ANGKOR IN ONE..., TWO..., THREE DAYS!

Alone at dawn standing in the company of two hundred and sixteen faces of Jayavarman/Avalokiteshvara (depending on which legend you believe in) almost brought a tear to my eye. Good times were spent chilling on the window ledge watching the ebb and flow of package tourists making a fool of themselves with the gargantuan gnarly roots. Sunrise at Sras Srang must be the most underrated attraction. Angkor Wat, on the other hand, was underwhelming. Never mind, though, because the real stars of Angkor were the children.

As soon as I sat my ass down, I was hit on by a bevy of sweet young things. I was the centre of attention. Everyone wanted a piece of this prime meat. I was the royalty. And I’m lovin’ it.

“Where you come from?”

“Singapore.”

Silence.

Okay, that was not the response I was expecting. How about this?

“Singapore; capital: Singapore; population: 4.5 million; President: S. R. Nathan; Prime Minister: Lee Hsien Loong; languages: English, Mandarin, Malay and Tamil; … …”

I need to have a word with the Singapore Tourism Board. Obviously, someone has not been doing his job.

“You buy from me, sir? (Holding

Two hundred and sixteen smiling faces welcome you to Siem Reap
Bayon

up strings of origami) Five for one dollar. One, two, three, …”

Cambodian kids love to count.

“… four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Ten… ten…”

So, she did not fare too well in the arithmetic department. Well, it is okay. We are all gifted differently.

“… eleven, twelve, thirteen, …,” I continued and those who knew the rest joined in the chorus, “… fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty.”

Well done, class.

Adamant not to be labelled as the slowest learner in class, the-one-who-could-count-to-ten-only decided to showcase her linguistic talent. She did her routine once again, only this time in Mandarin. You go, girl.

She was flabbergasted when I replied in Mandarin. You should have seen her expression. It was priceless. I taught her how to count in Mandarin, but only one to ten. She was not good in math, remember?

Realising that her pleas had all fallen on deaf ears, she decided a change in strategy was in order and simply asked,

“You give me coins? Sweets?”

‘Giving up’ was not part of their vocabulary.

I liked it when they asked where I was from. I would adopt various Asian nationalities just to hear their sales pitch or at least them greeting me in the different languages. Try it!

As with all things good, moderation is key. An overdose is obviously an overkill. The kids went from cute to annoying in a heartbeat.

“Where you come from, sir?”

No response.

“Why you don’t talk to me?”

Still no reply.

“I know. You live in Cambodia. But you come from your mother and father.”

Till this day, I cannot fathom the logic of her words.

Like a broken record, they never stopped.

“SIR, YOU WANT COLD DRINKS? POSTCARDS? TEN FOR ONE DOLLAR. TA PHROM, BAYON, ANGKOR WAT, BANTEAY SREI, TA PHROM,… … YOU WANT FLUTES, SIR? THREE FOR ONE DOLLAR. OKAY, FOUR FOR ONE DOLLAR. FIVE?! STORYBOOKS FOR YOU? I GIVE YOU GOOD PRICE. ONLY TWO DOLLARS. YOU COME BACK, YOU BUY FROM ME, OKAY? (AN HOUR LATER) BUT YOU PROMISE YOU BUY FROM ME!”

Soon after, I learnt to tune them out. Their cries became nothing but white noise, humming silently in the background.

”… … … … … … … … … …

The pink trio
Banteay Srei

… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …
… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …
… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … ”

HIGHWAY TO HELL

By now, any traveller (to Cambodia) worth his or her salt has heard the horror stories of the notorious border crossing at Poipet and the rumour that Bangkok Airways had bribed the Cambodian government to delay the construction of paved road between Poipet and Siem Reap for as long as possible. It is not within my means to ascertain the validity of the latter, but I can vouch that the dirt road was every bit as dusty and riddled with potholes as had been described by other travellers. I almost could not get used to cruising on smooth tar road after three hours of bopping up and down in my seat.

Shame about the road because it was an eyesore amid such a picturesque countryside setting. On the very same road, I witnessed some of the most heart wrenching moments. Walking barefooted under the scorching sun while being enveloped in a storm of red dust kicked up by passing vehicles is an arduous task even for an able-bodied young man. Imagine what it must have been like for an amputee struggling with his crutches or a frail mother carrying her sarong-cocooned infant? Something can be and is going to be done about the dirt road. It is just a matter of time. But the problem of poverty?

We often use the word ‘shithole’ very loosely to describe an extremely unpleasant place with absolutely no redeeming quality. At the risk of sounding disrespectful, there really isn’t a more appropriate term for Poipet. The tacky border town (of spas and casino resorts) literally stank of shit. I kid you not. I could not have fled any faster than I did into Aranyaprathet.

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