Angkor Wat

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I messaged my daughter at home and took a picture.
“Do you remember this?”

“Oh wow, that is the place in Tomb Raider where we stayed up all night trying to get to the next level.”

In front of me is a courtyard with multiple ledges and windows, and the moment I saw it I recognised it from the only computer game I have ever really played. In the game, we were both stuck in this part of the temple, and it took me until the early hours of the morning to get Lara Croft up along a ledge and through the window! I hadn’t even thought about it until I stood in the scene.

There is no doubt about it: the main temple here at Angkor Wat is quite extraordinary and on a scale I could not imagine. It is so hard to comprehend that only about 800 years ago this was part of a massive city, and until the French rediscovered it, it was all but lost to the jungle. I will always remember the three hours exploring it with our amazing guide and would recommend anyone to visit—but the main temple was not the highlight for me!

The Angkor Wat complex is massive—and I mean massive. There are literally hundreds of square miles of smaller temples and buildings, all at the mercy of the encroaching jungle. We were lucky enough to visit three other temples, but the second one was the highlight of the day.

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Giant stones, ripped apart by the power of roots from plants and trees, have produced an almost alien landscape. Massive tree roots are intertwined under heavy stone pavements that now lie like uneven, mossy green giant chequerboards. Thick silver and green roots, often a metre thick, creep ever forward, branching out into doorways and through crumbling rooms. On top of roofs and walls stand mighty trees, hundreds of feet high, with huge tentacle-like roots wrapped around every crevice, securing them firmly in place.

With most of the light stolen by the canopy, the crumbling, castle-like ruins have a coating of green algae or moss. There is also the cacophony of noise unique to every jungle, as insects and birds compete to be heard.

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With no restrictions on where you can go, it is easy to get lost in the higgledy-piggledy alleys, corridors and courtyards. Like a child, you are driven to explore in constant wonder of what will be around the next corner or stairwell. As with nearly everything at Angkor Wat, it is vast. Yes, I am not just saying it—you really can get lost in any number of buildings, and that makes it just brilliant.

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So basically, come to Angkor Wat and admire the achievements of a civilisation from a different age; but if you are like me, come and admire the power of nature as it tears it apart with slow, remarkable force—and run around exploring like a kid again. Lara Croft has got nothing on me.

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Every trip to Angkor Wat either starts with a sunrise or sunset. We chose sunset, which involved a long climb to the top of a hill at the end of nine hours walking in high humidity and heat. Phew! Sitting and looking out over a pristine woodland canopy, it was honestly worth it—but I probably won’t remember it forever unless I read this back in ten years.

There is something I will remember, though. Looking west toward the dipping sun, with not a cloud in the sky, just behind our heads a fully formed rainbow appeared from nowhere. If I had lived in the temple a thousand years ago, I would probably have put it down to divine intervention! Some in the group did just that, but being the cynical old grump you all know I am, I went and looked it up on Google.

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Meeting People Without Judgement

On our last day in Siem Reap, we spent most of it beside the pool at our hotel. I felt the need to relax for a while, read my book and do some writing. It has been a hectic five weeks so far. On the face of it, you wouldn’t imagine it would be a memory I will probably never forget—but travelling is like that.

As I walked toward a lounger beside the pool, the young woman on the next bed smiled and asked, “Who’s the book about? Anyone I would have heard of?”

“It is the story of Robert Maxwell, a newspaper editor in the 1980s and 90s—rather like a Donald Trump of his time,” I replied.

I had a feeling this girl was interesting, so I let the conversation flow to show I was not reluctant to chat to my semi-naked new friend.

We chatted for quite a while, and I found out she was a wine promoter living in Perth, Australia, recently split from her boyfriend and taking time out in Cambodia to celebrate her freedom.

I then asked, “Where are you from? I can’t really place your accent—it’s certainly not Australian.”

“I’m Russian,” she replied.

It is amazing what goes through your head in a single split second. Literally all my values about judging people not by their ethnicity, colour or creed—but by who is in front of me—are suddenly confronted. I was proud to say I didn’t hold back.

“So how’s that going down in Australia, with what’s happening in Ukraine?” I asked.

She didn’t seem too surprised by my question.
“Not too bad, considering. Most Australians know we don’t all support Putin.”

