“Hey, that’s Angkor Wat”. 

My bike-taxi driver pointed out a dark grey chunk of rocks standing among the tree. 

Having spent several days earlier in Southeast Asia, I got used to riding a motorcycle. However, keeping my body in a right position on a rear seat of an old scooter in the darkness before dawn required some gross motor skills. On top of that, it demanded bravery and assertiveness as well. I asked my driver to keep both hands on the handlebar rather than being an engaging visual guide. He said “Okay”, and the next moment he looked back to talk to me. Please watch ahead!

I was hurried. I wanted to make it to the temple gate before daybreak – It was the autumn eclipse day when the sun would be rising exactly from the centre of the temple. Although our destination was in sight, we had to detour to get to the entrance. 

The road was bumpy. It was not paved well as tree roots were making rumps. There was no light beside the small headlamp of our bike. There was no other traffic aside from some cars passing us occasionally. 

I was scared and worried that I could make it safely. I couldn’t miss the sunrise on the site, but I also didn’t want to die in a traffic accident. My entire life sorely depended on the driving skill of this young Khmer guy (who was by the way wearing flip-flops) and the standard of quality control of Honda Motor Company (which I trusted as a Japanese, but I wasn’t too sure about the second-hand motorbike market). 

But at the same time, a part of me was excited. 

It seemed I was making the simplest way to realize what I had dreamt about: I was heading to the place I had longed to go. I was going there no matter what. There was no hesitation, no self-doubt, no false motive. I wondered why I couldn’t be straightforward like this all the time. It seemed like I have always been making some kind of excuses not to do stuff I wanted to do— “I can’t”, “I don’t deserve this”, “Maybe later”, or “Someday”.

“Even if I die on the way to Angkor Wat, it would be a meaningful cause of death”, I thought to myself. “At least I was doing what I wanted to do.”  Who said that happiness lies in the actions of making, not in the outcome?

“Here we are!”

The driver yelled (with his hands kept on the handlebar and not looking back at me this time), and I could see a crowd flocking by the long causeway bridge leading to the temple. He stopped the bike and I ran to the spot. The sky was turning to a hue of bright azure. Then there was a strong orange light coming through behind the temple, just like it had been doing for the last 850 years. 

—

“Thank you so much! It was wonderful.” 

After spending the whole morning at the temple, I returned to the bike and thanked the driver. He seemed to be very proud.

“You are welcome. Did you like it?”

“Of course! I’m glad I could make it.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

He smiled. I couldn’t tell his age by his look – he could be 18 or 34, but likely be in his early 20s.

“Are there many temples in Japan?” He asked.  

“Yes, many”, I said. 

“I want to go to Japan someday”, he said. 

“Oh, you should come! It’s a beautiful country.”

“Yeah, I want to learn Japanese and go there. Can you teach me some Japanese?”

“Yeah, sure. But first, please take me back to the hotel safely.”

“Of course. How do you say ‘Let’s go’ in Japanese?”

It should have probably been translated as ‘Iko’ or ‘Ikimasho’, but I got a different idea.

‘Ki o tsukete‘ — “Be safe”.