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The Office Helper in our Phnom Penh office offers me a cup of coffee. I gratefully accept, feeling slightly tired. I take a sip. The sweetness startles me. I am drinking the equivalent of warm coffee ice cream.

I showed the driver the business card of my hotel which had a map on the back. We negotiated the price. I jumped on the back of the moto, muttering a quick prayer that nothing would happen on the short ride home. I know I shouldn’t ride without a helmet. I know that. Yet here I was, doing it again.

I grasped the handle on the back and we were off. I wasn’t paying much attention to where we were going; he said he knew where the hotel was. I suddenly realized we had been driving for a while. Oh, no. He didn’t look like a serial killer. I noticed we were along the river way, not the part of town where my hotel was. I tapped him on the shoulder. “Tee. Tee,” and pointed the opposite direction from where we were. He turned around and I realized this could be problematic. I knew my hotel was within walking distance of the Independence Monument, which was in the middle of a traffic circle.

We got to the monument and drove around it once. Then twice. Then three times. I couldn’t recognize any of the side streets. Which one went to my hotel? He stopped at a sidewalk café to ask for directions. They pointed in a direction that seemed like it could be where my hotel was. We passed many abandoned construction sites. Was he lost, too? Or was this part of his plan? I realized I put a lot of trust in random people. I was on the back of a motor bike with someone who didn’t speak English and didn’t know where my hotel was, riding around Phnom Penh. Nice.

We drove back to the monument. Once. Twice. Three times. And down another side street. We stopped in front of a hotel. The guard there looked at the business card and pointed us in another direction. We were off. Hello, monument.

When we arrived at my hotel I started clapping. “Akun! Akun!” I exclaimed, laughing. I offered him twice the rate we had agreed on, in appreciation for him not killing me, either intentionally or via Phnom Penh traffic. He argued with me, wanting more, motioning with wild arm movements to indicate he had gotten lost. I stood there, perplexed. He said he knew where my hotel was. Yes, we drove around, but partly because he didn’t know where he was going. I didn’t either, but I’m not a moto driver. Should I have to pay for him to be lost? I tried to give him the money; he wouldn’t accept it. I started to walk away; he lunged after me. I offered him more money, he shook his head. I was utterly confused. Was he asking for more money? Was he offended by the amount I was offering? Was he refusing payment because he drove me around for 20 minutes, lost in Phnom Penh? After several more of his adamant refusals, I began to walk towards the hotel. He ran up behind me, grabbed the money from my hands, and sped off. I guess he was holding out for more money.

The wall of my tiny room in Phnom Penh borders a karaoke club/disco. Not a lot of sound-proofing materials used here in Cambodia. My bed shakes when the bass is turned up.

Stumbling off the bus, tired from the six hour trip from Siem Reap, we were met by the aggressiveness of Phnom Penh. “Here! Lady! Tuk- tuk! Only $1! Here!” multiplied by dozens of grasping hands, trying to grab luggage, trying to get our attention. They were behind a barrier, the kind used for parades to mark the route, the metal fences to separate crowds. As soon as all travelers disembarked from the bus, the barrier was removed and the hands that had been at a safe distance of inches were now upon me. “This way! Here! I take you! Special price. $1, just for you! This way, Lady! LADY!” I stood, paralyzed. Sometimes I’m just too tired to deal.

I rose at 4:30, determined to have at least half a day to wander through the temples at a more leisurely pace by myself. In darkness I walked through the gates of Angkor Wat. I found a spot away from the crowds, off to the side of the reflecting pool, patiently waiting for the sun to rise. Within moments, I was surrounded by throngs of Japanese tourists setting up tri-pods, attaching ridiculously long lenses to their cameras, chattering loudly about many things. I looked around, sure that I was on camera. This truly was a scene from a movie. But it wasn’t; it was actually life.

I thought about what had brought me here, the twists and turns my career had taken over the past several years. I watched Angkor Wat transform from black to crimson to lavender to gray as the sun rose. Once the sun was on its way to rising, I left Angkor Wat, lighting incense and saying a prayer on the way out. I met my driver, Kim, and hopped in the back of the tuk tuk. We made our way to Bayan, the temple with 54 faces carved in it, representing each of the 54 steps to paradise. I wandered around the temple in solitude, grateful for a morning free of meetings. From behind stone walls I snuck glances at monks preparing their altars, lighting candles, offering gifts of food to the gods. After a peaceful hour I returned to Kim, ready to explore the next temple.

