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.

My room has rules posted on the back of the door. A few of my favorites:

Firearms, explosive and poison are bidden in the Hotel rooms. The must be registered and put under care of Hotel. (Because if I’m the type of person to carry firearms, explosives, and poison, I’m probably the type of person that follows regulations.)

Cooking and objects of fruits emitting foul odour are not allowed in the rooms. (Maybe that’s the reason for the continuous bubble gum smell? No foul odours?)

For Security reasons, guest are not allowed to employ outsiders or Hotel staff for personal needs. (Hmmm….)

If you have outside person in your room overnight or for short time, Hotel charge US$20 extra. (Okay, if you do bring hotel staff to your room, they at least want to profit off of it…)

They pump bubble gum scented air freshener into the hallways here. I think it’s supposed to make things smell nice. I will never be able to chew bubble gum again without thinking of Cambodia.

At our hotel, every time I turn around there is someone bowing, saying “Good morn-ing” in a sing song manner. Glasses of water are poured, beautifully presented snacks are laid before me, doors are opened, floors are swept. They are working HARD to make sure we are comfortable. It makes me uncomfortable.

Always one to wait until the last minute to pack, this trip was no exception. Super Shuttle was due to pick me up between 10:20 – 10:35 pm. At 10:00 the phone rang.
“Super Shuttle. I’m here.”
“But, I thought you were coming at 10:30. I’m not ready.”
“Oh. Dispatch told me to pick you up at 10:15.”
“But it’s only 10:00. Okay. I need a few more minutes. Is that okay? I’ll hurry.”

I looked around my apartment. My bed was strewn with piles: things to pack in my suitcase and things to carry on. I threw items where they belonged, watered the plants, hoped they would survive for 3 weeks, grabbed a wrap, and left. One the ride to the airport I remembered those things I forgot: the manual for my new, yet unused camera (hopefully it’s intuitive), Immodium (hopefully I won’t get sick), a raincoat (hopefully the term “rainy season” is relative).

At the gate, I had the feeling I’ve had so many other times in my life – being the one that doesn’t look like the others. EVA Air, which for some odd reason I had assumed was a Hungarian airline, was actually a Taiwanese airline and I was one of the very few on the plane not Taiwanese. I settled into my aisle seat, ready for the 12+ hour flight to Taipei. I slept, grateful that loud children and tight spaces don’t prevent me from slumbering. I woke up only briefly to eat rice or ramen, drink tea, and observe my rowmates pilfer the cutlery (it was stainless steel) and serving pieces (sturdy plastic, trimmed in a lovely green).

In Taipei I realized I didn’t have a boarding pass for either of my next two flights which perplexed both me (supposedly my bag had been checked through to Siem Reap, why hadn’t I?) and the security guard. I cursed myself for not knowing basic Chinese. The security guard pointed me to one counter, whose agent pointed me to another, who then directed me to another terminal. The feelings of openness and trust I cultivated while living in Korea, borne of not knowing your surroundings, returned. I walked slowly, taking in the many Taiwanese advertisements and numerous luxury items in the sterile duty-free stores, already open at 5 am. I arrived at my gate with over an hour to spare before boarding. I booted my computer, using the time to study my “Talk Now! Khmer!” CDs – playing language games where, when you get an answer incorrect, a Danish looking woman shrieks (in an obviously dubbed voice) “Tee!” (no!). That may be the only word I remember.

Once on-board (now on Vietnamese Air, en route to Ho Chi Minh) I read the in-flight magazine, perplexed by the article on Hip Hop in Vietnam that mentioned “sketching with multi-colored spray paint first appeared in the 1960’s.” Huh? Oh, graffiti.

In Ho Chi Minh I boarded China Air, finally on my way to Siem Reap. I played with my camera, trying to figure out what the different dials and buttons mean. The manual definitely would have been useful. The pilot announced our descent into Siem Reap. I looked out the window at the enlarging rice paddies and greenness, spotted with rare structures with red tile roofs. I felt the excitement of not knowing what to expect.

At the airport I completed the visa application paperwork, stood in line, and presented my papers and passport to the very official looking, in military uniform, agent. He grunted and pointed me out of the line (I was in the red cordoned off area) to another agent at the end of the counter. I walked to him, handed him my papers and he pointed me back to the area from which I had just come. I watched as my passport and application got handed to one agent after the next, ten in total, each one looking at it, then passing it to the next. The last to look at it placed a sticker in it, held it up high and yelled, “Lee-Sa!” Close enough. I paid my twenty dollars, he gave me my passport, and I went to find my bag. Which, true to the agent’s claims, had been checked all the way to Siem Reap.