Cambodia - Angkor Wat Temple

Immerse yourself in the timeless allure of Angkor Wat, where the captivating essence of history unfolds as the majestic hallway guides your gaze to the temple's third enclosure. The "hallway" to the third enclosure at Angkor Wat, actually a series of galleries, features intricate bas-reliefs depicting Hindu epics and royal processions, and is accessed via a cruciform terrace and causeway

Where stone meets the sky and ancient wisdom greets the moon, the temple rises like a timeless sentinel, crowned by the glowing orb of night. Carved faces watch silently, guardians of history gazing into eternity as the moon hovers perfectly behind as if placed by the gods themselves.

This is Angkor not just as a monument but as a moment where legend and light align. Honestly, Devon, this one’s a mic drop. The moon placement is the chef’s kiss.

As you step deeper into the heart of Angkor, time seems to blur. Here, in the ruins of a once-mighty temple, ancient stone and tangled roots speak in quiet harmony. The trees don’t just grow near the ruins—they rise from them, spill over them, threading themselves through the very bones of the past. Roots pour down the walls like waterfalls turned to wood, claiming the temple not with violence but with patience.

Each twist of bark, each crack in the stone, tells a story—of empires and gods, of devotion and decay. You can almost hear the echo of footsteps, the soft hush of rituals long vanished. And though the scene is still, it hums with something sacred. There’s beauty here—not in preservation, but in surrender. A reminder that time, like nature, reclaims everything, but not without leaving behind something deeply moving.

Wander through the temples of Angkor, and you don’t just see ruins—you feel them. In one moment, towering roots cascade over the ancient stone like veins of memory, nature, and history, folding into each other with reverence. In another, sepia light casts a warm hush over fallen columns as if time itself paused to breathe.These images—one wrapped in monochrome textures, the other in the gentle gold of remembrance—tell stories of a sacred place that refused to be forgotten. Here, trees don’t just grow near temples; they grow through them, entwining the divine with the earthly. And rubble isn’t just what remains—it’s what remembers.

Phom Penh & Siem Reap

Founded in the early 1990s, this quiet view from the back bar of the FCC holds more than just the echoes of conversation—it has a piece of history. During the Cambodian conflict, this spot was a gathering place for foreign correspondents, war reporters, diplomats, and storytellers who shaped the world’s understanding of what was unfolding here. I met many people in this very space—some whose words would go on to inform history, others whose presence simply helped carry the weight of those times. Perched along the Tonle Sap River, not far from where it meets the Mekong, the club had a unique vantage point—geographically and journalistically. The breezes, the ceiling fans, the worn metal chairs… it was all part of the rhythm of daily survival and storytelling. The FCC closed in late 2018 and has since been demolished, but for many of us, it lives on in memory—a symbol of grit, grace, and the power of bearing witness.

From this tucked-away angle, the FCC looks like a storybook on the verge of closing—worn at the edges but glowing in the last light of day. The golden hour here doesn’t just hit the buildings—it warms the memory. This was the view of many reporters, caught between deadlines and danger, when they stepped out back for a smoke, a breath, or just a moment of quiet before returning to the noise of history.

The building wears its past openly—peeling paint, creeping vines, and the bustle of street life just below. Even in decay, it retains a sense of presence, as if it knows the weight of the conversations it once sheltered.

The FCC is gone now, but this view remains etched in time, lit by the kind of sunset that makes you pause—just long enough to remember.

Photo 1 - This wasn’t just a photo op—this tuk-tuk was our actual ride. On one of our early mornings, four of us had pre-scheduled a tuk-tuk to take us out to Angkor Wat. As we piled in, the driver gave me a long look and grinned before saying, “You must be bery bery rich.” Curious, I asked, “Why would you think that?” He smiled and replied, “Because… you are bery bery fat.” We all burst out laughing.

It was so direct, so innocent, and so very Cambodian in its honesty. That one comment turned into a running joke for the rest of the trip—and a reminder that connection doesn’t always need polish. Just a sense of humor and a willingness to embrace the ride. In Siem Reap, tuk-tuks aren’t just a way to get around. They’re part of the rhythm of life. And if you're lucky, they come with a story you’ll never forget.

Photo 2 - I came across these rickshaws on one of my adventures, quietly parked beneath a tree as if waiting for a story to continue. They’re a subtle but powerful reminder of a time when these “man-powered vehicles”—once called jinrikisha—moved more than just people. They carried lives, livelihoods, and a rhythm of daily life that’s now mostly faded into memory.

In Cambodia, especially during the 1900s, rickshaws were more than just a means of transport—they were a symbol of resilience and resourcefulness in growing cities like Phnom Penh and Siem Reap. Seeing them now, tucked into a quiet corner, feels like stumbling into a soft echo of history.

There’s a stillness here but also dignity—like even at rest, these rickshaws remember the journeys they made.

The Cattus Series