Angkor

Writing about Angkor is a bit like visiting it; you don't know where to begin. It is ancient, vast and spectacular; you see, think and feel so many things in the furiously busy days you devote to it, that by the end you are completely knackered. But here goes...

The Khmer empire flourished in what is now Cambodia from the 9th to the 13th century AD. They were skilled and intelligent people; extremely efficient farmers and irrigators, and with the surplus wealth their talent generated, they built Angkor; the greatest pre-industrial city to have existed anywhere in the world.

Angkor Wat is the largest and most famous of the temples to have survived, but it is only one of many. Each of them is a model of the universe; the central prasat or tower representing the cosmic mountain, the dwelling place of the Gods. From this centre the rest of the world, continents and oceans, fan out in an orderly fashion, in contrast to the primordial chaos.

The remains speak of different aspects of Khmer beliefs and techniques, shining light on the specific areas that they best articulate. Angkor Wat's size is matched for impact by the breathtaking detail of the stonework. Bas reliefs cover the five and a half kilometre perimeter wall, intricate carvings on every stone.

Angkor Wat from the south-west pool

Titillatingly detailed carvings, Angkor Wat

The temple of Banteay Srei holds the finest examples of carving, detailed and wonderfully preserved. Less well preserved, but in many ways more fascinating are those found at Kbal Spean, carved into the banks and bed of a mountain stream by the hermits who lived there. The extraordinary patience and craftsmanship required to create them testify to the strength of the Khmer faith, and how deeply it reached into the most unlikely places.

Riverbed carvings at Kbal Spean

Carvings at Banteay Srei

Elsewhere, the irresistible power of nature stamps its authority over the decaying buildings. Ta Prohm is the best example of a temple left at the mercy of the jungle, and looks today how most of the sites would have appeared to the first Europeans; overgrown, crumbling and unspeakably beautiful. Walking around it, picking your way over tree trunks, roots and piles of rubble, you feel closer to the essence of the temples, and the strange wilderness in which they fell into disrepair and abandon.

The east gopura at Ta Som

The jungle entwines the temple of Ta Prohm

I thought perhaps Ta Prohm would be my favourite, but it was usurped by an unsung hero, in the shape of Banteay Samré. It is in remarkable condition, the entire structure intact, and relatively small; so small that each enclosure is tightly shuffled to the next, making the incredible symmetry and structural perfection much easier to admire. And there is the added joy that comes from being able to leap across the narrow gaps from one continent to the next.

The sun's getting low in the sky, and with the walls so close to one another and the shadows long and crisp, Banteay Samré becomes a canvas of darkness and light. I doubt it is as spectacular as sunrise over Angkor Wat, but it is subtle and beautiful to see the little Khmer universe divided up like this. The light seems so important in Angkor; enhancing so many different qualities as it works its way around, shifting its focus to the tiniest corners and breathing life and detail into them.

Darkness and Light, Banteay Samré

Colonnettes in Angkor Wat

The Khmers placed lakes and ponds to reflect the temples and the world that surrounds them, multiplying their glory and wonder. A similar effect can occur inside the temples; when doorways line up in succession, or in long galleries the senses cannot count or measure. The impression they create hints at infinity; the multiplication of the world and an irresistible magnetism draws you inside or along.

It's hard to truly envisage Angkor in its prime, and whenever you begin to grasp the size and scale of the city, it becomes almost overpowering. For every stone still standing, hundreds lie scattered all around you.

The Khmers built monuments to the order and structure of the universe, and then the universe clawed so much of it back, leaving a fraction of what once stood remaining. But so spectacular are those pillars that still reach above the water, that they hint at a world we can't really comprehend. To be lost in it, in the heat, dust and sweat, and to puzzle over it, is a joy and a privilege that should not be missed.

Moving on

I left Laos last Thursday, in perfect Laotian style, on a propellor plane that took off half an hour early when it became apparent that all passengers were present and correct. I could easily have stayed a lot longer; no doubt now that it is my favourite country in this part of, if not all, the world.

When I look back on the last month, I might find it hard to fish out memories of the two weeks I spent in Vietnam. Instead I will think of the country I first glimpsed from the bank of the Mekong in Chiang Khong, Thailand, wondering if it could really be so different. It began then, with a moonrise, and ended with a sunset. In between just seemed like one long, glorious day.

Since then, I have been in Siem Reap, Cambodia. There's only one reason it's on the map; Angkor Wat. Over two million punters pour through this little town every year, and it struggles to retain its spirit in the face of the onslaught. Time is short now, and sadly I will only see here and Phnom Penh in Cambodia, which is a bit like not really seeing Cambodia at all.

I've been feeling a little disjointed these past few days. It could be Laos withdrawal, it could be the intense tourist overload, the heat, temple fatigue. Or it could be that another part of the trip is drawing to a close, another continent looming. Or more than that, it could be the fact that in the distance, so small I can hardly see it, but big enough for me to know it's there, I think I can make out a tiny speck of tunnel at the end of the light.

