Searching for Sunrise

Sometimes, it will happen that a moment will explode inside you, like a shock that spreads itself in bursts, not waves. It all begins innocuously enough. “Wake up at five,” Sin tells me, “You won’t want to miss sunrise at Angkor Wat.”

Sin drives a tuk-tuk and has spent the day ferrying me around Siem Reap. Already, he fancies himself my tour guide, mentor and philosopher. I sleepily nod yes. I have come to trust Sin’s judgement.

“Sleep early,” Sin tells me for the hundredth time, as though I am an errant schoolchild, “Angkor Wat is everyone’s favourite.”

“I think Ta Prohm will always be my favourite,” I declare.

Sin smiles knowingly. “That’s what they all say.”

At five the next morning, Sin is bright-eyed. “Good morning!” he beams. I glare at him.

At Angkor Wat, through the ruined towers of the outer wall, I step onto the causeway to the central structure. Nothing–nothing I have heard or read or imagined–could have prepared me for this moment. In the delicate pre-dawn light, the bas-relief carvings of the outer galleries are like sharp, individual epiphanies, waiting to strike. At some point, I realise I have forgotten to breathe.

Anti-climax strikes in the form of cloud-cover. And yet, such is the moment that I forget to feel disappointed. The endless corridors come at me like the winding passages of my mind. There is no respite from beauty. I lose myself for hours, hoping never to have to find myself.

Out in the blazing afternoon, Sin is waiting. “Not to worry! The sun will rise again tomorrow!” Wise words.

The next morning, Sin gives me a thumbs-up as I step into the temple complex. Cloud cover again. But this moment still staggers me, knotting itself into yesterday’s. It is as though Angkor Wat is challenging me to get accustomed to beauty. I am a happy loser.

When Sin greets me with his familiar grin, I know what he will say. “Tomorrow?” I ask, laughing.

“Tomorrow,” he says. “There’s always tomorrow.”

As I climb into the tuk-tuk, I know he’s right.