Siem Reap

Three for a dollar, madame!! How many can I fit in the suitcase?
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The airport is very modern, and impressive but for the odd transgression, like corroded mirrors in the bathrooms and a stopped-up sink or two. It’s the sure sign of a third world country struggling at the intersection of its own culture and the assistance of the developed world. Please kindly be informed that our boarding gate will be closed 15 minutes prior flight departure time (sic). If the passenger fails to show up within this time notification/thank you.” So gentle are the Cambodians that they don’t want to say what might happen to late comers. We’re waiting in Phnom Penh International Airport (that’s a bit of a stretch) to board our flight to Siem Reap on Siem Reap Airways, which also seems a bit much. And it is. The prop jet belongs to Bangkok Air! In the air, the pilot has fun, swooping and turning as we follow the path of the Tonle Sap River and then lengthwise above Lake Tonle Sap. It’s illogical, probably, but these little fliers seem so much safer than the biggies. As we arrive in Siem Reap, Henry is dropping down in Saigon. We charge out of the plane, down the portable steps, across the tarmac and land in the parking lot before we even realize we’ve missed Baggage Claim. It’s a far cry from the hip terminal we left in Phnom Penh. It’s very, very small. A van pulls up, direct from the plane, in the Arrivals hall and loads the bags onto a bench. The toilet, too, is not “international airport standard.” Like those we’ve come to know, it has a non-locking lock and the standard hose attachment, which we assume is the cheap, practical Asian version of the bidet we’re sure the French would have introduced. It also carries the tell-tale sign of squatters on the seat – scratches that have come from shoes, not thighs – which is more evidence of where east meets west in toilet custom.

Okay Henry, were almost there. Dont look down, for Bus sake!
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The Hanumanalaya is everything we could dream of: an oasis of Asian charm and gentility in this steamy city. Cambodian architecture is breathtakingly beautiful and the spiritual sensibility is reflected in buildings everywhere.  It is all one would expect from the descendants of those who built Angkor Wat. The West’s “discovery” – from a tourist perspective – of this World Heritage site, and the ceasing of hostility with its consequent increase in visitors is a fantastic thing for this impoverished nation. The Cambodians know it. The towers of Angkor (five though it looks like three) are featured on the flag and on every Cambodian product, and everyone is more than ready to forget the past. Dig a little and you discover a hatred of Vietnamese. Says our guide and several restaurant staff we interviewed, “They’re loud, they’re always fighting, all the prostitutes are Vietnamese – or at least all the ones that go with foreigners – and they supported Pol Pot, then came in like rescuers and wouldn’t leave.” Hmm, sounds a lot like America. The Chinese and Thais are hardly liked for their imperialist attitude towards this peaceful people. The Lao wouldn’t be either, except that they have less power even than Cambodia, so pose no threat. The politics of this region are murky, very murky.

Steep does not begin to describe these steps.

How a tree gets its fingers around a piece of temple
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We return to the airport and witness our bedraggled son step onto the stairs, then onto the tarmac, and wave subtly as if someone he knows might see him acknowledge his parents. He sleeps while we negotiate yet another central market, this one almost deserted as we’re now firmly in the off season. The tourist stuff is on the periphery and the food, which is the juicy part for Andy in more ways than one, is at the heart of this covered commercial hive, where it’s hot, moist, smelly and dark. Would I touch even a vegetable in there? I think not. Flies crawl over everything and are merely brushed aside, as shopkeepers and customers have no choice other than to ignore what the flies might mean for the food. Meat sits unrefrigerated on slabs, looking too much like dead animal. Pigs’ faces, cleaved in the middle, stiff frogs impaled and lined up five in a row on sticks, gizzards of some poor unknown creature, all color of flesh and innards from red to pink to grey to beige to blue-tinged. Fish flapping less and less, their gills’ movement the only sign that they’re not dead yet. Unseeing eyes everywhere. I’m done. I go and buy another silk scarf.

Hmmm. Looks like a teacher we all once had
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We’ve been rising early almost every day since we left home. There’s a lot to see, especially in the morning and evening, and a lot of reason to rest in between, away from the relentless midday temperatures.

We sneak into Angkor Wat by the east gate, avoiding other early birds and all but a handful of tenacious tykes selling scarves and postcards. I think I have a mark on my back. They get me every time. Approaching the towers from a dead-quiet tree-lined path, accompanied only by unfamiliar, beautiful, warbling morning birdsong leaves us breathless. That – and the sight of the steps we must climb to get to where our guide thinks we should be: the Quincunx Terrace, a square affair supporting one tower on each corner and one in the middle. It was not the number of steps so much as how quickly they went up. Steep does not begin to describe these steps. If you stumbled at the top, you would go into freefall.

Cooling off at the Hanumanalaya!
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Only the highest of the high – literally – were permitted to mount these steps, and legend has it that they were this steep to force everyone onto all fours before Buddha. “Oh Geez!” says Henry and Andy corrects him with, “No. Oh Bu!” It’s a scary ascent, hot on the fingertips and Henry and I have to talk each other up. Coming down, we use a rail, which is a minor improvement, though still requiring that one goes backwards like a ladder.

Angkor Wat was built to symbolize Mount Meru which the Hindus described as the navel of the world. It’s more than just the navel. We’ve seen heaven, hell and earth represented in bas relief. We’ve seen the Ramayana depicted in painstaking detail. We’ve read, in pictures, about the churning of the sea of milk. We know nagas, apsaras and devatas. The face of every player is different, as different as every Buddha head in the marketplace. The sheer scale is astonishing. And the Bayon is yet to come. We tackle it this afternoon, as it’s part of Angkor Thom, which in the mouth of our guide sounds like Uncle Tom. Ludicrous, I know. Nothing here is as one imagines before visiting. I thought the Bayon was one enormous ground level head. In fact, there are dozens of heads, pasted all over a crazy structure that the owner of the face, Jayavarman VII, built when he was in his 80’s. It was going to be small but he didn’t die, so he kept adding more to it. Now, 37 of an original 54 towers stand, each sporting four beatifically smiling, lichen and bat-poop covered 3-D stone sculpted faces. Just brilliant.

Its hot, moist, smelly and dark but oh, so beautiful!
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Only Angkor could keep us out in this heat. The next morning, we visit the set of Tomb Raider. Whoops! I mean – Ta Prohm, built by aforementioned Jayavarman for his mum. What a good boy! But this is the one that looks like Disneyland. It’s literally a tree house and has been left to show how nature ultimately wins the time war. Being still junglified helps it to seem very, very old. And being still early, we have it, and the accompanying birdsong, to ourselves, which adds to the awe. But now we’re done. We simply can’t go out this afternoon, though we know we should and will wish we had. We sleep, we lay around, we go buy a Buddha head. We prepare for a sad farewell from the delightful Hanumanalaya, where I am called “Lady” and Henry is “Boy.”