Temple Tantrums and Angkor Management

It was a painfully early flight. A 7:15am departure, to be precise. With Heidi, that means getting to the airport two hours early, or, in other words, rocking up at the terminal around five. Now since there are no Airport Express trains running at such an unholy hour, we really had no choice but to take a taxi for the forty-five-minute journey. So to boil it all down: we needed to leave Happy Valley around 4 o’clock that Thursday morning.

Now, if you’re a normal human being, you’d have laid low on Wednesday evening owing to this ridiculous pre-determined schedule. But Heidi and I are not normal human beings. Decidedly not. It was her final night in Hong Kong, and Wednesday here makes for one of the biggest parties I know.

There are mid-week horse races at Happy Valley Racetrack, just around the corner from my apartment, which attract a huge crowd of expats looking to mark the hump day leading towards the coming weekend. And most revelers continue the fun in nearby Wan Chai, where a slew of sidewalk-fronting bars on Lockhart Road hand out free drinks to female imbibers as part of their Ladies Night promotions.

It’s one of the easiest places I know to make new friends, sing, dance and have an all-around amazing night. I look forward to it literally every week. And there was no way I wasn’t showing it off to Heidi during her all-too-brief romp in the Pearl of the Orient.

So, after the races, off we went to Wan Chai…

I’ll spare you the grimmest specifics, but it was not a particularly pleasant wake-up when Heidi nudged me out of a sound sleep to say it was time to leave. And, in the end, I didn’t actually get around to packing. Nope, when 4am arrived and it was time to hail that cab, I literally put my passport and phone in my pocket, wrapped my Olympus around my neck, grabbed a pair of shades and headed off with the clothes on my back. That was all I brought along in the way of luggage. 

When we landed in Siem Reap, it was just 8:30am. Pich, the outgoing tuk tuk driver sent by our Airbnb host, Sovong, to collect us at the airport, met us as scheduled and drove us to our charming pad, the Old Khmer House. There wasn’t much to unpack. I still only had the passport, the phone, the camera, the shades and the clothes I was wearing. So I put the passport in a drawer and headed out with the rest of my worldly possessions, to explore the famed ruins of Angkor. I was incredibly excited for the next five days, and I wasn’t about to let my unpreparedness muck up a trip I’d been looking forward to for some time.

Pich was waiting alongside his vehicle in front of the house as we came out. “Do you guys need a driver for today?” he asked as he touted his services. “I know all the temples and can take you around.”

Heidi and I exchanged a glance and wordlessly communicated that this seemed like a logical, efficient way to maximize our time. Pich immediately won us over with his friendliness, so off we went with him to the gates of the ruins.

Angkor is, without doubt, one of the world’s great tourist attractions. And the Cambodian government knows they stand to make a windfall on admission fees. Imagine the two million visitors last year, who paid a collective sixty million just to get in! So as you can probably guess, access to the site is tightly controlled.

You have to make a choice right away. Do you want a one-day pass to squeeze everything into a very short window? Twenty dollars. Or would you prefer to spread the wealth over three days? If so, make it forty.

But then again, you could go for a seven-day pass. This is a nifty alternative because, for only sixty bucks, you can enter on seven different days within one month of purchase. A guard examines your laminated ticket as you approach and, as long as it’s been under a month since your purchase date and there are less than seven holes, he pokes a new one and in you go. Once there are seven punches, it’s no longer valid, but you get to keep the ticket as a souvenir.  

Decisions… decisions…

Heidi was heading down to Bali on Sunday morning, continuing her Asian extravaganza on the Island of the Gods before flying to Singapore for the tail end of her trip. That meant Thursday, Friday and Saturday would be the only days she had the ability to visit the ruins anyway. It would have been silly for her to get anything other than the three-day pass. So, she bought one.

But I was staying until Monday evening and had planned to spend five full days exploring these treasures, including all day Sunday after Heidi left and most of Monday before my own flight. Since there was no five-day pass, I went for the seven-day option.

