Angkor Wat: A Picture Diary

First Sight

From the Outside

Sunset in a broken temple

One of four central towers

A smiling face of Bankor

Building towers, close up

Building towers, in context

Can you imagine when these floors weren't so worn?

Filled to doors to nowhere

Ta Prohm: Hungry roots and falling bricks

Gaurdian on the river

Kampot: Bungaloes, The Cham People, and Inspirational Students

It had already been a long day. Tearful goodbyes and NHCC were followed by a long van ride. I’d been in the back, crammed tightly in with bags, my neighbor J, didn’t have enough room for her legs, so we were sharing leg space. I’ve never been one to dislike road trips, but this one tried my patience. I didn’t really know what awaited us where we were going, and leaving NHCC had been one of the harder goodbyes of the trip so far.

An hour or two into the drive, T, the group’s resident DJ, thought it might be a good idea to listen to The Things They Carried by Tim O’Brien, seeing as we were soon to enter Vietnam. Listening to O’Brien’s poetic descriptions while staring out the window and what little of Cambodia I could see from the road, the reality of my geographic location suddenly hit me.

Throughout my life the word Vietnam had always been present, whispered here and there, dripping from people’s tongues with a certain weight. The word itself never referred to a modern day country, but of a different sort of place, on of bitterness and disillusion, one of loss and death and endless meaningless, one of protests, of upheaval. And then at some point, I learned that the whispered “Vietnam” referred to a war that was never a war, and I learned more about the confusing, murky thing that is the Vietnam War.

Sitting there in that van, it suddenly occurred to me, like it had before in these suddenly clear moments, that I was in Cambodia. That I was on the other side of the world from where I’d always been, that around me was a land that had seen a different history, fostered a different culture, listened to different languages.

And I was in the part of the world that was the other half of the Vietnam war story.

So, I was in the van, thinking very hard about where I was, when I arrived in Kampot.

I loved it immediately. Compared to every other city I’d been in, this place was empty. There were hardly any cars on the street, no one asked insistently if I wanted a tuk tuk, and I could smell the ocean. We were close to the sea. The Kampot river flowed through the down and a couple of kilometers later dumbed into the gulf of Thailand. The air was different here, brighter, brisker, the sort of air that makes you feel cleaner.

Little did I know what would be in store for me there.

One boat ride down the gorgeous Kampot River later, we arrived at our accommodation for our time in Kampot. We’d be spending two days or so hanging out with an American expat A, who runs a stand up paddle board rental and tour service from her house. She’d arranged accommodation near to where she lives, as it’s pretty far out from the actual town of Kampot.

We’d be staying in a place called Eden. Recently opened up, this place is the closest thing to heaven on earth I’ve ever found. Several beautiful bungalows hovering over the river on stilts make up the guesthouse. It runs on solar power. The river laughs all the time. The staff make the best coffee I’ve ever tasted.

At Eden, I whiled away my time reading and writing, swimming across the river, watching boats pass by. At night I’d lay in a hammock under the stars, listening to haunting music playing through a set of speakers, or two a guitar.

One afternoon, I was sitting on a bungalow porch, feet dangling over the river, when suddenly a blast of Cambodian hip hop interrupted the quiet and a huge splash erupted from the river off to my left.  A second later a head popped up above the water. The man swam to the side of his bright blue fishing boat and pulled himself back up onto the deck. He was joined by two friends and they were talking and laughing loudly, jumping into the water.

One noticed me, waved and shouted hi. I waved back.

They had just woken up, I guessed. The fishing boats were clearly theirs, so I knew that in just a matter of hours they’d set off as the sun began to set. In this area, the river was completely fished out, so fishermen had moved to the sea. Around 4 o’clock every afternoon, all the boats motored downriver and met up in a great fleet, before setting off into the open water of the ocean to fish all night and return as the sun rose.

The other fascinating thing about Eden, was that it was built in a village of Cham people. An ethnic minority found throughout Southeast Asia. The Champ people are Muslim, setting them apart from the traditionally Buddhist society around them. It was fascinating to walk through their village. It looked like any other place in Cambodia, the only difference were the beautifully decorated headscarves worn by most of the women.

As I walked through the village, I was greeted from all sides. Children ran out of houses to wave, men and women called hellos to us from their shops. It was an extremely welcoming village. And their warmth made me fall in love a little bit with the area.

