City of Ruins

I say goodbye to the friends I've made at Jira amidst some tears: Adi, a relatively new climber from Singapore who's going to be a serious crusher with a bit more experience, and Christie, who I bonded with through conversations mixing climbing, careers and shameless girl talk. Damien, always ready with a smile or a hug and encouragement, simply enjoys life. And Jaakko, who climbs with humble determination and belayed me with patience as I sent my project (finally!), with whom I shared some quality conversations about communication and trust, and who in turn trusted me to catch him time and time again on a tricky route with falls close to the ground (yielding some pretty hilarious out-of-context photos).

I'm saying goodbye to good people, and it's tough to move on from the friendships I've built over the last month. This time, however, I'm doing it of my own accord-- looking forward to new places, new people, new experiences. That, in itself, is unbelievably refreshing.

I leave that evening on an overnight bus south, spending a day in Bangkok to get a tattoo from one of the coolest guys I've ever met. Mr. Tung, working out of a tiny two-"room" shop behind the city's main backpacker drag, invites me in and serves tea while I look through his work and we chat. He takes an hour to draw on my shoulder in ball point pen, we talk about what I like and what I don't like, and then he simply goes to work.
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Cambodia is dusty, and Cambodia is really, really flat. As my bus trundles toward Siem Reap, white cows graze on dusty brown fields studded with low trees stretching into the distance out of sight, air turned dusky from burning season.

The city itself is somewhat of a paradox, a brazen collision of poverty, tradition, backpacker parties and high-end tourism. It’s epicenter to the kingdom’s famed ancient temples, in one of Southeast Asia’s most traditional and least developed countries (sex in my hostel is subject to a $100 fine). Despite taking pride in its deep heritage, Siem Reap has developed to take advantage of the simple fact that there is literally nothing for tourists to do after dark. The city’s main drag brims with expensive restaurants and bars (“Angkor What?” sells t-shirts proclaiming decades’ promotion of irresponsible drinking). Street beggars weave by the hundreds through tourists. A shabby clinic squeezes onto an avenue brimming with five-star hotels, posters pleading for blood donations to aid a pediatric hemmoragic Dengue epidemic. The contrast is astounding.

So are the temples. Once our tuk tuk leaves the city, we find them scattered in every direction. Some are in remarkably good condition, some under conservation efforts by international teams. Centuries have caused others to fall into ruin, blocks piled high and haphazard under the searing Cambodian sun.

I visit Angkor Wat at sunrise, walking the broad, sweeping causeway and watching the sun light the sky afire behind the temple’s intricate, imposing towers. At Bayon I wander amongst wall upon wall depicting daily life and towering heads, looking out to four directions in the likeness of the megalomaniac king at whose order they were constructed. I lose myself in the jungle ruins of Ta Phrom, ducking through narrow, underground corridors and skirting walls reclaimed by snaking tree roots hundreds of years old. I climb the steep, treacherous steps of Baphom, worn into dips and curves with age, and find the partially collapsed stone buddha spanning the entire rear of the temple (apparently the masons building it didn’t exactly understand the concept of structural loading). I walk the elephant terrace from which ancient kings made proclomations, passing carving after life-size carving of the gentle giants etched into the walls. I skirt giant chaotic mounds of moss-covered rubble at Preah Khan, products of collapsed walls and towers. Everywhere I look, timber frames support tilting walls and collapsing arches. At an entrance gate to Ta Som a tree has grown to its full height and breadth, roots extending in a web to engulf and reclaim the archway from the colossal head watching over it.

And, at the end, I ride out to Banteay Srei. The 1,100 year-old miniature temple is a wonder, blanketed in flawlessly preserved intricate carvings. Green, yellow and black streak red sandstone gates and towers, blending into the forest until afternoon sun breaks to light them in a brilliant glow. Dragons and twisting vines line archways, gods and elephants dance over doors, monkeys guard temples and five-headed cobras leap from tower corners.

The next morning I take my last Southeast Asian tuk tuk ride under the Cambodian sunrise through the dusty countryside. I board a flight to Kuala Lumpur, and then another, to touch down in Melbourne late that night. I’m leaving behind one dollar fruit shakes and fried noodles and fast friends. I’m leaving behind temples and cheap massages and limestone walls and waterfalls. I’m leaving behind Chinese girls with SLRs, selfie sticks and sun dresses. I’m leaving behind bartering and hard beds and mosquitoes and pushy vendors and taxi drivers. I’m arriving to waiting family, twanging accents, organized mass transit and strange sports. I'm arriving to climbing gyms and sandstone cliffs and secondhand shops and really, really expensive supermarkets. I have no idea where this year is going to take me, and right now I'm totally ok with that.