Temples of Angkor Wat (1)

The sky is just lightening as me and the bike head north along the river, cool and clammy morning air sliding past as I pedal easily out of town, into the park as forest encroaches the road, school kids in uniforms everywhere.

After the sunrise rush the ticket gate is empty, and when the road meets the Angkor moat, I go right, as mist hangs over the water and the sky reflects pearly behind the shadows of trees.

As the sun begins to climb, I am one of only a handful of admirers overlooking the basin of Srang Sray before delving into Banteay Kdei.

I have the place almost to myself, save some green-clad sweepers clearing away fallen leaves and leaving smooth dirt behind. And two small children, tour-guides in the making, who tail me for awhile, giving bits of advice pointing out interesting features. And, though cuter than most tour guides, I ignore them and wander where my eyes take me, and they soon lose interest and disappear to find other potential customers for their books of post cards.

I follow a zig-zag path through the temple, East to West and back again, down side corridors and under intricately carved doorways, dodging spider-webs and gazing up at towers and figures caught dancing in mid-step, tree roots creeping and stones tumbling in corners.

****

Stop #2 is Ta Keo, found after sharing the road with lines of tuk-tuks and tour buses for stretches at a time. 

Ta Keo is an unfinished temple complex, 5 towers rising bold against the now-blue sky, and I wander around perimeter in solitude, walls and windows in various stages of disrepair, before ascending a set of steep stairs to the next level.

 It is here, using hands and feet for purchase on the narrow and uneven steps, that I fully realize the depth of what I am experiencing.

That these stones are ancient.

Sacred.

And here I am, not just treading upon them, but connecting with all my senses.

There is something about stone that speaks to me in a way that concrete, glass and steel can not.

Perhaps because it comes from the earth, and speaks of a connection to something far greater and more powerful.

Piles of small stones stand as testament to previous moments of inspiration.

Yet white lichen spreads and plants take root in the cracks.....Angkor is proof of the fact that stone that was brought from the earth can be brought down by it – trees overtaking, crumbling, creating a stumbling, tumbling chaos. 

A beautiful breeze moves through the topmost tower, incense burns as I kneel to receive a blessing, a slim braid of red yarn knotted around my wrist, small hands cupping mine and bowing three times.

I decide on a strategy of quality over quantity, choosing temples that sound intriguing to enjoy at my leisure, avoiding guides and tours and anyone urging me to hurry along. Eager to balance this with doing this place justice, however, I tackle one more temple while the morning cool is still at least pretending to linger.

Preah Khan.

Sprawling.

Passages leading to passages.

Trees reaching roots and breaking stone.

Stone slabs tumbling.

Carvings in relief.

Food, coffee. 

A few moments of shaded rest.

It doesn’t take much to make me happy.

But I’m tired.

So I tell myself.

Just one more temple.

You don’t even have to take pictures this time.

Just wander. Enjoy.

And return again for a closer look.

And thus I discover my favorite place.

It’s just a pile of stones, man-moved and man-marred.

But it still somehow has the power

To move me to tears.

In theory, this temple has three levels, but in reality, it is a tumble, jumble, amazing mess: stairs lead to passages lead to courtyards. Bats squeak from tower recesses, and even though I know there are people everywhere, I steal a few moments of solitude -  after circling over, under, around and through - before joining the rest of the visitors on the top level, circling and gazing at the myriad of carved faces keeping watch in all directions. Out comes the camera, as I just can’t help but capture a few of them.

Riding back to town through the slanting golden rays of late afternoon, I am part of the ebb and flow, of tuk-tuks and motos and cars and bikes....


**Note: I took A LOT of pictures. If you're interested, check them out here on smugmug!**

Cambodia, Part1

12/31/12. Phnom Penh, Cambodia.

This is the counterbalance to Tokyo.

The heat is delicious and deep, the wind smells like the river as it sweeps downstream.

Sitting on a third-floor balcony overlooking the quay road, and my senses are humming… music thumps from the bar across the road, rush hour traffic rumbles and grumbles and beeps and putters; motos and tuk-tuks and cars and bikes.  A line of flags ripples along the river, bright hues against the steely blue water, locals and toursits stroll along the river path in the evening light…. 
 I sit. And absorb.

