As a writer, there’s nothing more humbling than Cambodia’s Angkor Wat and the complex of surrounding temples.
A million feet have already walked these stoney paths, and a million mouths have uttered the only thing that really needs to be said: Wow.
The complex of wats is massive. It’s magical. It’s striking. It’s stirring.
It’s … wow.
Words actually fail me.
It’s easy to get Buddha fatigue in Southeast Asia. The temples become routine, the gilt gets old, and eventually even The Awakened One puts you to sleep.
Sukhothai is the cure.
Once the capital of the Siam empire, the ancient kingdom is often overlooked by travelers in a rush to get from Bangkok to Chiang Mai.
I had some time to kill before a friend was scheduled to arrive in Bangkok, so I penciled in a couple days in the city known as the “Dawn of Happiness.” I didn’t do any research about the place. I had no expectations. I just rolled into town, checked into a cheap hostel and rented some wheels.
Check out my sweet ride.
With a poorly photocopied map in hand, I put my mettle to the pedal and rode directly into the thick, warm sock of Thai humidity. Though Sukhothai is home to more than 190 temples, my first stop was Big-Ass Buddha. (Not the official name.)
I still can’t say what attracted me to this particular Buddha. I just knew I had to see it. And I had to get there before busloads of tourists arrived.
I got lucky. When I parked my bike, nobody else was there.
It was silent.
I’m not ashamed to say I cried as I approached the statue.
Have you ever seen something so powerful in its beauty, it’s like you’ve never opened your eyes before? That was this Buddha.
I spent about a half hour there in silence. Then a truckload of Germans arrived, and I pulled my bike off the rack, turned around and moved on — fulfilled.
The overland border between Thailand and Cambodia is legendary among travelers. Not because of the landmines that still line the region. Not because of the deadly border conflict that has flared up over disputed territory. But because the scams here are as plentiful as noodles.
I had read all the blogs and horror stories. I knew what I was supposed to do:
1. Take the bus from Bangkok to Aranyaprathet, the Thai border town.
2. At the bus stop, get a taxi or tuk-tuk to the border.
3. Go through immigration.
4. Take a taxi or bus to Siem Reap.
Sounds simple enough, right? Wrong. At the “Scambodia” border crossing, everything is not what it seems.
My friend and I boarded a nice, air-conditioned bus departing from Bangkok. After about an hour, the bus stopped. We were shepherded onto another, far crappier vehicle.
The bus dropped us off several kilometers from the border, forcing us into hiring a tuk-tuk. Instead of immigration, he brought us to a diner. “This is where you fill out papers,” he said. We shook our heads no and refused to get out of the vehicle.
I said we want to go to the border. No more stops. Just the border.
The driver brought us to a Cambodian embassy building. It didn’t feel right — I’ve never been to a border crossing yet where you get the visa for the next country before exiting the first country — but the driver insisted this was the way. The building looked official, with a tall fence, guard post and the big gold seal of Cambodia.
Inside two men were playing chess.
They said a visa would cost $40. I pointed out that the visa is actually $20. One man shrugged and said, “Well, you’ll have to go to the border for THAT visa.” I wanted to scream, “So where the eff am I?”
He never looked up from the chessboard.
Back inside the tuk-tuk, the driver finally took my friend and I to the border. There was one line. Then another line. One form. Then another form. One stamp. Then another stamp.
We made it to Cambodia!
But the fun didn’t stop there. All tourists are taken by the government-run bus to a travel depot where the buses and taxis are double the price. This is really the only option for transportation, other than hitching a ride in a dusty pickup on a long, bone-jarring road.
When my friend and I arrived at 3 p.m., all the buses were conveniently gone for the day. Only expensive taxis remained, and we were forced into paying $15 each for a ride to Siem Reap.
In the big scheme of things, we didn’t part with too much money. It’s just exhausting and annoying to have so many people rip you off over and over again. Experiences like this make me grumpy, combative and distrustful — the exact opposite of the kind of traveler I try to be. It’s even more infuriating when the government(s) know this is happening and don’t do anything to stop it.
The biggest loss was our time. All of this sucked 12 hours out of our day, when it should have taken just six or seven.
Maybe this is how the border war started.
Here’s the great thing about Vietnam.
You walk into a cafe. And I use the term “cafe” loosely, because it’s actually just the home of a random person with enough initiative to make a sign and write a menu.
Note granny on the couch watching Asian game shows. You might also be able to make out the kid on Facebook behind the beaded curtain. The motorbikes in the living room are kinda standard around here.
At this “cafe,” you skeptically order a bowl of tofu pho. And when it arrives, all peppery and slurpy and delicious, it’s one of the best meals of your life.
Best of all, it’s less than $1.
When I die and the undertaker cracks me open, I’m pretty sure sand will spill out. I’m a desert girl. My bones are made of cactus and my heart throws tumbleweeds with every beat.
So tooling around the floating villages of Lake Tonle Sap in Cambodia was a glimpse into an unfathomable life.
Here the landscape ebbs and flows, dictated by an ever-changing tide.
Not only is this the largest lake in Southeast Asia, it’s also a UNESCO-recognized biosphere.
Small villages are perched on stilts around the lake. There are floating stations for diesel, markets for essential sundries, even places of worship.
All floating, all perpetually drifting.
Twice a year, their entire world shifts as the Tonle Sap changes direction. During the dry season, about November to May, the lake drains into the Mekong River. When the rains flow again, starting in June, Tonle Sap swells up once again.
