Early the next morning, Zong Hang received his first week’s internship schedule.
Long Song had thought it through carefully: “You can’t just play around here. Eventually, you’ll have to go back, and when your father asks about the hotel operations, if you know nothing about it, both you and I will be in trouble.”
His internship arrangement was scientific and reasonable, balancing learning, dining, and entertainment.
Week One:
Mornings would be spent observing the front desk and concierge department – no actual work required, just watching how staff receive guests and arrange rooms, getting a general understanding of operations.
Afternoons were for exploring Angkor Wat. With its numerous sites like Bayon Temple, Banteay Srei, and Preah Khan, each with their own merits, though to the untrained eye, they were all stone buildings. To avoid aesthetic fatigue, the visits were spread out – one site per day, to be savored individually.
Evenings were reserved for the Old Market area, another kind of temple – a temple of entertainment spending. With its streets of bars, night markets, and restaurants, the plan was to experience each venue listed in the famous “Lonely Planet” travel guide, one establishment per day, ensuring nothing was missed.
Holding the schedule, Zong Hang felt deeply moved, thinking that Zong Bishing’s eye for talent wasn’t bad after all – Long Song was truly capable.
The morning internship passed with both tension and fulfillment.
Everyone treated him politely, knowing his special status. Since the hotel primarily served Chinese guests, staff were required to know the language, and many front desk workers were teaching themselves Chinese. They constantly asked Zong Hang how to pronounce words and spell pinyin. For the first time, Zong Hang experienced the feeling of being needed and valued. He was delighted to play teacher and felt he could do this kind of internship for ten years without getting bored.
Long Song seized the opportunity to send Zong Bishing a photo of Zong Hang surrounded by staff, with the caption: “Zong Hang teaching staff Chinese.”
Zong Bishing received the photo and was very pleased, telling Tong Hong: “At least this kid is somewhat useful. Even if he learns nothing else from this trip, helping my staff improve their Chinese is good enough.”
After lunch, Apa brought his tuk-tuk to the hotel entrance, waiting to take Zong Hang to Angkor Wat.
Looking up, he saw Zong Hang emerge surrounded by several female staff members.
It wasn’t like he was going far or didn’t know the way – was such a send-off necessary?
Apa snorted, looking at the bag beside him containing two cans of beer and fried crab: these were sent by the front desk girls, asking him to find out if Zong Hang had a girlfriend.
Apa responded indifferently: “Why don’t you ask him yourselves?”
The girl said: “It’s only the first day, we’re not that familiar yet.”
He had already guessed Zong Hang would be popular: a foreigner, fair and handsome, tall, good-tempered, unpretentious, and a young master to boot.
Zong Hang got on the tuk-tuk and sprawled out casually.
Siem Reap’s tuk-tuks were different from China’s electric tricycles. While electric tricycles were one piece, the tuk-tuks here could be dismantled. Simply put, they were motorcycles pulling wheeled carriage frames – whenever you wanted to ride just the motorcycle, you could unscrew the connection and ride freely.
With heavy traffic in the city center, the tuk-tuk couldn’t go fast, perfect for sightseeing: there were many foreign tourists, all lounging in tuk-tuks like him, either heading to or returning from Angkor Wat.
Apa drove steadily: “Young Master, many people have asked me to find out if you have a girlfriend…”
Zong Hang’s gaze furtively swept across his hand.
The vehicle accelerated, and the afternoon breeze carried Apa’s next words: “You must have one, being so handsome… I’ve had three.”
Zong Hang said: “I… haven’t had many, just five.”
This wasn’t just a contest between men, but between nations: yes, being abroad, everything had to be tied to national pride.
Apa was very envious, though in truth, he hadn’t had any.
To enter Angkor Wat, you first need to buy tickets. Zong Hang bought a seven-day pass for multiple entries, which required taking a photo.
With a ticket in hand, they headed first to the famous Angkor Wat temple. Following local customs, tourists usually explored on their own while drivers waited outside.
Zong Hang had little interest in historical and cultural sites. While he could understand some background for domestic sites, foreign ones left him completely lost.
After walking the causeway, he was already quite tired. The five-tower lotus pond reflection said to be the world’s most beautiful, wasn’t so beautiful these days due to murky water. The outer gallery’s lengthy bas-reliefs were grand and exquisite, but he couldn’t understand them. While the ancient ruined stones were perfect for photography, he wasn’t interested in that either.
Reaching the rear of Mount Meru, he saw tourists queuing to climb the steep golden terrace, its slope so steep it made him dizzy just looking up.
Zong Hang caught a Taiwanese elder who had just descended and asked what there was to see up there. The elder said: “Just the view.”
What’s there to see, it’s all just stones anyway, Zong Hang thought as he left.
Checking the time, he’d been there less than half an hour. Generally, visiting Angkor Wat took at least two hours minimum. Leaving so soon seemed disrespectful to the site and didn’t justify the ticket price.
Zong Hang found an excuse for himself.
After finding Apa outside, he said: “For such a famous building, I think it’s a waste to just walk through without preparation. I should go back and read some books about ancient Cambodian history first, then return when I understand it better.”
He thought this excuse was brilliant, making him appear cultured and profound.
Apa said: “Young Master, don’t bother, we don’t have history.”
Zong Hang gave him a sideways glance: “That’s because you didn’t study well, your history is poor. How dare you blame the country for not having history.”
Apa was serious: “Young Master, you don’t know? We’re not like you, who invented papermaking so early. Your ancestors’ things, even when they went to the bathroom or ate, everything was recorded. Our words were written on banana leaves, and in this hot climate, they didn’t preserve well. Plus insects ate them, our history was all eaten away.”
