Solo Adventures in Cambodia: Embracing the Chaos of Chafed Skin and Bug Bites

Traveling alone has always been something I aspired to do. I read The Top Five Regrets of The Dying at 19, and Bronnie Ware’s narrative of her experiences as a traveling palliative care nurse has always fueled my inspiration.

In her book, she recounted life as a nomad and the discussions she had with various individuals nearing the end of their journeys. One of the primary regrets expressed by people was not having lived the life they truly desired. “I wish I’d had the bravery to live a life authentic to myself, rather than the life others anticipated from me.”

Her writing intensified my desire to volunteer overseas, to engage with and learn from diverse individuals, and to listen to countless stories. And, without academic commitments or job obligations to hide behind, I ultimately gathered the boldness to pack my belongings last February.

My initial stop was a quaint village near Siem Reap in Cambodia, where I would dedicate five weeks to volunteering as an English instructor. I completed a teaching English as a foreign language (TEFL) course in the months leading up to my departure to acquire some practical teaching abilities. I received my vaccinations, read numerous blogs, and secured my flights.

I departed with an itinerary to visit various sites in Cambodia and Thailand post my teaching period, along with a vague notion of other workaway endeavors I hoped to undertake in Europe that summer. However, I refrained from excessively planning my journey or destinations.

I wasn’t driven by the urge to see specific landmarks or attractions. I didn’t carry a bucket list or a rigid agenda. I yearned to hear tales, to dive into life with an open perspective. I aspired to envelop myself in new cultures and experiences, leaving room for evolution, cancellations, changes of heart, and instincts.

The cultural shock immediately overwhelmed me during the initial days, combined with the heat and a sense of existential pondering. I recalled the poet Paul Durcan, gazing at a “ceiling with a mosaic of question marks” as I struggled to drift into slumber at night. It wasn’t so much a sensation of fear or insecurity, but rather a perplexity about how to engage with myself. After transitioning from academia to full-time employment, I felt as though I had infinite time unfolding ahead of me—a sensation of being suspended in limbo.

I discovered that liberty can feel just as stifling as a monotonous routine. It requires adaptation.

Anxious, chafed, and swarmed by mosquito bites, I encountered two other volunteers, and we were collected from the city. I gazed out the window at the red dusty path as we made our way to the countryside, passing lotus farms and rice paddies. We observed elevated wooden dwellings, each featuring a miniature temple outside. All accompanied by a symphony of sounds: the music, the rumble of motorbikes and tuk-tuks, and a background hum of drilling, whirring, clapping, humming—blending and clashing together, all striving to be heard above the rest.

I relished the chaos. It heightened my senses.

We arrived at Bakong village in the evening. My new residence was situated on a bustling road, with a fueling station, a small shop, and market stalls in proximity. Upon entering the driveway, I noticed a row of bicycles, individuals in hammocks, and children kicking around a football. We were introduced to our fellow volunteers and our host family, who guided us upstairs to our accommodations. A spacious wooden terrace awaited us, equipped with fans, mats, and hammocks. Inside, rows of mattresses were surrounded by mosquito nets and curtains. Fans droned persistently, battling against the oppressive heat.

We were granted time to acclimatize before we commenced our evening classes. Behind the house, there were three wooden classrooms along with an outdoor space for lessons. Alongside one of the volunteers, I was responsible for teaching a beginners’ class consisting of children aged seven to ten. And later,with two additional volunteers, an upper intermediate class composed of young adults.

I felt extremely anxious that initial evening addressing the learners. The stomach-churning grips of social anxiety overwhelmed me, and I felt as if I was back to being 12 years old. However, I needn’t have worried, as they were gracious and brimming with curiosity.

I admired their commitment to the supplementary classes, having already spent their days in school or university. As days went by, I eagerly anticipated listening to their narratives. Their inquiries. And gaining insights into Cambodian culture and traditions from them.

In the morning, we would have breakfast and ride our bikes to the local public school for teaching. That was among my favorite aspects of the day. Biking through the countryside, familiarizing myself with the region while waving at locals. Groups of young students would chase our bikes through the school gates, eager to play and give us hugs. Their hearts overflowed with affection and mischief.

After our morning lessons, we would stay to engage in play with them for a bit. Subsequently, we would ride to the local café or wander through markets indulging in mini bananas and mangoes, seeking shade during the hottest hours of the day. Occasionally we would paint or play cards. Or ride to the lake and swim in its murky waters.

I eagerly anticipated the sight of the students arriving for the evening classes. Filled with vitality and playfulness. Engaging in conversations about their days. Building connections with them. And enjoying play in the field as the sun began to set.

During the weekends, we would step away from our host family to stay in Siem Reap, exploring with the local educators. I relished the scooter journeys. Ascending winding roads to mountaintops where we discovered temples and waterfalls. Offering views of the extensive jungle below. And bouncing along in tuk-tuks through narrow corridors and alleyways. Savoring the aromas of cooking, spices, perfumes, and fruits. The buzz of traffic, the sounds of sizzling pans.

I cherished the lush greenery, the red, dusty pathways, the vibrant markets, the architecture, and the lively cities.

However, it was the individuals who made the most significant impact on me. I felt inspired by the teachers and students I interacted with. And the limitless kindness from the locals who welcomed us warmly, sharing their community and culture with us.