Twenty-one days into island life, and this is the first morning I woke up feeling alive instead of like death warmed over. Seven to eight days of that cough finally broke. The difference is massive—from propping yourself against a wall all night to actually sleeping, from struggling through basic tasks to having energy again.
Today's mission: hit the mainland for my third and final rabies shot. Not exactly how I planned to spend the day, but getting the preventive vaccine series here makes sense. Way cheaper than the States, and the dogs here are actually super friendly. It's just smart prevention when you're living on an island for seven months. Three shots down, and I'll finally be done with this medical adventure.
The morning started the same way—alarm at 6 AM, roll out, head down to the beach. But this time I noticed something I'd missed while feeling like garbage: hermit crab tracks everywhere in the sand.
These little guys leave trails that look like mini dune buggies drove across the beach overnight. Intricate patterns crisscrossing everywhere, evidence of their nocturnal adventures. It's one of those details you only catch when you're actually present, when your brain isn't focused on just surviving the day.
I grabbed my usual breakfast—avocado coffee smoothie—and reflected on the previous night. Had a caipirinha before bed, which probably helped me actually sleep for once. Sometimes the simple pleasures hit different when you've been fighting illness for over a week.
Now I'm standing on the dock waiting for the boat, staring at these clear blue waters that first drew me to Cambodia. The irony isn't lost on me: I don't really want to leave the island, but these short mainland trips make me appreciate coming back even more.
There's something about temporary departure that sharpens your perspective. You realize what you have when you step away from it briefly. The quiet mornings on the beach. The calm bay water. The slower pace that lets you notice hermit crab highways in the sand.
The mainland trip has two objectives: get the final rabies shot (non-negotiable) and try to find a ukulele (probably impossible). I've been searching for shops that sell musical instruments, and honestly, it's been harder than it should be. You'd think in a tourist area there'd be at least one music shop, but I just haven't found one yet.
Three rabies shots over the course of weeks as a preventive measure. Not because I got bitten—the dogs here are actually great—but because it's smart planning when you're committing to seven months on an island. And here's the kicker: getting the vaccine series in Cambodia is way cheaper than back in the States.
The shots themselves aren't terrible—quick poke, minimal side effects. But the logistics of scheduling around boat times, finding the right clinic, making sure you're on the proper timeline—that's the part nobody mentions when they romanticize island living.
This is the kind of practical healthcare decision you make when you're traveling long-term. Prevention beats treatment every time, and the price difference makes it a no-brainer.
Already standing here on this dock, I'm looking forward to tomorrow afternoon. Getting back to the island. Hitting the water for a swim. Settling back into the routine that finally feels natural after three weeks.
The clear blue water stretching out from this dock is the same water that surrounds Koh Rong Sanloem. Same ocean, different view. But there's something about knowing you're temporarily away that makes you appreciate what you're going back to.
This is day 21 of a seven-month commitment at Lovesick Hostel. The first three weeks included getting sick, getting preventive medical care sorted, and adapting to island life realities. Now, finally feeling healthy again, the rest of the journey stretches out ahead.
Here's what I'm learning about extended island stays: the temporary departures matter. If you never leave, you start taking the place for granted. The morning beach becomes routine instead of remarkable. The calm bay water becomes expected instead of exceptional.
But force yourself to leave for a day—even for something as unglamorous as a rabies shot—and you remember why you came here in the first place. You see those clear waters from a different angle. You anticipate the return instead of just existing there.
The hermit crabs get it. They wander around all night, leaving their tracks across the sand, exploring their territory. Then they probably retreat back to their preferred spots by morning. Movement and return, exploration and home base.
Tomorrow afternoon I'll be back on the island. The preventive medical care will be complete—three rabies shots done, smart healthcare decisions made. The health crisis from the cough will be behind me. And I can focus on what I came here to do: work at the hostel, create content, live this seven-month Cambodia experience fully.
But today, standing on this dock waiting for the boat, dealing with the mundane reality of medical tourism, I'm appreciating what I have. An island to return to. Clear blue water to swim in tomorrow. Morning beach routines with hermit crab highways in the sand.
Day 21. Finally feeling alive. Ready for whatever the next months bring!!
Have you ever found that leaving a place temporarily helped you appreciate it more? How do you maintain perspective during extended stays?
