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| Siem Reap airport, in Niel's tuk-tuk |
Our
tuk-tuk driver, Niel, turned out to be the kindest, most softly
spoken person we’d bumped into in ages. This was despite the fact
that we got off to a poor start. I approached him, recognising the
name of the guest house I’d booked on the laminate that he held as
we stepped out into the Cambodian rains. He smiled, and refused to
take us as we weren’t of the surname written on his sign. Our
language skills did not overlap to the degree that permitted jointly
contemplating the notion that the guest house had forgotten to wipe
the name of the previous pick-up off his laminate.
We passed
an awkward, silent couple of minutes waiting to see if someone else
on our flight had the surname password to get onboard Niel’s
tuk-tuk while the other drivers progressively moved off with their
various human cargoes. Once it became clear that there wasn’t
anyone else left to take into
Siem Reap, we laughed, gave up on our
reluctant standoff, and were installed in his taxi. To
Rosy GuestHouse. How could we resist the charms of a guest house called Rosy?
“G”, the French chef/administrator, met us at the door and got
straight down to business with an introduction to what lay ahead in
the temple complex of
Angkor Wat. We negotiated a day rate with Niel,
and if there was a hustle here we couldn’t see it – he quoted
what the hotel said would be the rate for a day’s driving and
waiting around the enormous site, and his gentle nature deterred me
from the formulaic haggling so beloved of wealthy backpackers. After
a half-hearted wander round the centre of Siem Reap, with our hearts
sinking at the idea that the town possesses a thoroughfare called
“Pub Street”, we retired to our Rosy room, to the utter luxury of
brilliant, crisp white sheets, more pillows than we could use, a flat
screen television and a borrowed DVD of Spirited Away. Oisin was
obsessed with the pool table in the bar, and the staff even treated
him to his first ever pool lesson – plonked on top of the (already
battered) table itself, pushing balls into the pockets with his
hands, roaring with delight.
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| Dancing Apsaras |
The next
morning Niel was already waiting in the tuk-tuk across the road when
we emerged for breakfast. Feeling slightly cornered I made a shy wave
and disappeared off the balcony in search of eggs. And so, after
breakfast, we were off to Angkor Wat. There is very little I can
sensibly say about the place: I think it would be more honest to
admit defeat and accept that it defies my limited powers of
description. I think I’ve said before (Taj Mahal) that I’m
sceptical when it comes to these “wonder of the world” places,
the must-see, must-do boxes that have to be ticked in order to
adequately impress one’s fellow workers on return from a suitably
exotic holiday. But Angkor Wat rewarded our hesitant enthusiasm with
an unanticipated experience that far surpassed our expectations,
informed only by endless travel agent poster reproductions of stone
faces. On top of that I got to wander round for two whole days
play-acting Indiana Jones (hoping to bump into Lara Croft).
If I
resign my literary skills in the face of a subject like Angkor Wat, I
will at least offer up a small taste of how it taxed my limited
photographic skills. From the crumbling stones temples frozen in the
rooty grasp of the aptly named “strangler fig” trees and the
endless gloomy corridors whose dank dark corners still carry the
whiff of incense past to leaping “apsaras” (dancers) and immense,
impassive carved faces, the complex drove Pati wild with frustration
as I spent hours playing around with the settings on our little
camera trying to capture that elusive defining image of the place. By
lunchtime on the second day she’d had enough and spent the
afternoon attempting an impromptu siesta in the back of Niel’s
tuk-tuk while he chatted to the other drivers as Oisin and I explored
the latest stop on our grand tour. Angkor Wat has, though, provided
me with what I think is the photograph that I am most proud of so far
on this journey, so any comments will be gratefully received.
Day three
in Siem Reap was spent away from the temples. In a stab at being
sensible parents and defusing any cabin fever before it crept up on
us, Pati headed off for a boat tour of the floating villages on Tonle
Sap lake, while Oisin and I walked to the local shopping centre,
bought a rubber ring, and hit the pool in the hotel next door to
Rosy. Sadly the rubber ring didn’t survive more than forty-five
minutes of Oisin’s road-testing, neatly justifying my earlier
refusal to spend more than a couple of dollars on it, despite earnest
entreaties for the purchase of the floating Mickey Mouse palace with
built-in mini (milk) bar. And it would never have fitted into our
backpacks anyway. When we’re stuck for an argument to explain to
the child why we won’t buy whatever the latest plea is for, “but
it won’t fit into our luggage darling” usually ends up being
trotted out. So far he hasn’t come back at us with a
counter-suggestion that we should get bigger backpacks, but it’s
only a matter of time…
