Don't Blame Me If Her Roof Leaks!

When I told people I was going to Cambodia, I got one of two reactions:  "Wow!" or "Why the ____ are you going there?"

I think I can answer the latter group--and justify the reactions of the former--with this:

Even though clouds veiled the rising sun, it was still impressive to see the dawning of a day at Angkor Wat.  I plan to return in the hope of seeing one of its fabled sunrises without obstruction.

Then I spent the next two hours on a mini-tour with a guide.  I assured him that I plan to return and hope that he is my guide again.  He told me some very insightful and funny stories, including one about carvings of the dancers inspried by the Asparas, the female cloud and water spirits of Hindu culture.  "They kept the king happy," my guide explained.  "A happy king means a happy kingdom with happy subjects."  It makes sense, even though I don't know for sure:  I have never lived in a kingdom (although my own country is looking more and more like a dictatorship, or an attempt to create one) and have only visited a few, including Cambodia.  

Anyway, my guide told me, with some sadness, about how some of the carvings have worn out in spots--in certain spots in particular.  

You know which ones he was talking about--and why they "wore out".

After my visit, my day continued with my first bike ride in Cambodia.  Following the advice of my guest house host and a few other people, I went on a guided, organized ride, as cycling here is very different from anyplace else I've ridden.  Suffice it to say that I wasn't riding on bike lanes like the ones in Paris or Montreal.  

Debates over whether to ride 650B, 700C or 26 inch become pretty meaningless when you're riding on farm paths--or streets that look like moonscapes with trucks, cars, motorbikes, tuk-tuks and just about every other sort of vehicle you can imagine. The rule of road here seems to be that smaller vehicles get out of the way of bigger ones.

You Sert, my guide, promised to show me "the real Cambodia".  Being an American, who has been in this country for all of two days, I can't say exactly what that is.  But I do know I saw I side of the nation, or at least this section of it, I might not have seen otherwise.

He was conducting a tour for PURE, a not-for-profit dedicated to education and vocational training for local people.  PURE tours venture into the countryside out of Siem Reap and include, among other things, a stop at a marketplace--to buy fresh vegetables that become part of a lunch served by a local family.  (Delicious,by the way!) 

The first stop on our tour, probably about 10-12 kilometers out of the city, was a complex of shrines and monasteries.  One of the first things to catch my attenton was this

on a column of  a crematorium.  Apparently, cremation is a Khmer (the ethnicity of most Cambodians) custom, and the family keeps the remains "in a beautiful box," as You Sert said.

My tour also included a stop at a farm where a woman practiced traditional medicine, including "cupping"--which, according to her, revealed that I'm not ill and that my muscles are fine.  If nothing else, it felt like a nice massage. And her kids simply couldn't get enough of me!  According to You Sert, they all knew--although nobody told them--"she's a teacher".  

Another stop took us to You Sert's house, where he lives with his wife, mother, year-old son and sister-in-law, who looked 13 years old, if that.  Like most houses in the countryside--only 30 or 40 kilometers away from the city--it's basically a hut, open on one side.  It does have electricity, however, and his family watch TV and video games--and You Sert will be able to send me e-mails from there!

Yet another destination was another farm, where a woman showed me how she weaves tall grasses into the roof of her house.  When we visited her, she was weaving sections that would replace some that currently stand between her, her family and the elements. She even invited me to try my hand at it.  The technique isn't difficult:  You just have to make sure to do it right.  Also, as she explained--and I quickly learned--it's hard on one's back.  After weaving a section with her, I was ready to go back to the woman who practices "cupping". 

The ride itself was not at all strenuous. For one thing, it was flat.  For another, the pace was easy.  I don't know whether You Sert was underestimating my abilities or simply being cautious in the cobbly, chaotic road conditions.  He did say, though, that most riders want to sleep after his tours, but I obviously did not.  Also, he said he enjoyed our conversations.  "Most tourists just want to do a bike ride in Cambodia," he explained.  "They don't ask about my life and culture, like you do," he explained.

Oh, and after that ride, I went back to Angkor Wat for a couple of hours. I know I'll be spending more time there. 

So, the real question isn't why I came to Cambodia.  Instead, my acquaintances should wonder why I'm waking up at 4 in the morning during my "vacation".  Whether or not they ask, they shouldn't blame me if a Cambodian peasant's roof leaks! 

Where Your Next Bike Might Come From

In a couple of earlier posts (See here and here, I examined some of the ways in which the new tariffs on Chinese goods could affect cyclists and the bike business here in the US.