And then, we were in.

We left the exact order of our itinerary to Pich, who had not overstated his expertise. He selected Ta Promh as our introduction to this fabled collection of splendors. And what a hello it was.

Colloquially known as the Tomb Raider Temple, this overgrown structure is the Angkor of your dreams. Picture huge trees that have flourished amongst the stones, roots pushing them up in certain spots, and down in others, yielding uneven floors and walkways. Imagine vines creeping through ancient windows and moss encroached rocks, Mother Nature’s humidity and tenacity clearly trumping mankind’s architectural prowess. In short, everything you envision a jungle-set Southeast Asian temple to be.

They say that when the French arrived and decided to restore Angkor to its former glory, they figured one temple should be left in the rugged state of affairs in which they first encountered the whole lot of them. Well, for whatever reason, Ta Promh won the contest. And it’s a sight to behold. From certain angles, the whole thing looks on the verge of collapse. Still, from others, it appears remarkably sturdy.

Now, there are over a thousand ruins spread throughout the one hundred and fifty-five square miles that comprise the Angkor Archaeological Park. And Pich quickly surmised that Heidi and I really did wish to see as many of them as possible. It would be tedious and, indeed, very boring to simply talk you through the next string of hours that followed, as we just started chalking up temple visits. So, I’m not about to do it. Better leave you to scroll your way through the photos and make up your mind to get on a plane and visit for yourself. You won’t be disappointed.

That’s not to suggest, of course, that each site in and of itself wasn’t worthwhile. Like snowflakes, no two were identical. Indeed, few were even similar. And we must have seen close to twenty that day. Maybe more. They ranged from immaculately restored structures to mounds of rubble. Yes, there was Thomanon and Ta Keo, and a particularly vertigo-inducing heap of rocks called Phimeanakas, and Wat Preah Ngok. And you could just tell, at each of these gems, that Pich was examining our reactions to gauge the future stops of our tour.

And a few really are worth more time to describe.

Possibly the highlight of the entire five-day stretch came close to the beginning for me, with the Bayon, a temple within the ruined ancient city of Angkor Thom, said to once have been home to over a million people. It was a spot I’d return to on multiple occasions before flying out again.

Enigmatic, mysterious, exotic, pure magic. Those are the first words that come to mind as I sit here trying to recap our adventure. The Bayon is most famous for the carved rock faces gazing out from its walls, which the French noted as having furtive sourires Khmers, or Khmer smiles.

There was a light rain—somewhat akin to a mist, really—steadily falling as we explored. It made the faces seem even more lifelike and mobile. But it also turned the stone floors and staircases into Slip ‘N Slides. Still, we thoroughly discovered every inch of the place, entirely wowed at its complexity, scale and attention to detail.

Those faces are like two hundred Mona Lisas in mossy stone, their immovable eyes somehow following you about as you navigate the rambling space, which you share with camera-toting tourists and a perpetual gaggle of orange-clad monks, everybody wandering about in muted astonishment at the marvel of it all. Yes, perhaps more than even Angkor Wat itself—more on that later—the Bayon is Angkor to me.

Scattered between ruins, there are a few restaurants and little stalls selling souvenirs, bottled drinks, fruit juice and simple snacks. By this point, we’d already stopped for our first Angkor beer, and I’d procured a one-dollar fridge magnet and absorbed the electrolytes from a one-dollar coconut.

But soon we cruised past a humble banana stand, and Pich could just sense we needed to stop. Not that we were hungry ourselves, you see. These bananas are destined for a throng of local monkeys, who climb all over visitors as they feast away. You pay a nominal sum—probably a dollar, but I don’t exactly remember… everything seems to cost a dollar here—and all of a sudden, you’re covered in new best friends.

The monkeys certainly didn’t add to any feeling of personal cleanliness I had. By this point, I had flown, climbed, sweated, and now practically rolled in the mud with wild animals. And all in the same clothes in which I had woken up, in another country. What’s more, I didn’t even have anything to change into once we would get back to our Airbnb. But it was all, er, pretty wonderful?

