Cycling though the countryside in North-West Cambodia, in the area surrounding Angkor Wat, I stumbled across a small path heading into the jungle. Little more than an animal track, it wasn't on any of my maps, but I felt compelled to explore.
At some point, the path seemed to die, but still I plunged into the jungle, stepping gently over branches and vines, my bare feet crunching softly on the leaf litter. After a short while, I came into a small clearing, in the middle of which was a very overgrown ruined temple.
I felt the energy of the area, it was so powerful and there was a quality about the light there, as if everything was sharper, the colours brighter.
I walked slowly up to the temple, and felt the soft outlines of the bas-reliefs carved on its surfaces.
Beautiful images of gods and dancing apsaras covered in moss, broken and crumbling filled my eyes. As I came around to the other side of the small temple, I saw an open space in the centre of the temple with a gnarled old tree at the centre. The ground was covered in nuts, fallen from the tree, and to my surprise, an old monk dressed in orange robes was picking the nuts up off the ground.
The monk looked up and smiled at me, and beckoned me over. He showed me how to crack the nuts with two rocks and we sat together under the tree munching. It turned out he spoke good English, and I told him of what had befallen me the night before.
The Adventure
I had lost the keys to my bicycle just before sunset. I'd parked the bike near one of the outer temples at Angkor Wat while I was spending the day exploring some of the ruins. When I came back, it was dusk, with night rapidly falling, and I realized the keys must have fallen on the grass somewhere.
Some local children helped me search, but it was just too dark. One of the kids, a cheeky-grinned, skinny boy of about eight offered for me to stay the night with his family and come to look for the keys in the morning, but I was reluctant because I knew that the locals who lived in the villages around Angkor are forbidden from hosting tourists in their homes.
Finally, the boy came up with the idea that I would borrow his bike to ride the ten kilometers back to Siem Riep; the town where I was staying in a hostel. Then I could come back early in the morning and find the key and give his bike back. It seemed like a dubious plan, but at that point, I didn't have a lot of choice, other than walking back to town, or sleeping there on the grass; an option that looked less appealing by the second as a light rain began to fall.
So I set off on my borrowed bike, in the pitch darkness of new moon. It was really tough; the bicycle was made for an eight-year-old, and it was hard work to keep my knees from hitting the handlebars. Even more difficult was that the chain kept falling off and I had to stop and repair it every few minutes.
I realized the brakes didn't work when suddenly out of the darkness a donkey appeared. It loomed in front of me, becoming visible when I was only about a metre from it. The bike skidded, managing to avoid damaging the donkey, but I went flying.
Of course, the first part of my body to hit the ground was my nose, and I rolled to a stop in a crumpled heap at the bottom of a muddy ditch, bruised, battered and bleeding.
The donkey bellowed and crashed off into the jungle, and I sat wallowing in the mud and cried. It all seemed so desperate; in the light of day I would see the funny side of the situation, but in that moment, it felt like the universe playing a cruel joke on me.
The Rescue
After a few minutes, I heard a soft voice shushing me from the blackness. A local man approached, picked up my borrowed bicycle and led me up the road to his hut. Inside we were greeted by the man's wife, who fussed about getting me cloths to dry my soggy, muddy hair and clean my scraped knees.
While she made me some hot tea and noodle soup, I marveled at how I felt instantly warm and comforted. Without having any common language, she managed to welcome me into her home and take care of me as if I was one of her own children, and though I was 21 years old at the time, I felt as though I was a little kid again, safe in my mother's arms.
I only noticed that the woman had a baby tied to her hip when the infant squirmed a bit and re-positioned himself to nurse. I was so amazed at how this woman carried her baby as comfortably as a part of herself, carrying on household chores and taking care of a stranger, she even nursed him without missing a beat.
As I ate my soup, I wondered where the man had disappeared to, but he soon came back, his hands covered with grease. He beckoned me to come outside, and I saw by the light of his candle that he had repaired the bicycle. I was so overwhelmed with gratitude, but all I could say in Khmer was 'thank you,' a phrase that seemed so meager after all they had done for me.
The man waved my thanks away, nodding quietly as he wandered off again into the dark. I didn't know where he was going, but I was content to sit and sip tea with the woman while she washed the dishes in a bucket of soapy water. I tried to help her, but again, I was waved away with a quiet smile.
After about ten minutes, the sound of an engine approaching broke the stillness of the night, and soon the bright lights of a car glared in our faces, illuminating the primitive bamboo and thatch hut the couple lived in.
As the run-down pick-up truck pulled in beside the hut, my host jumped out of the passenger side and loaded my bike onto the back. The driver motioned me into the cab, but I hesitated, wanting to give the couple something for helping me.
They refused when I opened my wallet to give them a few dollars, but I remembered that I had some apples left over from lunch in my bag and I handed these to the woman. She accepted them with a gracious nod of her head as she pushed me up into the cab of the car.
I waved back at them as we sped off into the night, even though I knew they couldn't see me. The driver dropped me and my bike off on the edge of town and I pedaled the rest of the way to my hostel to collapse into bed.
Of course, when I woke up in the morning, the owner of the hostel was flabbergasted; what had happened to the bike he had rented me? How had it become half its size, a different colour and in very poor condition? Of course, I couldn't begin to explain all that had happened, so I rode back to the Wat in search of my bike and its keys.
Once the sun was up, finding the keys was easy enough, and the boy from the day before was happy to get his bike back, and the apple I offered him.
The monk had listened quietly as I told my tale of woe, and at the end he clapped and said, "what a wonderful story, and so funny too, I can just picture you riding that too-small bike in the dark and rain."
I was indignant, "it's not funny; it was awful…" I stopped and realized how amazing my evening had been; that it wasn't a terrible story of how I had suffered because of losing my keys, but of how I'd been in a comical tragedy that ended with being helped by some beautiful and warm locals. I started to laugh and soon we were both laughing happily, sharing nuts.
Meeting A Monk