Some American bike firms, like Brooklyn Bicycle Company, are deciding whether to absorb the price increases or pass them on to customers.  Others, like Detroit Bikes and BCA, are calling for even higher tariffs and extending them to all imported bikes.  

Trek and Kent--two bike companies rarely mentioned in the same breath, let alone the same blog post!--are contemplating yet another strategy which, really, shouldn't come as much of a surprise.

Trek is, arguably, the most prestigious mass-market American bike brand.  (Specialized and Cannondale are probably Trek's chief competitors for this title.)  Their highest-priced bikes are still made here, albeit with imported components.  The rest of their bikes are made by sub-contractors that include Giant, which also sells its bikes under its own name.

Kent's offerings, in contrast, are at the bottom of the market and found, not in bike shops, but in big-box stores like Walmart and internet retailers.  Some are sold, under license, bearing the Jeep, Cadillac and GMC brands.  Although some of its bikes are assembled in South Carolina, their frames are made in China and Taiwan and assembled with components made in those countries.

So...Is Trek returning to its roots by returning its manufacturing to the US?  Well...no.  You're not going to see a revival of those nice lugged steel frames they made in Wisconsin during the '70's and '80's.

Likewise, Kent isn't going to build a factory in Parsippany, New Jersey (the location of its headquarters), or anywhere else in the good ol' You-Ess-Of-Ay!

No, they are not going to do what El Cheeto Grande told all of those laid-off blue-collar workers in Ohio and Michigan and Pennsylvania companies would do in the face of tariffs.  Instead of making their wares in the country Trump thinks he can Make Great Again, they are talking about shifting their production to a country that isn't getting a tariff wall built around it.

If you are European, what I am about to say next will come as no surprise:  That country is Cambodia.  

The Southeast Asian kingdom is already the biggest supplier of bicycles to European Union countries.  Most of the country's bike factories are in the north, near Vietnam--which some have called "the EU's China." If you buy, say, a backpack or jacket in Europe, it's more likely than not to have been made in Vietnam, just as the new bike is likely to be from Cambodia.

It will be interesting to see whether other American bike companies make similar moves.  If anything, wages in Cambodia, Vietnam and other countries in the region are lower than they are in China. And some Cambodian bikes are already coming into the US--though, in far smaller numbers than bikes from China or Taiwan.

So Glad To Be Back That I Want To Go Back

It's been two weeks since my trip to Cambodia and Laos.  Everyone to whom I've mentioned it is convinced that I will go back.  So am I.  Any experience that brings me tears of both joy and sadness is worth repeating.  Of course, I wouldn't try to replicate the trip I just took:  That wouldn't be possIible.  But I could return, I believe, to what made the trip so memorable.

First among them is the people.  I already missed them during my flights home.  When I visit my friends in France, I miss them when I leave.  But I can't miss the familiar in the same way I miss the people I just met because, I guess, re-connecting with those you know can't change your perspective in quite the same way as people who allowed you into their lives,even if only for a moment, the first time you met them.  Plus, the only people I've ever met in the US who can match the vitality--who, purely and simply, have the heart and soul, for lack of better terms--are either African-American, immigrants or very old.  People in southeast Asia--especially Cambodia--have survived going to hell and back.  

I thought about that, again, the other day as I was riding back from Connecticut.  The temperature reached 34-36 Celsius (92-96F), and the humidity ranged from 80 to 90 percent.  Just before I crossed the Randalls Island Connector, I rode through the South Bronx.  Three of its ZIP codes--including 10451, where I work-- are the poorest in the United States.  Many residents indeed live in conditions most Americans--certainly those of my race and educational background--will never even have to imagine.  I know: some of those people are my students.  But even they have, if not luxuries, then amenities, that are completely out of reach for most Cambodian peasants and even city dwellers like Champa, the young woman who works at the guest house or  Sopheak, the tuk-tuk driver who took me around when I wasn't cycling.  As an example, the young woman told me she can't even stay in touch with me by e-mail because she doesn't have a device of her own, and she can't send personal messages on the guest house's internet system. 

Of course, you might say they were warm and friendly to me because I'm a tourist and they wanted me to spend money. But I experienced all sorts of helpfulness and friendliness--and a cheerfulness that's not of the American "it gets better" or "when one door closes, another opens," variety.  Perhaps the best expression of it came from a young woman at a gas station, where I stopped to ask for directions. "We are here," she said.  "We are alive.  We have today."