I started my morning with a visit to the silver pagoda complex, and with no one to rush me along I was free to spend as much time as I wanted taking photos of all the buddhas I encounterd around the complex… reclining buddhas, standing buddhas, sitting buddhas. Buddha footprints great and small, and in the Silver Pavilion itself, the Emerald Buddha, perched high on a golden tower, glowing faintly and guarded by a life-sized Buddha that winked with inlaid diamonds. Visitors shuffled around the room looking at the gifts broughts over the years…including several hundred small buddhas in gold and silver.

With the exception of a riverside stroll, Phnom Penh is not a walking city.

I tried.

Every 2.5 steps I was given the opportunity to hire a tuk-tuk or hop on the back of a moto and zoom down the street for a very reasonable price… but I resisted, determing to do what I enjoy – strolling along, seeing the city at ground level.

Problem was, no one else was walking.

Shops opened onto the sidewalk, wares forming obstacles that forced me to weave off and on, dodging oncoming traffic, puddles, and cracks. So, when I received the 47^th offer of a lift, I took it.

Yet another market wander.

always a favorite.

a warren of corridors both airy and cramped,

radiating out from a colossal yellow dome.

a cleaver, a wooden cutting board, and a pile of fresh fish -  yours for the buying and the cleaning.

piles of fresh fruit, segments of waxy yellow jack-fruit,

de-spined pineapple ready to skewer out of a plastic bag.

fresh noodles coiled on banana leaves.

clawed chicken feet trying to catch a wayward shirt.

white-tile counter-tops filled with locals enjoying fresh-squeezed juices, fresh-fried noodles.

grilled squid and fish sending smoky aromas through the air.

bolts of fabric, pots and pans.

tourist crap.

Singer sewing machines clacking down the row of tailors.

manis, pedis, haircuts… the hot scent of hair being tamed.

and the rich smell of leather.

green fruit floating by on the head of a woman gracefully navigating the aisles.

****

Already I can sense that this is place where it’s easy to just… be.

Watching life pass by under the cacophony of jumbled balconies, lopsided awnings, tangles wires, and trees.

And having some interesting conversations with the kids trying to sell me stuff out of the red and green plastic baskets they have slung over their shoulders – photo-copied books and mass-produced bracelets and scarves.

(how do I know the books are photocopied? I bought one, of course. The boy who approached me as I was eating my lunch gave a very convincing sales pitch, and when he returned for a second pass I gave in quite willingly).

Two girls loitered by me as I sat at a sidewalk café. A 7^th grader who has been to Angkor Wat on a field trip, was  #1 in her class for several years running, and did most of the talking while her younger sidekick looked at my shyly with her colorful basket of scarves.

Later, a young man, after finally believing that I did not have need of his tuk-tuk services, proceeded to warn me about other young men with various shady scams that I would never be stupid enough to fall for.

******

New Year’s Day.

I’m on the 8 am bus

From Phnom Penh to Battambang.

The city dissapates gradually

Wooden houses appearing

Among the tall, concrete-and-shiny balconies.

At streetside cafes

Men chat over morning coffee,

Glimpses of alleys and side streets

Reveal breief flashes

Of life going by on just another

Tuesday.

A family fits their smallest

And fourth moto passenger

In a sparkly pink helmet.

Crescent moons of country mosques

Fish farms on square ponds

Bisected by earthen walls

On which perch homes and cars.

Rice fields green

Wats sparkle gold in the distance,

Thus begins the honking and passing

And relief that I can not see

The road ahead.

Houses perch on stilts

All shades from weather-worn to winter-sky blue

Scroll-work dancing along the eaves

Connected to earth

With a bridge of wooden slats

Or steps down to the dry-season dirt

Rust-red dust starts to puff from our tires

Homes shelter under groves of shady green

Huge water jars squat in every yard

White cows dot the horizon

Under the pom-poms of palms.

**********

Battambang.

Well, I wanted something off the beaten path.

Damned if I didn’t get it.

7pm, and between pockets of light pooling around restaruants (to which we tourists are flocking like moths to a flame), the streets are dark, scooters and cars flashing headlights past shuttered shops.

When I arrived hours earlier, I  disembarked the bus to a sprawling riverside town, dusty, gritty, and with a charm that’s faded a bit too far. I found my hotel with little trouble, wondering where the ‘other tourists’ were while waving away the offers of transport.

It was already 2pm, so I jumped at the offer of a tuk-tuk to the nearby bamboo railway and temples (the bamboo railway being the one thing on my must-do list for the day). 

This open-air ride was a nice change after being cooped up in a bus all day – sitting on a bamboo-slat platform, flying along through the countryside as the late-afternoon sun flashed behind the bushes and butterflies flitted through the air.

