8 years after the most incredible trip of my life, I’m returning to Cambodia tomorrow — a country whose culture fascinated me, whose kindness almost unsettled me, and whose culinary experiences were endlessly delicious. Ever since planning this trip, I’ve been bringing up (partly as a running joke) the famous fried tarantulas from Skuon — undeniably one of my greatest discoveries. A few months ago, I managed to convince a few friends to choose Cambodia as our travel destination.
Today is a chance to rediscover photos I took of the country, just before monsoon season, in the middle of a drought. This Friday, when I arrive, it will be an opportunity to discover its green landscapes, now that the monsoon is slowly coming to an end. Everything is ready: the itinerary planned with my travel-obsessed best friend, and the suitcase.
Nothing is forgotten — not even mosquito repellent, even though I almost never get targeted by those tiny creatures everyone hates. Growing up in Guadeloupe, it was my sister who was always the chosen one, sparing me from the dozens (hundreds) of bites she got every day. Last time in Cambodia? Same story. The friend traveling with me was the mosquito magnet, not me. Me? One visible bite during our two-month trip. It got to the point where I stopped taking malaria medication (don’t try that at home).
In reality, the only medication I needed, I didn’t have yet. I remember that trip clearly because it was the first visible marker of my bipolar disorder in front of the people around me. Its symptoms exploded the moment I arrived, to the point where I couldn’t mask anything anymore. The internship could have gone completely off the rails, but my mother and professors stepped in to save me at the last minute and allow me to finish it and get my diploma.
Arrival in unfamiliar territory
What struck me the most when I arrived was the intense heat of the sun on my skin. It only took a few seconds before sweat appeared, the humidity was so heavy. As soon as the aircraft doors opened, you could feel that suffocating heat — almost 50°C between 2 and 4pm. I was used to the warmth of Guadeloupe, but this was another level, surpassing even the hottest French heatwaves. Except here, it lasted two months. Many Cambodians wore what they called pajamas: soft, loose clothing that let the body breathe and never irritated the skin.
The second thing that struck me — so much that it became a running joke whenever I use my Cambodia script to socialize — was the smell. When I landed at the airport, as soon as the airplane doors opened, an almost nauseating smell spread through the cabin. It was a mix of pollution, cooking methods powered by fire or coal, and the country’s humidity. Thankfully, you get used to it quickly. But since I’d been almost entirely hyposensitive to smell until age 27, I was surprised I noticed it at all.
When it wasn’t the heat, it was the cold. The showers at the center where we stayed didn’t have cold water. Strangely, I can tolerate very low temperatures in a T-shirt, but I’ve always been sensitive to cold water — probably because of the combination of water pressure and temperature. For four days, I would turn on the shower and only rinse my body for 10 seconds. It felt like the North Pole. The water burned my skin in a way only freezing temperatures mixed with extreme heat outside can.
It will also be time to meet the monsoon again — its relentless rain whipping your face, each drop falling like a storm. I experienced a few of those moments during my first trip. Far from constant rain like people imagine, it comes in powerful bursts, flooding entire areas in minutes and forcing you to take shelter.
I took this two-month trip as part of my humanitarian end-of-studies internship. We were teaching French and programming to students. It was a perfectly disorienting experience: during the week, we lived among them, learned to cook like them, and managed to communicate despite the language barrier. We were essentially teaching French to Cambodians who didn’t speak a word of English. So we relied on a translator — a young student who was the only one who spoke English.
A people who never say no
Since it’s a culture where people rarely say no, here’s a small anecdote: one day, we were explaining a programming concept, took a pause, and looked at the student, waiting for him to translate. Nothing. We then asked whether they had understood. A big smile and a cheerful “yes” — even though it was obvious he hadn’t translated a single thing. That moment stayed with us and amused us for a long time.
They never said no to anything. We slept on mattresses less than one centimeter thick, placed on wooden boards we could feel under our exhausted bodies at the end of each day. We got used to it quickly — especially once we learned those mattresses actually belonged to other students, who had given them to us to make sure we weren’t too disoriented. We weren’t paid for the internship, but we were housed for free, with a mosquito net (which I stopped using after a few days). A dream — genuinely, no irony.
All the Cambodians I met had that warm smile and were delighted to meet foreigners, especially when those foreigners were curious, open, and eager to learn and share experiences. One of the teachers even gave us a guided tour of Phnom Penh when we arrived, and introduced us to increasingly unusual food tastings.
Food and various tastings
A small return to the topic of food, because ironically, I can’t actually cook most local dishes. And yet, while I was there, I learned by communicating through gestures, watching how they cooked, and relying on their endless patience with us. Discovering new dishes is probably what left the strongest impression on me — from the famous Lok Lak (originally Vietnamese), the lesser-known Amok Fish (a sort of coconut-milk curry), and Morning Glory (a dish made from water spinach), to — more importantly — the tasting of insects.
