An old woman stepped closer to the small circle that had formed around the musicians. She listened for a moment to the haunting melody of the khan floating through the dusty street, then turned to someone nearby. She hadn’t heard a sound like this since childhood, she said.
I’m watching this unfold from a few feet away, trying to process what I’m seeing. We’d pulled off the main road on the way to a demonstration and stopped at a small market in an out-of-the-way village. Khan master Mon Hai had started playing in the street, accompanied by a few percussionists, and I was witnessing something I’d only imagined after years of admiring their work from afar.
It started tentatively. Children peeked out from doorways, curious about these strangers and the unfamiliar music. They crept a little closer, then closer still, until they were standing right next to the musicians. The adults followed — drawn by their children’s fascination and by sounds that stirred something deep in memory. Mon Hai clearly loved every moment of it, tapping his foot to create a mesmerizing rhythm, his face lighting up as the crowd grew.
Soon we had caused a proper traffic jam as trucks and carts took time out of their work day to listen. Later, the full ensemble performed at a music school nearby, packing the hall with smiling students. That’s when I got a little emotional, seeing with my own eyes what The Khmer Magic Music Bus has been doing, keeping traditional Cambodian music alive not as museum pieces, but as living, breathing culture.
And just like that, I find myself in my final hours here in Cambodia. The trip has been full of moments like this. Experiences that surprised me, moved me, and left me with stories I’m still trying to fully understand.
One of my favorites happened after we explored a floating village on Tonle Sap lake. Before boarding our boat, someone took our pictures. I assumed it was a security precaution and didn’t think much of it. When we returned to the pier and started climbing into our tuk tuks, a woman ran up trying to sell us something. This is common, and I was ready with a polite “no, thank you” in Khmer when I did a double-take. She was holding decorative plates with our own faces staring back at us from the centers!
The digital pictures weren’t official at all, they were for tourist merchandise. We sadly had to decline since they were expensive and we weren’t exactly looking our best. Now I can’t stop imagining a Cambodian family somewhere eating dinner off plates featuring the faces of foreign cheapskates.
When it comes to places that took my breath away, I’d have to choose the ancient Ta Prohm Temple where massive trees have grown around and through the stone structures. The merging of nature and human creation into something entirely new is unlike anything I’ve encountered. Walking through those ruins feels like stepping into a living collaboration between past and present.
Another otherworldly moment came atop Bokor Mountain, where dense clouds had descended to create the thickest fog I’ve ever experienced. Our driver, who takes tourists here for a living, said he’d never seen anything like it. At one point he had to stop the car because we couldn’t see ahead of us.
Walking around the temples and buildings felt like entering a secret universe that would only exist for these moments. Sound was hushed. The usual bird and insect calls were gone, replaced by howling wind that sent the mist swirling around us in ever-changing patterns. I couldn’t see my travel companion Steve standing twenty feet in front of me. The whole experience felt timeless, as though we’d stumbled into some hidden realm between worlds.
What I’ll miss most, though, are the everyday moments: people walking by the river at dusk, the most massive and diverse food court I’ve ever seen at Aeon mall in Phnom Penh, groups doing aerobics to a disco beat after work. Life here pulses with an energy and resilience that’s impossible to capture in photos but impossible to forget once you’ve witnessed it.
This experience has changed me in ways I’m still discovering. The people of Cambodia have opened their homes and hearts to me, sharing their stories, their struggles, and their incredible capacity for joy despite everything their country has endured. The beauty, culture, and vibrancy I’ve encountered here deserve to be celebrated and shared far beyond these borders.
I’m returning home as a different person, carrying these moments with me. Now comes the real work — figuring out how to honor what I’ve learned here and share it with others who need to know how extraordinary this place truly is.