How do the people in Bangkok wish on the stars at night?

As we fly into Thailand, the ground grows fainter and falls away to dissolve in the mist below. A grayish blanket spreads for miles, the greens and browns bleached away to indiscernible paleness. Above, the sun is shining brightly. And there is not a cloud in the sky. This scares me.

On the ground, the majority of people everywhere we look, from taxi drivers to students to seamstresses, are wearing yellow polo shirts with an insignia over their heart. This extreme show of patriotism in support of the king looks strangely like cult behavior. Everybody walking around in happy yellow shirts, while from posters and billboards overhead, the king looks out on his people sternly. His billboards are adorned with flattery such as "Our Supreme Artist" and "Our Benevolent King". In all of his pictures, never a smile. I remark that he looks unhappy to be born into this burden. I make sure not to say it too loudly, as we've read in our guidebook that any remarks against the king can literally get you thrown in jail, Thai or tourist.

As we drive into the city under megalithic concrete pillars that support massive highways, the wealth difference between VietNam and Thailand is bearing its stark contrast. Instead of motorbikes with entire families on the back - European cars. Instead of tuk tuk drivers - big American and Japanese pickups and SUVs. It shocks me to see more pickups in Bangkok than you would see in any American city.

In Bangkok, we get thrown in the backpackers ghetto of Khaosan Road, where in contrast to Vietnam, everybody seems to have dreadlocks. Niles feels this cheapens his presence, until he finds out that half of them are fake extensions that people get put in their hair to feel liberated from society, Suburbia, and their parents while masquerading in exotic Asia. Backpackers treading around in birkenstocks or Nike sandals with minimal clothing: boardshorts, shirts with sleeves ripped off in this drenching humidity. Unshaven and stinky. No wonder why they throw all of us into this ghetto. Meanwhile, some Thais are wearing sweaters in their 95 degree winter weather... At nighttime, the road becomes alive with people and turns into a carnival of lights and sounds. The streets are lined with t-shirt shops and art and crafts stores catering to an alternative taste. In front of 7/11 stores where 22 oz Chang beers cost less than a buck, backpackers hang out on the curb and smoke out of bamboo bongs. On the bar patios, they sip from straws sticking out of "buckets" - quarts of mixed drinks for 3-5 bucks. Pimped out tuk tuks with shag and neon lights on the bottom drive by, as they bump their music through souped-up sound system sub woofers. People crowd around a stuntman soccer player who juggles a ball in every position imaginable; head, chest, laying down, reverse flip kicks - never letting it touch the ground. An old man, well beyond overcooked by the sun, with white hair, wails on an electric guitar freely while shooting unintentionally comical looks at passers who drop a few coins in his guitar case. A blind girl walks around with a PA singing karaoke with every ounce of might in her heart. I drop all the change I have in my pocket into the box hanging from her neck. As old women pass behind you, frogs croak and crickets chirp... they are selling wooden carvings of frogs and crickets, fantastically accurate instruments. Weird men at the darker end of the street mumble something about "ping pong" to you as you pass by.


Falling into Bangkok, we springboard off to Cambodia the next morning. The bus ride was quite pleasant on the Thailand side. Then we get to the boarder...


After Niles and I rush around trying to get our entry visa (we didn't want to pay the commission that our bus driver was lying to us to get) we stand in line to leave Thailand. After exiting Thailand, we pass through what can only be described as a laissez-fair forgotten limbo between the boarders. Walking along the strip of 200m between, I look down to my right and see two young children, 5 or 6 years old, dirty and wearing nothing but what after extended use looks like a loin cloth. In their arms they are holding a scantily-clad toddler who hasn't even enough energy to hold his head up. To the left I see a casino where, out of Thailand's strict jurisdiction, people come to lose their money. Standing in the waiting line for the Cambodian immigration, Niles and I talk with a friendly, garrulous Czech man in his 50s who quite openly tells us he has come to Cambodia "to find a wife". We notice an abnormal number of single middle-aged men in Cambodia. From their stunted social skills and unconfident body language, they seem to have the air of pariah in their respective countries. The Cambodians are trying to combat their country's sex-slave, brothel image in the international community, as everywhere there are anti-pedophile posters saying "Don't turn away - Turn them in".

