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Bumpy Roads & Lost Temples
a journey into Cambodia
by Abby Watkins
Excerpts:
The bus pulls into the depot in Aranya Pratet on the border of Thailand and Cambodia, and the locals file off and disappear, leaving five Western tourists standing by our luggage. We’ve journeyed along well-maintained paved roads and highways from Bangkok, and now we stand on new ground. There is no guidebook for this journey, as this border has only been open for two months. I’m traveling to Cambodia to visit my sister in the town of Siem Reap, where she is a veterinarian working for International Aid. I’ve not seen Emma for two years.
“Going to Cambodia, right?” a dreadlocked German man asks the group. “Perhaps we should stick together?”
“Sure,” I say thankfully, suddenly questioning my decision to travel overland to Cambodia alone. When I asked at the Australian Embassy for advice, they warned me not to travel the overland route. Rumors of bandit attacks, perhaps the remnants of the now decimated Khmer Rouge, were behind the conservative recommendation . . .
. . .
. . . We come to a bridge -- surely we are not going to cross it? The structure is ridiculously askew, with one side dipping close to the muddy brown flow. There are two parallel strips of planks where our wheels are supposed to go. But first we must deal with the dusty, bare-chested soldier guarding the bridge. He stands languidly in front of a barricade with a machine gun pointed in our direction. Lay Lay walks over and speaks in low tones to the soldier, who eyes us in the hardened way of a man who has seen too much cruelty. Again, I wonder if I was too bold in coming on this journey . . .
. . .
. . . It’s five o’clock in the morning, and I am clinging to the back of Em’s moto. We are on an expedition to the top of one of the temples. Huge rainforest trees tower over us in the darkness as we park the bikes and clamber up the giant steps on the outside of the pyramid-shaped monument. Breathless, we flop down on the cool stone blocks and await the sunrise. Soft light filters through the rainforest canopy and a symphony of birdsong saturates the air. The smell of strong coffee wafts up to me as Graeme pours three cups. Slowly, the growing light reveals a tangle of rubble and forest, trees shooting up out of broken archways, vines curling out of ancient doorways and half obscuring the faces carved into the rock. Our quiet solitude heightens the enchantment of the temple. I wonder how long before increased tourism will make such a morning impossible. . . .
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