To travel from Phnom Penh to Siem Reap, I took a bus like many travelers here. It’s really the simplest and most commonly used way to do it. You can easily book through 12Go Asia, your hostel, or directly at a travel agency in the city. Companies like Giant Ibis or Virak Buntham are the most well-known. Tickets cost around 15 to 25 USD depending on comfort, and the journey takes about 6 to 8 hours, sometimes a bit longer if the road decides to test your patience.

It’s a long route, but an interesting one. You pass through Cambodia’s rural landscapes, endless rice fields, small villages, people selling fruit by the roadside, simple but very alive everyday scenes. And then there’s you, stuck between two naps, still a bit foggy from travel.

That morning was especially hard. I had literally celebrated New Year’s the night before in the total chaos of Phnom Penh. So it was an early wake-up, intense fatigue, and a brain still in “what am I doing with my life” mode. Safae was also leaving that day for another destination, so we got up together. We had breakfast at the hostel, quietly, a bit silent, a bit tired, aware it was one of those transition moments when people part ways after sharing something intense. And then we said goodbye, simply. I also said bye to James, but I was going back to the capital at the end of my trip, so we would see each other again in a few weeks.

After a few hours on the bus, I arrived in Siem Reap.

Siem Reap is a special city. Its name means “Siam defeated,” referring to the ancient conflicts between the Khmer Empire and the Siamese (Thai) kingdoms. Today, it’s mostly the gateway to Angkor Archaeological Park, but the city itself has its own identity. It blends highly developed tourism around the center with local life just a bit further out. There’s a different softness here, a slower rhythm, as if everyone is unconsciously preparing to go explore the temples.

On my first day, I mostly explored the city.

I visited a few urban temples like Wat Preah Prom Rath, one of the oldest Buddhist temples in the city. Founded in the 16th century, it is one of the religious sites that survived Cambodia’s major periods of destruction and reconstruction, especially under the Khmer Rouge regime. Today, it is still an active temple, meaning it’s not just a historical site, but a living space where monks reside, meditate, and teach.

In Theravāda Buddhism, which is the branch practiced in Cambodia, the temple is much more than a place of worship: it’s a community center. Locals come there to make offerings, ask for blessings, attend ceremonies, or simply talk with monks. At Wat Preah Prom Rath, the colorful Buddha statues and murals depict scenes from his past lives (the Jataka tales), which serve as moral teachings about compassion, detachment, and wisdom. The atmosphere there is very calm, almost timeless, with the smell of incense and the sound of softly recited prayers.

I also went to Wat Bo, another important temple and even older in its spiritual structure. It is especially known for its mural paintings, which cover the interior walls and illustrate not only episodes from the Buddha’s life but also traditional Khmer stories and everyday life scenes. These frescoes also have an educational purpose: in a culture where oral and visual traditions are very important, they transmit Buddhist values and history to generations who may not read sacred texts.

Wat Bo is also a strong example of the continuity of Buddhism in Cambodia: despite historical disruptions, religion remains deeply rooted in daily life. Monks play an important social role, guiding rituals, offering spiritual advice, and sometimes supporting the community in difficult times.

Visiting these temples is not just about seeing beautiful buildings: it’s about stepping into a living religious practice, where spirituality is still deeply intertwined with the everyday lives of local people.

I also spent time at the big local market, Phsar Leu Thom Thmey Market. It’s incredible organized chaos. Strong smells, fish still alive, mountains of fruit, clothing stalls, vendors shouting, motorbikes passing through the aisles. It’s intense, a bit overwhelming, but so alive. It’s where you see the real city, the one that doesn’t stage itself for tourists.

And then, after that day of wandering, I did what any somewhat responsible person does before a night where you have to wake up at 3 a.m.: I tried to go to bed early. Because the next day, I was heading to Angkor.

Getting to Angkor Wat from Siem Reap is quite simple. The most common option is a tuk-tuk for the day, around 25 to 35 USD, or sometimes a scooter if you’re more adventurous. The site itself requires an official pass: about 37 USD for one day, 62 USD for three days. I chose three days, and honestly… even that is far from enough.

The Angkor Archaeological Park is massive. It’s not just a collection of temples, it’s an ancient imperial capital: Angkor, the center of the Khmer Empire, which dominated much of Southeast Asia between the 9th and 15th centuries. At its peak, the region had hundreds of thousands, possibly over a million inhabitants, making it one of the largest pre-industrial cities in the world. Everything was designed around water: massive barays (reservoirs), canals, and highly advanced hydraulic systems for the time, essential to the survival and power of the empire.

