Chapter 28. Lemongrass Stains - Siem Reap

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The junior archeologist from the English Midlands has never toed the line. Conventional wisdom turns him off; he prefers to shake things up. Being at a crossroads, he has come to Cambodia for the third time, but not to excavate temple foundations. Instead, as with so many other of his compatriots, he has left his office-based job to spread his wings in ways that the confinement and conformity of the United Kingdom will not permit. He does not fear failure. He has already attempted to live in Peru, but a business deal fell through at the last minute. He seeks balance from the gaping hole left by his professional life. There has to be more to the modern connections to ancient civilizations than walking tours of temples.
Jamie’s idea was to set up a guesthouse in Urubamba to cater to upper middle class Europeans and Americans. In place of the standard tour of ruins and shopping at local markets, he envisioned bringing in local guides, chefs, and artisans for an interactive, hands-on vacation. Someone outbid him for the $125,000 bed-and breakfast. He has just closed on an apartment in Siem Reap. During the next few days he will gauge what the possibilities are and take it from there.
He likes to push unproven and controversial theories. At times it is hard to tell whether it is just bar talk or if he is serious; I tend to believe the latter. As with those who stay in Siem Reap over the long term, talking about Angkor Wat with a new arrival is the ideal icebreaker.
I do not answer Jamie simplistic terms like “awesome” and “beautiful”. His question is fair enough; I try to go a bit deeper. Jamie takes notice.
“You see, that’s what I cannot do and I want more of. In my line of work, emotion is removed form what we do.”
“Yes, OK.”, I answer. But to exclude how the park and its marvels make you feel as a human being is to dismiss the entire experience. It is why anyone should go to Angkor.”
Jamie wanted to impart some of his knowledge to me, with which I had no problem. “Rich, do you know how far back the temples date?”
I have done the research. I have read enough to hold my own. “From what I understand, the first buildings were consecrated around 800 A.D. and -”
“Oh no”, he interrupted. Not at all. There is evidence in chronicles far earlier referencing Angkor as a transit point for trading.”
Perhaps, I thought. But what has that got to do with a civilization pre-dating the Khmers that could have built such a complex system of temples? I inquired. “What evidence? Anyway, the temples have no remnants of living matter. Nothing can be radio carbon tested anyway.” I did not implore him to outline anything in detail. But he did hint at the basis of his theory.
Jamie chimed in, “There are many, many similarities to what is at Angkor Wat and what the Sumerians created.
“Sumerians? Whoa, that is a really big jump.”
“I know. I want to prove it.”
I kept silent. The archeological community, like any other academic entity, is a stuffy bunch. They do not embrace outlandish theories. Instead, most who think outside the conventional box are shunned. Jamie would have huge hurdles to overcome and very little assistance from other professionals to develop his theory further.
The Englishman has no intent of going back to England. His immediate need for connection to his home life can be met here. All Premiership matches in which Chelsea appears are broadcast on satellite TV. The larger Western bars put them on the big screen for their customers. We continue to bounce impressions off each other of Angkor Wat. He documents its structure. I tell him how it should change people and make them think differently. He lives in the concrete world while I flow through one much more abstract.
I tell him what Angkor Wat did for me the first time I saw it. With his professional acumen, he fills in some of the cracks in my theories. I am particularly taken with the yards-long battle scenes in bas-relief. “Rich, consider those bas-reliefs and all the detailed carvings on the columns. Do you know what that means?”
Perhaps I did, probably not. But I gave him the stage so he could finish his thought.
“They are an indication of how truly advanced the Khmers had to be.” He inexplicably paused.
“Go on, please.” I pushed him.
Thousands of highly skilled men whose only purpose to the Empire was to perform that artwork toiled day after day. It was the only thing they ever did. That means others were employed or ordered to cut stone, lift stone, and have the mathematical skills to put it in place properly.”
“True.”, I conceded.
“That means those men had no time for subsistence farming. All they did was carve. Someone else had to make their tools, shoes, and clothing. Others had to educate their children. From this a city like on Angkor Thom started to emerge.
“My theory is that the Khmers were even more advanced and gained their knowledge of masonry and engineering from elsewhere.”
Here comes the big jump. As a layman on the topic, I was unwilling to join him. I told him, “But accounts place the construction of the temples by royal order and to the time period of specific monarchs. The scientific community accepts this as a given”, I countered. Also, this was the extent of the little I know about the ancient Khmers.
Jamie leaned in to deliver the lynchpin of his hypothesis. “Yes, but monarchs have been known to take credit for the accomplishments of their predecessors.”
“And redefine history to aggrandize themselves?” I asked.
“Yes! Exactly! So why not the Khmers? What is to say the buildings were already here before them? I think that’s what happened here.”
That was as far as I wanted to take the conversation for the evening. It was time for a pizza.