Coffee

Shortly after half past seven in the morning, freshly showered and my fast inadequately broken by a plate of fruit, a stale baguette and a cup of crap coffee, I squeezed into a well worn crash helmet, fired up my brilliantly named Suzuki Smash 110 and slipped conspicuously into the stream of early morning traffic snaking its way around the busy streets of Pakse.

Riding into the rising sun, and the rising ground of the Bolaven Plateau that sits 1,300 metres above sea level, one by one my co-riders disappeared from the highway and I found myself again in glorious isolation. An hour or so and fifty kilometres later (either the speedo or the milestones were lying, since I never dropped below sixty), in the remote town (read village) of Paksong, I finally pulled up and prised my numb buttcheeks from the saddle. There was a sign by the side of the road. It said Coffee.

The French introduced coffee to the Bolaven Plateau in the nineteenth century. After a brief lull when the Americans bombed the crap out of the place in the 60s and 70s, production is booming again, and almost everyone in Paksong is involved in the business to some extent. Coffee trees grow by the side of the main road, and in plantations that back onto people's simple houses.

A Dutchman, whose passport says Cornelius but has been called "Coffee" since he was a toddler, lives here with his Laotian wife, herself from a long line of coffee growers, and runs tours and workshops for the bean loving tourist, as well as offering a cup of his finest to anyone passing through.

In the morning we wander around, look at coffee trees and learn from Coffee the whole process of cultivation, harvest and production. Out the back of his house family members pour berries into an old tomato skinning machine, and wade around in the resulting beans, before they are laid out to dry. There are different ways of doing this - some are cleaned in water, some are not, absorbing more flavour as a result.

Freshly picked coffee berries

Beans from the berries

Drying in the sun

Coffee hand picks the best beans and hand roasts them in an old wok. Since the green beans come from different plantations, have been processed differently, and roasted in individual batches, there is no consistency to the result. Actually that's not true - the only consistency is that the coffee is of an exceptionally high standard, and the differences are the real beauty of this method.

Green beans in the wok

He teaches me to wok roast. As well as the basic technique for keeping them moving around, it's a question of understanding the different stages and recognising how the colours, aromas and sounds change. Somewhere between a light and medium roast, the now browned, fragrant beans are stylishly cooled. They're best a week or so after roasting, but I haven't got that long, so we grind a few and I sip the satisfying fruits of my labour.

Cool your beans

This is coffee with character, like fine wine. Every single cup produced in this way is an expression of something else; the beans; where they're from, how many there are. The weather; how the wind blows over the wok, how much moisture in the air, how hot it is. The roaster; what mood they're in, how they stir and for how long. How quickly they're cooled, how they're ground. If you want the same taste every time you drink a cup of coffee, try Nescafe Gold Blend. It's nothing if not consistent.

Small World

Well that didn't take long. I rocked up at Savannakhet bus station just before 8am to discover the 8am is actually at 9am. Oh well, je ne regrette rien. I ended up sat next to an incredibly beautiful Laotian girl for my troubles, one of a group of trainee midwives heading to Pakse for some exams. Their teacher was sitting in front of me and immediately set about trying to marry us off to one another, which made for an entertaining five and a half hour journey.

As if that wasn't enough, every time we stopped (and we stopped many times) we were boarded by marauding women and children waving bottles of water, barbecued chicken, boiled eggs, bags of sticky rice and beef jerky. Hilarious scenes ensued as they clambered over the plastic stools in the aisle whenever we took off with them still on board. The toilet stops were no less amusing, men and women filing neatly into the bushes to splash their boots.

After wandering around Pakse, busier than other towns along the way but with Laotian charm surviving intact, I took myself down to the confluence of the Mekong and the Se Don to watch the sunset. Another English guy turned up a few minutes later, and we drank our Beerlaos together. It took about ten seconds to establish that we had been to the same Sixth Form, at the same time, and though we didn't exactly know each other, we shared plenty of friends in common and had both been at one of them's wedding last year. It had to happen sooner or later in a world this big.

Eco-tourism

Eco-tourism is the new big thing in Southern Laos. Having donated my English skills to the local Eco Guide Unit, I thought I should probably take on one of their treks as well and get a look at the nearby Dong Natad Protected Area.

The obligatory tuk-tuk carried my shaken remains out of town for a good forty minutes to our first stop, a salt factory. They pump 55% saline water out of the ground and either leave it to dry in the sun, or boil it in big wood burning trays. All of which makes for some nice photographs, but I'm struggling to find the environmental angle.

The trek through the forest is interesting, but I find myself in a strange mood, and am really struggling to engage. We walk, occasionally talk, and they point out things you can eat, enormous termite mounds, and trees that the locals draw oil from for their lanterns. Again, I don't really see how burning holes in trees in order to get fuel is an environmentally sustainable practice, but maybe I'm missing something.

