A Round-the-World Journey to Find a New Home #11

Yesterday we sat and watched the sun rise over Angkor Wat, just outside Siem Reap, West Cambodia. The enormous, spread out silhouette blackened against the reddening dawn sky, the peaks piercing upwards into the first light of a new day. It is, truly, a sight to behold.

This ancient structure of intricate carvings and reliefs is lit from behind as you sit in silence and watch a huge red-orange ball of burning flame rise gently behind the turrets. The sky turns pink through the early morning misty clouds, then yellow and finally the blueness of a new morning sky surrounds you. There are many people here because it is renowned as the premier place for a breathtaking sunrise. However, it is so memorizing that you don't notice a soul, it is just you, the mysterious Angkor Wat and the rich colours of a perfect sunrise; so much is your intent of absorbing an everlasting memory.

This morning we were up early again, this time at the Bayon Temple in the center of Angkor Thom's walled grounds. It is a temple we walked through yesterday, an awesome collection of reliefs, carved balustrades and towers that are carved on four sides into huge ancient faces, typical of the era, staring down upon you as you wander the stone walkways between the buildings on the third level.

To me this was one of my favorite sunrises ever. Yes, Angkor Wat was spectacular, but Bayon was eerie and ghost-like with the local inhabiting bats flicking in and out of view as they flew around our heads, emitting their sonic sounds. A handful of us were there, gathered away from the crowds of Angkor Wat in this dark area of the Angkor Archeology Site. A torch was essential equipment to negotiate the dark passages and steep worn steps that led to the third level pre-sunrise. As the sun started to paint the skies with warm pastels, we sat and watched as slowly the dark faces became gradually visible, creeping out of shadows of darkness, again silhouetted against a reddening backdrop speckled with the black tops of trees.

The bats that reside in the buildings that surround us were ceasing their activities, and the squeaks of their sonar sensing quietened. Then, without build up, a crescendo of sound arose from beyond the walled temple as the cicada's began their jarring noise, the dawn chorus of Angkor Thom. Light started to bathe the faces casting shadows like a torch held under your chin does when you're telling scary stories. A pungent red sets the stones on fire, and where ever you looked or wandered at that time, you could feel some of the 150+ towering carved faces looking down, watching you. Serenity falls, the cicadas die down and the song of birds climbs gently in the trees. Colours disperse and the stone becomes lifeless again as the sun slowly whitens.

It's 07:45 now, and I have found my way to Ta Prohm, a ruined temple that is being claimed back by Mother Nature, a smaller but sprawling temple amassed by hundreds of carved holy structures all situated at close quarters. The turrets have a multitude of plants that grow from cracks in the brick work, some looking like a new green, leafy wig adorning the old grey stone, the once fine carved patterns fading with erosion and time. Huge trees rise from walls and the crumbling stone buildings, their roots twisting and turning like contorted limbs amongst the debris of stones, finally finding a gap to bury itself into the ground.

All around, huge towering trees of gigantic proportions sprout from walls and ceilings, climbing the side of temple buildings, whilst stones litter, fallen and strewn, disorganized around the floor. In some places the rubble of the fallen stones rise so high that climbing them will bring you above many of the ceilings of the buildings they have fallen into. They are moss covered, drenched in a coat of crispy brown fallen leaves and rotting red berries. Its like autumn, a season I really miss from back home. Navigating this complex is a rocky clamber from block to block, I can't hear anybody, and all around me are trees and the sounds of birds and rustling leaves in the breeze.

Imagine coming across a deserted, decaying temple in a far off jungle, a temple overtaken by trees and plants, one that's silent of other human beings, inhabited only by insects and birds. If you can do that, that is how I feel here...this place has pushed me back into writing my Travelogue, which has been dormant for a few months. Eventually I will look into the dark corners of my mind and try to recall the past few months of travels in Nepal and its amazing mountains, Myanmar and Thailand. Some of which is an alcoholic blur and will never be recalled! In time it will come, the images are there, just a little jaded.

We arrived two days ago in Siem Reap, leaving Bangkok (BKK) early in the morning. Taking a local bus from the northeastern terminal to the border of Thailand and Cambodia, we crossed the border without problems apart from a few over eager touts who wanted money for nothing.