I confess to have seen little of the renowned nightlife Siem Reap offer to foreigners. I am out of bed to start templing before five thirty in the morning. My evenings conclude at a reasonable hour; I have never seen the clock strike midnight and I do not miss whatever the twenty-nothings tell me I missed out on the next afternoon when we get together for drinks at Molly Malone’s. On my second evening in Siem Reap, I sat down at a food stall to fill up on fried rice before calling it a night.
“Richard!” a voice cried out from the other side of the street. In the darkness, I could not make out who it was. But before he came into view, it occurred to me: I hadn’t been in Siem Reap long enough for anyone to know my name with such certainty or call it out with that kind of authority. I turned my head to see Oscar, the very same Venezuelan with whom I spent a long evening over Beerlaos in Nong Kiow. How long had it been? One full month since we parted company? Three weeks? I couldn’t recall and I didn’t care. The fact is I was as delighted to see him as he was to see me. I hid it better. I shook his hands without a trace of emotion, threw a chair under his thighs and said, “What do you want for dinner?”
Oscar and I caught up that evening. Even better, Colombian Rodrigo, with whom I shared one of the towers at Suor Prat earlier in the morning, popped his head at our table on Pub Street. I introduced Oscar to Rodrigo, as one of my all time naturally brilliant students of Spanish.
“Rodrigo, sit down. This is Oscar.” They shook hands. Oscar is learning a few words and expressions in Spanish. I think this is a good time for him to try some on you. Would that be OK, Rodrigo?”
Gladly, Oscar kept silent. “Sure”, he said.
I faced Oscar. “OK, Oscar, now I want you to say, Hola, ¿Cómo estás?, just like we practiced. Can you do that for me?” Rodrigo wanted to help Oscar with any words he might need to learn. Oscar turned to Rodrigo and let out a barrage of Spanish, in which he mentioned I could be a real pain in the ass sometimes.
Oscar was depressed, though delighted with the company. He had met an Australian girl, but they split up as many travelers do. She even persuaded him to lose the Jesus look by shaving his beard. His long locks still remained. But that wasn’t what was eating him up most of all. “Tomorrow, I go to Phnom Penh.”
Rodrigo and I saw nothing terrifying about that. Oscar went on. “Then the day after, I will get a flight to Shanghai, then I go home, to Boston.”
That was it. He wasn’t physically ill. But the South American may as well have been. More than losing his girlfriend, his trip had come to an end and psychologically it was beating him up. I tried to console him. I knew exactly how he felt. My days, too, are numbered.
“All trips have their natural cycle. They have to finish so you can get ready for the next one. If it weren’t like that, Oscar, it wouldn’t be travel. It would be your life. And then you would never marvel in other worlds and cultures the way you do now.”
My words did nothing to uplift him. I added, “We’ll talk about it back in New England.” We said very little after that. We knew that an appointment in the fall would take place. It isn’t a matter of if, but when he’ll get a hold of me. Soon enough, we’ll be holding up pints on a crispy weekend somewhere in Massachusetts.