The South Gate of Angkor Thom is perhaps the most iconic spot in the park. I mean, it really feels straight out of a 1940s adventure flick from Paramount, the kind of thing Ray Milland would stumble upon during some scientific jungle expedition, only to espy a sarong-clad Dorothy Lamour swimming in the adjacent pond with her pet tiger Ullah.

Pich proved himself adept not only at setting our course and guiding us from place to place, but also at selecting the perfect vantage points for photographs. At the picturesque gate, he seemed to know exactly where to park his tuk tuk, and in what manner to position Heidi and myself alongside it under the gate, and even how to crouch down with my camera to just the right level, to ensure a dramatic perspective for the shot.

As it was nearing sunset, Pich next delivered us unto Angkor Wat itself, the largest religious building in the world and, undoubtedly, the centerpiece of Cambodia’s tourism industry. With a six hundred and fifty-foot-wide moat that stretches nearly a mile in each direction, the complex is unfathomably massive. And, at that hour, it was also unfathomably photogenic.

Somehow, it was also pretty empty, at least once we had pervaded to the inner sanctum, standing just below the towering central gopura. The soft evening light was falling on the timeworn stones, lending them an almost honey-gold hue. Mix in the setting sun beyond and the vista was impossibly lovely.

Heidi’s guidebook suggested several specific vantage points around the sprawling compound to catch the best views, and we gamely made our way to each one, to snap pictures and drink in the heavenly scene. I will never forget it.

Words tend to fail with places like Angkor. Photographs can’t fully capture them either. Once seen, they really live on mostly in one's memory. The experience is made up of so many sensory details: the colors, the breeze, birds flying overhead, billowy clouds, the chatter of the crowds, so many monks. But this was a sensational experience, capping off our first day inside the park.

Heidi—gem of a friend that she is—loaned me the most unisex of her tee shirts after we both cleaned up back at the Old Khmer House. And then we headed out to Siem Reap’s hopping downtown, with a specific objective to find a street market.

Our aim was not souvenir shopping yet, but something more along practical lines. I wanted clothes and toiletries to get me through the next few days, and soon I’d need a charger for both my phone and my camera, though these requirements were slightly less pressing than a clean wardrobe, a toothbrush and a deodorant stick.

We also wanted to procure “crazy pants” for our next day’s temple explorations. You see, in Cambodia—and many other Southeast Asian nations—temple access is restricted to those who are properly dressed. No bare shoulders. No exposed midriffs. And pants must extend beyond the knees. Most Westerners would instinctively wear shorts in a climate like this, to combat the ubiquitous stickiness, but doing so would inevitably preclude your entry to the main attractions. Jeans, which we had worn this first day, are remarkably uncomfortable under the circumstances. But “crazy pants,” as we affectionately call them… “Crazy pants” are a perfect compromise.

These bright-colored garments are breathable (to combat the temperature) yet ankle length (to satisfy the entry requirements of the temples). What’s more, they are universally covered in wiggy designs: elephants, squiggles, geometric patterns. An exceedingly comfortable, instant fashion statement. You’ll often see people donning them even once they’ve left the confines of the park. Or bringing home multiple extras as presents for friends back home. Naturally, Heidi and I each wanted a pair for the coming days.

Mission accomplished, it was time to focus on more important endeavors, namely dinner. Heidi’s guidebook lists over forty restaurants in town, ranging from humble street kiosks to fine dining experiences. It also splits by cuisine, focusing on Western, Asian, and, specifically, Khmer styles. Well, I probably don’t have to tell you that Heidi and I were both in agreement that our inaugural Cambodian dinner should definitely be of the Khmer variety. 

We selected Chanrey Tree as our venue of choice, an elegant riverside establishment with a mix of traditional and contemporary local favorites. And it was an incredible meal—including a highlight of stuffed frog in Khmer spices—savored in the restaurant’s graceful al fresco garden with twinkling lights and a balmy breeze.

