Angkor Wat, October 2022
I visited Angkor Wat before with a young family, possibly in 1998 or so. I don’t remember much about it, beyond making sure that the hotel had a swimming pool to soften the blow for the children having been dragged round ruins in the hot sun. Siem Reap means, ‘Thailand defeated.’ A bit like calling Dover, ‘Up yours, France!’ The town itself reminds me of a provincial Vietnamese backwater, with the same shop frontages and contrasting huge houses for the well-off, alongside streets full of assorted dogs, cheap restaurants and motorbike repair shops. Just people trying to get by really.
Watching those people trying to get on in life also makes me wonder about the sliding doors moment where being born in 1980 and thereafter was just about okay, but before then you would have been cast as an innocent bystander as a bunch of idealogues enforced their stupidity on the country to deadly effect. The Khmer Rouge took over in 1975 and managed to kill 2 million or so of their compatriots (nobody knows for sure) for no other reason than Angkar (the Organisation) had decreed it. Death came to the educated classes, with glasses being a tell-tale sign, as well as all monks – those spongers seeking alms every morning! The Vietnamese army drove the KR out in 1979, right up to the Thai border in the north-west, where the Thai military unceremoniously pushed fleeing civilians back down the cliffs, whence they had come. “We made mistakes,” said Brother No.1 and Brother No.2 at later trials. You don’t say! We’ve still got modern day demagogues, idealogues and despots, ever happy to heap misery on people’s lives, when all those citizens want to do is raise a family and put food on the table.
Our tuk-tuk driver was born in 1981, lucky him. He has a branch of his extended family who were victims, I suppose everyone does. But he was happy to pick us up at 5.00am to see the sunrise at Angkor Wat. Just getting by, as you do. Whistling along deserted streets in the dark was fun, as was the surprisingly cool air. Lots of local cyclists whizzing along on decent bikes too – perhaps it’s not worth the hassle later in the day with the sun beating down and streams of careless cars and motorbikes speeding on their way to somewhere. Good for those bike-folk – 5.00am indeed. I was wondering about how many people were likely to be at Angkor Wat in October. I now know. Imagine the crowd scene in Ben Hur, minus the chariots. You’ve got it. As sunrises go this one was a bit of a damp squib but it is safely in the ether now, thanks to the phalanx of phones and cameras that welcomed first light.
Some famous sights are bigger than imagined, like the Pyramids of Giza which are one hundred times bigger than one might have suspected. You have to practically stand in Libya to fit them into your viewfinder. Angkor Wat is in the same category as Wembley Stadium inside, ie much smaller than imagined. Angkor Wat’s shape with a big pointy bit in the middle and four other pointy bits in a surrounding rectangle is called a quincunx. I did remember it being intimidatingly steep last time, but even Cambodia has H&S these days, so now there is a wooden stairway and handrail. I joined the steady flow of folks ascending the stairs, evenly spaced as they were. Near the top I must confess that I was huffing and puffing a little. The trouble with these fancy new trainers is that the generous depth of the white tread might look sporty, and you do wonder if the wearer could beat 11.00 seconds for the 100 metres, but they come with an added challenge to one’s judgement of the reach of your new foot extension. Predictably, I caught the very top step and went flying. In my right hand was an expensive camera, in my left hand was a backpack which had slipped off my shoulder. I had no choice but to break my fall with my forehead.
There was a collective gasp from those following as they tried to run a quick risk assessment. Not on me, but on themselves – how would they sidestep an old geezer gambolling down the stairs. The people nearest rushed forward to lend a hand. I had managed to fall forward into the temple. As grand an entrance as one could conceive of. I almost said to them, ‘It’s all right, I’m not an old man!’ Luckily, I didn’t as I would have been laying myself open to a loud group rejoinder, ‘Oh, yes you are!’ And there we have it, if ever proof were needed, I am not just an old man, but also of the duffer variety. It sure was chastening, which is only one level below humiliating. The more people fuss, the more you mutter, I’m okay, even though you must clearly look like you aren’t.
There are rows of Buddha statues in avenues leading to temples, all with the heads missing. That particular activity was caused by avarice during the civil war – there must be dozens of those heads in private collections around the world. You will also notice in one of the pics, a jumble of stone blocks haphazardly placed. The temple is Preah Khan and the culprits were the Khmer Rouge who were trying to dislodge the Vietnamese, so bombed the 700-year-old antiquity, as you do. Peasants they certainly were, but the leadership were all educated in top lycées and seminaries. Idealogues usually are.
This trip was a special birthday treat. All birthdays ending with a zero seem to presage a new age, kicking yet another rite of passage into touch. Each is greeted with a gentle shake of the head and a muted, ‘I can’t believe I’m…’ Thirty-something and it’s time to be an adult and take life seriously. Forty-something is like a punch in the gut, usually the owner has just said something daft about life beginning at… Fifty is oh-oh, am I old now? Sixty is yikes, I am old! And seventy is gosh, brave new world, I ask for nothing other than good health. I left out 20 as we tend to pass on that and wait for our 21st, even though in many counties, like Japan, the 20th is the key anniversary.