For as much as foreigners dominate the scene in Siem Reap, Cambodians still go abut their daily lives in spite of us. They adapt very little to the Western ways that intrude on theirs. They do not frequent Western bars or restaurants. They eat across the street from balconies decked in wicker chairs where patrons raise pitchers of cold drink and yell at each other in their own tongues while posing for group shots in front of digital cameras. Our world is a few feet away from theirs, but we still exist on two completely different levels. Pre-teens still herd cattle and water buffalo down my street every morning when I go to breakfast. Toddlers still prance around naked, ankle deep in filth and mud. Two blocks away the thumping of a nightclub has just ceased. It is still a town of dust, mopeds, and a traditional populace. Cambodians in Siem Reap are still entrenched in a Southeast Asia that scrapes roughly against the amenities we have imported for ourselves in order to enjoy the marvels of their ancient past.

Ya must be the only honest tuk-tuk driver in Southeast Asia. The slender and unassuming twenty-three-year-old is an ambitious professional. He still had to throw elbows to get at me when I arrived at the bus station in Siem Reap. He needed the fare as much as anyone else. He has to fight to support his family; his wife is six month’s pregnant with their first child. Siem Reap’s bus station is a nasty place to look for customers. The competition is mean and cut throat.
Ya got my attention my not trying to drag me into is tuk-tuk. His voice was always calm. He lucked out because he has a connection with the hotel with which I had booked my stay. He took me there free of charge and ever so politely asked to contact him through reception if I had any need to go to visit any temples. What else does a first-time visitor do in Siem Reap? I thanked him and tipped him the amount of the fare at face value. After the second day of pedaling around Angkor and back to Siem Reap in the brutal afternoon sun and stiff headwind, it was time Ya and I got to know each other a bit better.
We get on rather well together. Ya doesn’t hustle for dollars; he just does his job with a placidity and ease no other drivers show. He doesn’t try to cut a visit short or change an itinerary. When we sat down to discuss my plans for the next three days, he demanded nothing. He listened to my needs and agreed he could help. I ordered a drink at the pool restaurant and insisted he have something also. He reluctantly ordered a Coke.
“Sir, I can do all you ask, no problem. You tell me what time you want me to be here. Then we will go.”
“Is five-thirty in the morning OK?” I hesitated at the idea of moving at that hour myself. But two days at Angkor had taught me that overcast early mornings are much kinder than merciless sunny hours of the afternoon leading up to a drenching downpour. Besides, I wouldn’t be on a bicycle designed for Mary Poppins the entire day.
“Yes, sure. I will be here. Do you want to go by motorbike or tuk-tuk?” Ya could detach the carriage from the moped as an option.
“I think a tuk-tuk will be better for me. It is more comfortable. Is that OK?”
“Whatever you want, I can do.”
Good. Now, what about price? I feared our whole arrangement would come down to haggling over a few dollars. I have come to dread this and even think forward to my final days in Bangkok where taxi and tuk-tuk drivers make a living out of abusing tourists’naïveté.
