Wandering Cambodia with a Frenchman.
‘One never reaches home, but wherever friendly paths intersect the whole world looks like home for a time.’ — Hermann Hesse.
The beginning of July, 2017.
I find myself standing, silently gazing ahead, beads of sweat weaving down my face; the sweltering heat outside is starkly contrasted by the cool breeze that circulates through these ancient stone corridors.
Occasionally I hear the echoing footsteps of other tourists from somewhere within, but I nevertheless feel profoundly immersed and alone here — my footsteps seem to harken back for millennia, on and on through time. I am entranced; enchanted by a labyrinth of unworldly ruins: by nature’s gradual reclamation of a once thriving human civilisation, slowly sinking back into mother earth.
I am in Cambodia, exploring the area that was once known as Angkor: a thriving ancient mega-city that laid at the heart of the Khmer empire for centuries. Angkor was, according to recent archeological research, perhaps the largest pre-industrial city in the world. A vast network of life, trade, and power that has since dissolved into the canals of history, leaving only remnants; albeit beautiful, intricate, ethereal remnants.
I am with a Frenchman called Francois, a young traveller I met on the bus from Bangkok. He talks little, and like me, has a bottomless thirst to experience; to see, to explore! We will often walk for miles without a word exchanged, sharing a mutual understanding that seems not to necessitate the use of words. It is pleasant to have a fellow traveller by my side.
We are wandering around the outskirts of the ancient city that is now mostly reclaimed by thick tropical jungle. Within a radius of around 15 miles there are the remnants of over one thousand Khmer temples; many of them have now blended back into the dense landscape of forna to create the most incredible formations of stone and root and vine, as the jungle gradually grows around and into these ancient sacred structures.
On one particularly warm evening Francois and I were taking a fine stroll about the dilapidated ruins of a lesser known temple somewhere far out on the fringes of the area, when a faint commotion emanating from somewhere off into the depths of the forest became barely audible. Myself and my companion exchanged a curious glance, and, looking off into the undergrowth in the direction of these odd sounds, Francois began to wander off gingerly into the foliage. And, such was our relationship, that within a fraction of a second I was beside him on this little venture into the unknown.
We quickly came across a small mud path that wound smoothly through the vines and trees, a path that seemed to be leading us directly towards the noise; which was now becoming distinctly human in nature; melodic, excited.
We broke through after no less than a couple minutes of walking upon what appeared to be a mad carnival of seafood, rice liquor and dancing taking place under the shade of an extended canvas roofing held up by sticks of bamboo. Strangely enough, we were met with a degree of surprise by these already-semi-drunk men; and yet, within the blink of an eye, found ourselves sitting on little plastic chairs surrounded by a fervent audience who, between them all, managed to conjure up enough of the English vocabulary in order to conduct an extensive and excitable; albeit overwhelmingly friendly and well-meant interrogation of our personal lives — whilst we were continuously offered various delicacies of their little feast: oysters and pickled roots and various other kinds of shell-fish.
This kind of experience I would soon become very much used to, but as an 18-year old boy only weeks into my first trip alone to a far-away place, I was intoxicated; not only by the continual supply of rice wine, but by the very novelty of it all… by the adventure, the continuous exposure to something that I had not been exposed to before, by the magic of venturing forth into the next unpredictable experience that screamed L-I-F-E and left you salivating in the soul for more, more, more of that enticing mysterious to lift you from the comfortable domains of a regulated existence, to show you a vast, extraordinary world of tradition and diversity and mystical belief and symbolism and real people that see the world in a way so alien to you that you’re left lying on the bed at the end of the day weary, tired, and yet so immensely, vehemently A-L-I-V-E in the feeling that you world is turning upside down… the feeling that you’re on a trip into an unknown land — that’s what turns me on… the eternal venture into the unknown that brings LIFE to life; that euphoric nausea.
A week later we are stretched out like strips of dry fish on the roof of a slow river-boat heading south-east into Battambang province. The sun is immense, but only on occasion does it peak through the clouds in all its intensity. As we bumble along down the river we look out on the wooden stilt houses that line the bank: little clusters of corrugated iron and chipped wood paint of a plethora of colours, an endless stream of fishing villages that exist far from any land-based towns or cities, entirely alone.