A few minutes in I discovered a few of the afore-mentioned other tourists, riding the rails just as I was… heading directly for us, and giving us several opportunities to see the ingenious-ness of the bamboo railway.

One ‘train’ simply disassembles:

Lift off the platform and motor:

Set to the side. 

Move the axels aside.

Let the others through.

Reverse the process.

Which my driver managed to do quite deflty.

Even with one prosthetic leg.

At the end of the ride, we pull up to a line of shops, corrugated tin roofs over tables, ringed with t-shirts and scarves for sale, bottles and cans cold in the cooler.

Do I want a cold drink?

Not really, since I brought some water along, but I want to help this local economy, so I sit down and buy a water and an energy drink for the driver, who disappears.

Enter the adorable children, toting adorable creations fashioned from tall blades of grass. At first, I am hesitant, knowing that the second I accept anything, even something made in seconds from a natural resource, even something presented as a gift, there will be an expectation that I will give something in return.

But, I was a tad bit curious.

So I asked the girl in the yellow dress, long blade trailing from her fingers, to demonstrate.

And, thus distracted, I allowed a grasshopper to be perched in my ponytail, a bracelet to be fastened on my wrist, and a star-shaped ring to be placed on my finger.

Sometimes you know you are being played, and you just don’t care.

And I learned that the boy in the yellow shirt lives a kilometer away and goes to school in slightly different direction, and he knows his English because he’s been hanging out with tourists for ‘a long time.’ That the girl who made the bracelet wore a silver ring that was a gift from her mother. That the man driving my bamboo chariot lost his leg below the knee to a landmine. (and that I should give him a good tip.)

And, finally, that kids everywhere like Coca-cola.

I know this because this is what I was asked, in return for my hand-made gifts.
Cans of Coke.

I counter-offered with a banana.

They counter-offered with a bag of chips.

One of the kids opened the cooler and presented the perfect solution: a coconut.

I handed over cash for two of them, and winced as the machete was wielded by small hands to chop off the top, before accepting a straw to share in the sweet milk, smiling as all of them shared sips before cracking open the husks to get at the meat, and I too use a metal spoon to scrape out a long curl, dangling it into my mouth and savoring the freshness of the moment.

Two boys stand with the empty husks in their hands, and the older one gives his a mighty hurl, sending it across the tracks and clattering into a pile. The smaller one hands over the second for a repeat performance.

“You’re strong!” I exclaim, before we flex our muscles at each other.

I guesture to the shiny set of wheels lying on the track.

“Can you lift that?”

He nods, and proceeds to heave one end off the ground.

I move in, prepared to make a grimace of pretended pain… but I grimace for real.

Those things are heavy!

Back down the tracks again, before heading off in the waning light to a hilltop wat where I enjoy the views of the countryside in the golden light before heading back to town.

*********************************************************************************

The nice guy from the desk gives me a lift to the boat dock on his motorbike the next morning, depositing me in time to claim a seat by the window. We depart as dawn breaks, after waiting for every seat to be filled, pearly light on the river and life stirring on the banks…

Stilted houses clinging to the riverbanks in various stages of solidity.

Morning baths in the river.

Livestock looking for breakfast.

Fishing nets strung between empty plastic bottles.

Trash heaps.

Waving kids.

Pots and pans in gleaming rows.

Laundy drying.

Boats bobbing  - from simple fishing crafts to floating houses.

Lives exposed to anyone and everyone motoring by.

\\

The banks flatten.

Fields stretch away on either side.

We shift positions, from inside to the roof and back again, as the scenery becomes monotonous.

The horn sounds loudly as we round the corners.

Get out of our way.

 We slow a few times, for people and goods to change from one boat to another, a few times stopping for more serious endeavors, dropping off bags of fresh baguettes and potatoes and pineapples, and once to buy refreshments at a floating store in a floating village, as just-delivered blocks of ice are cut down to size. Small kids maneuver boats with surprising agility, clearly at home on the water.

Finally we reach Tonle Sap Lake, and cross the expanse of choppy open water to dock amidst the chaos of sunset cruises and ferries and drivers clamoring for fares.

After sink laundry, a 50-cent beer and $2 dinner, I reserve a bike for 6am the following morning, set my alarm, and go to bed early.

The ancient temples of Angkor Wat are waiting.

(Click here to see all the pics from this part of the trip!)