It was just a short bus ride from Siem Reap, but vendors lined the roadside, their hands slapping against the windows at every stop. Knuckles rapped against the glass — fruit, baguettes, newspapers. Their voices blended into the hum of the engine, but their message was clear: buy something, anything.

But I wasn’t there for food or news.

I had come to see Angkor Wat — the Eighth Wonder of the World.

The name alone carries weight, evoking images of mist-shrouded ruins and sunrise silhouettes. Angkor was once the beating heart of the Khmer Empire, a city so vast it’s believed to have supported around 0.1% of the world’s population at its height. Today, its sprawling temple complex remains the largest religious monument on Earth.

The Stories in Stone

A collective gasp filled the bus as the first glimpse of Angkor Wat’s magnificent turrets appeared through the window. In the past few weeks, I’d seen more temples than I could count, each beautiful in its own way. But this? This was different.

Time had weathered the temple walls, but the carvings remained. Bas-reliefs stretched for miles, telling stories of gods, warriors, and everyday Khmer life.

I had seen these scenes before — not in books or documentaries, but in the Cambodian villages I had just left behind. Nothing had changed. People still danced beneath the sun. Men still fished in the rivers. Children still slept, exhausted from play.

The tourists’ luminous umbrellas turned the grey stone into a kaleidoscope of color. Rain hammered down, the scent of hot soil rising in waves — everyone was soaked, but no one seemed to care.

An elderly American, his bones as brittle as the ruins, skipped across the stones like a child.

“This is worth a million dollars!” he shouted, eyes wide with wonder. “Look how they built the roof!”

His wife, less impressed, nodded. “You will help me get down, won’t you? I’m fine getting up — it’s the getting down I don’t like.”

“Yeah, of course,” he shot back, still glued to his viewfinder.

In Europe, ancient sites are carefully roped off, patrolled by guards. At Angkor, history is open. You can walk wherever you like, climb centuries-old staircases, run your hands along carvings.

A monk clambered over the stones, snapping photos as if his life (lives?) depended on it.

“Hello?” he said, approaching me. “Can I speak with you to practice my English?”

“Sure,” I replied — already regretting it as a crowd gathered to watch.

“My English is very bad, so don’t mind if it is impolite or incorrect.”

“It’s fine.”

“Thank you for your understanding. Now, what is your name?”

“Tom.”

“Good. And Tom, how many people in your family?”

As we talked, tourists desperately repositioned themselves, angling for a perfect shot of the monk — without me in it.

It turned out this was his first visit to Angkor. We agreed the temples were spectacular, and that speaking English is hard.

Then he wanted a photo.

“You come here! Now! Get up!”

He was surprisingly bossy for a monk.

“Alright, I’m coming.”

“Quickly!” he urged. “Come on! Hurry up!”

Why the rush? I thought we all get reborn anyway.

With the photo shoot finished, I left him to it and wandered off in search of food — prompting a collective sigh of relief from the other tourists, followed by a flurry of camera flashes.

The Art of Selling Nothing

When I returned to the bus, the vendors had reassembled, as persistent as the jungle reclaiming the ruins. A smiling teenager followed me to the door, weaving effortlessly through the crowd.

“I have book, with map,” she said.

“I don’t need it, thank you.”

“Do you want cold drink? I have Coke.”

“No, thank you.”

“Do you want hot drink? I have tea.”

“No, thank you.”

She paused, considering me for a moment. “So tell me, what do you need?”

“Nothing.”

A slow grin spread across her face.

“Okay,” she said. “I will sell you nothing for two dollars.”

It was a flawless response, one that left no room for escape. I laughed despite myself, reached into my pocket, and handed over the money. She pressed the ice-cold can into my palm, triumphant.

As I climbed onto the bus, I thought about Angkor — about the empire that built it, the hands that carved its stones, the people who lived and prayed here before vanishing into history. And now, centuries later, life continued to move around its ruins — tourists exploring, monks taking photos, vendors working their trade with a wit as sharp as the carvings on the temple walls.

Angkor wasn’t just a relic of the past. It was still alive.