I tried everything I could find. And yes, I still remember the fried tarantulas, where the crispy legs taste like peanuts, and the body is half peanut, half shrimp. Even my friend, who was horrified at first by the idea of eating insects, eventually took the leap and ended up enjoying them (insects are the future of food, so get ready). You eat them like chips — and they’re delicious. You just need to close your eyes and go for it, if you’re squeamish.
Cambodian chaos
I still remember the sensory chaos of the loud roads — watching Cambodians ride four people on a scooter while balancing a washing machine on their back. Absurd in France, completely normal there. The more time passed, the more I understood the rules: unlike in the West, the bigger you are on the road, the more priority you have. That’s how I watched pedestrians cross carefully while tuk-tuks and scooters avoided cars, and cars squeezed between buses and trucks. It was chaos, but an orderly one. Just not the set of rules we’re used to.
Cambodia was a bit like my bipolar chaos or my sensory chaos: everything seemed illogical, yet everything obeyed a kind of internal order. Whether it was illegal but tolerated prostitution, with sex workers openly signaling outside bars, the roads, the open sale of drugs 100 meters from the Royal Palace handled as a “second job” by tuk-tuk drivers, or the very common police corruption.
Angkor temples, the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen
This trip beginning tomorrow will be an opportunity to return to the temples of Angkor — one of the most breathtaking wonders I’ve ever seen. They are listed as a UNESCO World Heritage Site, which funds their restoration. Some temples have fused with the forest, creating a surreal sight that led to some of my best photographs. Some temples are still lost and are regularly rediscovered, often with drones. I find that incredible.
I discovered some of the most stunning temples hidden deep in the forest, dragging our tuk-tuk driver along even though he clearly preferred the popular routes. And it was the best surprise — stepping into a world where an extinct civilization and nature had become one. Moss-covered walls, sunlight filtered through massive trees.
The language barrier
But Cambodia was also a way of immersing my friend in the same challenges I face daily: entering a world where no one speaks the same language and having to juggle gestures and onomatopoeias to be understood. A great challenge, even if we came armed with a few words — mainly numbers (it’s quite simple, they count in base five; 6 is literally “five one,” 7 is “five two,” and so on). In a way, I felt freed from speech and could focus instead on faces and intonations.
Because counting mattered: I found myself in Phnom Penh’s central market trying to buy a “pre-war lighter” that a man wanted to sell us for 45 dollars. We offered 5 euros, he refused, so we walked away — only for him to run after us to complete the sale at a reasonable price. Bargaining is extremely common in Cambodia. Especially when you don’t have the local skin tone and vendors inflate prices tenfold without hesitation. But it can also feel uncomfortable when you know you don’t share remotely the same standard of living as most locals.
My goal during that trip was to embrace Cambodian everyday life as much as possible — keeping “luxury” hotels only for weekends, which still cost barely more than 10 euros.
The chaos of bipolar disorder in Cambodia
I love Cambodia for the sense of order I find within its chaos, and for the cultural treasure it represents. But my memory of it is biased. I arrived there already in a depressive state and almost cancelled the trip at the last minute. The culture shock didn’t help — my mood gradually collapsed to the point where, after two weeks, I wanted to go home. I didn’t yet know I had bipolar disorder. I spent entire days lying down, smoking in silence, under the helpless gaze of the students. Even my friend, who was discovering my depression for the first time, no longer knew what to do.
The difficulties I faced eventually ended after months of depression. A Cambodian woman working with the center saved me by booking a plane ticket — and I shifted into a hypomanic episode. I spent money without thinking, in a country where the cost of a meal equals 15 restaurant outings in France. I spent my time in bars, meeting other foreigners and sharing good moments with Cambodians. I even almost got run over the first time I tried riding a scooter. I mentioned chaos earlier — but it was also my daily reality during that trip. The chaos of bipolarity right before it was diagnosed.
Anyway, that trip left a deep mark on me, I’ll never forget it. I was genuinely sad when we left the center, because it meant returning to Western reality and leaving people who had taught me so much and who took their time with my struggles. An incredible people, breathtaking landscapes, fascinating food, and a dream climate.
This time, it will be different: in theory, I’m stable — or at least my latent hypomania seems contained.
The day after tomorrow, I’ll return to this country where I may eventually spend the rest of my life. And I’ll rediscover it with new eyes. Most importantly, I’ll be sharing the experience with my closest friends — the ones who didn’t leave when my social mask finally fell. And I’ll share this journey with you over the next 25 days: what it feels like to be abroad when you’re autistic and bipolar (in the middle of mood instability for nearly 9 months — maybe this will be the moment to be reborn).
📸 Personal photographs taken during my first trip to Cambodia, in 2017.
Originally published in French on: 15 Oct 2025 — translated to English on: 19 Nov 2025.