Today is temple mission number two - the long route. We will cycle 37 kilometres and view six temples and a lake by the end of the day. We get up early this time. At my insistence, which is most uncharacteristic, but this time I don't want the temples to suffer from my heat fuelled apathy as it approaches mid day, or from all those pesky other tourists.
We cycle straight to Srah Srang, a calm expanse of glittering water in the six thirty am sun, already surprisingly high in the sky. Sunrise here, is at five in the morning but the sun seems to rise fast, spend most of the day directly overhead and then sink equally suddenly at around five pm.
The lake is tranquil and still. There are no other tourists and even the clamoring voices of the market sellers seem muted.
We cycle, in the empty silent roads, through rice fields and jungle greenery. It's beautiful, though when we stop to photograph a family working in the rice paddies I remain aware that poverty is not pretty and that the children should have the opportunity to be in school.
We visit several majestic temples in which we are the only visitors. I climb the steps to the top intrepidly but by far my favourites are the more overgrown temples, that look as though they bear not only the weight of the trees which grow out of them but also the burden of history. At the same time, it seems perfectly plausible that we might have interrupted an ancient civilisation mid breath, and it is simply hibernating until we turn our backs.
I am not disappointed, though the temples which answer to that description today are a little different, and more water based. A temple arises majestically from the centre of a large pool. The guidebook tells us there are four heads surrounding it carved out of sandstone, depicting a human, a horse, an elephant and a lion. That these are now submerged in the water, except for the odd tantalizing glimpse of an ear or a hoof, only adds to the mystery of the place.
By far the most atmospheric though, is one of the last temples we visit. The temple itself is as majestic as the others but what makes it special is the way that you access it. Walking out across a narrow wooden bridge, which stretches a long way towards the temple, which is at first only a miniature speck at the end of it, we find ourselves walking through the eerie, grey black wastes of a flooded forest. Trees, long dead and devoid of leaves, retain their elegance in silhouette against the sky and arise out of a pale horizon of still white water.
The water, in retrospect, cannot have been white, but the eyes see everything through the filter of the atmosphere of the moment, information from the other four senses and the imagination - and so my memory of it somehow colours everything in monotone. Even with the clamoring crowds, (they have caught up with us by now) there is a hush about the place and the only sounds which seem appropriate are the melodies from the traditional Cambodian musicians who play for their living at the start of the bridge.
The trees seem to me like ghosts, both of themselves and of the centuries they have lived and died through. For a moment I allow myself to believe that the souls of the dead, those who worshipped at these temples, to those who perished at the hands of the Khmer Rouge so many centuries later, have come to rest in these trees.
I have an overactive imagination.
But still. It is a place of peace, where it is possible to look at death without being appalled. A place where even death is beautiful. I suppose a kind of heaven.
I am also rather melodramatic. But this time, when I look at the temples I do have an emotional reaction. Today, I can connect.
Nature decides to bring me back down to earth in the form of a masturbating monkey. And it isn't carved out of sandstone.
We see some monkeys by the side of the road and pull over, parking our bicycles and stopping to watch them, from a safe distance. They lollop lightly around, picking fruits off the ground and eating banana leaves and rambutan. We watch delightedly. As we watch and without us really noticing, the monkeys get closer and closer until one clambers up and onto my bike. He sits comically on the saddle for a while, prompting much laughter and photography from the occupants of passing tuk tuks. After a while he moves off the saddle and onto my rucksack which is strapped to the back of the bike. He spends a while playing with it though thankfully it's tightly strapped down, then thoughtfully chews the label with the logo on it. Having satisfied himself that the rubber logo isn't as tasty as, say, a banana, he gives up on that, stretches out on my bag, his head on the saddle and proceeds, languidly, to play with himself.
At this point I am in a bit of a quandary. I am amused, mostly, but it has occurred to me that the addition of monkey spittle and whatever monkey juices might be about to follow, are not ideal adornments for my rucksack. Also, I am, at some point, going to have to go home. With the bike, preferably. It's been quite a while now and my few abortive attempts to gently wobble the bike have failed to persuade him to move. The final time I try he rears up a little and bares his teeth, causing me to jump back alarmedly, much to the continued amusement of the now steady stream of tuk tuk onlookers, some of whom are now actually stopping at the side of the road to take pictures of my bike with extra helping of monkey, and gormless looking tourist as a side order. I am beginning to get quite cross with the monkey for embarrassing me.
Two things happen. I give up trying to reclaim the bike because everyone knows that by the rules of the jungle, monkeys are much higher in the food chain than pasty English vegetarians, and are better at fighting. And the monkey gives up on playing with himself. To be honest I think he was never really concentrating.
At this point M realises that just down the road there is a woman selling bananas. A plan forms. I stand a rather useless guard by the bikes while M nips off to purchase himself some potassium. The monkey stretches out comfortably on my bag and settles down to sleep.
By the time M returns, some 400 tourist photos later, I am sitting on M's bike ("you might have claimed that one, mister, but this one's mine") and the monkey is fast asleep and looking so sweet I don't quite have the heart to move him.
"Nonsense" says M, with the kind of practical common sense I am devoid of, "Here monkey. Would you like this? None of your friends has noticed it yet. It's yours for the taking."
He holds out a banana. Sure enough, the monkey looks at it, then at his friends. M is right. The others haven't twigged yet. He sits up. He reaches out for the banana.
"You want it?" asks M, "here you go then." He throws the banana a few feet away, though is careful to be fair and ensure it is still out of eyesight of the other monkeys.
The monkey jumps off the bike to get the banana. I run for it and in a whirl of giggling, leap on and peddle off.
I have had an encounter with nature. I am not sure who came off better. But I rather suspect it was the monkey.
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