Siem Reap

Siem Reap had changed out of all proportion when I reached there nine months later. The old spreading tree, under which I had eaten so many meals, had disappeared to be replaced with a bank of shops, yet more restaurants and a boulangerie. Tourists had almost completely taken over the town, with puffy pink German, Israeli and British faces and their accompanying tightening shorts on display just about everywhere. Locals had taken refuge from the spreading Mexican restaurants, inside - at the old market, where you could still get authentic Khmer food, coffee and a not unreasonable bargain on a Cambodian made white cotton shirt.

The dusty tuk tuk journey from Siem reap airport, into town, recalled that fateful journey when I had proposed to the woman who, one day later, was to become my wife at the gallery Colors of Cambodia. However, on this newly dusty journey, I noticed that new hotels were sprouting up everywhere along that route into town - like so many dubiously wanted toadstools and were, no doubt, a necessary evil if the town is to continue to grow from the tourist US$.

Siem Reap seems to have lapsed into a reluctant symbiotic relationship with tourism. Tourists need that launch-pad to propel them towards the ancient joys of Ankor Wat, temples and their all too enthusiastic brush with another’s poverty, while Siem Reap is in desperate need of money to develop the town after the atrocities which occurred in Cambodia not too many decades ago – which left the whole country devastated.

Once more I trundled up the steep staircases to my attic studio apartment - above the Colors of Cambodia gallery. I almost literally dropped my camera, in my haste, and placed my tablet on the small wooden table provided, tidied away the red suitcase then immediately sprung downstairs to see what the children had been doing in my absence – wonders it would seem. On the walls were new watercolour and acrylic paintings, while gathered around the tables, inside, were advanced students drawing stunning artworks from photographs. We unpacked the boxes of materials I’d brought from Malaysia, and set about stacking them in the store-room, for use after I had gone. There was a buzz of excitement as I renewed old acquaintances, and then started planning for the following few days of my visit.

Despite its growing tourist trade, the ever present WiFi internet, and the nightly drunks – Siem Reap still holds both a charm and an undeniable peacefulness for me. It remains one of the few places where I can easily write poetry and prose, dance without hindrance and probably make no end of a pratt of myself. Ankor Wat – that grand Wat (monastery temple) mesmerised me on my first visit. It provoked me to write the lengthy poem – Colors of Cambodia, which I have since included in the book – A Story of Colors of Cambodia. Siem Reap/Ankor seems to lull me into a more balmy cultural existence. Maybe it is the centuries of culture layered in that tragic land, maybe it is the sight of oh so many Buddhist temples or maybe there is just something so very amazingly different about Cambodia and, in particular, Siem Reap.

On the last trip to Siem Reap I was in awe. Cambodia seemed very familiar, yet very different at one and the same time. There was a similarity to Thailand, and in particular Chiang Mi, while some of the rural villages reminded me of Perak and Malaysia’s kampongs. Yet there was always that difference, that undeniably Cambodian difference which pronounced itself in the language and in the local food, which was in no way similar to Malaysian food, but bore a slight resemblance to Thai cuisine – especially the salads. Street food seemed to be a disappearing art in Siem Reap but, aside from the fried insects, I could still find the spatchcock chickens and the Chinese influenced Gu Tsai Guay (fried chive cakes), on the rare occasion I was at the Old Market early enough. The wonderfully aromatic Vietnamese coffee still seems to be available – if you know someone who knows where to look – I had the Khmer artist Seney scout some out for me.

Harold Wilson may have said that a week may be a long time in politics, but a week in Siem Reap seems no time at all. I fairly flew around snooping in art galleries, attending exhibition openings, drinking at the Foreign Correspondents Club – which you no longer have to be a foreign correspondent to enjoy, and generally poking my nose into whichever art farty goings on would allow me to. And that was it. Schools visited, Art History lecture done, friends made and I was off again, back to Malaysia with the promise of a slight trip to the Philippines in the New Year.