The road from Poipet, or "Thailand's Tiajuana", as we call it, is utterly disastrous. Nature never intended for man to travel this route. Man, with his own agenda and pertinacious persistence, doesn't agree. Every single joint, screw, and seam in the small bus shudders and squeaks violently as we progress on our way at 20 mph. The dusty red dirt road below would make even the most experienced motocross driver nauseous, with it's chaotic bumps, divots and ditches. Every vehicle that passes on this road stirs up a caliginous cloud of fine clay that blinds anybody behind. Lungfish meandering in the murky waters. The brick-red alluvium pours in through the holes in the roof of the bus. I tie my white handkerchief over my mouth and nose, and put my sunglasses on. Despite looking like a Zapatista rebel, I can now see without squinting. My handkerchief slowly changes color. In the back of the bus, we catch the brunt of each bump. The last straw on a tower of backpacks to the left of me keeps toppling over on me. To the right, Anne from Australia, tired from her travels, tries futilely to get some shut-eye. She gives up when a bump tosses her out of her seat almost giving her whiplash. As the driver swerves to other side of the road to avoid a ditch in the middle, I ponder how much money his chiropractor must make. In the dusk light, beyond wood houses on short stilts, over expansive flat fields, specks of light flicker on the horizon. Dazzling pointillism of controlled burning.

We wake up the next day in Siem Reap to plan our siege of Angkor Wat, the enchanting skeleton of an ancient dynasty. With numerous, magnificent temples to explore in the world's largest religious site, it is entirely believable that this is one of the Wonders of the World. We decide to hire a tuk tuk to take us around the "mini"-tour circuit of temples. Our allies for the siege are Anne the Aussie and her friend, whose name sounds so much like "cigarette" that Cambodian children laugh with incredulity when she says it.

Angkor is overwhelming. It is magnificent. It is transcendent. It is an experience. And people know it.

Tourists from all around the world swarm from sunrise to sunset to explore this wonder. Brigades of tourists climb the gargantuan steep steps of the pyramidic temples to reach the housed Buddha centered at the top. Look out on the rich jungle, the world around. The four corners of the temples boast towers, like sticks of purifying incense, prayers to welcome to the directions.

The collection of temples parade a variety grandeur in their architecture, from the openness of the Hindu, to the simplicity of the Buddhist. Like the pyramids in Egypt, the temples are the fruit of a pissing contest of Khmer emperors, each trying to outdo their predecessor and solidify their rightful place in history. And we get to behold these impressive tours de force in all of their lavishness and majesty. Wandering through small, dark passageways to find lost rooms. Climbing through windows and between pillars. An obstacle course created by ceilings that have crumbled blocking the way.

As the French attempting to preserve and restore these monuments had observed, time has not been kind to Angkor. Nature has resumed its course where man left off. Mighty trees have emerged from the ruins, their massive twisting roots climb over the blocks of stone, displacing them slowly but surely as the structures crumble below. Nature is recovering at a patient pace what the elephants brought there a millennium ago. And the process is stunningly divine.

The walls of every temple are adorned with meticulously ornate bas-relief. Victorious scenes of warriors riding into battle. Sequences of content gurus meditating with both hands in front of their chest. Rows of serenically composed women standing in coves like stone sentinels with unique eyes ranging from beguiling to omniscient. Elegant decorations above the heads of these devatas with furtilely round breasts. Always one hand sideways in front of their heart, thumb and index touching - a spiracle through which to breath in the world. The other hand placed flat below the navel, cupping their belly. Every one with wide lips sprouting a timeless smile on their face. Knowing.

Every pillar is elaborated with carvings. Spiraling mandalas whose faces worn sandy by time cast slight shadows which blur their design. Spritely figures in pointy headdress holding hands and dancing together. Overhead gigantic half-smiling heads face the four directions. The late afternoon sun turns orange in the haze of the equatorial horizon.

As sunset approaches, we make our way towards Angkor Wat, the centerpiece on this mantel of Khmer greatness. To make it to the center, you must pass through three enclosures - three states of being. Almost a millennium ago, it took 3,000 engineers, 2,000 artisans, and 1000 elephants to construct this massive complex in a staggering 40 years. Flocks of tourist take pictures on the long walkway approaching it. Hoards climb the stairs up to the center. Peeking out of windows, snap shots of curiosity, the tourists are everywhere. I must have patience to wait for the slender window of opportunity to get a good shot before an unknowing Korean tourist steps into my shot. It is beautiful, but the swarm of passport-carrying locusts puts a distracting wet blanket on the brilliance of Angkor Wat. I decide to go to the back of the temple for sunset shots.