The temples I visited are not just “beautiful” or “ancient”: each one represents a different political, religious, and ideological phase of this empire.

Angkor Wat first. Built in the early 12th century under the reign of Suryavarman II, it was originally dedicated to the Hindu god Vishnu. This choice is not accidental: the king wanted to associate his power with a protective deity and legitimize his authority through Hinduism. Angkor Wat is oriented toward the west, which is rare for a Khmer temple and often symbolically linked to death and the spiritual world, feeding ongoing mystical interpretations.

Architecturally, it is a masterpiece of symmetry and cosmology. The five central towers represent Mount Meru, the mythical center of the universe in Hindu cosmology. The massive surrounding moats symbolize the cosmic ocean. The bas-reliefs, stretching over hundreds of meters, depict episodes from the Ramayana and the Mahabharata, as well as historical scenes from the Khmer kingdom. It is at once religious, political, and artistic — everything is intertwined.

Bayon is immediately recognizable thanks to its gigantic stone-carved faces, often interpreted as representing Avalokiteshvara (the bodhisattva of compassion) or an idealized form of the king himself. There are dozens of them, spread across the towers, and no matter where you stand, you always feel like you are being watched. That is intentional: the temple was designed as a representation of omnipresent royal power, both protective and controlling.

Around it, the bas-reliefs depict everyday life at the time: markets, battles, fishing, scenes of war against the Chams. Unlike Angkor Wat, which is highly mythological, Bayon is almost documentary-like. You see the real life of ancient Cambodia carved into stone.

Then there is Ta Prohm Temple. Also built under Jayavarman VII at the end of the 12th century, it originally served a monastic and Buddhist scholarly function. It is estimated that thousands of monks and teachers lived there, showing the importance of knowledge during that period of the empire.

But what makes Ta Prohm unique today is what nature has done to it. After the gradual abandonment of the site starting in the 15th century, the jungle took over. Massive silk-cotton trees and strangler figs literally wrapped themselves around the stone structures. Their roots penetrate the walls, lift them, and slowly break them apart.

It became globally famous after being used as a filming location for Lara Croft: Tomb Raider. But in reality, no film really does justice to the atmosphere on site. You walk through ruins where the boundary between human construction and nature has completely disappeared. It feels both beautiful and slightly unsettling, as if time itself is slowly erasing everything.

On the second and third day, I explored other temples further away, quieter, less touristy. The experience changes completely: you go from crowds and selfies to near silence, broken only by birds and warm wind. The stone becomes redder, the dust more present, and at times you feel completely alone in a lost civilization.

What stands out in Angkor, beyond the obvious beauty, is the overall ingenuity of the system. It is not just a collection of temples, but a city designed as a living cosmological model. Each structure is aligned according to astronomical, religious, and political principles. Nothing is placed by chance.

And the deeper you go into those days, the more you feel something difficult to explain: a kind of vertigo of time. You walk through places built nearly 900 years ago, designed to last forever, and yet here you are, a simple visitor, sunburnt, trying to make sense of it all.

Angkor does not just tell you the story of a fallen empire.

It also reminds you that everything that seems solid eventually turns into ruins… and beauty at the same time.

After my third day exploring the temples of Angkor, I had this strange mix of physical exhaustion and emotional overload. It’s the kind of fatigue where your mind is still full of ancient stones, carved faces, and heat, but your body simply has no energy left.

In the evening, I went to get a tattoo at a really cool little shop, 7 Tattoo Studio Siem Reap. Honestly, it was a great experience. Very clean, very professional, chill atmosphere, and attentive artists. The kind of place where you feel like you’re in good hands even though you’re literally getting your skin pierced in another country on the other side of the world.

And of course, right after that, I went to watch the sunset.

In Siem Reap, there was also a small café right next to my hostel where I went for lunch almost every morning before my days at Angkor. Over time, it became a bit of my routine, my little anchor. The staff started recognizing me, I recognized their faces, and without even speaking the same language, a quiet familiarity slowly settled in.

One evening, I decided to go back there for dinner.

And that night, the owner’s two little daughters were there too. And somehow, I ended up spending the evening with them. We drew together, watched videos on my phone, laughed without really understanding each other verbally. Because no, we didn’t speak the same language. But honestly, it didn’t really matter. There are moments when connection happens differently: through gestures, smiles, small attentions. It was simple, but deeply human. One of those moments you don’t plan, but that stay with you.