The internet tells me that the 65th birthday is the sapphire, the 70th the platinum, the 75th the diamond and the 80th the oak (bit of a downward step that one). The 90th is the granite – much more like it. So, platinum it is, and onwards I go, or at least keep trying to go!
Watching those people trying to get on in life also makes me wonder about the sliding doors moment where being born in 1980 and thereafter was just about okay, but before then you would have been cast as an innocent bystander as a bunch of idealogues enforced their stupidity on the country to deadly effect. The Khmer Rouge took over in 1975 and managed to kill 2 million or so of their compatriots (nobody knows for sure) for no other reason than Angkar (the Organisation) had decreed it. Death came to the educated classes, with glasses being a tell-tale sign, as well as all monks – those spongers seeking alms every morning! The Vietnamese army drove the KR out in 1979, right up to the Thai border in the north-west, where the Thai military unceremoniously pushed fleeing civilians back down the cliffs, whence they had come. “We made mistakes,” said Brother No.1 and Brother No.2 at later trials. You don’t say! We’ve still got modern day demagogues, idealogues and despots, ever happy to heap misery on people’s lives, when all those citizens want to do is raise a family and put food on the table.
Our tuk-tuk driver was born in 1981, lucky him. He has a branch of his extended family who were victims, I suppose everyone does. But he was happy to pick us up at 5.00am to see the sunrise at Angkor Wat. Just getting by, as you do. Whistling along deserted streets in the dark was fun, as was the surprisingly cool air. Lots of local cyclists whizzing along on decent bikes too – perhaps it’s not worth the hassle later in the day with the sun beating down and streams of careless cars and motorbikes speeding on their way to somewhere. Good for those bike-folk – 5.00am indeed. I was wondering about how many people were likely to be at Angkor Wat in October. I now know. Imagine the crowd scene in Ben Hur, minus the chariots. You’ve got it. As sunrises go this one was a bit of a damp squib but it is safely in the ether now, thanks to the phalanx of phones and cameras that welcomed first light.
Some famous sights are bigger than imagined, like the Pyramids of Giza which are one hundred times bigger than one might have suspected. You have to practically stand in Libya to fit them into your viewfinder. Angkor Wat is in the same category as Wembley Stadium inside, ie much smaller than imagined. Angkor Wat’s shape with a big pointy bit in the middle and four other pointy bits in a surrounding rectangle is called a quincunx. I did remember it being intimidatingly steep last time, but even Cambodia has H&S these days, so now there is a wooden stairway and handrail. I joined the steady flow of folks ascending the stairs, evenly spaced as they were. Near the top I must confess that I was huffing and puffing a little. The trouble with these fancy new trainers is that the generous depth of the white tread might look sporty, and you do wonder if the wearer could beat 11.00 seconds for the 100 metres, but they come with an added challenge to one’s judgement of the reach of your new foot extension. Predictably, I caught the very top step and went flying. In my right hand was an expensive camera, in my left hand was a backpack which had slipped off my shoulder. I had no choice but to break my fall with my forehead.
There was a collective gasp from those following as they tried to run a quick risk assessment. Not on me, but on themselves – how would they sidestep an old geezer gambolling down the stairs. The people nearest rushed forward to lend a hand. I had managed to fall forward into the temple. As grand an entrance as one could conceive of. I almost said to them, ‘It’s all right, I’m not an old man!’ Luckily, I didn’t as I would have been laying myself open to a loud group rejoinder, ‘Oh, yes you are!’ And there we have it, if ever proof were needed, I am not just an old man, but also of the duffer variety. It sure was chastening, which is only one level below humiliating. The more people fuss, the more you mutter, I’m okay, even though you must clearly look like you aren’t.
There are rows of Buddha statues in avenues leading to temples, all with the heads missing. That particular activity was caused by avarice during the civil war – there must be dozens of those heads in private collections around the world. You will also notice in one of the pics, a jumble of stone blocks haphazardly placed. The temple is Preah Khan and the culprits were the Khmer Rouge who were trying to dislodge the Vietnamese, so bombed the 700-year-old antiquity, as you do. Peasants they certainly were, but the leadership were all educated in top lycées and seminaries. Idealogues usually are.
This trip was a special birthday treat. All birthdays ending with a zero seem to presage a new age, kicking yet another rite of passage into touch. Each is greeted with a gentle shake of the head and a muted, ‘I can’t believe I’m…’ Thirty-something and it’s time to be an adult and take life seriously. Forty-something is like a punch in the gut, usually the owner has just said something daft about life beginning at… Fifty is oh-oh, am I old now? Sixty is yikes, I am old! And seventy is gosh, brave new world, I ask for nothing other than good health. I left out 20 as we tend to pass on that and wait for our 21st, even though in many counties, like Japan, the 20th is the key anniversary.
The internet tells me that the 65th birthday is the sapphire, the 70th the platinum, the 75th the diamond and the 80th the oak (bit of a downward step that one). The 90th is the granite – much more like it. So, platinum it is, and onwards I go, or at least keep trying to go!
RSS Feed