Story: Come gamble in Bokor! A charming hilltop retreat surrounded by landmines.

When most visitors to Cambodia think of ruins, visions of ancient Khmer temples rising out of the creeping jungle come to mind - an abandoned French colonial hill station, surrounded by unexploded ordnance, swathed in mist does not. So when my wife suggested we go to Bokor Hill Station in southern Cambodia, I was a little skeptical at first. What exactly is a “hill station” anyway? A quick internet search told me that it was a term coined by colonial masters in Asia to describe their higher-elevation outposts to escape the summer heat. Local guides will tell you to bring a sweater – don’t listen to them.

Bokor Hill Station sits atop a mountain of the same name, in what is now a national park. It is 42km from the sleepy riverside town of Kampot and a few hours south of the capital, Phnom Penh. Referencing up-to-date information online we found that access was now blocked to Bokor due to road construction. However, there are a few guides that have permission because they have the necessary 4WD trucks to tackle the muddy ascent.

We cross into Cambodia overland from Vietnam and are met by Jack from Sok Lim Tours. He is a welcome sight at the dusty border crossing as timing can be tricky when traveling overland. He is right on time however and expertly navigates the potholed red-dirt road all the way to Kampot. He tells us that we are the only people signed up for the tour to Bokor, but that he will try and round up some more to bring the cost down. Two days later he delivers on that promise as he shows up at our guest house with two women sitting in the back of a pickup truck. He suggests that my wife and I might want to sit in the cab in case it rains. We squeeze into the back seat and he says he has one more stop. We jet around the corner to his office and to our surprise there are six more people waiting to be picked up. As they pile into the back, sun glaring down, my wife and I decide we will offer up our cramped but protected seats to others on the way back. Twenty minutes later we approach Bokor National Park as a slight drizzle starts and we pull over to check in with the ranger station. The brief shower subsides and we continue with our journey up the mountain. The road is a muddy track of switchbacks and we pass hulking trucks hauling boulders that make great claps of noise as their loads shift on their descent. I eye the fuel gauge nervously as it flirts with empty. A Cambodian man tries to free his motorcycle from a muddy rut, his girlfriend shifting on her high-heels in annoyance, clutching their picnic lunch. Apparently Bokor is a popular day trip for local couples, but these two don’t look like they are going to make it to the top. Our progress is halted as we have to wait for some road work to be completed and we wince as one of the back hoes swings within feet of our compatriots sitting exposed in the back.

We finally reach the summit and our first stop is the former royal residence. It still possesses its magnificent view of the southern Cambodian coast, but the house is just a concrete shell encrusted with orange lichen, pocked with bullet holes, and defaced with graffiti. Next it is on to the French hill station, now home to a band of unfortunate soldiers tasked with clearing unexploded ordnance leftover from the days when the Khmer Rouge used Bokor as a strategic military base. We find them playing petanque outside the ranger station where we have lunch in the dark mess hall – they only run the generator at night. After a surprisingly tasty meal of vegetable curry, rice, and baguettes we begin to stroll towards the sad remains of a once bustling resort. Dense fog begins to race across the plateau obscuring our views of the former grand hotel and casino. In the distance we can see the old church and its graveyard. It is hard to imagine the bygone glory of these skeletons and even harder to believe that the soldiers live in their dank, windowless remnants – it is truly a hardship post.

The jewel in the Bokor crown is the old casino, which we eagerly enter, ignoring the “no entry” sign and our guide’s warnings of the dangers of crumbling masonry. Any feelings of trespass-guilt subside as a few locals doing some kind of clearing work at the site join us. They happily point out the sheer vertical cliff behind, where many a busted gambler jumped to his death. A few tiles remain on the floor, but most of the building has been stripped. Water drips down the musty walls and a haunting glow permeates the interior. Ghosts disappearing down the shrouded corridors come to mind more than the spin of the roulette wheel. As I explore I wonder if I am going to fall through the floor and tread lightly down the stairs. As I reach the dark confines of the basement, I hastily change my mind and head back to the brighter main halls.

The group piles back in the truck, my wife and I now in the back, all breathlessly quipping about how eerie it was inside the casino and glad to be back out in the open. While Cambodia may be famous for the legacy that the Khmer kings contributed, the French have left behind a station upon a hill that has a palpable feel to it, only experienced by making the trip yourself to the fog-shrouded ruins of Bokor.