Then, of course, there are the things I saw.  While the Angkor Wat was the main reason I took the trip, and I spent about three full days in it, I could just as easily go back for Bayon or Banteay Srei--which, I admit, is my favorite temple--or to walk along the river junction or side streets of Luang Prabang.  And, naturally, eat the food--though I won't order a fruit shake, delicious as it was, again:  I think the ice used in it came from tap water, which unsettled my stomach on my penultimate night in Cambodia.

I must say, though, that I am glad to be riding my own Mercians again.  And, as hot and humid as it during my Connecticut ride, or on the Point Lookout ride I took yesterday, I wasn't nearly as tired because, in spite of the heat, the sun is much less intense.  And the road conditions are better, even in places like the South Bronx and Far Rockaway.

Hmm...Maybe, next time I go to Southeast Asia, I have to bring one of my own bikes--though, I must say, riding local bikes made me feel a bit more "native", if only for a few hours!

A Rainy Day Of Contrasts

The rain started some time before I woke up. I think the young woman at the hotel's front desk knew it would rain throughout the day, and called a tuk-tuk driver for me.

That was a really good call.  The rain came and went until about two this afternoon.  Then it washed down in a torrent through the rest of the day and well into the evening.

I first saw Apocalypse Now on a cold, rainy day (Christmas Eve, no less) the year that it was released.  So I guess it makes sense that on a rainy day here I would go to--wait for it--the Landmine Museum.

Yes, such a thing actually exists. (I wasn't so surprised:  After all, I went to a Mushroom Museum and Mustard Museum in--where else?--France!)  But you don't have to be a military buff to appreciate it.  In fact, the aim of Aki Ra, its founder, is not to glorify war or fetishize weapons.  Rather, he wants to alert people to the fact that there are so many landmines and the harm they cause. And he has a goal of de-mining Cambodia by 2025.

U

In spite of his Japanese-sounding name, he's actually Cambodian.  He chose that name for himself after a Japanese journalist gave it to him.  Before that, he had a number of different names, not because he was trying to evade debt collectors, but because he was essentially "adopted" so many times.

Except that his "adoptors" weren't well-heeled go-gooder Western families.  Rather, as he says, he doesn't know exactly when he was born, but he believes it was in 1970.  Orphaned early, he was conscripted as a child soldier, first by the Khmer Rouge and, later, by the Vietnamese army after that country invaded.  As he recalls, he was taught how to use a rifle that was bigger than he was, and he preferred using rocket launchers because, at least, he could lie down while aiming them.

His training also included the installation of land mines.  He became such an expert with them that he was called on not only to install them, but to find them.  That also gave him the expertise to find other kinds of munitions  on the ground.

After the fighting ceased, he used his expertise to de-mine.  He's not the first to undertake such a task:  Many a Khmer peasant has dug up, or simply stumbled upon, these explosives.  To give you an idea of just how poor they are, they disassembled them to sell the scrap metal.  Some didn't live to tell about it; many others lost limbs, eyes, ears and other body parts.  I have seen a few such unfortunates in my travels here.

Sun Ra himself admits that, even with his expertise, he is very lucky to be unscathed--at least physically--from the thousands of mines and other munitions he found.  They became the basis of the collection in the museum he started, which is run by an NGO he helped to found.  Today, that organization works to detect and extract land mines, not only in Cambodia, but in the Middle East, Europe and even the Americas.  

As the museum's commentary reminds visitors, once placed, landmines can cause damage indefinitely.  In 1965, an explosion in Alabama resulted from mines placed a century earlier, during the US Civil War.  And, less than a year ago, 70,000 people were evacuated in Frankfurt, Germany when a British bomb from World War II was found.

The NGO Aki Ra helped to start is staffed entirely by Cambodians and, it says, pays "liveable wages".  It also runs a school adjacent to the museum, but not accessible to visitors.  Many Cambodian kids never attend school for a variety of reasons--mainly, because their families need their help on the farms or other enterprises, or because they can't afford the fees.  The stories of some of those students are posted in one of the museum's exhibits.

So, on a rainy day, what did I do after spending a couple of hours among munitions from the US, China, the USSR and other countries, as well as art and other works related to them?  I went to another museum--a preserve, actually, about two kilometers down the road.

So what was preserved there?  Not dragonfruits or lychee nuts or pineapples.  The things "preserved" there were living and not meant to be consumed, at least not on the grounds of the preserve. I'm sure, though, that someone has eaten them:  They sound tasty, at least in the English word for them.