Our next day began early. About as early, in fact, as the previous day had. But much more agreeably. You see, Pich recommended catching the sunrise at Angkor Wat, so he picked us up outside the house in the pitch black and whisked us straight into the Archaeological Park.

The sunrise that morning was a few minutes before six o’clock, and Heidi and I staked out a prime spot alongside throngs of other tourists whose guides had given them the exact same advice. It was crowded, make no mistake, but it was entirely worthwhile.

A darkened sky slowly illuminated, sapphire substituting in for what moments before had been black, underscored with a few dim clouds, as the silhouette of the temple remained a hulking shadow in the foreground, backlit and magnificent. Suddenly, as the scene continued to brighten, the lake was perceptible, and Angkor’s famous towers were now reflected in the still waters, while the sky changed to saffron.

Later still, and before our very eyes, the clouds became airborne spools of cotton candy against a clear sky, but Angkor was still black against it all. Each Angkorian gopura, every stately palm, even the clouds were now perfectly mirrored in the motionless canvas of the pond. Pure unadulterated life goal material, folks. Add sunrise at Angkor to your bucket list.

Many tourists, understandably, prefer to return to their hotels for breakfast after this quotidian spectacle has run its course, to return to the park later, which, incidentally, is also when the crowds literally arrive by the busload. But, as we were here already and not particularly hungry, Heidi and I asked Pich to jump right back into temple-going, to explore in relative solitude. And, boy, did he oblige.

Through that old South Gate, we passed once more, to discover the day’s treasures, in the dominion of dragon flies and lily pads and water buffalo and stone elephants and detailed bas-reliefs and further sourires Khmers. Preah Khan, East Mebon, Pre Rup, Ta Som. Along the lengthy wooden causeway to Neak Pean, an otherworldly island temple in the midst of a lake.

The hours just dissipated, evaporated, vanished, and somehow it was nearing dusk already. As fabled as Angkor Wat itself may be for its daybreaks, it seems everybody in the know heads up to Phnom Bakheng for at least one sunset during their Angkorian extravaganza. It’s a steep, arduous climb of about twenty minutes, but we saw a sign offering a far easier (and memorable) alternative: an elephant ride. So up we went.

You can actually see Angkor Wat from Bakheng, making for very memorable viewing, as the sun dips in the evening azure and darkness once again encroaches on the scene. The crowds came, the sun went, the crowds disappeared almost immediately afterwards, yet we lingered, as the spot went from empty to jam-packed to empty once more, and it was again time to conclude the day’s exploration. We walked down and reunited with a waiting Pich, who has got to be among the world’s most patient men. Then again, I guess it’s a necessary character trait, common to all Angkor tuk tuk drivers.

Having sampled the glories of Khmer cuisine our first night, we decided it would be fitting to indulge in a French feast for our second. And the trusty guidebook steered us to Kanell, a five-minute walk across the river, which we easily found on foot.

It seems there is an indoor dining room at Kanell, but we opted for a gazebo in the lush tropical garden near the pool. And we spoiled ourselves with our ordering, going all out on first-rate Gallic classics at bargain prices, at least compared to what an equivalent meal would cost you in Hong Kong or the Upper West Side. 

The previous night, we had been plum wore out from the day’s travel travails and made a beeline from Chanrey Tree to our Airbnb via tuk tuk. But tonight, we were determined to get at least a little taste of Siem Reap nightlife.

First things first. When we spied fried scorpions (among other insects) at a roadside stall at the Night Market, we knew we just had to sample one. Very chewy. Not bad tasting in any way. But I must have chomped on it for a good three minutes before I could swallow. I prefer the crickets I usually eat when I’m in Thailand. But it made for a fun diversion.

Then we popped up to X Rooftop Bar, purported to be one of the hippest joints in town. Now, when I think of “rooftop bars,” they’re usually pretty high up. I mean, only a few day’s before, I had taken Heidi to Ozone atop the International Commerce Centre in Kowloon, which sits on the one hundred and eighteenth floor. So, to head to the third floor here was a bit underwhelming, but… c’est la vie.