And then… the next night, everything changed.

Food poisoning.

I still don’t exactly know what caused it. Was it that restaurant I had been going to for days and actually liked? Maybe. But disclaimer: I never went back after that. Just in case… and also for survival instinct lol.

And then, for three days, I basically disappeared from life. Vomiting, pain, extreme weakness… without going into too much detail, let’s just say I spent three days negotiating with my stomach and my life choices. All of this in a 12-bed dorm. So yes, privacy and dignity were basically zero. It was embarrassing, uncomfortable, and completely out of my control. I didn’t do much except try to survive and sleep between waves of nausea.

And after three days, slowly, I started coming back to life.

My first real meal after all that: and then… completely absurd surprise… I found poutine.

Not real Quebec poutine obviously (let’s be honest, it was a “inspired” version), but in context, it was incredible. After three days without eating and several months away from Quebec, seeing that on a menu felt almost emotional. It’s crazy how food becomes comfort when you’ve been sick. And even more when it reminds you of “home.”

It was at Brother Bong Café: a really chill little spot, super pleasant. The kind of place where you could easily spend the whole afternoon without noticing. Good coffee, comfortable chairs, relaxed atmosphere, and a nice little terrace to watch life go by. Honestly, for such a simple place, everything is well thought out, and the vibe is just perfect for slowing down.

And the poutine… honestly, for a non-Quebec version, it was really good. Not 100% authentic, but close enough to make you smile with every bite. A small unexpected taste of “home” on the other side of the world.

I even went back another day. That time, I tried their chicken parmigiana… and that was a big disappointment. Let’s just say it tasted a bit like nail polish remover, nothing like the rest of the menu.

But despite that, what I mostly remember is a really nice café, a surprisingly good poutine, and a place that was just good to pause in.

The next day, I had a night bus, so I had a full day to fill before leaving Siem Reap.

I decided to visit the Tonle Sap Floating Village.

When I arrive, what strikes me first is the visual. Everything is on water, yet it still looks like a complete, living, organized village.

You first notice the stilt houses: long wooden structures, sometimes tilted, deeply anchored into the lakebed. They rise several meters high to adapt to the changing water levels. Some are made of raw wood, others patched together with corrugated metal, colorful planks, pieces of fabric. Between seasons, some houses can end up almost “dry” on land, then completely surrounded by water a few months later. It’s exactly this constant alternation that shaped the entire organization of the village.

Historically, these villages developed out of a very simple necessity: surviving in a region where water is both a vital resource and an extreme constraint. Tonlé Sap Lake is not only enormous, it is also incredibly fertile. It holds one of the largest freshwater fish reserves in the world. For centuries, local populations have built their lives around fishing, adapting to the lake’s cycles rather than trying to fight them.

This way of life has been passed down through generations, creating entire communities that literally live “with” the water. Floating villages are therefore not an aesthetic or touristic choice: they are a direct adaptation to a constantly changing environment.

In daily life, everything revolves around the lake.

Families live from fishing, selling fresh or dried fish, and small floating businesses. Boats are not a leisure activity here, but the only means of transportation. Visiting a neighbor, going to school, going to the market… everything is done by boat. Distances are not measured in kilometers, but in travel time.

Culturally, life is very community-based. Families live close to one another, and activities are often shared. Children grow up in an environment where water is everywhere: they learn very early how to swim, row, and move independently on small boats. Their playground is the lake itself.

But this life depends heavily on seasons and environmental conditions. During the dry season, some villages partially end up on dry land, which completely changes their dynamics. During the rainy season, everything becomes floating and mobile again. This instability is part of everyday life.

Visually, you see this adaptation everywhere: stilt houses rising several meters high, floating platforms built from salvaged materials, cables and ropes connecting homes to prevent them from drifting too far apart. The “streets” are canals where boats carry food, fuel, and goods.

In some villages, there are also floating schools. These are simple structures, sometimes colorful, sometimes very rudimentary, where children learn to read, write, and sometimes English. But access to education remains uneven, as many families have to follow fishing patterns or seasonal movements.

What is also important to understand is that these communities face very concrete challenges: limited access to clean water, difficult sanitary conditions, unstable incomes. Some villages also depend on tourism, which creates a fragile and sometimes unequal economy.

Visually, all of this blends into a very powerful scene: wooden houses suspended above the water, children playing in the lake, boats slowly passing between homes, fishing nets drying in the sun, animals tied on floating platforms, and that golden light reflecting across the entire surface of the water.