The rise of Phu Quoc

The buildings of Ho Chi Minh City become matchboxes beneath us. Our plane lurches into cruise speed. My travelling companion shakes his head. It’s his first time on a propeller-plane. But thankfully there’s little turbulence over the watery Mekong delta. Mind you, we’re both sweating. The AC nozzle meekly blows a vague breeze.
Soon we leave the delta behind and the plane flies across the South America-shaped nugget of tourism gold – Phu Quoc.
There’s been a lot of column inches devoted to Phu Quoc’s potential in the press – it will have an international airport serving the region, fancy resorts galore. The world is apparently its oyster.
I’m not sure what to expect when the plane pulls up on a small runway lined with flimsy shacks. Of course, currently it remains a small fishing island with a population of 70,000.
After meeting a driver in the sleepy airport we drive south on an asphalt road leading out of the main town of Duong Dong which soon becomes a bumpy red clay track rather than a road.
Along the west coast along Duong Dong beach between small family-run restaurants and more upmarket resorts I spot a number of dilapidated buildings.
Slowly, inevitably these gaps on the beach will be filled, Phu Quoc is not much of a secret. I’m told by a number of locally based hoteliers how it’s already been divvied up for investors. Not that anyone is panicking at the prospect of competition.
“I hear there’s even going to be a Metro,” one tourist says to Gerard Bezardin, the manager and owner of Mai House Resort. I’m guessing he means the supermarket chain as opposed to the underground.
“Blah, blah, blah,” Gerard replies like a man who’s heard it all before far too many times. “Then after we’ll get a subway, right?”
In between each resort or guesthouse, conical-hatted women in pyjamas coo at tourists in hammocks and lie-lows offering a massage or a manicure. Cows mosey down the beach into resorts only to be chased away by waiters in Hawaiian shirts. Dogs sidle in under tourists’ chairs and sleep surreptitiously in the shade.
Off the beaten track isn’t hard to find on Phu Quoc. One road out of Duong Dong ends up no wider than a mountain trail. Driving towards Can Cua past Ong Lang beach I end up driving though an islanders’ front garden as the trail disappears altogether.
“Can Cua?” I shout at an old lady on her hunkers.
“Di thang!” she says urging me on.
The main road eventually reappears but I end up missing the turn for the beach – there’s no signposts, or not that I noticed – where I had hoped to check out the frequently recommended Mango Bay resort. A highly suspect rickety bridge that locals speed over ends my trip north, plus I have to get back to Vietnam Airlines office now that their three hour lunch is over.
But the next day an excursion south proves more fruitful. The west coast only gets better the further south you go. In the port town of Khu Pho kids fish for bite-size fish. Meanwhile hiding from the midday heat the real fishermen huddle in boats, smoking cigarettes and comparing catches of the day.
Driving up the east coast I happen upon a small bay called Bo da, between Mui Hang Yen and Mui Bai sao. Again no signpost marks the spot. Just look for the first dirt track on your right on the road to Ham Ninh!
Down the end of a winding dirt road paradise awaits: white sands, a glorious blue ocean, a buffeting breeze, seafood and cold beer. At a small restaurant Vietnamese tourists loll in hammocks or swim in T-shirts. Intrepid foreigners with red shoulders drink beers and shake their heads in wonder of Phu Quoc.
“Excuse me, what’s the time?” a young tourist asks an old Vietnamese man dressed neatly in a shirt and trousers.
“It is 2 o’clock in New York,” the old man replies leaving the tourist a bit baffled.
“But I’m from Paris.”
“Well, then it is 7pm.”
We order lunch – fresh spring rolls with shrimp, fish in claypot and grilled scallops. Two plates of fish arrive – the claypot and something we didn’t order - and nothing else but a bowl of rice. The owner just smiles when I ask what’s wrong with that particular picture.
“Ca ngon lam (the fish is delicious),” he promises before slumping back in his hammock.
Phu Quoc is after all a remote fishing island. So we don’t come expecting silver service in the furthest extremes. But back on Duong Dong beach ordering dinner in the Saigon Phu Quoc, considering its prices, is exasperating. The manager can’t explain why we have to move tables in an otherwise empty restaurant to enjoy a discount on a bottle of wine. The menu is filled with spelling mistakes. Meanwhile in the toilet a rather grim sign states – ‘Only make water piss’.
Human resources are clearly a problem for a remote destination with aspirations for luring more five-star resorts.
In La Veranda, a luxury beach boutique resort and spa with 43 rooms, where the service is nothing short of immaculate, Nicholas Josi the general manager says most of his staff is from Phu Quoc. Getting it right is just a question of training and experience, he says confidently.
Untrained but highly experienced, just 20 metres from the imperial La Veranda a small shack of a restaurant bar run by a family has on average 10 or more customers throughout the day. The service is prompt, the seafood excellent, the view unreal. The sun is setting but this is just the beginning.