We made our way to Ta Prohm, the jungle temple featured in Lara Croft, Tomb Raider. I walked through, careful not to slip in the muddy puddles present because of the recent rains. A young teenage boy approached me. “Follow me, I’ll show you a great spot.” Not even considering this was something I shouldn’t do, I followed him. We ducked through crumbled doorways, retreating further and further off the beaten path. It suddenly occurred to me that maybe this wasn’t a good idea. “Careful. Slowly, slowly,” he encouraged me. I continued to follow. “Here. Look at the majestic view.” And it was. The roots of gigantic trees overcame solid stone walls, causing them to crack. The leafy patterns of the trees created patterns of light which danced over carvings of goddesses and spirits. Shades of green, brown, and gray melded together, creating a mosaic of history. I stood, transfixed. “Nice, yes?” “Yes, very nice.” “Here, this way. I show you more.” We ventured even further into spots unexplored. Anxiety and excitement clashed in my mind. What will we see next? He’s gaining my trust so that he can rob me. Will anyone hear me if I scream? I continued to follow him. He showed me more and more treasured spots, free of tourists, until we came to the gate. I placed my hands together and bowed. “Akun.” He smiled. “I showed you many special sites. You pay me?” I smiled. Of course. The small village which suddenly became a major tourist destination created a generation of entrepreneurs, peddling their services for a dollar, a riel, a bhat.

I returned to the parking lot to find Kim, on a motorbike. “Next temple is very, very far. Better to go by moto, no tuk tuk. Hop on.” Again, anxiety and excitement fought. You shouldn’t ride a moto without a helmet. It’s a beautiful day, it will be fun to ride on the back of a moto, exploring the countryside. Excitement won. I hopped on the back and we were off. In the 30 km to the next temple, we passed truckloads of young men who stared and pointed as we passed. I marveled at the Cambodian countryside, endless fields of green, rice paddies, water buffalo, and few houses. The warm sun shone, the blue skies put a smile on my face. I watched as we passed children on bicycles peddling to school, yelling “Hal-lo!” as we overtook them. We passed another moto, an elderly man put-putting along with two large pigs strapped to the back of his bike. We slowed as we approached a herd of cows coming towards us. Kim masterfully maneuvered through them, never stopping.

We arrived at Banteay Srey. Kim went to rest in a hammock while I went to explore on my own. The temple was small, but the work awe inspiring. Intricate carvings adorned every space. I walked around, each turn presenting a new marvel to ooh and aah at. I returned to Kim. He woke up, sleepy from rising so early in the day. We rested under the shade, the noon sun draining our energy. He talked about his brothers and sisters and his dream of operating a tour company. After a nice rest we hopped on the moto again. I thought we were returning to the hotel; he had other ideas.

We went down roads unfamiliar to me. He pointed out many temples I was unaware of. We repeated the same pattern. He would rest or talk to other moto drivers, I would explore the temples. After the eighth one, I laughed, “Kim! Enough temples for one day.” He smiled. “Are you sure? There are hundreds more you have not seen.” Next trip, next trip.

I count the increasing number of mosquito bites on my arms and legs. I wonder to myself how quickly malaria sets in. Maybe I should have bought the pills…

The preferred mode of transport here is either a moto (helmets optional) or the tuk-tuk, a modern day version of a rickshaw attached to the back of a moto. The five of us were accosted by tuk-tuk drivers as soon as we stepped out of the hotel. “Hey, lady! Where you want to go? Here. This way!” We agreed on a price, arranged ourselves three on one bench and two on the other, and headed to town.

What was a sprinkle became a rain which became a downpour. The driver stopped to put on a raincoat, reminiscent of the thin plastic protection given on Niagara Falls tours. I wondered how much protection it would offer from the sheets of rain pounding upon us. I felt a sense of shame that we had negotiated the price down from $3 to $2.50. The poor driver was drenched. We wove through rutted streets, increasingly becoming almost impassable from torrents of water. Bumping up and down we braced ourselves for what should have been a short trip. The eyes of my colleagues facing me grew wider as they audibly gasped. As I turned around to see what they were staring at, my eyes met the headlights of a semi-truck slamming on its brakes to avoid running over our tuk-tuk.

I wondered how much protection a thinly constructed metal tuk-tuk would offer five women traveling without helmets. I surmised probably the same amount of protection the thin plastic raincoat donned by our driver offered against the downpour.

The stairs didn’t appear to be steep until I was halfway up them, carefully maneuvering my size 9 sandals on the narrow slanted stone. I stopped. Bad move. I looked down and realized how far up I had come. I looked up and realized how far I still had to go. Was it really important to see Angkor Wat from the highest point of the temple? I stood there and contemplated. I watched my colleagues continue up. Having never experienced a fear of heights before, this was a new sensation. I imagined slipping on the narrow steps, tumbling down, my skirt billowing as my legs tangled. One of my colleagues sure-footedly stepped past me. “Come on, Lor. You’re almost at the top. There are steps with a rail on the other side that you can go down.”

I persevered another 20 frighteningly narrow steps. I made it to the top. My head reeled as I looked down at what I had just come up. I then looked out over the splendor of Angkor Wat. Courtyards and hallways and green expanses, dotted by lone palms. Serenity washed over me. I was at the top of the temple that is still resplendent after hundreds of years of neglect, wars, and decay.

Oh yes. I remember these days well from hi-tech. The long hours, the exhaustion, the feeling that we can squeeze just one more meeting into an already packed day. The majority of my time in Siem Reap has been walking from my room to the conference room and back. I’m looking forward to a half day at the temples tomorrow.

The first two channels are Khmer Karaoke. This provides never ending bursts of entertainment the few moments I am in my room.