There was actually a nice little view over the Night Market and Pub Street, and I’m really glad we gave it a try. But, at that hour, at least, things were fairly quiet, so we decided to venture further down Pub Street itself in pursuit of livelier venues.

And we found one…

Opened all the way back in 1998, Angkor What? Bar not only lays claim to the most cleverly named nightspot in town, it was actually filled to the brim with tipsy partygoers when we rocked up. So we took our seats and ordered a jug of Anchor beer, a different brand than the Angkor beer we had consumed up to this point. You’d think both would be pronounced exactly—or, at least, almost exactly—the same, but in Cambodia, it seems, you pronounce Anchor with a chhh sound: An-chore. This is done, we were told, purely to differentiate the two beer brands, both of which have their devotees and haters, who can get supremely vexed if served the wrong varietal.

Before leaving Angkor What? Bar, Heidi and I both added our signatures to a graffiti wall, where it seems anyone who’s anyone in Siem Reap leaves their mark.

As we made our way up and down Pub Street scoping out our next destination, we realized that in addition to the brick-and-mortar establishments inside the actual buildings, there appeared to be bar carts on the street itself. These had bright lights and signs like, “Jaeger Bomb $2” and “Gin and Tonic $1.5” and, perhaps most enticingly, “Play YOUR Music” emblazoned across their frontages.

A pre-teen in a leopard print hat appeared to be running one such establishment, and sure enough, drinks were dirt cheap and an iPad was on hand, with YouTube access and speakers, so, as the only imbibers, Heidi and I were free to set our own playlist. In a word, paradise.

Of course, with Halloween on the horizon, the Monster Mash was one of my first selections, but I’m almost embarrassed to carry on listing our choices. I’d also prefer to omit the hour we finally returned to the Old Khmer House, so let’s just cut this night short right here.

As I mentioned, Saturday was to be Heidi’s last full day, since she had to head to the airport very early the next morning. And one of her top picks for our brief time in Siem Reap was a foodie tour, which had come highly recommended by—among others—the New York Times. Well, let’s just say, whatever Siem Reap Food Tours lacked in inventive naming skills, they more than made up for with a rip-roaring, sensational excursion.

Run by American-Scottish couple Lina and Scott (a travel writer and chef, respectively), the tour was a blast, in spite of the 8am pick-up. (Come to think of it, this was actually our latest start in several days.) We began with top-notch coffee in the local market and eventually made our way out to Khmer villages, where we got a chance to taste authentic rice noodles, unknown tropical fruits, homemade Cambodian whisky and, probably most memorably, a hard-boiled egg with the developing chicken embryo still inside! (Said Scott, “Some people just watch me eat this one. I’m not sure if you actually want to try it.” He was impressed with the gusto with which Heidi and I both consumed these supposed delicacies.)

It was a great time through and through. And while we never got to meet Lina, Scott was just such a cool, down-to-earth (and, according to Heidi, wildly attractive) guy that we both really enjoyed spending the morning cruising around in the back of a tuk tuk with him. We had great conversations, and it was a ton of fun to learn about his career trajectory, which has brought him from the United Kingdom to Siem Reap, where he’s now chosen to base his life.

Mixed in with the fascinating glimpses of village life and tons of tasty morsels, it was a grand way to spend the morning, and a refreshing change from the previous two days chock full of temple time.

But, of course, we weren’t done with the famed ruins yet! Pich knew we had other plans for our morning, but we arranged for him to pick us up later in the afternoon to take us on a trip further afield, to Kbal Spean—the River of a Thousand Lingas—and Banteay Srei—the so-called Citadel of Women—both deep within the Angkor Archaeological Park.