Beautiful bungaloes and kind neighbors aside, the most amazing part of Kampot was the group of young Cambodians I met through the connections A, the American expat, had built up during her years in Cambodia. While I met a handful of talented university students, three of them stood out. One, a few years out of university, was one of the heads of a school fifteen minutes out of Kampot. A Belgian woman who had noticed the need for a good, free school in that particular area, as the children and their families were too poor to afford to send them to school, had founded it. This young man was in charge when the Belgian was away, and he worked wonderfully with the students, really inspiring them to learn. He’d also been involved extensively in NGO’s researching the Khmer Rouge.

Another university graduate had received several scholarships to university. As a little girl she’d started a library in her own home, and although she was too poor to pay for school, her teacher recognized her passion and potential and taught her anyway. In university, she’d even been given the chance to study in the Czech Republic, an opportunity she took. Most Cambodian students who’d received that scholarship in the past never returned to Cambodia, going somewhere else where they’d get higher paying jobs. She did return, knowing that if all the young people left Cambodia, “Cambodia would stay Cambodia, and never get better.”

She and her brothers had since started a biking tour of Phnom Penh, focusing on a genuine cultural experience. She’s also just finished writing a book for a series by a Chinese publisher, about her story. 

Lastly, was this brilliant young woman’s brother. He was younger, our age, just started in university. He’s a brilliant people person. As we hung out, he was the life of the party, starting games, causing mischief, making people feel at ease. He was our guide as we paddled along the river, taking us through mangrove tunnels and past a hidden pagoda. Just as intelligent as his sister, he, too, works for a brighter future for Cambodia.

A few days later, I left Kampot with a heavy heart, wishing I could have spent more time with these intelligent and inspiring people. But knowing that their still in Cambodia, working with children and adults, inspiring them to clean up their country, is heartening. Things are slowly moving forward in that haunted country.

Dancing in Cambodia, Knowing Everyting's Gonna Be Okay

“Excuse me,” said a young man, approaching me to the left, “would you like to dance?”

He bowed slightly while asking the questions, hands up in prayer position, a typically Cambodian gesture.

While normally I’d be pretty thrilled if a guy asked me to dance, especially in such a formal and adorable way, I hesitated at this offer. This was Cambodia. Ancient, traditional Cambodia. Here, opposite genders didn’t mix. Here, public displays of affection were taboo.

How did young people here go about dancing with each other?

Moreover, how did people even dance here anyway?

I looked at the young, dark skinned man. I considered my options for a heartbeat. “Yes, definitely. BUT, you’ll have to teach me Cambodian dance.”

So he did. The rest of my friends joined in, and so did the other young Cambodians of Egbok. Step by step my dance partner showed me an easy Cambodian dance. A strange sort of swaying move, circling around a table. It was hard, the movement of the hands are just as important of the feet, and everything is pretty stylized. They way you hold your fingers, the pointing of toes, the rotation of the wrists.

I’m pretty sure Cambodians are born knowing how to flex their hands impossible and move them flawlessly between different gestures. Us westerners on the other hand, have a bit more difficulty. But it was a fun night, dancing clumsily along to the ruckus of Cambodian hip hop. 

Eventually, the my friends and I decided to show off a little American dancing. A few moments later, “Footloose” started playing on someone’s Ipod and we all broke out into the dance we’d all learned at the start of the trip before teaching it to our friends at Egbok. To their credit, they picked it up way faster than most of us.

Our dance party lasted a while, but we eventually had to say our goodbyes. And so, we ended the night, saying our goodbyes and thank yous.

During the walk back to the hostel, no one in our group could shut up.

“That was amazing!”

“I’m going to miss them so much. We have got to send other groups there next time.”

“Let’s stay in Siem Reap!”

That night had been an experiment. We had been in contact with this organization Egbok for a little while, and had managed to arrange one evening to go and visit.

As you can guess, it went wonderfully.

The ten of us set out one hot afternoon in Siem Reap to find the Egbok house. An address and poor quality map in hand, it’s a miracle we made it. But only twenty minutes later, we walked up the drive to a stately looking home (this was Cambodia after all, and anything with nice clean walls, a paved drive, and a pretty gate is nice). We were sweaty and dusty from the walk, but were welcomed in anyway.

Egbok, a name I’ve thrown around a few times already, stands for “Everything’s Gonna Be OK.” It’s a nonprofit started by a graduate of the Cornell Hospitality School that trains poor young men and women in Cambodia in hospitality, so that they can enter the booming hospitality business. These young people join a wonderful community when they join Egbok. They live as a family, get English and technology lessons, learn anything and everything they could possibly need to know when working in a hotel or restaurant, and they get plenty of practice with their new skills. But most importantly, Egbok changes their lives, and puts control back into their hands.

