You arrive before the midday heat, stepping off the private vehicle into a clearing where stones and vines argue for dominance. A wooden walkway threads through Beng Mealea’s collapsed corridors — walk carefully and the temple opens like a half-remembered ruin: crumbling sandstone, sticky humidity, tree roots that have turned blocks into ladders. Later the road eases to lowland water and a motorized skiff slips under stilted houses at Kompong Phluk, where channels replace streets and the flooded forest pushes branches across the boat’s bow.