I'm talking about butterflies.  More species have been identified in Cambodia, and in Southeast Asia, than in any other part of the world.  But, even though this area isn't as developed as the US, Europe or Japan, some of those species are, if not endangered, then declining in numbers.  As the exhibit reminds visitors, butterflies are a good "barometer" of ecological health:  Where they can't live and thrive, there are other problems.  I couldn't help but to think about how, last year, I didn't see the flocks of migrating Monarchs I had seen in earlier years on Point Lookout, Long Island.

Like the Landmine Museum, the Banteay Srey Butterfly Centre is run by an NGO that employs Cambodians, from farmers who collect butterfly eggs to the tourguides and the folks who raise the butterflies through all of their stages of life.  Some of the butterflies--which, of course, I'd never seen before coming here--look more like other kinds of insects, or even birds or bats, than what we normally think of as butterflies.  Others look like the ones most of us in the developed world have seen, only in different colors and patterns.

Admission is five dollars (two for kids).  For another four dollars, you can have lunch in the center's cafe.  I had something a staff member recommended:  a Khmer curry with chicken, pumpkin and other vegetables.  Frankly, I would have gladly eaten it no matter where it was offered, and at a higher price!

I can't help but to wonder whether there's some "product placement" going on here:  a butterfly center with a sumptuous lunch just down the road from a landmine museum.  It's sort of like watching Breaking Away after you've seen Apocalypse Now.

Waves Rise, Empires Fall, Temples Remain

Some do it because they must; others do it because they can.  Sometimes it's easy to tell who fits into each category.  Other times, not so much.

I'm thinking now about the folks who live on Tonle Sap, often called Cambodia's "Great Lake".  Like the Great Lakes of North America, it has its own climates and ecosystems.  It also has its own distinct human communities which, for all I know, Ontario, Erie, Huron, Superior and Michigan may also have.  

I took a tuk-tuk to the shore of Tonle Sac, about an hour from my hotel.  The ride took us from an industrial area on the edge of town into expanses of rice paddies and forests.  At times, the pavement on Highway 6 gave way to dirt, which turned to mud when it began to rain.

The road also narrowed, which meant that my tuk-tuk driver had to follow the unwritten, unspoken rule of the road in this country:  You move over for anything that's bigger than what you're driving (or pedaling).  That, at times, meant swerves through potholes of some liquid about the same color as an iced blonde macchiato at Starbuck's.

(Why am I mentioning the Evil Empire of coffee when writing about Cambodia?)

Oh, and all manner of living things cross the road--including oxen and cattle.  One of them might've impaled me on his horns had my driver's reflexes been any slower. 

But he got me to the shore.  I didn't uncross my fingers, though: It seemed that we'd been riding in and out of downpours.  

That tuk-tuk ride was a harbinger of things to come. Or maybe I hadn't "seen nothin' yet".  For all I knew, Tonle Sac might be like an inland sea, with all of its caprices in currents, tides and the like.  

Turns out, I knew more than I realized.  The boat I took could've been built by a Khmer farmer a century or two before any Europeans showed up.  The only difference was that it had an engine.  

The driver of the boat took us through a community of floating houses, which includes the school he attends.  He is 16, he told me, and had been driving the boats since he was 13.  He enjoys it, he said, but he wants to continue his schooling to so he can "help out" his family.

Would "helping them out" mean getting them out of that floating community--or simply finding a way to live better in it?  

One thing I must say for him is this: He isn't stupid.  I asked him to take us out into the open lake, where no land was visible.  There, choppy waves turned into walls of tide that bounced us like a beach ball off the nose of a circus seal.  He told me he could continue if I wanted to, but I could tell that he would have preferred not to.  And I didn't blame him, so we didn't.

But I did get to see fisherman unfurling, fixing and casting their nets; women cooking and cleaning. (On most of those houses, at least two sides are open.

Out in the open lake, all four sides are open--to the wind and storms as well as the decisions made by young captains and their passengers! 

Once back on shore, my tuk-tuk driver suggested two temples about a third of the way back to Siem Reap: Bakong and Preah Ko.  

Bakong, one of the oldest temples, has been called the "Khmer Pyramid" due to its shape.  It also has, perhaps, the steepest stairs to climb.  Like Angkor Wat, it was originally built as a Hindu shrine; other temples constructed for Buddhists tend not to have such steep stairs.  My theory is that Buddism stresses the importance of learning and--in some branches, anyway--an ordinary person is capable of becoming a Buddha, or enlightened one.  Hinduism, as I understand it, is like other theistic religions in that it says people have a long, steep climb to reach the Gods.