I had a lovely time at Egbok, learning and laughing with the Cambodians who were my age. This was the first time any of the service opportunities on this trip involved working with people my age, and it was a wonderful change of pace. How else could we have ended up throwing and impromptu dance party?

Besides dancing, we all cooked a Cambodian meal together, cutting up veggies to put into spring rolls, slicing bananas for dessert, stirring fish soup. When it came time to roll the spring rolls, the Egbok students laughed a lot—at us Americans who clearly do not understand how to roll spring rolls. But it was all in good fun, and eventually the food was ready. We sat down to eat.

Dinner was defined by laughter and good conversation. A number of the people working or volunteering at Egbok have very interesting stories, so we spent the evening learning about their experiences. Following dinner and a delicious banana and milk dessert, the ten of us Carpe people were all given kramas, the traditional Cambodian scarf, a symbol of their culture.

And then, then, someone announced that the Egbok students would teach us Cambodian dance. And so the party continued, into the starlit night.

The Village

NHCC. That's what everyone called it. The letters rolled off the tongues of the students and volunteeers easily. No one needing reminding of what it meant. New HOpe for Cambodian Children. Most people would call it an orphanage, but those that live there call it a village. Tucked away in the country side, folded up in the its own corner of a small Cambodian town, NHCC is its own world. 

There live over 200 children, some as young as three, others almost ready for university, all without parents in their lives, all HIV positive. In any other place, that description would spell out a grim picture.

But at NHCC, that picture is something completely different. It has been turned from black and white to a riot of color. Against all odds, NHCC is filled with happiness, filled with joy and love.

Within moments of my arrival, I met Patrick. A long time volunteer at NHCC, he’d been in Cambodia since January. He’d stay until December. I met Davis, a volunteer teacher, and one of the sweetest, most energetic and loving westerners I had met in southeast Asia. I met Malin, a Cambodian woman in charge of the volunteers. She worked just as hard, or harder than everyone else, getting supplies, creating schedules, approving changes.

And I met the kids.

The kids. Fragile but hopeful. The largest hearts put into the tiniest bodies. They never stopped laughing, they never stopped smiling. They never stopped running towards you with open arms.

The week—how could it just have been one week?—was a week of transformations. It was a week that could have held a year. A week where love was the word of the day, everyday.

Our role there, as volunteers was to help out however we could. Mostly, that took the form of tutoring kids. We worked one on one with them, creating games to teach them the ABCs, or explaining why we need to carry the one when we add up big numbers. We helped out during class, giving overworked teachers a little break, giving the kids extra love and attention.

Amongst all the good there could hardly have been any bad. Who would have guessed that waking up at 5:30 in the morning would eventually feel normal? Or that finding a dead rat in the water stored for showers would eventually seem funny?

French fries for breakfast and at every other meal became a running inside joke. We survived having too many bodies in one un-air-conditioned dorm room in 100°F.

In between the heat and in between the mundane moments of daily life at an impossibly magical place, were the best moments.

Peaceful bus rides back home after a day at the water park. Painting a mural of the galaxy while a gaggle of little kids wanted to play, distracted by a bunch of coloring sheets. Kids learning to spell our names and writing them everywhere. Pushing one child, then another, then another on the swings. Disorganized tag games. The chaos of water balloon fights. Decorated Easter eggs. The relief and giddy joy found in the pouring rain. And disco night, when all the kids relaxed, dancing to their own tune, crazy lights and loud music floating off into the dark Cambodian night.

And come time to say goodbye, a line of children followed us. They watched as we swung out bags into the truck. Last hugs. Last goodbyes. They watched, waving and calling out to us as we drove away, growing smaller in the distance, but staying close in our hearts.

Pnom Penh: A History Lesson

Stepping off the bus in Phnom Penh was an intesne experience. Instead of a big bus stations, we'd been brough to a random streent corner in the city. From the moment my feet touched the sidewalk, I was surround by pakcpacks, joslting passengly and eager tuktuk drivers.

My entire stay in Phnom Penh was like this: up close and intesne. WHile walking the busy streets of the city looking for dinner, I'd step out of the way of honking cars and motos as the buildings pressed me up against the streets. It's a city that means business, unfrieldy to idle visitors. Here, people live their lives, fight, make up, go to work, cook for their families. Here is a history of horrible prostitution, of theft, of drugs, here is a history of war.