Ya had been thirsty. His Coke was long gone. Unlike me, he and most Cambodians do not suck on the ice cubes at the bottom of the glass. He kept respectfully silent as I wrote down what I wanted to do for the next few days. I had done my research; I knew how much a day at Angkor would cost. I braced for him to high ball me. However, Ya is much more savvy than that.
“How much do you usually charge per day, Ya?”
“Sir,” he paused, “you decide how much. Your price is OK with me.”
Really? It is a brilliant move and puts the customer at ease. I agreed to pay him a few dollars over market value, ensuring he would not take on another customer. “Do you prefer I pay you at the end of each day or all at once at the end?”
“It does not matter. Whatever you want to do.” Again, great move.
At five thirty the next morning, I silently made my way downstairs into the lobby and caught a glimpse of Ya through the front door. He was carefully polishing the chrome support poles of his tuk-tuk and placing a cloth sheet over the vinyl seat as upholstering. Never had I seen someone take his job in Cambodia so professionally.
Before taking to the road for Angkor, I directed him to where I liked to have breakfast. It is a open-air restaurant hall for Cambodians and the occasional tourist. At well before six, mine was the only Western face for sure. Ya pulled the tuk-tuk over and motioned me inside to a table. I took the same one every morning. But when I sat down, I realized Ya had not come with me. He remained back inside the carriage to wait for me until I was done. I would have none of this. I walked back and addressed him in a castigating tone. “What are you doing? Come on! It is time for breakfast!”
“Sir, I wait here for you. You eat, then we go.”
“Have you eaten today?”
“No. I will eat later.” He did not lie. He could have told me his wife had already prepared him breakfast and that he was just fine for the entire morning. But he told the truth.
“No! Get out of the tuk-tuk now and come have breakfast with me!” It is rude to leave him there while I eat. Ya complied, but unwillingly. He selected a soup from the menu. More importantly, he ordered my favorite breakfast for me, pork noodle soup. But with Ya, I could ask him to ensure the soup come without stomach, liver, and intestine parts. “You do not like any of that?”
“Ya, I eat meat gladly. I shy away from organs.”
Ya had his soup with organs and all. He is masterful with chopsticks. I stuck with fork and spoon. We make a good team. It is easy to like the man.
Only when it came time to pay did I comprehend the man’s hesitancy to join me. The bill was beyond his means to pay. Going out to breakfast for him is a luxury. As I invited him to join me, I told him he had nothing to worry about. With a sense of shame, he capitulated. I paid the bill for the two of us. A healthy portion of pork noodle soup goes for one dollar each.
Ya stood up and forcefully said, “Thank you, sir.” It had to be the first time a tuk-tuk driver uttered gratitude towards me with any sincerity.
“First of all, my name is not Sir. It is Rich. Secondly, you’re welcome.”
“But I never have breakfast. Most of the time, my wife gets some bread for me with some rice.”
Bread and rice? That’s it? I knew he wasn’t lying.
“Look, Ya, I did not ask you to breakfast because I felt obliged to. I asked you because I wanted you to join me. Do you understand the difference?
He came back immediately. “Yes. Thank you.” His second thank you was even more genuine than the first.