At each cluster we passed the boat would slow down to crawling pace, and from each tiny village would emerge one or two canoe boats; paddling towards us with one or two young men, usually, and some kind of cargo in the back. Within minutes each canoe would come to the side of our boat, and various supplies, boxes and other goods would be exchanged at a remarkable speed. It was fascinating to watch these men, to ponder their lives on the river, so distant from the frantic complexity of the Western world. Did they live on this one river their whole lives? How many people did they meet in a lifetime? What did they think of us… us white people who stared down at them, and them up at us for just a moment; what did they wonder of our lives?
We had been silently watching this process continue for hours into the late afternoon. Francois lit a cigarette and passed one to me. I held it between my thumb and forefinger, unlit. In-front of me a Kmer woman held a baby over her shoulder — a baby with massive, cosmic eyes that didn’t know time. It was staring into me with hypnotic empathy, and the air around us became still. A thought seemed to captivate me, to take root at the foundation of my being with unfounded conviction. A thought that morphed and convulsed into much more than a thought, more like a great misty landscape that took over me and emanated from every pore. It was a human thought, the most human thought… a profound connection to all life, something that expanded far beyond the self and yet at no point did it omit me. I looked through those great eyes as doorways into something deeper, greater, something we all share; something that harkens back into the ancient past within me, within. I lit the cigarette.
We spent the next day or so weaving our way through the musky alleyways of Battambang city, the kind of place where noon and dawn and dusk all feel the same. And the day fast turned into night, and we sat in a grungy hostel chatting; the air thick with tobacco smoke and echoes of our mellowed voices.
The next morning my trusted Frenchman set off to the South-coast, I insisted on staying another day here; I found the atmosphere curiously charming. We promised to meet a few days later in Kampot, and so we parted; unsure, of-course, if our promise would ever really be fulfilled.
I rented a bicycle from a man in a street and wandered off towards the outskirts to the east, weaving through all kinds of strange traffic: guzzling mopeds and rickshaws with big holes in the roof, everything a little rusty; everything with its own quirk, its own mark of time. The further out I went, the more dilapidated the suburbs became, the quieter the streets; everything slowed. Eventually I was beyond the suburbs of the city, heading down some dirt lane along a little stream. By now, as I passed one of the stilted homes that lined the bank, kids would shout from the porch if they saw me, in an excitable high-pitched tone; little ecstatic sirens. Old men looked up from the rim of straw hats and gazed at me, their bare feet rooted into the ground. I pedalled, following the stream, not sure what I was looking for or where I was going; except that I was again looking for some new little adventure… and how else but to go on, on, on?
Some children up ahead, splashes in the water. Voices. I stop at an opening down towards the stream — which at this point is wider and deeper than a stream. A group of children are playing; jumping in off a log, laughing, swimming. The water is muddy-brown. An older boy is the first to notice me. As he shouts and points everyone turns round and looks at me. I smile. They smile. Even the old women on the other bank smile, watching from the porch of their stilted hut. The older boy beckons me down to the water. I rest my bike and my bag against a tree and wander down towards them. I won’t get in.
The older boy walks out, dripping, towards me.
We shake hands, we exchange names. He speaks broken English. A few minutes later I am barefoot, walking along a long wet trunk suspended over the stream. There are children in the water; on the log, on either side of me. I jump in. As I enter the water I am soaked with a cool bliss that feels wonderful against the heat of the afternoon, I emerge smiling. The children are laughing. I am laughing. I am free. I play with the children for an hour or so. Their elders sit on the bank, amused. The sun is falling behind the trees, the sky turns a pale orange with streaks of violet. I leave them; my clothes dripping wet, turning back towards the city. I am warm.
Was there a purpose to this experience? No, emphatically, no! It was too juicy for that. It was raw enough as it comes, too raw for reason, too alive. I wandered blissfully back into the dense city, the last rays of sunlight running long graceful amber strokes across my back and over my young shoulders; my eyes gleaming endlessly with the fervour of the human spirit.
‘Whoever wants music instead of noise, joy instead of pleasure, soul instead of gold, creative work instead of business, passion instead of foolery, finds no home in this trivial world of ours.’ — Hermann Hesse.
I dare say that perhaps our dear old Hermann didn’t look hard enough in this oh-so ‘trivial’ world of ours.
Second part coming once I finish writing it.
Axle.
