How Cambodia Changed Me
Southeast Asia Diaries-Part Two
I arrive in Siem Reap in a daze. My day begins in Pakse, Laos, just two hundred and seventy miles north. Still, it takes three planes and six hours before I amble into the Cambodian night. There are no direct flights from the capital, which means I must fly back to Bangkok before arriving in Cambodia’s second-largest city. I am weary, hungry, and battling a migraine that has not relented since my layover in Vientiane.
Then, moments after passing customs, I return to life. My spirits are revived when I double down on the promise I made to protect the wonder of stepping into another land, regardless of how many have preceded it. Experience has taught me that privileges and gratitude are not inextricable — that one must be deliberate in acknowledging one’s good fortune.
A man with short hair and a sturdy build awaits my arrival. He looks to be in his early 30s and goes by ‘Mr. Black,’ a name I have trouble taking seriously. He lifts my heavy bag with ease and places it in his remorque — a three-wheeled carriage that resembles a tuk-tuk attached to a motorbike.
A light rain begins to fall as we move through the quiet streets of a city that resembles a movie set. Siem Reap has a tenth of the population of Phnom Penh, which means the cacophony of horns and rattling engines eventually abates, leaving pockets of the city where one can hear their thoughts. The avenues are clean, the parks pruned, and the bridges above the Siem Reap River lit like 5th Avenue in December. I like it here already.
Mr. Black drops me off at an apartment nestled between French colonial buildings before agreeing to be my guide the following day. I take a stroll half a block from my Airbnb and plant myself in an empty restaurant on the corner of a quiet street. The street lamp illuminates heavy drops of rain as young lovers in ponchos zip by on a scooter. I savor the simplicity of the moment. The chatter in my head is muted, and the urge to resist anything surrendered. There is nowhere I would rather be.
Mr. Black arrives early the next morning and asks how I slept. There is a boyish earnestness to his questions I find endearing. Together, we make our way twelve kilometers outside the city to a place so integral to the identity of Cambodia it sits on the country’s flag. Mr. Black drops me off on a dirt lot and points to a trail that will take me to what I’ve traveled halfway around the world to see.
Like Petra, the anticipation mounts with each step. Seven years ago, on a scorching day in southern Jordan, I walked through the Siq — a dim, narrow gorge perfectly manicured by mother nature that acts as the entranceway to the ancient Nabatean City. The walk was nearly a mile, building the suspense of seeing a city ten times older than the United States. I am anxious, but the tension feels necessary. To be dropped off curbside in a tuk-tuk or luxury bus in front of one of the wonders of the world feels unthinkable.
I walk for a few minutes, then round a bend before the ancient city is revealed. After nine planes, months of planning, and a lifetime of waiting, I am finally looking at Angkor Wat. In the distance, it looks like a mirage — a mythical city like Atlantis. The central obelisk and corner pillars are striking, while the sandstone blocks are perfectly placed. The concentric and symmetrical architecture pales in comparison to the sheer size of the temple. It is not difficult to believe that 1,000 years ago, Angkor Wat was the largest city in the world.
Built as a Hindu temple under King Suryavarman II, it was transformed into a center for Buddhism by the end of the 12th century. Neglected but never abandoned, poems and literal volumes have been written about the first encounters of explorers worldwide as they tried to capture the ancient city's aura on paper. For a moment, I take comfort in believing my first impression of Angkor Wat is no different than the pilgrims and missionaries who stood here hundreds of years before.
I walk from one wing to the next passing galleries, chambers, courtyards, stairwells, and towers made to look like lotus buds. The intricacies of the temple are overwhelming. For a moment, I imagine a dozing sentry or a lovestruck teenager wandering the temple’s grounds beneath a starlit sky. I remind myself that all that has changed in 1,000 years are social mores and wardrobe. I take comfort in knowing the human condition is timeless.
Mr. Black takes me to an endless stream of sacred altars for the next several hours. From Bayon Temple, the Gothic-style temple with 216 massive faces, to the Srah Srang, a reservoir built in the 10th century, I am ushered from one stunning shrine to the next. Ta Prohm, a temple best known for its appearance in the 2001 film Lara Croft: Tomb Raider, is especially memorable. I am less impressed with its resume than the massive four-hundred-year-old trees that have swallowed entire sections of the ancient grounds. “Are the trees destroying or protecting the temple?” I hear a tourist ask her guide. “It depends on who you ask,” he says.
