Cambodia : Angkor Wat, Angkor Thom
I traveled to Cambodia to photograph the temples of Angkor — not just Angkor Wat, but the surrounding ruins scattered through the jungle of a once-sacred empire. I arrived before sunrise, walking across the ancient causeway as the towers of Angkor Wat slowly revealed themselves in silhouette. A few monks in saffron robes moved along the edge of the moat with reflections in the waters.
Angkor Wat was vast, massive, intricate. I wandered its galleries alone, studying bas-reliefs that stretched like stone scrolls: battles, mythologies, gods with many arms, demons with fangs, and scenes of devotion. The early light broke across the carvings, catching the edges and giving them life. I waited patiently, framing shots, watching the light evolve
But it was the surrounding temples that gave me the greatest sense of the empire’s reach — and its slow surrender to nature. At Ta Prohm, trees grow through walls and roofs. The roots don’t just climb the temples, they melt into them, as if the jungle and the stone were conspiring together. The light here was filtered, soft, and unpredictable, a constant challenge but a gift to photograph.
At Bayon, inside Angkor Thom, I found the great stone faces — dozens of them — smiling down from towers. Each one serene, almost amused, watching over the ruins and the visitors alike. Some of the expressions seemed to shift with the changing light.
Between temples, I photographed local life. Monks walked barefoot on dusty roads, their umbrellas casting bright shadows. Children played near roadside food stalls. In quieter monasteries, I met novices studying, sweeping, or sitting cross-legged in prayer. I asked permission to photograph them only after spending time, listening, sometimes simply sitting nearby.
One morning, I visited a wooden and bamboo monastery built on stilts to endure the rainy season. Its structure was simple, elevated above the damp ground in preparation for the monsoon’s return. Inside, the air was still, the walls breathing with the scent of wood and incense. Young monks moved silently between chores and study, their presence humble and grounded. A few had monkeys for pets — mischievous companions that perched on their shoulders, sat on the steps or scurried across the open walkways. It was unexpected, and somehow fitting — another thread in the quiet, layered life of this place. Photographing there felt like being let into a secret, of spiritual life away from the stone.
As I wandered through these temples and monasteries, I couldn’t help but think about the human effort that went into building them. The intricate carvings, the massive stones hauled into place by thousands of workers with limited tools — it was a staggering engineering feat, driven by belief, vision, and devotion. And now, centuries later, it's in decay. It’s poignant. And a little bit sad. All that effort, now softened by time and jungle, slowly reclaimed by the earth.
That was the feeling I carried with me as I left Siem Reap: gratitude, awe, and a quiet melancholy.
The ruins of Angkor are a reminder that even the greatest civilizations fade.
