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“Do you want to take the easy way or the hard way?” Easy, with its suggestions of comfort and efficiency, had never previously seemed to be an option in Cambodia. Hard, however, had already reared its daring head on a number of occasions, and the ability to vanquish it with just one word seemed almost suspicious in its simplicity on that glaring blue morning outside of Kampot. I had not imagined that I would be asked to lay my cards quite so barely when we had first ground our motorbikes to a halt on the dusty track that snakes its way towards the Phnom Chhngok cave temple, the lurching ride of earth-hued reds and horizon-engulfing greens causing us to lower our feet with the caution of those reconnecting with solid ground after taking unexpected flight. Well informed and dollars ready, we followed the wooden-fenced path to where the acres of green finally gave way to the angry grey of dark-veined rock. It was there that we met the t-shirt-clad teenager who would offer himself as our guide with those dozen teasing words: “So, what will it be? Do you want to take the easy way or the hard way?” A new, sweeping staircase boasting handrails and regularly distributed steps hid itself temptingly just over his shoulder. To his left rose a sheer wall of stone, cut across by a spidery network of branches and vines. My heart beat a little faster as I voiced the only decision possible in that moment, the only decision that seemed to embrace the spirit of the trip that I had embarked upon one month previously: “The hard way.” And that was how we found ourselves, just seconds later, forming a nervous group at the foot of that towering surface. One by one we placed a foot in a rocky nook and hoisted ourselves a couple of inches higher, hands blindly scanning the expanse of stone above us for the slightest handle as our gaze fixated itself upon the ground that, once again, we seemed to be departing. Fingers gripped at brittle boughs. Palms slid over crumbling fractures. Toes searched for subtle indents. A knee grazed the rugged slab and caused a slash of skin and blood to be left behind us, a strange offering to whomever may have been looking down upon us at that moment, curiously questioning the absurdity of our actions. In that time-halting manner that death-defying feats seem to command somehow, we had seemed to escape the world of measurements; however, less than one minute can have snuck past us before a hand plunged down from above, locked itself around my wrist and pulled. My feet continued to scramble and propel as my hands lost their grip on the Earth until, abruptly, they made fumbling connection with the upper platform’s edge. Kampot’s rolling countryside stretched out before me as I dragged my incredulously grounded body into an upright position, but we were barely afforded seconds to admire it. With the surrounding maquaques eying with bored suspicion this new set of intruders into their lofty realm, we once again made contact with the rock face to shuffle the final few precarious metres towards our ultimate goal: the interior of the stony giant itself, now only accessible via an opening hidden from view amongst the crevices and foliage. My actual memories of the cave are fittingly hazy, as the dimmed lights and gently flickering candles shocked with their contrast to an outside world of physical sensations, of beating sunlight and beating hearts. Our vividly corporeal world had been shattered by the sudden presence of other throngs of bodies which throbbed with silence, thought and purposefulness, whilst we dabbed our brows and internally shouted and spun. We could not stay inside. A glance forwards, however, showed us that our guide shared our bold convictions. Craning over a shadowy void, he signalled to us vigorously. “Do you have torches?” “Well, we have mobile phones.” “They’ll do.” With that he was swallowed by the floor to become a pinpoint of light in the darkness. And with one last glance back at that perfect staircase, we let ourselves fall behind him.