in theory bicycles are an excellent, if not ideal, way to visit the ruins
SIEM REAP
02.16.08
my tire jammed, i know not how, when i tried to move from the motobike infested street to the relatively clear sidewalk. it locked against the frame and no kicking or prying or tugging of mine could set it loose again. david continued to the ruins while i rode a tuk-tuk back to the guest house to get a replacement bike.
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it pulled strongly to the right the brakes were for appearance and the left pedal was broken, so my foot rode on the rod.
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I turned the bend in the red dust road back beyond Bayon temple were the tourist traffic begins to thin and the jungle begins to thicken and found David, bike-upturned, hands black with oil raised in frustration. His chain had inexplicably leapt off the large gear and lodged itself quite irrevocably against the bicycle frame. I suggested he catch a tuk-tuk. Where am I going to find a tuk-tuk out here? he said. Just then, as if he had been waiting in the jungle, listening to our conversation, a tuk tuk driver pulled up, ever ready to make a buck.
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As the sun was setting, a most dazzling display, red and pink and orange, behind clouds like torn cotton, I abandoned for the moment my plan to get home immediately and turned down a dirt path beneath a sign that read "Cambodia Korea Friendship Forest". I found empty open fields, tall palm trees black silhouettes on the horizon, a breeze whispering softly through the tall grass. Here and there little pale dust paths trailed off to find rickety stick houses in the distance. I waved to five little Cambodian boys playing on some green mossy ruins forgotten by tourists. I found that little temple I'd been searching for all day. Now that my time was finished. Alone with the rocks and the gentle hush of dusk I sat. A little boy, appeared from behind a wall. Feet and legs clothed with dry cracking mud. He crawled up in front of me. Sua s'dei, I said. Hello, he said. What's your name, I said. One, he said. He shows me that he could count really fast and I showed him I could count really slow. I told him that I had to go, and he taught me how to say goodbye.
As the sun was setting, a most dazzling display, red and pink and orange, behind clouds like torn cotton, I abandoned for the moment my plan to get home immediately and turned down a dirt path beneath a sign that read "Cambodia Korea Friendship Forest". I found empty open fields, tall palm trees black silhouettes on the horizon, a breeze whispering softly through the tall grass. Here and there little pale dust paths trailed off to find rickety stick houses in the distance. I waved to five little Cambodian boys playing on some green mossy ruins forgotten by tourists. I found that little temple I'd been searching for all day. Now that my time was finished. Alone with the rocks and the gentle hush of dusk I sat. A little boy, appeared from behind a wall. Feet and legs clothed with dry cracking mud. He crawled up in front of me. Sua s'dei, I said. Hello, he said. What's your name, I said. One, he said. He shows me that he could count really fast and I showed him I could count really slow. I told him that I had to go, and he taught me how to say goodbye.
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I got lost following the dazzling setting sun West to the farm fields. There is the airport, a young Cambodian told me, just follow this road around and it will take you back to Siem Reap. Ah kohn, I said. He smiled and nodded. From the airport it took another hour to town, by the time I reached it, the sky was already dark. Down dusty alleys I dodged the invading monocle headlights of motobikes falling ever towards me like a flood of tetris blocks, then inevitably I would turn, wrong again, and head back up as the flow of lights seemingly reversed as well as I returned to the main street. Eventually I made it home, tired and covered in dust, butt aching from my long and scenic ride.
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SIEM REAP
02.17.08
02.17.08
We never found that secluded little temple to sit and read passing the afternoon far from tour buses and flash photography, though we rode an hour out of town to the oldest ruins, the Roulos group. Instead we spent the afternoon sitting on iron bar seats riding through little villages as villagers waved congenially from their hammocks and the toddlers all called hello (and then as we passed back the other way, goodbye). We, so sick of our Quixotic quest, weaved back through the dirt roads to the temple we knew, ignored the fact that it was already spotted with Japanese DSLR enthusiasts and sat down for a disappointing, small, and relatively pricey late afternoon lunch. And decided to beat the night, endure the pain, abandon our quest altogether and return to town.
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On one of our frequent stops to stretch and rest our weary hindsides, we spotted two little girls in a driveway across the road imitating our stretches. Then continued a little game of copycat to everyone's great bemusement.
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We arrived at the guesthouse and the Islamic wedding music that had shocked us out of sleep at seven a.m. was still blasting from the huge speaker pointed, as if to purposely torment us, directly at our window.