As I climb down and out onto the last ledge before the stairs, I take in the feeling of walking in and out of states. As I sit there taking it all in, a monkey climbs down a pillar beside me. I look behind me; the dusk silhouettes monkeys climbing over the facades of the temple. Another baby monkey accompanies the monkey to my ledge, and after getting abandoned there with a big, weird, hairless monkey like me, gets scared and poops a little. He starts calling a big sister, miniature cries of "help me!". A medium sized monkey finally comes and comforts the petit one. "It's okay now, I'm here." It stops crying. All of a sudden, a big monkey comes up from behind the monkey and bends her over and tries to start having sex with her while she's still holding the young one. Brutal monkey rape - unsuccessful. The large monkey, half my size, can be no other than the alpha male. "Anything I say, anything I want... anything I want I GET!!". In his obviously romantic state of mind, he goes over to a male monkey and tries the same thing unsuccessfully. Brutal monkey sodomy - unsuccessful. The monkey is looking a little peeved. Something must be wrong here... he shoots a glare over in my direction and starts advancing towards me. He growls menacingly at me. I raise my hands letting him know "They're all yours". At the same time, I'm thinking "You're not gonna try that with me". My mind starts racing... he's a lot smaller than me, so I could just kick him. But what if he bites me? I remember the fact that a monkey is tons stronger pound for pound than a human... and I have lost a little weight travelling. Uh oh. Luckily just standing there calls his bluff, and it doesn't come to that. He goes back to unsuccessful rape attempts. After collecting photographic evidence in case any of the victims decides to press charges, I decide to leave. At that time the alpha male is over by the stairs, and as I walk down I notice a little pink thing emerging from his belly as he looks at me. He grunts at me. No means no buddy. I escape without a monkey on my back. Whew!

At sunset the evacuation of Angkor Wat commences. Authoritarian policemen negate attempts to walk up any stairs. They start kicking photographers off of stairs (me!) when they are simply trying to get a good sunset photograph. The thousands of tourists make their way across the long walkway to exit the same way they entered. A pilgrimage in and out of this spiritual world.

At the end of the day, the fatigue sets in. Having no previous of reference to perceive the wonder of Angkor Wat, and not knowning anything of what to expect, it was entirely overwhelming. My camera knew no composure that day, and instead flailed around disorientedly in dizzying amazement to take a whopping 487 pictures in 8 hours. I annihilated my previous record by 135...



Words cannot mold the splendor of the lapidary beauty that all of the artists and artisans have created over the centuries at Angkor... and the Khmer people know it. With the atrocious history that Kampuchea has had in recent years since its centuries of glory (see Khmer Rouge), the comfort of that ancient glory solidified in history is one of the only comforting and stable things for the Cambodia psyche to latch on to. As such, Angkor Wat as the symbol of greatness and what it represents, can be found everywhere. It is on the flag, it is on anything government related, it is on buses. Anything having a logo most likely contains Angkor. It is also on the money, which is used as change when you need to break a dollar. Yes, I was a little surprised when US dollars came out of the ATM. The currency of Cambodia, the Riel, is so unreliable and so devalued, it isn't even listed on xe.com . Looking at the bills, you can see a country so far from reality that it is a bit frightening. On one side, Angkor Wat. On the other side, a bridge with two Porches driving on it. Nobody drives a Porche in Cambodia. Families pile on motorbikes. We even saw 5 grown men on one... Post-Khmer Rouge, a facist leader has taken over by coup, and changed laws to banish/kill anyone who opposes him. And when nobody wants to open their eyes, "In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is King." I guess many people have realized that reality can be so much more frightening than a quiet fantasy. And at least the distant past provides some pride. Far from the more recent years when intellectuals and educated people were slaughtered en masse, by the motto: "To keep you is no benefit. To destroy you is no loss."


The next day was our first lazy afternoon of the trip. Niles needed to sleep off his night out until 7am, and I needed some time to recuperate. If something is overwhelming, take a break, and come back to it with a new perspective.