The Cambodian side is a striking difference to Thailand. Where the tarmac road in Thailand stops, a dust track begins. This is Poi Pet, where we hitch a ride in a battered mini van that is carrying a bunch of people that had booked a through ticket from BKK. The van was well used with a thin layer of the dusty road over the insides, a driver's door that the driver had to seriously struggle with every time he wanted to get out, and a severely cracked windscreen held together with sticky tape. No wonder, the road, the main road that is, from Poi Pet to Siem Reap which is the most popular destination in Cambodia outside Phnom Penh due to the nearby Angkor Wat, is nothing more that a rocky, pot-holed dirt track that jars your body more times than a jam factory. After five hours of continuous rattle and jar (a new version of rock and roll), I have a terminal case of "Numb-Bum-itis"...

We hired a motor scooter to tour the Temple Complex that spreads out over a lot of square miles. Not all of the sizable temples are worth the effort, some have undergone reconstruction to a point of losing their "ancientness" and therefore their appeal, and some of the smaller ones are ideal for a nap, a read or simply some shady time to ponder... like the tiny Eastern Prasat Top, set in a small shady clearing dappled with sunlight filtering through the tree tops, in an area not much bigger than our kitchen at home. But it's a quiet, perfect place to sit. These are some of my favorite things.

My favorite place was Ta Prohm for sitting, thinking and a little writing, however there are many little side turnings to explore, dirt tracks to wander. Some of which may lead you to a small village hidden in the trees, screened from the road by a thicket. Here the people are really friendly. It's not just the kids here that shout out "Hello", it's the elders, the moms, the men and lads in the fields, those going about their daily chores around their simple huts that are nothing more than a box on stilts made from wood and thatched with palm leaves. If you continue through there are fields beyond the trees where men work the earth in this dry and arid season.

I have been to one of those places, and sat down outside one of those villages on the edge of the tree line. This is what I wrote;

A little way to my right is the village, to my left are fields, I was alone but now I have company... two children, 6 or 7 years old, have found me writing my journal. They can't read it, but they're interested. One has upended a sawn section of coconut tree trunk and is sitting cross-legged on top. The other has followed suit and is swinging his legs up in front. A little girl and a friend on their bikes have stopped and they are all standing around me. We can't communicate verbally, but we can all smile and laugh with each other. This really is one of my favorite things...I ain't got no TV, ain't got no car, ain't got no job neither, my home is far away as are my friends, and I won't trade places for anything...

Our scooter fairly zips along, how fast it zips is unknown as the speedo is disconnected! (Does anybody fall for the old "it's genuine mileage, mate" ploy any more?). A little off the beaten track down a bumpy, dusty dirt road, I am trying to find Banteay Samre, a mid-12^th century Hindu wat. It's a little way out of the way, and the local free map and guide says it's little visited.

The first part of the way takes me through a small market village spread evenly along the road; it's away from the tourists and has a good local feel. The bright colours and variety of goods, fruit and meat remind me a bit of India. The road is slow and a local guy hailing me down at a road stall catches my eye. I get it across to him where I am headed and he decides to hop on the back and show me the way. He's tanned with sun-drenched, wrinkled, rough skin, he has no shoes and his feet are as tough as asbestos. He's dusty, dressed in an old green shirt and a red sarong. He speaks constantly and very loudly, and not a word of English! He seems to be talking to everybody we pass and we appear to be a pretty amusing sight, either that or he tells damn good jokes... He holds on tight to me, directing the way (still talking without seeming to have the need to take a breath) and his unshaven bristles dig me in the shoulder as he converses right next to my ear. I can't help laughing...

We eventually arrive, my shoulder feels like a pincushion and we are met by what seems a member of staff at the Wat with only one leg (Cambodia has a big mine problem, and amputees are a common sight). Together they give me an unofficial tour of this hot and deserted temple, they rabbit on in Cambodian (or Khmer, as I think the language is) we are all laughing as we go. We all know that I don't understand a bleedin' word!! The tour finishes in the center structure where an old man with one tooth (literally, top left incisor if I'm not mistaken...) offers me an incense stick. He murmurs a few words, my "guide" continues to talk, loudly, and I still am finding it hard to hold a straight face. We departed, leaving a small donation. I love this country, the people are so friendly, and I love them too.