She has worked in Australia for quite a few years now and only returns to visit her mother—which is fine if she brings home money or gifts.

She went on to cheerfully tell me about her adolescence in the far northwest of Arctic Russia, where extreme cold had led her to hate the snow and ice of home. Unlike her ex-boyfriend, who is now skiing, she prefers the sun.

She has three brothers, and when her parents divorced about twenty years ago, two brothers moved with her and their mother to Moscow, while the other two brothers and her father moved to Kyiv in Ukraine.

I asked the obvious question:
“How does that work out with the war?”

For the first time, she showed a little emotion. Two of her brothers are fighting for Ukraine on the front line. She can sometimes call them, although it is always harrowing and always on an unregistered phone outside Russia. Her other brothers are near the front, but her mother has enough connections and money to keep them just far enough away—for now.

She explained that none of them support the war but have no choice. They all realise it is a situation that could ultimately lead to them unknowingly fighting each other on behalf of a madman.

When you talk to someone first-hand, you realise there is so much more to consider. She might well have been an ex-boyfriend murderer for all I know—but it didn’t seem to me that she was a “bad Russian”, just like so many others.

Big Rats: Very Big Rats
 

“You’re going to pick up and hold a giant rat on a lead?” I asked, amazed.

“Yes, he’s cute,” Wendy smiled.

And sure enough, she held the extra-large vermin in her arms, looked lovingly at him, and I took photographs for posterity.

But this was no ordinary rat—this was a “Hero Rat”: a giant African rat trained to detect landmines and bombs.

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We were at a demonstration at the rat landmine clearance information centre on the outskirts of Siem Reap. As we stood on the edge of a roped-off sand pit, two handlers slowly made their way down the sides, holding a rope between them. A very large rat was attached to a harness and ran below the rope. If he smelled a landmine, he stopped, scratched the ground to mark the area, then returned to the handler for a treat before moving on again.

It is quite amazing how quick he is compared to a human, and great swathes of Cambodia have been cleared of these deadly explosives.

“Does anyone have any questions?” asked the guide.

“Ah yes, I do…” I paused to choose my words carefully.
“You are a charity asking for donations to help clear mines laid in your country—but how do you feel about the fact that, as we speak, there is fighting on the border with Thailand, with alleged laying of more landmines?”

Oh shit—I just couldn’t help myself. This was awkward, as all eyes turned from me to the poor Cambodian girl giving the talk.

“It is not something I am in a position to talk about, and I do not really know about it,” she replied before moving us on.

I felt a little guilty and wished I hadn’t asked—but I find it hard not to confront reality, no matter how uncomfortable.

Later, after a video about the charity’s work, she quietly took me aside.

“I am so sorry I could not answer your question. Please do not think badly of me—but it is not something for me to know about. I do know that what we do saves children and farmers from horrible injuries and death. Not only that—they can earn money again from the land.”

I internally reprimanded myself. This girl was wonderful—a ray of light. It is too easy to forget what her country has been through and how vulnerable her situation is.

It did the trick—I went straight to the shop and spent some hard-earned cash, hoping we can remove mines faster than we lay the stupid things.

Siem Reap Pub Street

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Every Asian city seems to have the equivalent of a “Pub Street” or a strip, but the one in Siem Reap is one of my favourites. It is tastefully done, and with hardly any hawking and no noticeable sexualisation, it comes across as a safe, fun place.

The buildings are mostly two-storey French colonial, giving it an almost Wild West feel. The food was good everywhere we visited, and so were the staff.

It is quite noticeable in Cambodia how many people are affected by birth defects and disability—but equally noticeable is how little attention they attract compared to other places I have visited. It is brilliant the way they just get on and persevere with life, no matter how harsh.

There was a tiny young man in a wheelchair who made his way up and down Beer Street. He never asked for money—he just chatted to visitors and quizzed everyone on football teams. He had a stray dog as a companion, and over several visits I never saw him without it. He told me the dog simply came up to him one day—and they became inseparable

He said his land lord where he lived was not as happy about him as he comes back each night.

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Another man I liked had no proper legs—another legacy of war. He had two children he was supporting so they could attend a good school. He made woven bracelets on a table in Beer Street and was with his daughter when I met him. Of course, we bought some—and made his daughter laugh with our antics.
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