Forget the Dead Kennedys’ song – Tamara Sheward is smitten by the new Cambodia.

For years, ‘adventure’ in the Gulf of Thailand meant hallucinatory ‘fruit shakes’, dodging toothless ex-pats and wondering how to detangle those regrettable cornrow plaits. But exploring South East Asia’s marine majesty need not involve cringing vampire-style every time the full moon (parties) roll around.

Think Cambodia and Angkor Wat – and ethereal monks -  spring to mind. Fifty people and their goats crammed on the back of a moped, for sure. Pol Pot and war and Dead Kennedys songs, sadly, yes. But a paradisaical string of islands that make The Beach look like it was filmed in New Jersey? Who knew?

It’s a sad irony that the beauty of Cambodia’s 60-plus islands has been spared the fate of its oft-seedy, overrun Thai neighbours thanks mainly to the vile barbarism of the Khmer Rouge: hermetically sealed during decades of civil war, the islets were left to nature and the rare hut-dweller who escaped the purges of Pol Pot and pals 

Apart from those close to the beach town of Sihanoukville, the majority of the islands are off travellers’ radars, but are now accessible to intrepid souls looking for a private piece of paradise.

It’s BYO travel in the truest sense — hammocks, camping gear and food supplies are essential — but for those with pioneer fantasies, it’s unbeatable. And with larger islands like Koh Rong and the floating fishing village of Koh Kong offering audacious wayfarers immersion into local life, you can’t get more native without being born an apsara.

Anyone with a hardy spirit and, ideally, a translator can launch themselves into the best adventure Southeast Asia has to offer. Head to Sihanoukville’s fishing port and ask around for a willing captain. Tip: Scotch eases bartering proceedings.

My teenage daughter and I decided to go to Angkor Wat in the rainy season to avoid the nuisance of the pillaging coach hordes that afflict World Heritage sites in the modern age of travel. I’ve visited a good few world heritage sites in my time and I’ve learned from bitter experience just how easily beauty can be plundered by thousands of brightly dressed foreigners with their state of the art cameras, attitude and fanny packs scrambling over ancient temples.

I like to travel elegantly, so we opted for the coach horde-less Raffles Grand D’Ankor built in the 1930’s and largely un-modernised. There is only one phone, one lattice worked wrought iron lift built for two and one man manning the desk. This is the only hotel that remained opened (under order) throughout the cruel rule of Pol Pot, so when the mood took him he could drop in and luxuriate in all he denied his people. There were no other guests during that time but the kitchens ran a full service to an empty restaurant in terrified anticipation that he and his thugs might turn up any time and order escargot. There are numerous luxury hotels to choose from in Siam Reap now but none with such charm. It really is a trip back to a gentler, pre-genocide time. The sturdy furniture, the Bakelite phone, the large solid brass room keys and uniformed staff are all so gloriously of another age.

Cordelia and I booked a helicopter flight for later that afternoon because given the enormity of the jungle temple complex – 400sq km – you need a helicopter to take it all in. And at $150 it was worth the extravagance.

Once we’d sorted that, we hit the rickshaw line up outside. The thing about spending ten days at a hotel is to pick your rickshaw man carefully. I go for the tall ones so they can reach the pedals and sit on their seat simultaneously. On the long eight km cycle through the jungle where the temple complex sits, you need a rugged young sort of chap. A sweet disposition and bit of English helps too. We were offered ludicrously cheap prices so I gave the tallest, fittest chap ten times what anyone else was asking. The deal was sealed and names exchanged. He asked me to call him 24, the number of his rickshaw – I guess he didn’t want another chap of the same name to take advantage.  We had our man. He assured me that he understood that he’d be My Man for the entire duration of our trip.

By my man I meant he would be available – as the whim took me – between 10 and 7 every day just for me. His colleagues were in awe, he was backslapped, high-fived and all but carried aloft. For the next ten days he treated Cordelia and I like queens. Every time we stepped outside the hotel there he was.. He had a nifty zip up cover that sealed us into our rickshaw pod to shield us from the monsoonal rain and a hooded long mac for himself. Pedalling us out to the temple in rain so hard it came above the rickshaw carriage floor, he was delighted to discover we found this funny rather than annoying.

On arrival, 24 produced a massive umbrella from nowhere to shield us from the rain. The pillaging coach hordes were there – huddled miserably in their coaches – enviously watching as we were escorted over the long bridge to the temple by our tall, careful guardian.
The water was knee to thigh deep but we felt safe with 24 leading us through the virtually deserted temple complex. He acted as interpreter each time we came upon one of many saffron garbed monks that appeared to lurk in every nook and cranny. Although the temples were erected to honour the Hindu god Vishnu, Buddhists have their own myths and legends about the twelfth century temples. They have been pilgrim-aging here since 1432 along with the jungle that had hidden the site for so many hundreds of years.

24 advised us on the appropriate alms to leave. He took our photographs and showed us narrow passageways and secret crannies no fanny pack could ever hope to squeeze through.

En route through the jungle on our return journey we saw a group of hens crossing the road. 24 heard Cordelia and I going mad for them and he pulled over so we could have a better look. We were mobbed by village children selling postcards. No one could understand why we were photographing the hens when there was a perfectly good elephant right there. The next day the same children hailed us down and several boys pressed love notes on Cordelia. 24 took photographs of them and us with their hens. The day after that 24 presented us with the gift of an egg. They were good times.

Each day was the same. Whatever time we stepped out of the hotel, 24 was waiting, or whizzing around the corner tingling his little bell. One day we waited all of a full minute while the rest of the rickshaw mafia made sure we didn’t move as they sent out a search party for 24.
 
We came away with a lot of memories; the helicopter flight over the complex was spectacular, the hotel Amrita spa offered the finest Indian massages I’ve ever experienced and the French food was one of the many unexpected delights of our little old fashioned hotel. But for Cordelia and I, 24 was the real highlight. We remain to this day hopeful that 24 thinks of us as often and fondly as we think of him.