Night falls as Mr. Black takes me home through a tree-lined road. An orchestra of insects harmonizes an eerie melody that could score a slasher film. Unfazed, Mr. Black drops me off where our adventure began ten hours earlier. He is surprised when I refuse to pay the agreed-upon rate, instead doubling it. Paying his original fee feels unethical for all his trouble. He surprises me by wrapping me in an awkward bear hug before agreeing to pick me up the following day.
The following day, we head to Phnom Kulen Waterfall, which turns out to be less interesting than the journey. The forty-five-minute drive through the Cambodian countryside is stunning. We zip past paddy fields, traditional stilt homes, and grass so green it looks as though each blade was painted. A little girl riding a bicycle too big for her flashes a smile bright enough to land an airbus. Despite the steady hum of passing motorbikes and cars, it is the most peace I’ve felt since arriving in Southeast Asia. I don’t care if we ever get to the waterfall.
Later that day, I heard Mr. Black say more than he’s said in our two days together. He asks me if I’m interested in visiting the Cambodia Landmine Museum, opened by a former child soldier and CNN Hero nominee named Aki Ra. For the last twenty-six years, he has dedicated his life to clearing landmines and unexploded ordnances while spreading awareness of the danger of mines. His institution once doubled as a school, housing and employing a dozen young people disabled by landmines.
I later learn Cambodia is still one of the most heavily mined countries in the world. The decades of conflict, including American bombings, Vietnamese occupation, and civil war, have left landmines in backyards, roads to schools, and rice fields all over the country.
Still, Mr. Black mentions none of this. Instead, he brings up a subject on my mind since my arrival — the brutal Khmer Rouge regime and genocide that claimed an estimated 2 million lives. My travels have taught me to tread lightly — not to allow my curiosity to lead to insensitive inquiries. From spending time in Germany, Rwanda, and Bosnia, I also know the unsavory parts of a country’s history have a way of being broached without my prodding. Speaking about the unspeakable seems to be a condition for avoiding the same atrocities.
As a result, I am almost relieved when Mr. Black brings up Pol Pot, the dictator who systematically persecuted and murdered nearly a quarter of Cambodia’s population. He speaks in a hushed tone, choosing his words carefully. Mr. Black seems uneasy, and concerned someone will overhear us. I wonder why he’s so diplomatic when there seems no wiggle room to view the actions of the Khmer Rouge from 1975–1979 as anything but evil. Still, I pause, reminding myself I am a guest in his country and don’t see the world as it is but as I am. A feeling is as complex as its host, and neither lives in black and white but shades of grey.
The museums in Siem Reap and, later, Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum in Phnom Penh will be the most challenging and moving parts of my Southeast Asian journey. While walking through rooms once filled with vibrant high school students where thousands of people were later coerced and tortured in unthinkable ways, I discover something important about myself. I still cling to an unyielding naivete about people four decades into life. I still want to believe we are incapable of the cruelty and inhumanity I see at Tuol Sleng, but the evidence is before me in the most stark way. I must remind myself we are all capable of the most extraordinary acts of humanity and brutality and that being human means to be a walking contradiction.
There will be flight delays, visa setbacks, communication blunders, jet lag, and work to address for the next few weeks. The average temperature will be 91 °F, and on most days, I won’t be able to find something I can eat. Still, I would not change anything. Traveling has taught me how you grow and what you learn is infinitely more important than how you temporarily feel, and that ‘good’ and ‘bad’ are merely mental pivots we have agency over. To truly honor any experience means to appreciate all of it.
Mr. Black takes me to the airport on my last day in Siem Reap. He asks if we can take a picture together before thanking me for my visit. I get the sense Mr. Black and I could have been friends despite our language barrier and cultural differences. I feel indebted to him and Cambodia for an experience that is singular among all the countries I’ve seen. Even in my short time here, I feel somehow changed. I want to tell him all this but can’t find the words. As I make my way to the kiosk for my next flight, a strange calm washes over me. I take comfort in the idea that he already somehow knows.
If you enjoy this, you may enjoy Part 1:
