Vita Magna Est

Chasing Sunsets in Phnom Penh

Somewhere between Brussels Airport and Phnom Penh, I lost three things: my sense of time, my loyalty to potatoes, and the illusion that I understood how traffic works. In return, Cambodia handed me Mekong riverfront strolls, incense-scented pagodas, motorbike mayhem, suspiciously cheap massages, and sunsets so dramatic they should come with end credits.

First Contact: Swapping Grey Skies for Cambodian Heat

Back home in Belgium, we have three main seasons: Rain, Slightly Different Rain, and Christmas Markets. Stepping out of the airport in Phnom Penh felt like walking into a hairdryer set to “spicy soup.” Within five minutes, my clothes had fused with my body and my deodorant had given up on democracy.

Then I noticed my first offering near a tiny shrine — flowers, incense, and flickering candles — and somehow forgot that my spine was leaking sweat. This city doesn’t just look different; it smells different, sounds different, and seems personally offended by the idea of grey.

Mekong Riverfront: Nature’s Screensaver With Plastic Chairs

Everyone told me, “You have to walk the riverfront!” which, as a European raised on industrially packaged carbs and grey canals, sounded only slightly more exciting than visiting a very long parking lot. I was wrong. Very wrong.

Standing along the Mekong at sunset, I felt like I’d walked into a live-action desktop wallpaper. The water glowed orange, long boats slid past in silhouette, and families, vendors, and couples all drifted along the promenade like they were in on some nightly secret.

I tried to gaze thoughtfully over the river for photos, but the camera mostly captured “confused Belgian who can’t process this much light and colour at once.” Still, wandering the riverside promenades, listening to kids laugh and street vendors call out, I finally understood why everybody tells you not to skip this city.

Wats, Royal Glare, and Pretending I Know Temple Etiquette

Phnom Penh has grand landmarks that make even the most jet-lagged tourist stand up a bit straighter. Wat Phnom rises on its little hill like it’s quietly supervising the chaos, while the Royal Palace looks like the kind of place where even the pigeons have better manners than I do.

I wrapped myself in a sarong (badly), tried not to trip on the steps, and followed the locals’ lead: shoulders covered, shoes off where told, don’t block doorways, and definitely don’t stand where the monks are supposed to go just because the lighting is better for selfies. The air was thick with incense, chanting, and the soft clink of bells; back in Belgium, the only time I smell this much incense is that one overenthusiastic shop near the station.

My favourite part was watching daily life swirl around these sacred spaces: schoolkids cutting across the grounds, vendors pushing carts, tuk-tuks honking outside the palace walls. The divine and the everyday squeeze into the same streets, and somehow nobody seems surprised.

Motorbike Chaos: Khmer-Style Choreography

Then there’s the traffic. As a Belgian, I’m used to rules, lanes, and occasionally yelling in three languages from behind the wheel. In Phnom Penh, the streets feel less like transportation and more like a group improv exercise no one warned me about.

Motorbikes are everywhere. Families of four on one moto, crates of chickens, a stack of boxes taller than the driver, and a dog riding side-saddle looking calmer than I’ve ever been in my life. There are lines painted on the road, but they seem more like decorative suggestions than actual guidelines.

My first ride on the back of a moto was a spiritual experience — not in the temple way, more in the “I saw my life flash before my eyes and it was mostly me eating fries” way. But after a while, something clicked: there’s a rhythm to it, a flow where people anticipate and actually look where they’re going, which is already more than I can say for some drivers back home.

Now I get it: it’s not chaos, it’s choreography — a slightly terrifying ballet of horns, hand signals, and unspoken agreements that somehow gets everyone where they need to go. Mostly.

Massages: Financially Irresponsible Not to Go

Somebody should have warned me about the massage situation in Cambodia. Once you realise you can get an hour-long full-body massage for the price of a sad airport sandwich in Brussels, your entire understanding of “normal” collapses.

I walked into my first spa off a noisy Phnom Penh street with mild back pain and heat-induced despair. I walked out floating, smelling faintly of lemongrass, and questioning every financial decision I’ve ever made in Europe.

The menu is its own adventure. “Traditional Khmer” is relaxing. “Deep tissue” is for people who feel they deserve punishment. “Foot reflexology” is how you discover that poking one toe can somehow reboot your entire nervous system. I tried more than is reasonable, in the name of very serious cultural research, of course.

The Never-Ending Hunt for the Perfect Mekong Sunset

In Belgium, the sunset is something you glimpse between buildings on your way to get bread. In Phnom Penh, it’s a daily show. Cafés and bars along Sisowath Quay angle their plastic chairs toward the river like worshippers facing a glowing altar.

My first serious sunset attempt involved hustling to the riverside with half of Instagram. I squeezed onto a bench between a group of teenagers taking selfies and a family sharing grilled corn, bought a sugarcane juice larger than my sense of dignity, and waited.

The sky melted from blue to gold to fiery orange, then soft pink over the Mekong. For a moment, everyone went quiet in that rare, collective “oh wow” humans still have despite having seen a million photos of this exact view. When the sun finally slipped away, a few people actually applauded. They clapped. For the sky. And honestly, it felt fair.

Since then, I’ve been on a personal quest for the river sunset: rooftop bars along Sisowath Quay, quiet stretches of promenade where it’s just you, the water, and a stray dog who has definitely seen this show a thousand times.

What Phnom Penh Is Teaching This Confused Belgian

After a little while here, I’ve learned a few things. Rivers can be more soothing than any mindfulness app. Pagodas and palaces prove that spirituality and royal pomp can coexist with street food and moto horns. Traffic needs fewer rules than we think — just more awareness. Massages should really be a basic human right. And sunsets are best watched with sticky clothes, dusty shoes, and zero plans afterward.

I arrived in Phnom Penh wide-eyed and mildly overwhelmed, clutching my raincoat like a security blanket. I’m still confused, honestly, but in a much better way — the kind of confusion that comes from realising the world is bigger, louder, and kinder than the bubble you left behind.

For now, I’ll keep chasing new riverfront corners, new wats, new side streets to get lost in, and that ever-elusive “best” sunset spot. Spoiler: I don’t think it exists. Every evening here feels like the city is gently showing off, and I’m just happy to be in the audience — sweaty, sunburned, and slightly in love.