On the third day, Ya took me out to see the Roulos Group, a collection of temples and ruins banished from Angkor proper. Though still part of the park, fewer people make the effort to go east instead of north, mostly due to time restrictions. The thirteen-kilometer ride is a delightful introduction and reminder that Cambodia and Siem Reap are two very different places. As within the main portion of the park, villages are clean and tidy. Lanky sugar palm trees rise over rich rice paddies.
The temple of Bakong bosses over the rest of the Roulos group. If wedged between Ta Prohm and the Bayon, it might go unnoticed. But its isolation among other structures in far worse states of decay makes it a treat. Except for my personal goodbye to Angkor Wat, there is no better spot to finish my templing experience than here. The setting is ideal: a temple mount at the center of which is a more contemporary Khmer tower. The entire complex is encased within a trashless moat, almost square, framed by palm trees. On the island is an operating Buddhist monastery. A fine dirt road follows the outside of the watery encumbrance. Schoolgirls pedal by dressed in white blouses and mid-length navy blue skirts. They all practice their “Hellos” with me in order to provoke a simple reply. When I do, they are thrilled at their achievements. Two cattle-pulled carts meander in front of me. When I finish my walk around Bakong, I am held up by the wide back end of a water buffalo.
To visit the Roulos group is not time-consuming. Ya and I chat in the carriage of the tuk-tuk. At the end of the third day, I felt compelled to tell him what was on my mind.
“You’ve done a very good job, Ya.”
“Thank you.”
“What are you going to do tomorrow?”
Ya peered at the moat, paused, and said, “I suppose I must look for another customer.” His tone was of powerlessness, as if he had no other choice. I sensed he wanted me to keep him on for another day. I had no plans to leave Siem Reap the next day, so I did not need wheeled transportation.
“Where will you look? Do you already have anything arranged?”
“No, I will go to the bus station.” That would depress me, too. I did bear in mind, however, that he earned the same amount from me in three days as a hotel clerk would earn on a month.
“You know, you are not like other tuk-tuk drivers. You know how to handle customers well.” He knew he was good, but too modest to flaunt his interpersonal skills. Ya paid me close attention. “Balang do not trust drivers because we are overcharged, lied to, and misdirected. You do none of this. You are very straight with me.”
Ya smiled. “Thank you”, he said sheepishly.
“Do you want to be a tuk-tuk driver for many more years?” This is his fourth. He took the work, just like his father.
“No”, he answered. I want to go to University. I want to study English Literature. If I know literature well, then I can be a guide. I read as much as I can about the temples.” Interesting. Most tuk-tuk drivers explain nothing. They are only transporters. For the three days I hired Ya, he made an attempt to tell me what to look for and how to observe certain art forms, etc. He continued, “But the words are hard for me to understand when I study the guidebooks.”
“Then why don’t you get a copy in Khmer? We’ll go back to town and I’ll buy-”
“You don’t understand, sir. There are no books on Angkor in Khmer. Very hard to find.”
I found the last statement difficult to believe. But when browsing through bookstores in Siem Reap, he was right. There are very few volumes on Khmer history or Angkor for Cambodians to read in their own language.
“I hope you become a tour guide. Is it a better life than that of a tuk-tuk driver?”
“Oh, yes! Better money. Better relations with people. More fun. Not boring.”
I asked, “Then what do you need to do?”
“There is an exam all guides have to take. I have taken it once. But I failed it.”
He failed it? No, this is unlikely. I have seen tour guides whose English was no better than that of dolphins. I have heard other guides point out banana trees to Swedish tourists in the middle of a thousand-year-old gallery with battle scenes carved on the walls. There is no way he is that dense to have failed given the incapacities of other tour guides.
“What happened? Was the test hard?”
“I did not think so. But I also had to pay a fee, you see.” OK, I can see it could cost money to administer an exam.
“So? You pay the fee and take the exam. So what?”
Ya interjected with much patience and very softly. “It is a two thousand dollar fee, Rich.”
“TWO THOUSAND DOLLARS? What?” No average Cambodian can pay that amount. “Wh- Why so much?”
“It is simple. You take the exam. Then you pay one of the mayor’s staff the cash, and you pass. Easy. I did not have the money. So I did not pass the exam.”
“And the others who are tour guides?”
“Ah, they got the money somehow.” Ya shrugged his shoulders.
“You have to pay the mayor under the table, is that it?”
Ya easily deduced what “under the table” meant.
“Yes. If I had the money, I could be a tour guide overnight.”

We departed from Bakong and headed back to Siem Reap. I could see nothing of Ya but his back and the taxi license number of his tuk-tuk on his vest: 0490. We zoomed by more rice paddies. When we stopped so I could to take a photo, he pointed out the trees behind a straw home. “Do you see the palm right there?”
I corrected him. “No, Ya. That is a sugar palm. Over there, to the right,” I pointed to the trees with green coconuts bunched at the base of the sturdy green shoots, “that is a palm tree. Do you see the difference?”
He studied both. He then wrote down both words on a sheet of paper and drew and example of each. He didn’t want to forget the next time he came through with another group.

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Photos

Pure and Clean Cambodia
Lovely trip outside of Siem Reap...

No Matter Where You Are...
In Cambodia, it's all about the children...

Monastery at Bakong
Ya and I chatted while monks prayed to Buddha...

Driving School in Siem Reap
Why even bother?

Pub Street, Siem Reap
Could be the Algarve, Costa del Sol, or Fort lauderdale...

Classic Scenery
Now you know what the color green really looks like...