Midway through the breezy tuk tuk ride to our first destination, disaster struck when my “crazy pants” ripped right at the crotch seam. This could have been bad, folks. Really bad. But luckily, as soon as we alighted at the Kbal Spean parking lot, a friendly Cambodian lady had set up shop, peddling the iconic product, so I was able to procure a new pair. Phew!

It was a steep walk up to the top of Kbal Spean, made slightly nerve-wracking by written warnings that we shouldn’t stray too far from the well-trod path, since the area hasn’t been completely cleared of land mines left over from the Khmer Rouge era. Still, the winding river with its ancient carvings—plus a group of young novice monks cooling down under a waterfall, their bright robes soaking wet—made for an unforgettable interlude.

But Banteay Srei may have been even more stunning. Most of the temples we had seen by this point all appeared to be constructed out of the same type of rock. By that, I mean that the colors were almost identical everywhere we went: a sort of darkened taupe. Not here! This temple had a unique, almost crimson tone, completely unlike any of the other spots we had yet visited. And combined with the soft afternoon light, it was enchanting.

What’s more, the carvings on the rocks were by far the most elaborate we had encountered, incredibly detailed. And when about two dozen monks showed up shortly after our own arrival, the juxtaposition of their bright orange robes against the rose-colored temple was the stuff of legend.

It was a long ride back to town later—after all, Banteay Srei is almost twenty-five miles from the center of Siem Reap and tuk tuks aren’t famous for their speed—but, as Heidi had pointed out, “these long rides through beautiful Cambodian countryside have been some of the best parts of the day.”

Now, owing to our timing, it was an especially accurate appraisal, because the most breathtaking sunset imaginable was coloring the scene, followed by an equally beautiful moonrise on the other side of the highway moments later.

So much so that, not once, but twice, did I have to scream out to Pich, imploring him to stop and let me out to properly capture the scene with my camera. (Of course, the pictures still don’t do justice to the reality, but at least we got to pause and soak it all in.)

Scott from Siem Reap Food Tours had supplied the recommendation for our final shared meal in town, the airy and charming Mie Café, set in the ground floor of a traditional Khmer dwelling. The Swiss-trained Cambodian chef made expert use of local ingredients while managing to combine European cooking techniques, resulting in the most memorable meal of our trip. (I’m talking grilled beef perfectly marinated in Khmer herbs, served with red ant eggs!)

In case you couldn’t guess from my recap of Friday’s night on the town, which consisted of $2 Jaeger bombs and YouTube, Heidi and I actually consider ourselves to be quite a swanky couple of swells. Or, perhaps put differently, we feel our range spans the gamut from smut to swish.

And there was one watering hole we had both singled out long ago as a must visit during our time in Siem Reap, the Elephant Bar at the historic Grand Hotel d’Angkor. Constructed all the way back in 1932—when ritzy French travelers first started finding their way to Angkor to see what all the fuss was about—and now run by the Raffles group, the hotel is luxe all the way. And although we weren’t staying within its storied walls, there was no way we were skipping out on a round of classy cocktails.

Heidi asked for one of the bar’s signature concoctions off the extensive list. “Make mine a Gibson,” I said to the friendly mixologist, ordering my go to drink. I wish I had packed a nice shirt for the occasion—well, actually, I guess I wish I had packed any shirt—but I had to make do with the Angkor beer tee I had purchased at the Night Market two days earlier. Still, our gin-soaked idyll at the legendary lodging was a memorable one indeed.

I pinched a book of matches to remember the experience. That’ll have to do until a return visit when, as God as my witness, I’ll be reserving a suite at the Grand.

There was a slew of other spots we popped into afterwards, from sleek Miss Wong to Picasso Bar—were we amused ourselves with Jenga—before finally calling it a night. And, all in all, it was a pretty fabulous sendoff for our joint exploits.

That next morning, Heidi was up at the crack of dawn to continue her journey. And I was promptly back to bed after a quick goodbye hug, content to steal a few hours of shut eye before Pich returned for more temple tantrums. It had been so nice to have one of my best friends finally make her way to Asia to visit, after living in Hong Kong for seven years. But it was an even greater pleasure for me to have such a perfect travel companion for my maiden visit to Cambodia!

