Cambodia seemed easier the first time around. I visited the country in 2010 with my friend Jeff on our first excursion out of Korea. We hit the main sights - the Choeung Ek Killing Fields of Phnom Penh, the Angkor temples of Siem Reap, the beaches of Sihanoukville. This time, our itinerary looked much the same. Which worried me.
My first trip to Cambodia was, and still might be, the greatest travel experience of my life. The things I saw, heard, and tasted left an impact on me that is impossible to explain without resorting to superlative-ridden cliches. It cemented one of my closest friendships. It was my first personal encounter with the tragedies and marvels of human history. It reintroduced me to the culinary delights of seafood. In short, it set the bar ridiculously high.
So high, in fact, that I wasn't all that keen on returning. When the Tet New Year rolled around, Cambodia didn't make my list of places to see. First I wanted to go to Burma. When money and visa concerns squashed that plan, I decided to take a solo bike trip around Vietnam and explore some of the vast and mysterious country I now call home. That actually sounded like a perfect plan, until I remember that motorbikes suffer dents, punctures, and other nasty things on long rides. I couldn't subject my pretty little '67 to that road torture - vanity won out. I briefly considered a diving trip to the Philippines, but the whale sharks weren't in town. So it was back to Cambodia in the end.
As we clambered onto the bus on Pham Ngu Lau Street, our eyes bleary in the early morning haze, I felt a nervous pang. I guess I was afraid Cambodia wouldn't live up to my memories; or worse, that they'd somehow be tarnished. The whole excursion felt like a return to the site of your greatest first date. Years later. With a different girl. The opportunities for a massive letdown seemed endless.
In one sense, my fears turned out to be entirely reasonable and well-founded. The Cambodia I saw bore very little resemblance to the place I'd quietly cherished for years. The food was more expensive, the tourist bars had louder stereos, even the sand flies felt malevolently aggressive. At times I felt like my grandfather complaining about 'the world today': "Used to be, when a man wanted a coconut, …."
Yet there was something undeniably relaxing about retracing my steps. I didn't feel the need to photograph every temple, or frantically scramble through sites in a vain effort to see it all, or meticulously record every meal eaten over the course of ten days. The novelty might have been gone, but so was the pressure. For the first time since I arrived in Asia, I wasn't traveling. I was vacationing.
And my inner tourist loved every minute of it.
I ate more ice cream than a fat 12 year old. I played mini-golf for the first time since the Backstreet Boys were cool and 'The Simpsons' was funny. I bought two pairs of identical sunglasses and zero traditional trinkets. I wore a 'Same Same But Different' tanktop with only the faintest sense of irony. I had tacos, pizza (several times) and seafood barbecues without twinges of guilt at skipping the amok. I called all the girls 'darlin'' and all the guys 'brother'. And it was actually kind of nice, to be honest.
I still did the things that Nick-travel usually entails. I read the confessions of Khmer Rouge Cadres and foreign 'spies' at the Tuol Sleng secret prison. I crouched in doorways and gaped at the gnarly tree-tentacles slowly swallowing Ta Prohm. I went scuba diving and tanned on the sundecks of boat ferries while contemplating the nature of human experience.
Much to my surprise, the two Nicks managed to coexist quite peacefully.
In the anthology Best American Travel Writing 2010, Peter Jon Lindberg wrote an excellent piece titled 'In Defense of Tourism'. His basic argument was that travel snobbery accomplishes little beyond depriving its adherents of some genuinely cool experiences. Tourist traps aren't (necessarily) mere evil, manipulative ploys to squeeze extra dollars out of foolish holidaymakers. There's nothing inherently bad about following the herd - sometimes they're on their way to awesome stuff.
I still prefer a more 'authentic' brand of traveling. There were moments in Cambodia that felt decidedly hedonistic, and my enjoyment was tempered by the unsettling feeling that I had betrayed whatever traveler's principles I once had. Because I like being the only foreigner on the bus, and eating at places without English menus, and using the squatter toliets at long-haul rest stops*. However, I like to imagine that going back to Cambodia did wonders for my tendency to get pretentious and judgmental when traveling. Maybe, having experienced this new perspective, I'll stop mean-mugging people as they walk out of McDonald's and hide my disdain for leathery old English bargain hunters a bit better. It's nice to think that I've become a more tolerant and compassionate traveler.
*One of those claims is a bold-faced lie.
Who knows if this will actually hold true the next time I hit the road? Old habits are hard to break for the recovering neurotic. But it's equally hard to forget some things once they pass through the mind. And I've learned that there are some fundamental differences between backpacking for months on end and taking a quick holiday. I've done both, and I can appreciate their different appeals. The reasons for traveling are as different as the people standing in front of you at the travel agent, and it's ridiculous to expect everyone to have the same priorities or desires. When it comes time for the next long journey, I hope to carry a little less elitism in my pack. Which will be a reasonably sized carry-on, of course, because the quality of a person's character is inversely related to the quantity of their luggage.
Whoops.
As for backtracking, I'm now cautiously in favor of it. Even though we visited the same cities on each trip, I saw two very different Cambodias. It was exciting to experience all the strange and beautiful things that magically appear when you put down the camera and leave Lonely Planet at home. I enjoyed the present moment, and didn't worry about what I might be missing. What a change from the usual state of affairs… It was humbling to realize that visiting a place and actually knowing it are two radically different things.You might have been there, done that - but 'that' is always changing, and 'there' sometimes does, too.
And, as much as my inner hipster might hate to admit it, I was delighted to find that mini-golf still totally kicks ass.
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