I still remember the first time I walked into the emerald hush of the forest around Angkor Wat. The air was damp with monsoon mist, and every leaf glistened as though nature itself had just whispered a prayer. As I rounded a mossy stone pathway, I heard it: soft, chattering laughter echoing through the treetops — a choir of monkeys playing, as if carried on the breath of the ancient temple ruins.
In that moment, I stopped breathing. A troop of macaques, maybe twenty strong, tumbled across a sunlit clearing, their energy electric. Babies clung to their mothers, while young ones leapt from branch to branch, tails flicking like couriers delivering joy. Their nimble bodies moved in effortless harmony, a dance unchoreographed but perfect.
I settled on a fallen log, heart pounding in my chest. They seemed to sense me, these forest dwellers — but their curiosity was gentle, not invasive. A little one paused, looked right at me with bright brown eyes, then scampered to join its siblings. The rustle of foliage, the soft sighs of the jungle, and their playful chatter blended into a kind of ASMR for the soul.
As an American visitor, I was struck by how close this felt to something out of my childhood imagination — the Jungle Book, Tarzan, or perhaps just a memory I didn’t know I carried. But there, in that sacred space, it was real: wild monkeys, laughing.
I closed my eyes and let the sounds wash over me. I thought about how many tourists come to Angkor Wat for the stone temples, the carvings, the sunrise over the towers — and yet, here in the forest, something more primal, more alive, was unfolding. I felt like a guest whispering in on an ancient secret.
Suddenly, a mother macaque called out, and her infant tumbled into her arms. The pair swung down to the forest floor, and she groomed him with slow, tender movements. That small act — a mother caring for her baby — grounded me. It reminded me that, despite centuries of history, these monkeys are living, breathing beings with families, feelings, and stories as rich as the stones of Angkor.
I reached for my phone, hesitant to break the spell, but I pressed play on the video — the one like this: — and watched them in motion again, the same troop, the same laughter. It felt like reliving a dream.
I thought about the challenges they face. I’d read that some monkeys at Angkor have grown too comfortable around tourists, even aggressive when people feed them. Phnom Penh Post+2Cambodianess+2 I thought, perhaps with sadness, about how our presence changes their wildness — how kindness and curiosity, though well-meaning, can pull them off balance.
But in that moment, none of that mattered. What mattered was the tenderness: the way the young ones chased shadows, how the mothers watched over them, how the forest seemed to cradle every screech and whisper. I felt privileged to be a spectator in a world that felt larger than me, older than me — and yet more hopeful than I ever expected.
When I finally left the clearing, my feet felt light, and my heart felt full. The laughter of the monkeys stayed with me long after I had walked back to the stone temples, like a secret melody tucked into the corners of my memory.
At getmonki.info, I hope others can feel that same connection — the quiet wonder and deep respect for these creatures who call the Angkor forest home.