The forest is beautiful, but it's less daunting and alien than the one I trekked in Thailand. Hallowe'en style cobwebs adorn every tiny branch, and an assortment of strange insects threaten me at every turn.

These ants smell of vinegar if you crush them in your hands (not very Buddhist?), earning the nickname sour ants, and their eggs are a delicacy apparently, though I don't get to try. The morning redeems itself by arriving at a splendid lake, where we stop for lunch and I put my guide in his place in a stone skimming contest (growing up in Worthing has its advantages).

I'll have to confess to being slightly underwhelmed by the whole experience, but these are early days, for the whole idea of taking tourists into this area, and for the guides and villagers who facilitate it.

What I discovered was the role eco-tourism has in educating local people about the importance of preserving their natural environment. Most things boil down to economics, and if you live in a forest and can make more money chopping it down than leaving it where it is, then that is probably what you're going to do. Tourism offers an alternative though. The local Eco Guide Unit goes into the villages and explains how to gather NTFP (Non-Timber Forest Products), puts up signs and rubbish bins and educates the locals in how to use them. It will take time, a lot of time.

But the ball is rolling at least, and in a few years things should be a lot better. In the meantime, if you're passing through, your patronage will help them get off the ground, and maybe even pay for a few lightbulbs so they can stop bleeding the trees dry...

Savannakhet

You may have gathered by now that I'm growing rather fond of Laos. You are also probably sick of hearing me gushing on about its cheerful, languid population, decaying architectural glory and overwhelming air of gentle serenity. But we haven't been to Savannakhet yet.

My first interaction with the locals came when two kids quietly approached me as I took a picture of the Catholic church (the only building in town not in a state of utter disrepair), and started looking at my camera. I pointed it, shot, and showed them the picture on the back. The result was a sort of shuddering laugh of total disbelief, shrinking nervously away from me, as if I had just performed some twisted kind of black magic.

When I walked back a couple of hours later they were still pushing each other round in circles on their tricycle, and had apparently recovered from the shock.

Shops and homes spill out onto the streets, where kids play as grandparents sit and watch and mums and dads quietly tinker about. Again, there is that wonderfully calming sense of a place just ticking along, doing what it needs to get by, and never anything more. Of course, there is absolutely bugger all to do here except watch these warm, hypnotic scenes playing themselves out before you, but who cares?

I looked over the balcony just after sunset, and saw a kid of maybe four or five strolling down the street, past a stray dog licking itself and someone sweeping the front of their shop, all of them with an extraordinary economy of movement. High above the rooftops that teeter on the edges of crumbling walls, a makeshift kite danced its way across the full moon, watched by invisible but audible children, shrieking in the nearby square, as I reclined, took another sip of Beerlao and sighed contentedly.

Language barrier

Hmmm, let's see now: shall I get the express bus at 8.30 in the morning, or the local bus at 10.30? Shortly after 7.30 I was regretting my decision, as I was rudely awoken by everyone less lazy than me clattering down the stairs with their suitcases and shouting unnecessarily at one another.

The boot was on the other foot at 10.15 though when, replenished by the extra sleep after their hostile interruption, I arrived at Tha Khaek bus station to find them all slumped miserably on uncomfortable wooden benches where they had spent the last two hours or so since the express bus had been cancelled. I try not to be smug for too long, since doing so has a habit of returning to kick me in the ass, but I'll indulge myself on this one: Ha-ha. Suckers.

I've just finished reading a brilliant book called Iron and Silk by an American named Mark Salzman. It's a wonderful collection of observations and recollections from his time in China in the early 80s, none of which would have been possible had he not actually spoken the language. Swapping seats during the ride to Savannakhet when I lost the feeling in both my legs, I found myself next to a Laotian guy who spoke a bit of English and was keen to chat. "I teach you Lao", he unwittingly offered, as I reluctantly unplucked the headphones.

Within a couple of hours he had managed to teach me how to say "Good Luck" and "Help!" in addition to "Hello" and "Thank you very much" which I already proudly boasted among my armoury. But I now have some interesting phonetic pronunciation notes scrawled across the back of my Lonely Planet, and a printed e-ticket decorated with various scribblings, including an enormous "I love you" in Lao that could make check-in interesting.

As soon as I got to my guest house in Savannakhet I took a stroll around town, and within five minutes I'd been accosted by a guy from the local Eco-Tourism unit. He was trying to respond to a series of lengthy questions from a Dutch company that is providing funding for them, and was struggling with the English. An hour or so later, and I can't help thinking that the recipient of his lyrical reply might not wonder if he'd had a bit of passing help, but somehow it seemed the right thing to do.

All of which led me to reflect that speaking a native language does far more than make life easier for you. It creates the opportunity to engage with locals and gain their trust, respect and understanding. It gives you the confidence to approach people and make allowances for the offence you dread causing them. It makes every second of the time you invest there rewarding and enriching.

I think back to conversations with taxi drivers and strangers in South America, where my fledgling Spanish was pathetic, but still enough, and dearly wish I could speak Lao.