Perhaps the Universe decided we needed a little humility. Perhaps Shiva felt that we just didn’t have enough destruction in our lives. Whatever the motivations of fate or the gods, we found ourselves on a speedboat racing up the Tonle Bassac toward Phnom Penh and a very rough two weeks in Cambodia. The plan was to cut a swath through the country, from the abandoned French resort towns on the Gulf of Thailand to the broad, swampy expanse around Battambang and the temples of Angkor. For the most part we were able to stick to the plan, but we encountered more than our fair share of bumps in the road along the way.

Phnom Penh

History has not been kind to Cambodia. At the height of the French Colonial Period, Phnom Penh enjoyed its status as the ‘Pearl of Asia’ and around 500,000 people called the capitol city home. During the civil war in the 1970s, the population soared to over 2 million. But, in April 1975 when the Khmer Rouge took power, that number was reduced to none. The city became a ghost town as all its inhabitants were either murdered or forced into labour camps around the country. Today, however, the city is infused with the excitement of a whole generation born after year zero. The boulevards of Phnom Penh are broad and smooth, palaces and monuments gleam with fresh gold paint, shops are open and business is booming. In the evenings, public spaces pulse with music as throngs of people, young and old, dance to Thai pop, disco and the macarena and sidewalk restaurants are packed with laughing patrons, sitting in red plastic chairs, drinking Angkor beer by the barrel.

But the new energy of Phnom Penh belies a bloody history that is always just beneath the surface. Those years are written on the curved backs and lined faces of the elderly khmer. Bullet holes still decorate some buildings and every tuk tuk driver, who makes a living carting tourists to the security prisons and killing fields of the khmer rouge, can tell you stories about how his family survived the dark period—or didn’t—if only you would ask.

Kep and Kampot

In the South, we found a little escape in the abandoned French resort town of Kep, itself still slowly rebuilding. They don’t ship in white sand any more, but we did find paradise in a rustic, private hillside bungalow with only the lizards to keep us company (and the bugs at bay). We felt like the only foreigners in town, and enjoyed a nice day on a mostly deserted beach on nearby Rabbit Island, until the weather reminded us why most people plan their visits for the winter dry season.

The next day we were feeling adventurous so we rented a motorbike with a $5 deposit and a lie. Sure, we know how to drive a motorbike. Who doesn’t? We had an awesome day riding the 48km to and from Kampot and somehow made it back mostly in one piece. The only mishap happened when Katie got off the bike on the wrong side and ended up with a pretty bad burn on her leg from the exhaust pipe. Perhaps that was a warning shot.

After a few days of peace and quiet, it was time to flag down the bus back to Phnom Penh. High off the white knuckle thrill of not killing ourselves on the motorcycle, we should have expected the winds to change.

The crash

As with any developing country, there are certain things Cambodia lacks, and among them are quality roads and experienced bus drivers. One minute, we were enjoying the beautiful scenery, and the next we were upside down with our faces in the mud, a surge of adrenaline telling us to get the hell out in case the vehicle explodes. The bus had swerved right, then skidded left, and—despite our mental pleas—rolled over and slid a few hundred feet with its wheels in the air and roof in the ditch on the wrong side the road. Being inside was like something from a movie; I only remember looking down the aisle as the world turned around us, grabbing the armrest as firmly as possible, and wondering if and when it was all going to stop.

Apparently someone was looking out for us, as we and the rest of the passengers made it out mostly unharmed, including the small children sitting in front of us. The whole thing is even more amazing when you consider that nobody was using a seat belt, and the bus had only just missed hitting a line of trees head-on. The first few minutes of the aftermath were a frenzy of checking for injuries, searching for luggage, and trying to stay calm as we figured out how to proceed. My immediate instinct was to find the driver and punch him square in the face, but he was smartly out of sight. We have no doubt that if he had taken even a little caution in driving around the curves of that slippery, barely one-lane road we wouldn’t be still, weeks later, terrified of moving over 25 miles per hour.

The bus company (G.S.T. Express) told us the next day that if the driver wanted to “try again,” he could get back behind the wheel immediately; no extra training, safety notice, or public acknowledgment of any kind was forthcoming. Game Over: try again? We basically had to strong arm them into giving back the money we paid for our tickets and they seemed bewildered and annoyed that we would even ask about it. Their handling of our complaint, and the casual attitude of the other passengers—all Khmer—speak to the reality of living in the developing world: accidents like this are just a part of life in Cambodia. And it’s really no surprise, when we see vans piled with dozens of people inside and on top flying down terrible dirt roads at autobahn speeds. Our bus may have flipped, but we had it easy compared to what many people here face in their daily commutes. Get over it, white guy.