A fresh perspective on Angkor, and a new frame with which to view it, made the second exploration of Angkor a much more enjoyable one. And with a new frame, my pictures were much more cleanly composed as well. Because we had our own transportation, we had the freedom to explore at our own pace. After attempting to rent scooters, and finding out that the police will crack down on anybody who rents scooters to foreigners (we suspect the tuk tuk and moto drivers have a thing going with the police), we decide to rent electric bikes instead. They can go no faster than 20 mph, but it was surprisingly enjoyable. And it gives you the time to slow down and experience more of the richer aspects of Angkor Wat: the people.

Walking through the gates of the temples, entry arches with stone faces above looking out, there are always long treks to the temple itself. This path provides an choice gauntlet for vendors, from which it is quite hard to emerge unscathed. Little children will come up to you trying to sell you bracelets, necklaces, t-shirts, water/beer. They will whine at you and follow you for a hundred yards trying to sell you a flute. "Please sir, you buy a flute. Please sir..." times google plex. They will persuade you to buy a scarf or a trinket. And all of them speak incredible English. Nothing like money to motivate a person to learn... some of the children will even pull out tricks. While eating lunch, a small girl approaches and asks "Where are you from?" I tell her America, and she says "Washington DC". I say Columbia, she responds "Bogota". I say Sweden, and she answers "Stockholm". Wow... I ask her Kenya, and she doesn't know it. I say Chad, nothing. I guess there's not so many tourists who come from those countries, huh?

The children of Cambodia are beautiful and resilient. They are also, like everybody else, not immune from being the product of their surroundings. We stop to get some water at the side of the road, after agreeing when a little girl told us that "you buy from me when you want water". There are lots of young girls trying to sell water or coca cola in front of a cooler. A mother sits in a chair under an umbrella, and a father lies in a hammock nearby. Some young girls start playing around with Niles' bike. He doesn't care, because they don't have the keys to get the electric motor started. They ask if they can have my keys, I tell them no, that we have to go. One girl asks if she can come with me. I tell her 'no no, we have to go now'. She says she'll come with me. She'll sleep with me. I say 'no no'. Her friend echos her. I say 'no' again without being able to look at them and I ride away. Inside my heart weeps.


The musicians sitting on the side of the walkway of the temples are quite talented. More so, considering that many of them are missing appendages due to land mines that have crippled them for life. But instead of begging, they have now started to organize and play traditional Khmer music... and it is beautiful. From afar I hear a drum that sounds somewhat like a deep tabla, but more stable. I approach to see drum made from rich dark wood. It has engravings like tattoos on its body. It's head is made from snake skin. It was love before first sight. At a break in the music, I ask the musician with one leg where he bought it, and he tells me it's from a different province. I long for one, and consider trying to buy that one off of him, but could never ask him to part with an instrument that wonderful which he obviously knows so well. I reckon I can find one at a huge market or something when I get to Phnom Phen...

After exploring some of the temples farther off the main route most tourists go on, we find ourselves at sunset in the middle of an expansive temple where birds are going crazy with chirping around us, and insects are buzzing happily. There are very few tourists in this expansive and impressive temple, most of which has crumbled to one level. We also find ourselves with dead bike batteries, and have to peddle the bikes back the remaining 12km or so. Can't rent motorbikes to tourists because "it's too dangerous" huh? Meanwhile there are 12 year old kids riding by us on scooters as we chug along in the dark on heavy bikes with small peddle radii forcing us to peddle twice as fast...


