The Fall

Orange-clad trees obscure baseless spires of stained-stone churches

As

Rosy-cheeked runners breathe dragon-bursts of foggy mist.

The

Cobblestone streets grow cold and gather leafy folds of fresh decay.

 

The Angkor experience, by foot and bike.

“…now I remembered that the real world was wide, and that a varied field of hopes and fears, of sensations and excitements, awaited those who had courage to go forth into its expanse, to seek real knowledge of life amidst its perils.”

-Leo Tolstoy “War and Peace”

…………………………………………………………………..

His smile quickly evaporated.

“Are you sure? You won’t see much by bike.”

“It’s OK, we’ll just see as much as we can.”

“Sirs, we’ll bring you to five temples. Only fifteen dollars.”

“We believe you, we just feel like biking.”

The exchange went on, until finally the disappointed driver walked back to his tuk-tuk and gave his brother (another driver) a defeated shake of his head.

I felt like an ass, but it had to be done. A bike rental for the entire day was only $1. That’s a $13 dollar savings between the two of us, or in terms we cared about, 26 delicious fifty-cent beers, crucial for our survival under the draining heat of the Cambodian sun.

Our hostel was only about a 20 minute bike ride from the entrance to the sprawling Angkor complex, where thousands of temples ranging in size from Angkor Wat, the largest and most famous, to piles of rubble that might have been nothing more than debris from one of the many worksites throughout the complex, where they seem to be furiously rebuilding and repairing the temples.

Our first stop was Angkor Wat, supposedly the world’s largest religious monument. And of course, it was predictably impressive. The massive temple in the middle was surrounded by imposing stone walls and a wide moat, and could only be accessed by crossing a lengthy stone bridge. (note: since this is a religious site, wear appropriate clothes if you want to be allowed access to certain areas)

The walls inside of the temple were inscribed with intricate carvings depicting battles and tales of the Khmer Empire which lasted from about 800 AD to the 15th Century. Walking around the surrounding walls, escaping the overwhelming crowds, I could actually imagine life in the 12th century when this temple was built. That’s a lie, I couldn’t imagine at all what it would’ve been like, but the quiet outbuildings and vine covered walls were a great place to sit and look across the water in relative peace and quiet.

From there we biked along the well-maintained roads passing the many food and gift stalls that periodically lined the roads and stopped at random piles of rubble here and there until we reached the next massive temple: Bayon, our personal favorite.

The spires here are covered in massive faces, and the labyrinthine paths, alleys and tunnels within make you feel like Indiana Jones, or at least his little Asian sidekick Short Round.

Here is another video, this time of Bayon

After Bayon, we biked to about five other major temples, including the “Tomb Raider” temple that Angelina Jolie made famous by filming there. You know, that temple with the cool roots and vines growing everywhere.

Anyway, I guess I’m getting anxious to get to the point. Skip the tuk-tuk, rent a bike. We had plenty of time to spend at each temple we visited, and had the freedom to choose to stop whenever and wherever we liked.

Angkor was refreshing because you were given the freedom to go pretty much anywhere you were brave enough to venture to. Climbing on the walls, over rubble and through claustrophobically tight spaces made it a unique experience unlike other, overly-regulated tourist spots. If this isn’t on your list of things to do and see in your life, add it. It lives up to the hype, and if crowds aren’t your thing, there were very few people beyond the first couple temples.

An intricate carving from one of the pillars in the Bayon Temple.

The roots of the trees holding the crumbling building together. Or destroying it.

We were biking through the alternating landscapes of fields and forests when we came upon this boy and girl riding water buffalos. Unfortunately my camera has no zoom, so I attempted to walk up to them and ask for a picture, but I spooked one of the water buffalos and the girl tumbled off (unharmed). Needless to say, again, I felt like an ass. But I got the picture, heavily cropped to avoid evidence of my culpability, of course.

I happened to notice a magical silk-worm that floated in mid-air. So I had Sam eat it. Nothing tastes better than magical creatures.

Oregon, I love you.

The sun peaks between the pillars,

My thoughts dance. 

Silent trees, 

with windy voice.

Branches, birds above me. 

Masked figures in hot pink vests

stride quickly by.

I sit, firmly planted,

’til gathered roots are given life. 

Unlike the trees,

those silent sentinels,

in earth, in loam, in air above.

I’m bound by limits

my eyes, my mind perceive.

But to be and simply see,

Break through in dreams.

In waking moments, lost in thought.

……………………………………………………………………………………

With all this talk of travel, I often forget to think of home, the place I was raised that instilled in me my love for food, rain and quiet contemplation. Oregon. That oft-overlooked state somewhere in the Northwest, most easily described as being “above California.”

It’s beautiful here, nearly year-round. The spring brings new life — trees, flowers and shrubs in full-bloom. The quiet solitude of winter overrun by squirrels and song birds.

Spring is followed slowly by summer, taking it’s fine time to come around and give us a few steady weeks of sun, chasing away the rain for days at a time. Everything is green, people are happy, soaking in their yearly dose of Vitamin D. When the sun shines here, the rarity of it makes it that much brighter and more beautiful. No one takes it for granted, and the days are long and sleepy.

Summer quickly changes its colors to those of Fall. My favorite season. A rich tapestry of burnt oranges, reds, deep purples and browns — the earth tones Oregonian’s love. Children are raking up leaves, jumping head-first into their hard-earned work, only to have to repeat the process again and again. But they don’t mind.

The air is crisp and clean, a slight chill and the ever-present drizzle purify my lungs as I breathe deep the smells of pine and wetness. Long walks through the tree-filled parks only surpassed by the enjoyment of a steaming-hot latte, enjoyed in a quiet coffee shop, watching absently as cars splash through puddles and boot-clad kids tromp through mud to the doubtless delight of their parents.

In no time at all, the last of the leaves hang sadly from naked limbs. Winter has come, and with it, rain and occasionally a fit of snow, blanketing the landscape in its serene beauty. Cold and bleak, there is no better time to be shut up in your house with a crackling fire and a good book.

The seasons are the backdrop to the beauty of this land. The Pacific Ocean to our West, and the fertile Willamette Valley cradled by the mountain passes to the East — home to some of the best skiing in the nation. Beyond the range lies deserts, peaks, rivers and lakes that are a fly-fisherman’s haven.

Oregon is my home, as good a place as any to return to after tramping abroad.