We got up at 05:30, and hopped in the Smiley Guest House mini bus to the fishing village 16km south of town where we catch the express boat to Battambang. It's a 15 minute ride along a smooth dirt road that quickly turns not so smooth, our driver is one of those who is determined to overtake every other pick up and car on the road without thought to the passengers or suspension. We had visited the fishing village before on the first day when we rented the bike, then it was about 5pm, dusty with cargo trucks arriving and loading its goods onto the boats. The air hung with the smell of fish that had been sitting out in blistering heat whilst being sorted through by womenfolk crouched in the Asian squat around woven palm mats. Children ran around naked or half dressed playing, excited by the smallest thing, running back and forth over the dirt road. This visit was different, the village had metamorphosed into a colourful bustling market of fresh fish, fruits, drink vendors and for the sake of departing travelers, bleary eyed from the early start, fresh bread baguettes with cream cheese and tomato.

Our express boat is a twin outboard, open top boat that squeezes ten of us in with backpacks and speeds off through the waterways. The sun rises (again) over the stilted huts and floating homes and shops of the village. River vendors selling all sorts paddle from home to home, serving tea and breakfast, selling foods and hardware. We break out of the canal system and speed off across Tonle Sap leaving a large wake behind us.

In a couple of months Cambodia is the hottest it gets in the year and the channels on the far side of the lake are getting low in water. We have to stop for an hour at a floating general store cum restaurant to wait for the tidal waters to lift before going on. A guy traveling with us spent awhile getting the non-English speaking locals to get him another coffee. The rest of us looked on amused at this verbal tennis match. They thought he wanted to pay and kept on telling him how much he owed (the only English they knew) and much gesticulation ensued as well as dead ends accompanied by plenty of mirth from the rest of us. The guy decides to pay the lady, then asks for another cup of coffee by taking a cup, a sachet of coffee and pointing to the hot water dispenser. You could almost see the light bulb glow above the lady's head with recognition of what he wanted. Thus ending the performance, we return to the boredom of waiting for the water to rise...

The final two hours takes us through an amazing insight to rural Cambodia, the water is so low we can't see over the riverbanks, but it is plainly obvious that the locals view the river as their lifeline. Although we can't see further than the bank, the impression is that all the dwellings, or certainly most of them are bank side. Boats are the preferred transportation and fishing the main way to sustain life with bone-dry dust pits for fields until the monsoon arrives. Boats, from small oared skits to bulbous houseboats slowly traverse the waters, manned by families, kids or lone men and children with fishing nets. All sorts of ingenious fish catching ideas and devices are used, from lead weighted throw nets and net channels stilted in the water leading to traps to a huge square of net suspended from a bamboo frame and crane device.

It's a device that reminded me of Kerala in India, the net forms a funnel that leads to a bamboo trap in the center. The net is submerged and later lifted with (hopefully) a catch trapped within the funneled net. The fish then tumble down the funnel into the trap when the net is fully hoisted from the water. The ones in Kerala were built on land, overhanging the water; here they are built on long bamboo rafts with a hut at one end for shade, and the crane style hoist at the other, making the unit mobile. Whether land based or water borne, the catch is the same, meager. The channels are overfished by poor and underfed rural folk. Kids bathe and play in the now muddy waters, seemingly oblivious to the dilemma of survival. I got arm ache from waving so much to the laughing, smiling faces of the naked children splashing at the water's edge shouting out "Hello!"

The four hour journey takes 6� hours and a couple of groundings. A couple of us get out to feel the mud on the river bed squeeze between the toes in an effort to pull the boat off the mud banks (not me though, you must be joking. I'm too busy thinking about what to write in my Travelogue!!!). The sun is baking as we travel through the midday heat without shade (good tan though), and arrive eventually at Battambang where we are met by a riotous crowd of touts who jump aboard the already overloaded boat before it stops (India all over again...). It's a friendly competition between the two main backpacker places in town. The newly opened (refurbished) Royal Hotel, and the old favorite Chhaya Hotel. It's like an invasion of the senses, 3-4 touts per person, pulling, tugging and offering to carry your pack, and free lifts in air-con mini buses (ohhhhh yeah!). Royal Hotel wins hands down, taking all but two. Time for an ice-cold beer (or 3).