While there are people who love visiting the city, and Lonely Planet seems convinced that Phnom Penh is up and coming and a great place to visit, the only reason I found myself there was to learn about Cambodia. Like many capitol cities, there are sights to see, but also plenty of indifferent locals. It's suh a big city that I never really saw much of it, and perhaps I missed the fantastic parts, but it did get to the important places.

How much do you know about the history of Cambodia?

I didn't know all that much three months ago.

Besides learning a bit about the ancient Kmer Empire while visiting Angkor Wat, the only other thing I knew about Cambodia's history was that it got pulled into the Vietman war when Nixon staretd bombing it in secret to break up Viet Cong supply lines. I'd also heard a little bit about this mysterious Kmer Rouge, which I knew to be a pretty awful dictatorship in the 70s.

Exactly how awful it was, I had no idea.

The first time I was given any hint at the gravity of this part of Cambodia's history was in Wanaka, NZ. I'd met an Austrailian who'd traveled a number of times throughout Southeast Asia, and he told me he loved Cambodia. That it was a beautiful country with wonderful people. He also said that it was empty.

"Compared to its neighbors, it's empty." He'd told me, "Outside of the cities, the country side has practically no one in it."

"What?" I responded, confused as to why that might be.

"It's because a third of the population was killed under the Kmer Rouge."

A third of the population.

I'd learn more about this throughout the trip, but, like many things, I didn't really register how horrible of a dictatorship the Kmer Rouge really was until I got to Phnom Penh and visited S21 and the Killing Fields.

Almost directly because of the US's meddling in Cambodia during the Vietnam War (or the American War as it is called over here), Pol Pot came into power in Cambodia, backed by an army. The cambodian people believed he would bring a communist peace, but Pol Pot's vision was far from that.

Three days after siezing power, the Kmer Rouge had forced all of Phnom Penh's citizens from the city. They marched without rest or food for days and days until they arrived at work camps--similar to the Nazi's concentration camps. This happened all over Cambodia, as people were forced from their homes and made to work. Pol Pot's vision was to remove any westernization, any modernization from Cambodia. He wanted to return to an idealized agrigarian society. Any one educated, all lawyers and doctors and teacher, anyone with skin too light or anyone with glasses, anyone who knew any French or English, were killed. Everyone else worked.

They worked for many hours in a day, only given two bowls and thin rice soup to survive on. They were seperated from thier families, lived in shacks. Essentially slaves.

Throughout their time in Power, the Kmer Rouge got increasingly violent and paranoid. More people were killed, they arrested "traitors" and sent them to prison, they attacked thier people. If one person was accused of some crime against the regime, their entire family was sent to prison.

But it wasn't just prison. If they were killed outright, they were brought to one of the many prisons around the country, like S21, a building that used to be a school before the regime. During the Kmer Rouge, it was a prison were thousands and thousands of people were totured on a daily basis, until they were close to death. Then, they were brought to a killing field, like the once just outside of Phnom Penh, and beatened to death, thier bodies left there unmarked among thousands.

Visiting S21 and a killing field was the other main reason why my time in Phnom Penh was a challenge. S21 as a place is still so filled with ghosts. The air there is stale, and the taste of blood and old screams hangs heavy in the air. The rooms were people were chained up for months and months are still there, the scrapes and screams clinging to the cracked bricks. Like the Nazi's the Kmer Rouge recorded alll their activities. They took pictures of all their prisoners, and those pictures are now hung up on the wall. These prisoners knew they would die sometime. Maybe soon. Maybe in a few months. But I don't know if they knew what was in store for them before thier deaths. But looking at the eyes of the dead, it was obvious that they knew what their fate would be.

Once of the most horrible parts of the Kmer Rouge was that they took little kids--ten year olds and twelve year olds and, because they "had to memory of the time before and were pure" they were put in charge. They were made to torture and kill, to crack the whip and dole out not-enough food. Those kids, today are adults, and I can't imagine the burdens they carry on their shoulders.

The second most horrible thing for me to learn about the Kmer Rouge was about the US's policy towards them. The North Vietnamese were the ones to liberate Cambodia from the Kmer Rouge, forcing Pol Pot and his followers into the country side near the Thai border. But because the North Vietnamese were communist, the United States, the UN and many other western countries recognized the Kmer Rouge as the official goverment for many years after they lost power. I know that the US has meddled in other countries for many years. I know they've put dictators into power and created wars. But I can't understand how it's possible for our country to support a regime that destroyed so many lives, a regime that did not know what freedom meant, a regime that dragged an entire country through a literal hell on earth.