Preah Ko was built a bit later than Bakong, but is still one of the oldest Khmer temples.  King Indravarman built it late in the 9th Century CE to honor members of the king's family, whom it relates to the Hindu god Shiva.  Interestingly, it was built from bricks on a sandstone base, in contrast to later temples made from sandstone and lava.

(Note:  Both of these temples are accessible with an Angkor Wat pass.)

Remembering A War’s Legacy

Today, on Memorial Day, I am remembering something I saw last July, while cycling in Cambodia.

Few countries have been more devastated by war.  The land mines that remain, after half a century, continue to bind the nation and its people to the legacy of a war that spread from Vietnam and led to the horrors of the Pol Pot regime.

Aki Ra was conscripted to fight at age 10, he estimates:  He doesn’t know the exact date of his birth. By the time he was old enough to vote in most countries, he had fought in theee different armies.  During that time, he became a specialist in explosives, specifically land mines.

As a civilian, he has devoted himself to finding and defusing land mines, not only in Cambodia, but in other former war zones.  He’s even unearthed World War I - era ordnance in Europe.



This work led to his founding the Landmine Museum and a school for children, many of whom would not otherwise have the opportunity to do so.

The Museum is a testament to a legacy of war—specifically, how it continues to terrorize people who weren’t even born when their land was laced with explosives.

M

Across Rivers, Oceans--And Aeons

It's funny how a bit of travel can make you see a familiar bike ride in a new way.

So, for that matter, can doing the ride with new partners--or with partners if you'd previously done it solo.

That's how I found myself seeing the roads and trails of the Palisades when I pedaled them with Bill and Cindy the other day.

It's also the first time I've ridden with either of them in a while:  They've been spending their weekends in a secret hideaway they told me about. 

Seeing this plant--a giant fern, a small tree or something else--made me visualize, if for a moment, some of the flora and fauna I saw while riding in Cambodia.

And this sheer rock face made me forget--even though I've seen it before--that it's just across the river from the Cloisters--which, in turn, can make you forget that you're in Upper Manhattan.

The further you ride into the trails, and the closer you get to the river, the easier it is to feel you're not within a few kilometers of the George Washington Bridge.

But something one of them said really made me see this old familiar ride in a new way:  "You can almost imagine what it was like when the native people lived here."

Yes, sheer rock faces and colorful plants seem like eons as well as worlds away from the West Side Highway.  It almost seems possible to remember that whatever structures were in the area weren't made of steel or glass--or even brick.

As we were imagining people who are long gone and vistas changed, I found myself thinking back to Cambodia, where most of the population are Khmers, the people who have lived on that land for milennia.  Much of their landscape hasn't changed in centuries, whether in jungles that haven't been touched or the Angkor Wat and other temples, which were standing for centuries before the land we rode yesterday was called "New Jersey" and the other side of the river was named "New York", or even "New Amsterdam."  

Those temples still stand today, seemingly as much a part of the land as the rock face we saw.

Note:  The penultimate photo was not, of course, taken on the New Jersey Palisades.  The others, however, were.

The Angkor Wat photo, as well as the first two in this post and the "blueberry" photo near the end, were taken by me.  Bill took the others.

The Novel Coronavirus And New Bikes

Perhaps the novel coronavirus hasn't gotten you sick--yet.  It might, however, keep you from buying the new bike you want.

Even though some major bicycle manufacturers shifted their production to Vietnam, Cambodia or Taiwan in response to the tariffs imposed on Chinese goods,  there is a chance that the new Bianchi or Rocky Mountain machine you've been eyeing is nonetheless made by Chinese workers.  Some of those factories are, out of caution or fear (depending on your point of view), shutting down temporarily.  While some company executives and factory managers believe they are protecting their native workers from possible contamination, others may be acting out of anti-Chinese sentiment sparked by the virus outbreak.

Even those factories that haven't shut down could experience (or are experiencing) slowdowns because they're supplied with parts or machinery made in other affected factories.  As an example, one factory in Vietnam is a major supplier of frame tubes to plants in Cambodia and China that turn out bicycles for Trek, Specialized, Norco and other familiar brands.  

Stoppages or slowdowns in production at Asian factories could, moreover, disrupt the manufacture of bikes in other countires, as many depend on Asian suppliers.

So, be well and, if you want to buy a new bike, be patient!

Temples And Bikes

Another temple, another bike.

No, I didn't buy another bike--or a temple. (If I could afford to buy a temple, I probably wouldn't have flown economy class!)  I did, however, managed to ride third different bike in as many days.  After mounting the machines provided by the organizers of the rides I took the previous two days, I did some exploring on this machine.

