Maybe it was when he told us, without a trace of irony, that his name was the Khmer word for “lucky”.
Maybe it was when he proclaimed Angkor Wat, the immense and hypnotic structure we were walking towards, as the seventh Wonder of the World (it’s not).
Or perhaps it was when I interrupted to ask a question and he responded then picked up his narrative from the exact point of my interruption – two words before the end of his sentence.
Whatever it was, it had quickly become clear Lucky was not quite the accomplished guide he’d sold himself as. It looked like we would have to part ways.
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My girlfriend Anna and I were in Cambodia in early December as part of a two-month trip to Southeast Asia. Thailand, Laos, Cambodia and Vietnam – the usual.
We’d both quit our jobs in Nelson in October, and this was our big holiday before we joined “the brain drain” and made an equally clichéd move to Melbourne.
Exploring Angkor Wat was supposed to be one of the highlights of our trip, but it was not quite going to plan.
We had accidentally employed our guide near the entrance to the temple, located near the city of Siem Reap in northwestern Cambodia.
If you haven’t been to Angkor Wat, picture… Actually, don’t bother. Just look at the pictures that accompany this piece, and Wikipedia it, and Google Image it, and watch the first Tomb Raider movie
We had originally planned to keep it simple. We arranged for a tuk tuk driver to pick us up at our hotel, had a cursory read of Lonely Planet, grabbed a big bottle of water, and rocked up to Angkor, along with seemingly everyone else in Cambodia.
But arriving at the entrance of the temple on a shockingly humid morning, we’d barely had a chance to take in the view before Lucky appeared to deliver the hard sell on why we should hire him.
We’d vaguely discussed getting a guide beforehand, since we obviously didn’t know about what we were viewing, and we thought that maybe sharing in an insider’s view to one of the most popular tourist attractions in Cambodia would give us a more “authentic” experience.
But when it came to making a decision, each of us thought the other person was more keen on the idea than they were.
Suddenly, to our mutual surprise, we were agreeing to have this overwhelmed – and rather overwhelming – man lead us around.
If you haven’t been to Angkor Wat, picture… Actually, don’t bother. Just look at the pictures that accompany this piece, and Wikipedia it, and Google Image it, and watch the first Tomb Raider movie, but remember those images (especially ours) pale in comparison to the real thing.
It’s eerie and haunting and magnificent and inspiring and depressing, and... and...
And, unfortunately, our guide did nothing but detract from it. As he led us at a brisk walk towards the temple, in a rapid monotone he began delivering what I’m sure was a completely factual speech.
My heart dropped like a sandstone block carried by an elephant as I realised I wasn’t really enjoying the experience
All I remember is him saying some of the sandstone blocks making up the temple were carried by elephants. The content could have been interesting, but he didn’t let us stop even to look at the temple.
My heart dropped like a sandstone block carried by an elephant as I realised I wasn’t really enjoying the experience.
He directed us down a causeway to a lily pond for photos, and as he walked ahead Anna and I conferred in a whisper, agreeing that this guide was not working out, and that we (well, I) should tell him as much.
So after we plastered on our fake smiles for the photos, it was my turn to make a hesitating speech.
“Look, um, we’re going to go off on our own now, uh, but... yeah, thank you.”
I held out some money, about half the amount we’d agreed on for an hour-long tour we’d cancelled after five minutes.
“OK, it is up to you,” he answered, slightly dejectedly, taking the money and walking back to the entrance, presumably to pick up more confused tourists.
I felt a little sorry for him, but that feeling faded quickly as we took in the incredible view of Angkor.
We’d nearly messed up our visit for several reasons: disorganisation, confusion, a lack of tourist-savvy - but also because of our mistaken belief that a guide would give us a more “authentic” experience.
It seemed like everyone we met had a similar desire – whether to “get off the beaten track”, experience “the real” Southeast Asia or, my personal favourite, “get under the region’s skin”.
This is arguably the fault of Lonely Planet and TripAdvisor, the twin-sirens of tourists in trouble, who have staked their claim as offering tips for the “real experience”, with “insider tips” and “local knowledge”.
Follow the books and the apps, and instead of the authentic slice of Southeast Asia you’d been promised, you’ll come away with the authentic tourist experience – and see the same things as everyone else
Discussions with tourists inevitably revolved around a laundry list of nearby attractions with a lot of verbatim quoting from “The Book”.
The irony of a bunch of tourists trying to get “off the beaten track” by following the same guides, if it was ever acknowledged at all, was done with a sort of shrug, like, “what can you do?”.
Follow the books and the apps, and instead of the authentic slice of Southeast Asia you’d been promised, you’ll come away with the authentic tourist experience - and see the same things as everyone else.
In addition, the guidebooks and apps can lead you down completely the wrong path. TripAdvisor’s recommendations, based on tourists’ reviews, often skew towards the Western-friendly eateries – but Lonely Planet is prone to straight-up hyperbole.
Earlier in our holiday, in southern Laos, we and a group of other tourists decided to stop for a night in the town of Savannakhet, after reading in The Book that the town, filled with charming, slowly-crumbling French buildings, had “a languid ambience”.
The reality was a little different.
By “languid ambience”, I think Lonely Planet must have meant “deserted, depressing and vaguely terrifying, filled with roving packs of aggressive dogs and entirely devoid of positivity”.
The next night, still smarting from that awful experience, we were happy to get away early to Pakse, which had been sold by Lonely Planet as a bigger city with more going on – and more of that attractive “post-colonial charm”.
Pakse turned out to be even more bleak than Savannakhet: a near-deserted town with a worse atmosphere.
Avoiding these experiences meant using Lonely Planet and TripAdvisor less as a rigid blueprint for the platonic ideal of a Southeast Asia holiday, and more as a source of suggestions we could take or leave (mostly leave).
When it came to the issue of authenticity, we found the best course was to leave yourself open to genuine experiences, but not to worry too much about whether they happen.
As much as the (worthy) goal of a legitimate, unmediated, anti-tourist holiday can consume you, it is far better is to enjoy each experience on its own merits.
You will have “authentic” experiences, and you will have “authentically fun” experiences, and the Venn diagram for your holiday will hopefully have a section where those two categories overlap.
Among the more “authentically fun” activities, weirdly, was visiting Madame Tussaud’s in Bangkok, a spectacle inauthentic on all sorts of levels, starting with the fact that it wasn’t even the real Madame Tussaud’s.
But the place was extremely amusing, and there was no chance of misconception about its legitimacy.
The only problem: we could have done with a guide, to explain how the wax models were built.
If only we’d brought our copy of The Book.