But, remember, I wasn’t done yet! In fact, in actuality, I had almost two full days remaining. And I had a long list. Heidi had left me her guidebook to help me through my solo time, and by and with the advice and consent of Pich, we were soon en route to Beng Mealae, technically outside of the Angkor Archaeological Park and not included in my seven-day pass, but with a ticket price of only USD 5, I hardly cared.

The guidebook is what sold me, introducing the site thusly: “More than any temple in the Angkor Archaeological Park, Beng Mealea is an experience. Overgrown by forest and collapsed on itself, the compound is a huge jumble of broken towers, underground galleries, unidentifiable piles of rubble, massive walls and corridors, adorned with false doors and windows and split open by roots that have been pushing apart the brickwork for centuries. Temples don’t come any more Lost World than this.”

Beng Mealae was far—forty-five miles from town—but it was well worth the journey. And while there were certainly other visitors to the site during my time there, the place is big enough that you can really get away from them, to gain a real feeling of adventure. I loved wandering about in almost perfect solitude, like a true Indiana Jones.

It was practically a full day trip, but Pich did find the time to squeeze additional Angkor temples into my Sunday itinerary, most memorably a cluster called the Roluos Group: Preah Ko, Bakong and Lolei.

To me, Bakong was easily among the most interesting of all, as it was reached via a walkway fringed with colorful flowers, something that none of the other Angkor temples could boast. It added a wonderfully attractive quality, and I’m eternally grateful that Pich decided to make a detour here.

That afternoon, I also found the time to squeeze in a late lunch (or early dinner, depending on your preference) at a Burmese restaurant in the heart of town. I had spotted it earlier in the trip, but figured it made sense to wait until Heidi departed. I’d had a craving for hearty Burmese fair since my own trip to the country back in February, and this was a perfect chance to satisfy it.

I also, at last, did some proper souvenir shopping in the Old Market. Days earlier, on the walkway leading to Neak Pean, I had spotted some colonial-era bank notes that were absolutely gorgeous. Truth be told, I had kind of regretted not purchasing them then and there—and was even considering asking Pich to drive me back before heading out, so I could snag a few. Luckily, it turned out they are a somewhat common souvenir, and several stalls in the market had specimens on display, which I thoroughly scrutinized before selecting the ones I would take home. 

That night, I wound up imbibing solo in a cool little live music venue near the river. The staff was super friendly, and my Kampot pepper margaritas were exceptional. And although I was seated on one of the bar stools, I noticed an older couple at a nearby table who were clearly having a blast, singing out loud and interacting with anybody who’d give them the time of day, which, naturally, I did. And they coaxed me and another young lady into dancing together.

During a break between sets, the four of us all sat down to chat, and we got along like a house on fire. It turned out the couple’s daughter lives in Hong Kong. “Oh, you must know her! She’s around your age and her name’s Philly,” they told me. “She runs her own business selling fresh New Zealand produce.”

I’m always saying how small a place Hong Kong is, especially the expat set, so perhaps you’ll be surprised to learn that I don’t know Philly… at least not yet. But in all likelihood, I’ll bump into her at some point in the not-too-distant future and—telling her how I spent a random night in Siem Reap drinking and dancing with her sexagenarian parents—we’ll become equally fast friends.

As it happens, I was invited to spend my next holiday with them on the remote South Island of New Zealand, and I hope I can take them up on the offer. I love meeting people like that when I travel. And although I could only imagine how much more fun things would have been if Heidi had still been around that night, it still turned out to be an incredibly enjoyable evening.

Pich was there again that final morning, trusty as ever, to ensure my last hours in Siem Reap were milked to their full potential. My flight wasn’t until 5:15pm, so that meant heading to the airport a little after three. From my perspective, I had had a wildly successful string of days, and there didn’t seem to be much I had missed.