Here in Siem Reap, as in much of Cambodia, hotels and guest houses have bikes for their guests to use.  They are the sorts of bikes ridden by people who live here:  heavy and completely utilitarian.  Then again, most places charge only a dollar or two a day.  The hotel in which I'm staying provided the one in the photo for free.

You can tell this bike was not maintained in any systematic way.  Fragments of brackets for parts and accessories long gone are still clamped to the bike in various places. Did the bracket on the front hold a basket?  A light?  And the old shifter pod on the handlebar:  Was it for a three-speed?


The hotel desk manager actually knew enough to fill the tires before letting me ride it.  He even helped me to adjust the saddle. And the chain was surprisingly well-oiled.  But, as I found out when I dodged a tuk-tuk, a dog and a motorbike at the same time, about a kilometer from the hotel, the brakes weren't.

Fortunately, I found a hardware stall in a market strip.  The gentleman tried three different wrenches, all brand-new, before finding the 10mm open- and box-end wrench that fit the front brake's cable fixing bolt.  When I asked his price, he waved his hand.  So, I insisted on buying the wrench.  His price?  2000 rials, or 50 cents.  For good measure, I noticed he had a cooler full of cold beverages for sale.  I took a small can of lychee nut juice, which made for a grand total of one dollar.

(Most day-to-day transactions in Cambodia are done in dollars.  Rials are used only for amounts less than a dollar.  So, for example, if you buy something for $7.50 and pay with a $10 bill, you will probably get two dollars and two thousand rials in paper notes for your change.  Coins seem not to be in circulation in either currency.)

After adjusting the front--a simple side pull--I went for the rear and found what appeared to be a kind of disc brake in which the pad rubs the outer rim of the disc rather than the sides.  I didn't need the wrench to adjust it: I simply turned the cable barrel.

Then I was on my way.  First up:  the Ta Prohm temple.  I had already visited it with Vichea and Stuart, but it was along the route I happened to ride.  I certainly didn't mind seeing it again and, because I have a seven-day pass, I didn't have to worry about paying to get in.

Note:  The admission prices for what is known collectively as the "Angkor Wat complex" seems high:  $25 for one day, $54 for three and $72 for seven.  But those passes allow admission to the Angkor Thom temples (which include Ta Prohm) as well as others nearby.  Also, the seven-day pass is for seven days of visits, and can be spaced out over a month.  I figured that if I spent three days in any of the temples--which I have--I will have gotten my money's worth.

Anyway, there was no sign of Lara Croft, so the temple had to make do with me.  All of the temples are interesting in their own ways, but this one has what might be the most maze-like internal structure.  And, of course there are those trees that twine themselves around and under walls and other structures.  While all of the temples had things growing on them and creatures (and, probably, people) living in them when the Europeans found them, they didn't look like Ta Prohm.  Even there, some of the trees were cut away.  The ones that remain couldn't be cut or removed without damaging or destroying the structure.  A debate lingers as to whether the trees should be removed if a way can be found to extricate them without sending the walls tumbling down.

From Ta Prohm, I rode along varying combinations of pavement, dirt, ruts and rocks to Banetay Kdei.  Whatever its architecture or other attributes, it makes sense as a Buddhist temple for its peace and quiet alone.  It lacked the crowds of Angkor Wat and Angkor Thom.  It's so quiet, in fact, that you can hear the chirps, caw-caws, moans and other sounds of the surrounding jungle!

It was built in the late 12th and 13th Centuries CE  by Khmer King Jayavarman VII, who also built Angkor Thom and completed Angkor Wat.   So, not surprisingly, some features of Banetay Kdei, including the gopuras, or face towers at the gate, echo those of Angkor Thom.  Some go as far as to say that Banetay Kdei is a sort of Angkor Thom in miniature.

From there, I got some guidance for the rest of my ride--and day.

Somehow they managed to steer me back to Angkor Wat.  I didn't mind:  I mean, it really is one of those places worth returning to, crowds be damned.  Also, seeing it again helped me further appreciate the other temples I'd seen, which in turn helped me to further appreciate the Angkor Wat.

As for the creatures:  They're not as nice as they are cute.  (I've dated a few people like that.)  A few hang around Angkor Wat.  As I was leaving, one jumped on a tourist.  One of her traveling companions swatted at it, but it finally let go when another companion tossed a pineapple chunk onto the ground.  Good thing that monkey was hungry!