Battambang

Given our most recent experiences with local methods of transportation, we were quite pleased with our decision to shell out for a private car to take us to Battambang. We could and did ask the driver many times if he would kindly slow the f— down.

In Battambang (Cambodia’s second largest city), we spent a full day shaking off our recent misadventures. We visited some of the local Wats and pre-Angkorian ruins, wandered around rural backroads, met a few families who sold us yummy bamboo-cooked sticky rice and taught us how to wrap banana leaves, and befriended a couple of kids/temple guards who chatted happily with us and then tried to extort us for money.

Back in town, feeling like our luck had changed, we stopped in at the market as the vendors began closing down their stalls and made plans for dinner. After a good day in a new city we really felt much better about ourselves and the world. That is, until I fell into a hole a meter deep and sprained my ankle. C’est la vie.

Siem Reap and Angkor

Using my broomstick cane, it was a little difficult getting on and off the boat that took us across the Tonle Sap to Siem Reap. It’s the biggest lake in Southeast Asia and by the end of the rainy season it had tripled in size, engulfing much of the surrounding countryside. It was a bit odd keeping a lookout for errant branches as we passed full-size trees in their swim trunks ( sorry).

We couldn’t wait to see the ruins at Angkor—one of the most popular sights on the subcontinent—but first we had to stop at the nearest hospital for a quick X-ray. The Aussie in the bed next to mine had the same problem, so all we had to do was point and say “Same, Same” and we were out of there lickity-split. There must be some kind of sidewalk curse on this country, eh? I left with crutches and an ankle brace which made climbing on the crumbled temples difficult over the next few days, but thankfully we had a great place to stay in town.

A young guy named Sony runs the Golden Mango Inn, and to anyone reaching this blog from a Google search, we can’t recommend it highly enough. Sony is one of a few business owners we met on this trip who didn’t see us as walking dollar signs, and genuinely did his best to help make us comfortable. He not only advised and arranged drivers and guides for us, he personally drove us to the hospital when we arrived, free of charge (!). He mentioned on more than one occasion how seeing us together made him miss his girlfriend in Singapore and he frequently asked us how to improve his business, which stumped us since this place would have been a bargain at twice the price. I guess that’s where his crocodile breeding business on the side—or, more accurately, in the back—comes into play. (Seriously, he raises crocodiles in the backyard.) Too bad our airfare was nonrefundable, or we would have stayed another week or twelve.

Believe it or not, we didn’t just come to Siem Reap for the lovely hotel. Siem Reap is the base from which visitors explore the many temples of Angkor. We had four days to cover it all, but we probably could have spent a year and not seen everything there is to see. The star of the show is, of course, Angkor Wat, and as the largest religious building in the world it is impressive. But we were much more taken with some of the smaller, quieter, and less visited temples. Among our favorites were Pre Rup, Preah Khan and Ta Som.

Pre Rup was built in the same style as Angkor Wat, although it is actually much older. From afar, Pre Rup was underwhelming and sad; the temple is slowly wearing away with age, and it looked almost as if its ancient towers were melting in the intense afternoon heat. But as we got closer, the temple began to work its strange magic on us and as the sun sank low over the flooded plains of Angkor, we climbed the vertical stairs and felt the ominous and imposing regality of this place.

Preah Khan and Ta Som are two small temples losing the fight against time and gravity, the battle between nature and architecture. Like the more popular “Tomb Raider” temple, Ta Prohm, they are truly beautiful ruins, with massive strangler trees entwining themselves around piles of ancient sandstone blocks. The imagination runs wild in these haunted temples; they play tricks on the mind, and for a few hours we lost ourselves within the maze of narrow corridors while the mischievous faces of Apsara looked on.

Walking/hobbling over the aging temples of Angkor was a once in a lifetime experience; we are blessed to have seen them inside and out, but we couldn’t help but feel a little guilty for contributing to their deterioration. Clearly, tourism brings in a lot of money to help with preservation, but the tourists themselves can sometimes cause more harm than good. Nature and war are enough to contend with for these ruins without busloads of tour groups adding to the strain. We did our best to tread lightly (I, for one, only walked on one foot), but we wonder how this place will hold up in the years to come.