I gaze into the wall of green to my left, squinting past thick, leafy boughs of the Cambodian jungle, bewildered. I look to my map; there nothing but the giant reservoir to my right and green uniformity to my left. I peer into the jungle, then back to the map. Back to the jungle.
Inexplicably, unbelievably, there arise pounding techno beats and a thumping bass from where before, only animal noises had floated by.
I had laid in bed that morning as the clock struck 10am, then 10:30, gazing lazily at my visitors pass to Angkor Watt. Two of the three allowed entrance days had been punched out. I had wondered what to do.
A typical travel malaise had struck me. I had only myself to entertain, and the prior two days had been filled with hurrying up ancient temple steps, hurrying down ancient temple steps, squinting at the visitors map and re-routing, gasping at leafy rainforest vistas and at stone entrapments, grasping at that feeling of awe that was always half-genuine, half "this is what I should be feeling, right?" Each moment in that current horizontal state was a moment of enjoyment, as well as a renewal of a guilty shock that I could allow such laziness.
I had finally pulled myself into a clean outfit and onto a motorbike that my hosts, friends of Filippino expats I had couchsurfed with in Phnom Pen, had left me. As I had ridden away from the populated tourist section of Siem Reap, I looked smugly over at tourist families with their wide brimmed hats and chubby children, unconsciously sucking in my stomach.
Is it clear enough that I'm not like them? I had thought to myself, wondering if they felt the same feeling of respect towards me as I thought they should feel; although I looked roughly indistinguishable from many of the other tourists, I obviously (right?) was someone who had worked away from home for over a year at that point.
I am Lucas Spangher; an adventurer and explorer, I thought, passing a particularly flabby family, during the course of my past 22 years I had opened my eyes and seen the flaws of Western society and had removed myself from it; I was no mere tourist, my travels were not for lazy enjoyment but to state a quiet philosophical rebellion against imperialism!
The family appeared unfazed.
On the jungle highway, little more than a wide dirt path worn by tracks and hoof marks, I had stopped my bike to take a quick bathroom break. A couple of Cambodian men lounged on the edge of the cliff, some meters from the reservoir drop-off. They had a small picnic and some beers. I heard remarks exchanged in Khymer, and wondered if they are talking about me. A laugh floated by.
The big tourist sights are a little tough for me. It's difficult for me to escape a continual shudder at a manipulated environment meant to create an atmosphere of "authenticity", to avoid dipping into a work-like 9 to 5 schedule to maximize visitors passes, to feel comfortable around crowds of other tourists with different travel purposes and schedules than me. Part of me wants to dismiss these monuments for leading visitors to characterize nations based on ancient achievements rather than valuing them for their current potential. Yet another part of me finds it impossible to ignore the compelling, austere grandeur of these ancient marvels.
I continued along the dirt road, crunching and spitting rocks to the side as I buckle through. I had mapped out a distant temple that seemed far off the beaten path. But the dirt became sandier, making the wheels more slippery. The sun beat down, I sweated, and the reservoir seemed never ending.
An hour earlier, I thought I had fulfilled my "cultural experience" for the day by stopping at a local's hammock park. Right on the bank of the reservoir, a large bamboo flat appeared with hundreds of hammocks arranged in a grid like pattern. I parked the bike, walked down, and napped in a hammock for a bit. Though a couple of boats glimmer up from the expanse, nearly half the reservoir is dry - it's original purpose, to provide a store of water to the capital of the Khymer empire, has faded into history alongside those who made it. A crowd of local Cambodians played a card game to my right. I gazed towards them, hoping for an invite, but none came. I rode on shortly.
What was I doing, trying to escape the other tourists? I think. I really am just another white person to everyone here; is there any use in pretending otherwise?
And that's when I hear the music, and my curiosity overtakes me.
The bike is parked, and I forage my way through the jungle. What if my bike gets stolen? Where am I going? I think. The music gets louder.
A brief clearing, and I emerge. Before me is a small hamlet, four or five bamboo huts on stilts with small gar
Inexplicably, unbelievably, there arise pounding techno beats and a thumping bass from where before, only animal noises had floated by.
I had laid in bed that morning as the clock struck 10am, then 10:30, gazing lazily at my visitors pass to Angkor Watt. Two of the three allowed entrance days had been punched out. I had wondered what to do.
A typical travel malaise had struck me. I had only myself to entertain, and the prior two days had been filled with hurrying up ancient temple steps, hurrying down ancient temple steps, squinting at the visitors map and re-routing, gasping at leafy rainforest vistas and at stone entrapments, grasping at that feeling of awe that was always half-genuine, half "this is what I should be feeling, right?" Each moment in that current horizontal state was a moment of enjoyment, as well as a renewal of a guilty shock that I could allow such laziness.
I had finally pulled myself into a clean outfit and onto a motorbike that my hosts, friends of Filippino expats I had couchsurfed with in Phnom Pen, had left me. As I had ridden away from the populated tourist section of Siem Reap, I looked smugly over at tourist families with their wide brimmed hats and chubby children, unconsciously sucking in my stomach.
Is it clear enough that I'm not like them? I had thought to myself, wondering if they felt the same feeling of respect towards me as I thought they should feel; although I looked roughly indistinguishable from many of the other tourists, I obviously (right?) was someone who had worked away from home for over a year at that point.
I am Lucas Spangher; an adventurer and explorer, I thought, passing a particularly flabby family, during the course of my past 22 years I had opened my eyes and seen the flaws of Western society and had removed myself from it; I was no mere tourist, my travels were not for lazy enjoyment but to state a quiet philosophical rebellion against imperialism!
The family appeared unfazed.
On the jungle highway, little more than a wide dirt path worn by tracks and hoof marks, I had stopped my bike to take a quick bathroom break. A couple of Cambodian men lounged on the edge of the cliff, some meters from the reservoir drop-off. They had a small picnic and some beers. I heard remarks exchanged in Khymer, and wondered if they are talking about me. A laugh floated by.
The big tourist sights are a little tough for me. It's difficult for me to escape a continual shudder at a manipulated environment meant to create an atmosphere of "authenticity", to avoid dipping into a work-like 9 to 5 schedule to maximize visitors passes, to feel comfortable around crowds of other tourists with different travel purposes and schedules than me. Part of me wants to dismiss these monuments for leading visitors to characterize nations based on ancient achievements rather than valuing them for their current potential. Yet another part of me finds it impossible to ignore the compelling, austere grandeur of these ancient marvels.
I continued along the dirt road, crunching and spitting rocks to the side as I buckle through. I had mapped out a distant temple that seemed far off the beaten path. But the dirt became sandier, making the wheels more slippery. The sun beat down, I sweated, and the reservoir seemed never ending.
An hour earlier, I thought I had fulfilled my "cultural experience" for the day by stopping at a local's hammock park. Right on the bank of the reservoir, a large bamboo flat appeared with hundreds of hammocks arranged in a grid like pattern. I parked the bike, walked down, and napped in a hammock for a bit. Though a couple of boats glimmer up from the expanse, nearly half the reservoir is dry - it's original purpose, to provide a store of water to the capital of the Khymer empire, has faded into history alongside those who made it. A crowd of local Cambodians played a card game to my right. I gazed towards them, hoping for an invite, but none came. I rode on shortly.
What was I doing, trying to escape the other tourists? I think. I really am just another white person to everyone here; is there any use in pretending otherwise?
And that's when I hear the music, and my curiosity overtakes me.
The bike is parked, and I forage my way through the jungle. What if my bike gets stolen? Where am I going? I think. The music gets louder.
A brief clearing, and I emerge. Before me is a small hamlet, four or five bamboo huts on stilts with small gar