Flash forward 3 days -


Flying down the highway at 120 kilometers per hour with 250 CCs beneath me roaring beautifully. The machine below me is a finely-tuned example of Japanese engineering. Just the slightest movement suffices. The weight of the bike below me means that I cannot drive the bike; the bike will drive me. A gentle rocking is enough to turn the bike; turning the handle bars is just plain suicide. I find myself hypersensitive to my balance. Downshift to pass a slow truck on the left, a jolt of power caused by a twist of my white-knuckled hand gripping the throttle. I feel a sense of comfort knowing that this bike can easily go faster than I would ever want to go. Bunna is a great driver, and he doesn't hold the kicks. Weaving on both sides of the road, he passes a truck on the right-hand side, going off the shoulder into red powder on the side of the road. I follow. The dirtbike tread on the tires makes the transition from asphalt to dust almost seamless. Bunna passes a truck on the left, and I lean around to follow him only to see two trucks barrelling straight towards me. My heart skips a beat. I dodge out of the way as the passing truck manages to get back in the oncoming lane right before we reach it. Shit. The racer that has been inside of me all of these years feels right at home. Slicing in and out between trucks and motorcycles, I realize how accurate the motorcycle video games that I've played were with respect to the sensitive movement of the bikes. In a sense, the video games helped prepare me for this moment. The only difference is that on a Playstation there is a reset button. On a motorcycle there is no reset. Only reincarnation. Driving through what reminds me of a Western ghost town with people, we slow down a bit. Passing to the right of the highway a tall red twister spins non-challantly along its unpredictable path. I must have missed the Twister Crossing sign. Shift back to full-speed. My ankles can sense the heat emitting from the scolding engine inches away. I'm grateful to be wearing pants. The wind is whipping at my face and whispering Khmer incantations in my ears. I pop them, nope just the wind. I float along the highway, the racer inside exhilarated. " Fucking awesome!" I scream. It comes out muffled in my helmet. The common sense in my head admonishes, "This is NOT the time to get carried away!" I shut up and grip the handlebars tighter and keep my eyes keenly aware of my surroundings.



The night before we went over to Bunna and Ruth's, a Welsh woman living in Phnom Phen. We got their card from a retired American man Dave who we were told to look up by the spunky Australian woman we'd met in the Mekong Delta. Connection of a connection of a connection. It can be very rewarding to follow the chain if the links are strong, which they were. The business card said "Big Bike Rentals". When we arrive Ruth welcomes us in, and we go through the paperwork. She assures us, "Oh yeah, they're automatic bikes." Bunna is actually the expert, and when we go down with him to check out the bikes, we find out that they were manuals. Um, okay. Neither Niles nor I have ridden motorcycles before, let alone ones with manual transmissions. Bunna says, "That's okay. Come with me, I teach you." I open up, half humoring him, all not knowing what to expect, and jump on the back and we go a few blocks to a dirt strip along side the road. From the few words he says and a little pantomiming, I deduce that you shift with the left foot, clutch is the left hand, and gas is the right. He tells me to go ahead and give it a shot. I turn it on in neutral - the engine dies. Learning seems a little bit hard since I can never let go of the gas (which I find out later was just low idling due to an empty tank). I try again, and ease slowly out just by releasing the clutch, no extra gas is needed. This thing has got a bit of power, I think to myself. I go to the end, the bike turns off again. I restart, and try again, this time shifting up to 2nd gear. I'm starting to get the hang of it. It becomes infinitely more easy to keep the bike going the next morning when we put gas in the tank and Bunna turns the idle speed up. We take the bike back, and I try to share my insights with Niles before his turn to learn. Having never ridden before, he doesn't really have a frame of reference to apply these concepts to. I talk with Ruth while Bunna takes Niles out to learn. She explains how this is Bunna's business, and although it doesn't bring in lots of money, it's a "man thing". Even if she makes tons more than him, he still has to bring in dough. She says that if we wanted, Bunna could accompany us tomorrow, since he has nothing else to do, and he knows the Kirirom National Park pretty well. That, and as she put it, "I bet he would like a little trip." Niles and Bunna return, and Niles looks flustered. Having only driven a stick-shift car a few times in his life, he's not really comfortable driving the manual. This is perfect, because now we can ask Bunna to come along with us to drive Niles' bike.