That was hard for me to swallow.

So. Now that I've horrified you all with this story, I want to make sure you know that Cambodia is getting better. It's still very much a third world country, and a lot of things from the Kmer Rouge are still unaddressed, but my next few posts will tell stories of my time in Camobodia as it is today, and why there is hope for this beautiful country.

Ruins

Look a the ground. What are your feet touching? A carpet? Tiles? Asphalt? Look at your hands. What are they holding? Something precious? Something new? Something old? Something useless? Look arund you. Wehre is the nearest wall? What color is it? How high is it? What is it made of?

Look around you again. THink about where you are. Fix it in your mind: Where are you?

Imagine this place exactly as it was a thousand years ago. Look at the ground. Loot at your hands. Look around you. Where are you?

Imagine this place exactly as it will be one thousand years into the futures. Look at the ground. Look at your hands. Look around you. Where are you?


When biologists talk about evolution, they talk in thousands of years. When geologists talk about the formation of rocks, they talk in millions of years. And when we first looked into the night sky and looked at the stars, we learned to talk about billions of yers.

But we humans build things that last only a litle while. WE live our lives, laughing and creating, hurting and loving, learning an dexporing. We make families and made decisions. WE witness disaster and recovery. OUr lives feel so rich, yet they tak eplace in the time it takes the univers to blink.

Many people before me have observed and comented on the brevity of human existence. Kingdoms rise and kingtom fall. Ages come and ages go. War arrives na war passed. Stones is carved and stone crumbles.

Nowhere is this lesson more eviden than in the great cities of old, crumbling and dusty today, where pilgris from all corners flock to drin k in and sna photos of the wisdom and power and ingenuity of peoples long gone.

While I've seen glinmpes of thosebastions of old vicilizations in the past year--in the aqueduct and in Florence, never before have I stood before such great reminders of the past, so full of old secrets, old ghosts, old art, and old ways of life as I have here. Before the great ruins of Sukotai and Angor Wat, I stood in humbles awe, a small of of a human.

Sukothai was the first capitol of the empire that would eventually become Thailand. It's in a pretty large area, filled with old temples and monuments that are browned and weathered and crumbling today. I had the wonderful chance to explore these ruins by bike one beatuful day.

It was overcast, and windy. LIttle did I know that I'd see my first sight of rain in two months that day. The ruins were deep red and brown and black, dotted here and there with broken white statues. Sukotai is in a vast park, taken up by stretches of green lawn, stands of rees and resoviors. It's hard to believe that it once was a great city, where in between the tembles and palaces lived regular people in wooden houses, going about their daily business.

Amongst the dark colors of age,it seems impossible that these ruins were once whole, once bright and filled with color. It's so difficult to imagine the park filled with people and city sounds. The creek of carts and the barking of dogs, the calling of vendors and the shouts of children, the pushing and shoving and good neighbors in the streets. Moving through Sukotai on the two wheels of my bike, I could not help but reflect on the great power of time, how easily is changes great cities into ruins.

Only a few days later, I found myself in Angkor Wat, a name which I'm sure many of you have heard. These ruins, are spread out on an even greater area, the tembles are even larger and grander. A visitor could spend days losing themselves there. And once again, looking at the pillars now grounded, cracked statues and faded faces, I tried to picture what they might have looked like hundreds of years ago.

They must have been a riot of color. Statues would have been wrapped in brights hues, and altars would have been covered in offerings like flowers and food and insence. The temples would be filled with sound, the monks chants and people's prayers, and somewhere in the distance, the sound of building, for projects were ever present in Angkor.

But here, too, time has had it's way. Colors have faded, and bright fabric is no longer seen. The monks and thier chants are long gone, so is the perfume of incense. Today, Angkor stands tall and proud as ever, but so much of its original spirit is gone. Now, people walked in silent awe through its halls, brushing shoulders with old ghosts and echoes of the past.

For me, the message found in these ruins is important. Sukotai and ANgkor Wat are aat once evidence of humanity's ingenuity and a caution against pride, for time is the winner of all races. The creations of humanity are all governed by it, be they built in 800 AD or 2014, they will all crumble one day. Buddhists understand this so very well, but us westerners easily forget. But that is not to say we should not create in fear that it will dissapear one day, but that we should create, despite its temporary life.