In the same day, I traveled 15 kilometers south of the capital city to visit Choeung Ek, one of hundreds of killing fields where the Khmer Rouge executed most of their two million victims. The green field was eerie; craters — in reality, excavated mass graves — dotted the land, interrupted only by a mausoleum housing thousands of unearthed bones. It was possible to enter the mausoleum. The interior was small, and there was just enough room to shimmy past the cases of bones. It was nearly impossible to avoid pressing my body up against the glass.

Included in the price of admission was an audio tour. Following numbered cues that dotted the path through the field, the narratives ranged from informative to personal to musical; historians and victims spoke, and an orchestra played “A Memory from Darkness,” composed in response to the genocide. The musical piece came at the end of the tour, when the numbered cues ended and there was nothing to do but to walk back across the field and contemplate the space: what it was now and what it had once been.

My time in Phnom Penh left me feeling uneasy. I am familiar with the concept of slum tourism — the modern phenomenon of tourists traveling to “see” poverty — and I felt that I was committing an act similarly complex; that I was touring a massacre. The memory of the crying girl at Tuol Sleng continued to confound me. I felt horror and sadness, but I experienced grief as an outsider; this isn’t my grief to feel, I kept telling myself. En route to Angkor Archeological Park the next day — where I would find the remains of the ancient Khmer empire — I reasoned that remembrance was positive and productive, and that I was joined by a new generation of Cambodians in this act.

Siem Reap — the gateway city to Angkor Archeological Park — is overrun with tourists. Because it exists to cater to its population of visitors, the number of international establishments is unrivaled elsewhere in Cambodia. I allowed myself a respite from Cambodian food — mostly dishes of meat and rice, and thanks to French colonialism, baguettes — to eat Indian (chicken korma!) and Italian (fettucine alfredo!), before embarking onward toward my destination.

The temples at Angkor served as the backdrop for Simon West’s 2011 film Lara Croft: Tomb Raider. Although I had never seen the movie, the fact that Angelina Jolie had spent time in them only heightened the temples’ allure. I purchased a three-day pass ($40), and spent the first day exploring the highlights by bicycle, a choice of transportation uncommon around Angkor because of the extreme heat. But I enjoyed the pace, making a point to stay hydrated and in the shade.

Angkor Wat was first. Surrounded by a moat, the grounds were surprisingly quiet. I overheard a passing tour guide — I opted out of the guided tour, trying to stick to my modest budget — explain the phenomenon; the main temple experiences a lull in visitors following sunrise. It is the most popular place in the early morning hours, but is quickly emptied when the sun reaches apogee. I felt relieved and took my time, reveling in the peace.

I spent my final two days at Angkor on a tuk tuk, my choice of transportation in Phnom Penh. It provided shade and rest; I had come during the region’s hot season, and the heat was extreme. Plus, my driver was familiar with the grounds and so I was able to enjoy a “requests only” tour.

In a week and a half, I had seen what I knew to be the highlights of Cambodia. I had also sifted through throngs of tourists — many speaking English — of whom many were Americans. In another attempt to dodge anything familiar I planned an escape and headed north.

A day’s bus ride from Siem Reap, Kratie’s (pronounced KRA – CHAY) attraction is whimsical and quaint; the city touts itself as nothing more than an embarkation point for those who want to see the Irrawaddy dolphin. A freshwater creature whose numbers have dwindled over the years, the attraction seemed peculiar enough to take me off the usual traveler path. I was curious; how would Kratie compare to the sprawling complex of Angkor, with too much to see and too many seeing it?

The interior of the bus was aged, but not in step with the aged glory of Angkor. The maroon window curtains were thick, and when I pulled on them dust rained down. At Kampong Cham — the transfer point for a bus to Kratie — I got off, along with a man and woman from Portugal. We shared favorite destinations and travel woes as we waited for the next bus. The couple was young and attractive, and the man talkative.

“When you go to Vietnam, you should travel between cities by train,” he suggested. “It is more expensive, but it is safer and the train follows the coast. The view is beautiful.”

After a little over an hour, the bus to Kratie appeared. The drive was another four hours. The sun set during the ride, and the orange hues seemed to sit on the fields of rural Cambodia, like food on a green plate. We arrived at Kratie in the late evening. The owner of my guesthouse greeted me at the bus station, and drove me in his tuk tuk to the hotel.

The next morning I awoke early. I was alone in the room, beneath a high ceiling of crumbling white paint. The room was old and plain, but in a way that suggested faded polish, an elderly woman who had been striking in her youth. From my barred window I could see the owner of the guesthouse smoking a cigarette, inhaling with a desperation that told me he viewed the day as a sentence, and this cigarette might be his last.

The night before I had mentioned to the owner that I was interested in renting a bicycle for the day, and I reminded him of this. In five minutes a gray bicycle appeared and he pointed to it, indicating that it was mine. I asked about the dolphins as I ate my breakfast (a baguette and fried egg), and again he pointed, this time to a small table in the entrance of the guesthouse on which sat piles of paper. I walked over. The papers were small informational guides, among them one about visiting the dolphins. I grabbed the map and studied it — it seemed to be a straight shot to the dolphins — before setting off on my rental bike.

Kampi, a small town 15 kilometers north of Kratie, is the best way to access The Mekong River, and the Irrawaddy dolphins that populate it. The ride begins on a small highway that is quickly replaced by a red dirt road interrupted by brief interludes of pavement. Mostly motorbikes, a handful of bicycles, and even fewer cars covered the road. Although I found myself veering to avoid numerous potholes and passing motorcyclists, the path was treed and I was thankful for the shade.

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