The next morning we head out on the 118km trek out to the mountains. Driving in the city, the traffic is chaotic. Red light, and everybody just packs in. Green, everybody moves slowly, and somehow we get out of the gridlock. Bunna is treating this as if I've ridden before... I speed up to catch him. I have to get bold quick. I can barely spot him in the distance, but Niles' dreadlocks, height, and purple Fiorentina jersey on the back of the bike make them hard to lose track of. Outside of the city, the roads are smooth and straight for the most part. We cruise along until we hit a turnoff that Niles and I could have easily missed, if Bunna weren't leading the way. The road towards Kirirom is paved, but has lots of slaloms. I ride the bumps up and down. I catch a bit of air. Sensational! I start to get a little carried away and don't follow the path of Bunna anymore. He crosses over a bridge, and I follow too. The wooden bridge has reinforced ridges where truck tires would cross. The ridges are elevated about 2 inches difference from the rest. I don't estimate this, and come in at an angle. Even though I've slowed down, I'm leaning to the side hoping "Uh oh, I can't touch the edge of these ridges". When you think about how much you don't want to do something, it's even harder to not end up doing it. I bite it. The handlebars twist away from me, and I'm thrown to the side. I put my hand out to break the fall, and succeed. In reflex time I don't factor in my recently operated wrist. It aches. I scream ahead for Bunna and Niles to slow down. They double back. As I get up, I'm okay. My wrist, still stiff, has a strong ache in it. I move my wrist back and forth - good, same movement. I look down at the bike, and gasoline is leaking from the gas tank. I pull it upright quickly. The bike is okay. Bunna says it's okay, that happens. No biggy. He says he's bit it many a time, and shows me his scars. Luckily, I have no new scars to show him. He suggests I lay back down on the bridge so that we can take a picture. I act out being tossed and looking messed up. We have a laugh. We get back on the bikes and drive a little further where Bunna buys some Tiger Balm and puts some on my wrist. Niles hands me some ibuprofen. Much better now. So is my driving.

We wind our way up through the mountains in Kirirom. The heat we'd experienced in Phnom Phen starts to fall away as we ascend in elevation. The palm trees on the flat highway are replaced by pine trees as the road curls up. We pass small brush fires off the road. The scent triggers memories of recycling of our dry Christmas tree at home. The road changes from paved grey to brick-red with patches of faded maroon and peachy orange. I find myself inspired to paint. The consistency of the soil beneath is loose, and the motor-vehicle dug trenches in road dictate which direction my bike is going. We arrive to a hill where we park, and make our way down to a small lake surrounded by open-walled bamboo huts on 2 foot stilts. The pond-sized lake contains water which appears to be saturated with iron. The red lake contrasting with the blue sky seems so natural as the cumulus clouds float vividly in the red water. After lunch of a whole chicken, marigolds fried with garlic, and a whole fish plus shredded green mango and chillies, we decide to take a dip. We strip down, and jump in. I look down to see my body happily glowing a radiant orange. My pale skin a perfect reflecting board for the clay-saturated water. I look oddly like a vibrant oompa loompa. We try to skip rocks along the water. Niles has the most skips, Bunna can throw it the farthest, and I have the longest single skip. We explore the exit of the lake, a small stream with smooth rocks that go down softly like a water slide.

We are the only tourists there. Everybody else lives there.
In the late afternoon, we make our way back down the mountain and get back on the highway. I am extra careful when we pass the bridge where I bit it, although my wrist is back to its "normal" at this point. Thank god for Reiki, Ibuprofen and Tiger Balm. Heading back into the city, the sun starts to set. We pass a taped off area, where a medic is covering the casualty of a motorbike accident with a sheet. I feel absolutely blessed to be alright. I suspect I have a guardian angel helping me out today on my maiden voyage on motorcycle. Maybe two.

Back in Phnom Phen, we make our way to Bunna's house to drop off the bikes. As I walk away from the bike, I flash back to the video games of old. "Chuh-Ching" - skills upgrade. The racer I've known was inside since a small child has been unleashed. I start thinking about the next motorbike tour I'm gonna do. Maybe of the American Southwest...

I feel incredibly blessed to be okay after my first day of insanity. Learning how to ride the big bike was intoxicatingly invigorating. It's an electric experience on the edge. It is breathtakingly sensational. And I'm still scared shitless of it. But like Dave the Phnom Phen connection told us, "You're either scared shitless out there, or you're crazy."


We left the next morning for Phuket, Thailand. As we passed through the lines in the airport, I had a feeling that this wouldn't be the last time I would pay the $25 exit fee from Cambodia...




PS. Before leaving, I found my snakeskin baby in a huge market in Phnom Phen. I followed her liquid boom, through a labyrinth of stands, and when I saw her tattooed body and scaly head, I almost wanted to snatch her from the Korean tourist that didn't know how to play her. When the vendor saw the look of intimacy and wonder on my face as I explored her rich dynamic of sounds, I lost all bargaining leverage. She is already my favorite drum... so much that I shipped her back to Portland first-class.

Adendum: She made it back to Portland safe and sound, and she still sounds as beautifully fluid as the ancient spirits that dance when she's played.