There were a few smaller wats I explored, ones not even worth a mention according to my guidebook, though I sure enjoyed them, before heading back to re-visit my favorites, to bid them a fond farewell: the South Gate, the Bayon and, needless to say, Angkor Wat itself.

By the time Heidi and I had gotten to its core back on our first day, the central tower was already closed, and I was bent on scaling the structure, to survey the view from on high and brag to my friends for the rest of my days that I’d been to the very top of one of the most famous tourist attractions on earth. And it really was worth the effort.  

Then, as a last little gift, Pich mentioned that, in fact, there was one remaining temple we could squeeze in, one he hadn’t taken me to yet, but that many people seem to adore. Called Banteay Samre, it was a fitting location to say goodbye to the Angkorian splendors I had discovered over this wonderful trip.

“Do most people spend as much time at the temples as we did?” I asked Pich as he pointed me towards the entrance.

“No. I’ve never had customers who wanted to see everything like you,” he grinned with a sourire Khmer.

The legend of Banteay Samre was one of the most interesting of all, a Cambodian fairy tale with grim elements but a proverbial happy ending. The Samre, it seems, were an indigenous minority living in this then-remote corner of the kingdom. Somehow, a local farmer named Pou got hold of some magic seeds, à la “Jack and the Beanstalk,” which sprouted the most wonderfully delicious cucumbers anyone had ever tasted.

Eventually, the renown of Pou’s cucumbers became so great that even the king got wind of them, and, too, fell under their spell. Summoning the farmer to his court, the king declared that Pou should kill anyone who attempted to enter his fields, for fear outside contamination might spoil cucumber production.

Well, lo, and behold… One night, the king himself runs out of cucumbers and can’t wait until the morrow, and ventures to Pou’s field in the darkness to dig up some of the goods. Not knowing who this mysterious intruder is—and following the royal decree he had been given—Pou unknowingly spears the king, thus killing him, and buries the corpse in the middle of his field.

Having died childless, the king leaves no hereditary heir to the throne, so royal advisors seek the counsel of a wise animal called the Victory Elephant, who promptly marches to Pou’s field and signals that it’s the farmer himself who is the king’s rightful successor!

Not all the former king’s dignitaries liked the suggestion, since the Samre were just a lowly minority, but Pou was crowned nonetheless, and moved the seat of power from the former capital to the place now called Banteay Samre. What’s more, he called all the court dignitaries to join him, and decapitated those who disrespected him by showing fealty to his predecessor’s royal regalia.

Those who remained were understandably convinced it paid to be loyal to their new monarch, and he ruled over a harmonious and unified kingdom, happily ever after, this monument now standing as a testament to his successful reign.

It was a fitting final complex to explore, representative of all the other temples I had seen over the past days. Representative of all the myths and histories. Representative of all the magic and all the adventure.

At the check-in counter at the airport, the Hong Kong Express ground crew asked if I had any baggage.

“No,” I replied.

“Any hand luggage?”

“Only this,” I answered, holding up the plastic bag that contained the few shirts I had purchased, Heidi’s guidebook, and those Cambodian bank notes. I put the passport back in my pocket, the Olympus still wrapped around my neck.

“Well I never…” she mumbled, dumbfounded, as she handed over my boarding pass.

So I left Siem Reap with nearly nothing, just as I had arrived. Nothing that is, except some of the best memories—and best stories and best photographs—of all my globetrotting days. Next month, I turn thirty years old. Thirty. Three-Oh. And what a perfect ta-ta to my twenties this trip had turned out to be. I’m slightly shocked it took me seven years of life in Asia to make my way to the fabled kingdom of Cambodia, but I know I’ll be back again to discover more of this fascinating, friendly place.

Then again, apparently closer to his eightieth birthday, Sir Winston Churchill once remarked, “I have lived seventy-eight years without hearing of bloody places like Cambodia.” So maybe I’m not doing so badly after all. I wonder if Sir Winston ever made it there in the end. And, if so, I wonder if he remembered to pack.