The idea of history being eaten away was unheard of, but Apa spoke with such conviction that it didn’t seem made up. Zong Hang pulled out his phone: “Don’t try to fool me, we have the internet now, we can look up anything!”
Apa lifted his chin, showing no fear of verification.
After searching for a while, it was true. They only roughly knew that Cambodia was established in the first century CE, first called Funan then Chenla, but there were no detailed historical records. The earliest reference material was written by the Chinese – during the Yuan Dynasty when the emperor probably wanted to annex Chenla, he sent someone called Zhou Daguan to investigate. Zhou stayed for over a year and wrote “The Customs of Cambodia,” a text less than ten thousand characters long that became “precious material” and the “only record” for studying Chenla period history.
Amid the constant chatter of people around him, Zong Hang clutched his phone, feeling for the first time how great the invention of paper was. Human memory is so fallible – how much could be passed down by word of mouth alone? Chinese history spans five thousand years with so many events – thankfully it was all recorded on paper, otherwise how would later generations know about it?
Thinking further, human society was truly fragile. How many years of written records were there? What about things without records – did they just never happen? It seemed too easy to erase a period of history.
Apa waved his hand in front of him: “Hey, hey, Young Master, you’re done already? Where should we go then?”
Returning to the hotel wouldn’t work, he couldn’t explain that to Long Song, and it was too early for the night market and bar street.
Zong Hang and Apa finished the fried crab with their beer, then lay down on either side of the tuk-tuk to sleep. Zong Hang even had a dream where he was speeding away on a tuk-tuk while Angkor Wat chased him, crying and wailing: “You heartless person, look at me! Just look at me once!”
He woke up laughing even in his dream.
That evening, he finally discovered the correct mode of a happy life.
Zong Hang felt that Siem Reap underwent a daily “Spring Festival travel rush” style mass movement: during the day, tourists from various countries flooded to Angkor Wat; at night, like returning swallows, they gathered in the Old Market area.
The crowds were good, creating excitement. Tourists from different cultural backgrounds and spending levels brought a thousand strange demands, spawning various supplies. Everywhere was lit up with red lanterns and wine, everything was fresh and bizarre. Every street and alley was packed with buying and selling, every spot radiated heat and sparked with energy, making people’s hearts itch with the desire to revel wildly and throw off restraint.
Even Apa hadn’t explored it all and could only give Zong Hang a general idea: Cambodia’s currency was the Riel, but Siem Reap was an international tourist city that commonly used US dollars; that was the bar street where foreigners loved to go, where western women might drag you to dance on poles when they got excited; this street was specifically for eating, you must try Amok and stir-fried tree ants with holy basil…
He also solemnly entrusted him with one thing: if he encountered landmine bands composed of disabled members, it would be best to give a dollar or two as tips.
Cambodia had buried millions of landmines during wartime, and they still hadn’t been completely cleared. According to International Red Cross statistics, on average someone dies or is disabled by landmines every five minutes here. Some too many disabled people needed to eat, so the Cambodian government organized them to learn music, form bands, and earn a living.
Zong Hang quickly nodded.
At first, he followed Apa step by step, but later grew bolder: he couldn’t get lost anyway – with Google Maps in hand, he could navigate if lost, tuk-tuk drivers were everywhere, everyone knew Angkor Hotel, and it only cost two dollars to get back. Chinese tourists were everywhere, making it feel like home…
Once his heart relaxed, getting separated from Apa was a matter of minutes.
Apa messaged him on WeChat to find him, he replied: Let’s explore separately, meet later at Khmer Kitchen.
Khmer Kitchen was a local internet-famous restaurant and a prominent landmark. Apa probably thought it wasn’t a big deal either, so he stopped looking for him.
Zong Hang bought a dollar avocado smoothie and wandered, sipping and drinking, walking and looking: he checked out Thai massage shops, explored the public market, watched people dance provocatively outside pulsing bars, and even put ten dollars in the landmine band’s donation box.
The Old Market area had crisscrossing streets, but there were main and secondary routes. Not every alley was busy, and sometimes if you weren’t careful, you might turn into a dark alley with few people. As Zong Hang walked, he realized he had reached a remote area, but didn’t want to turn back – looking around, there was a fork in the road ahead with bright lights, clearly another lively spot.
He excitedly walked toward the fork.
Just halfway there, a door suddenly burst open beside him, a bright light spilled down the steps, and simultaneously, a man tumbled down the stairs.
Zong Hang was about to peek, but the light dimmed again, and two burly figures emerged from inside, one after another, speaking Khmer. Though he couldn’t understand, from their tone, they seemed to be cursing.
Even if you haven’t eaten pork, you’ve seen pigs run – he must have stumbled upon a fight scene. Tong Hong had always instilled in him: that never watch trouble, or trouble will find you.
Zong Hang ducked his neck, preparing to pass by quickly without looking or listening.
At that moment, the man rubbed his neck, groaning as he raised his head.
Damn, it was someone he knew, that old Ma from the airport, surname MA, first name YUEFEI…
As their eyes met, something must have shown in their gaze, as the two Cambodians’ faces showed suspicion.
By rights, as fellow countrymen, they should help each other, but he wasn’t Wolf Warrior, he couldn’t fight everyone. Besides, the daughter was an illegal immigrant, so the father might not be a law-abiding citizen either. If he got beaten, so be it…
Zong Hang forced a friendly and enthusiastic smile at the two men, speeding up his pace, almost running.
The Cambodian standing in front stepped down one step, watching Zong Hang walk away. Though still somewhat suspicious, a passerby was just a passerby…
Generally, they wouldn’t bother with passersby.
At that moment, old Ma suddenly lunged at the man.
He used all his strength to tightly grab the man’s legs, turning his head toward Zong Hang’s retreating direction and shouting hoarsely: “Son! Run! Go call the police!”