longer.

A wide-bed wagon, loaded with lumber and paint cans, scoots past the noodle stand. With no means of powering the thing, a man steers up front while six or seven local men, scrawny, shirtless, and straining, push from behind. As they round the corner and turn up the nearby alley, the wagon gets caught in a ditch of wet sand and smooth rocks. The men grunt and shove, but the wagon only rocks in place.

Feeling like maybe they’d appreciate the help of a guy who probably weighs almost twice as much as any of them, Matt hops up out of his seat, leaving his table behind. “Come on, let’s get this fucker out!”

He takes the spot of one of the thin laborers and pushes–and finds that the wagon rolls right out of the rut! The locals stumble at the sudden jolt, but continue up the alley. “Aw-koon!” they call back. “[Thanks!]”

Back at the tables, the chicken and noodles have finally arrived. As have a trio of college-age Australians. Selene eyes them coolly as they slide into the empty spaces on the benches.

Matt pays them no mind as he plans with Spencer between bites. “Here, I’ll pop over to the shop and get a two-liter of Coke for the Mekong.” ‘The Mekong’ is some kind of whiskey they sell out here. Two dollars for a liter bottle of the orange liquor. And without a single ATM on the island, travelers are always looking for cheap anything to stretch their cash.

Spencer agrees, but before he can do much more, one of the newcomers, the obvious ringleader of his pack of boys, chimes in. “That Mekong stuff? Just drink it straight.”

“You sure about that?” Spencer asks askance. “I’m not interested in ripping shots…” Matthew nods with his brother.

“Nah, we done it heaps with Mekong,” he assures them. It’s a thick Aussie accent. His friends back him up.

“Aha!” Matt squints and points. “You must be bogans!”

“And you must be a fuckin’ asshole! Calling me a bogan!” The young man is halfway up out of his seat, ready for a fight.

“What? You say that like it’s a bad thing.” The only bogan Matt had met so far, Billy back in Hanoi, had been proud of the title.

“Mate, calling some a bogan is a bad thing.” His buddies murmur in dissatisfaction.

“Huh?”

“You can’t just call someone that! It’s like, rednecks or kikes or something!”

This is escalating fast. “Woah, alright, I’m sorry. I didn’t know what it meant, obviously.”

“You’re damn right you didn’t.” He’s sitting back in his chair, calming down, “A bogan just goes where he’s not welcome, gets pissed, and disrespects the locals. Now, do we look like bogans?”

Matt’s not sure what he’s looking for, but baggy clothes and flat-brimmed baseball hats out in the middle of a Cambodian island? About to pick a fight with a total stranger? He says nothing and just twirls some more noodles onto his fork.

“Is that any good?” Flatbrim Leader asks eventually.

“Yeah,” Matt shrugs. “It’s not bad. Just get the chicken and noodles, she’s out of everything else.”

When the waitress comes, however, they check the menu, a wooden sign nailed up by the door. “We’ll take… the pork and noodles.”

“No pork!”

“Ah, what?!”

“No pork!” the woman repeats herself.

“Fine, whatever. We’ll take… the chicken rice.”

“No rice!”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Flatbrim leader looks at his cohort of skinny, pale youths. “We don’t need to eat this slop. Fuck this place.” And they storm off in search, likely in vain, for another place serving two-dollar chicken at almost 10pm.

“Not a bogan, huh?” Spencer says and nudges his brother. They share a grin.

“I hope he gets food poisoning,” Matt adds.

The view from atop the Sky Bar, One of Koh Rong’s newest (and certainly highest) bungalow/bar establishments. Sihanoukville is invisible over the horizon on the left (though you can see its lights at night), and Koh Rong Samloem, a smaller, even more rustic island, is just off to the right. Nobody goes to that teeny island on the left.