“Artichoke. It’s like a hard, rough, green
flower.” The gears in my head whirred away as I
searched for a description. All around me, serene faces
carved out of stone blocks smiled. “What does it
taste like?” asked Kay with pen poised. I looked to
the grey sandstone heads for inspiration and replied,
“A bit like… Cabbage.”
During the week, the Bayon and nearby stone temples of
Angkor resemble anthills crawling with travellers. Two by
two the tour groups scurry around the ancient monuments, up
the steep sides and in and out of cool corridors,
collecting knowledge, photographs and memories. On Sundays,
the 200 carved faces of Avalokiteshvara smile smugly at
young Khmers carrying notebooks collecting English
words.
Kay is 13. He lives in the small village of Kok Tmey
just outside Siem Reap. He goes to the temples of Angkor
every Sunday to find travellers willing to spend a few
minutes teaching him their language. That week his homework
was to learn how to spell and pronounce a list of 28 fruit
and vegetables.
In return for running through the list, Kay lead me to
the bas-reliefs at the bottom of the Bayon where the first
level of carving depicts daily life in Cambodia. “My
uncle has one of these on his farm,” said Kay
pointing to an ox-cart in a picture of Khmer soldiers off
to battle. “And this is the village where the boat
comes in from Phenom Penh,” he said, pointing to a
panel that included a fish market. “Look at the
chickens fighting and the old men playing.”
Kay tugged at my shirt sleeve. “Come this way.
This is my favourite.” We walked to the western
corner where a slightly faded panel showed a Khmer circus
complete with tight-rope walkers and a giant lifting three
other men.
From that point on ground level, the Bayon was a jumble
of sandstone blocks. As we climbed knee high stone steps to
the third level, the giant stone faces appeared in front
and in profile, smiling above and all around. I said
goodbye to Kay and left him and his school friends
interrogating a Canadian girl about the taste of a
guava.
“Custard Apple. It’s like a small soft
coconut with green skin,” I explained as I sat in a
deserted courtyard inside the Preah Khan temple. Bun, one
of Kay’s schoolmates with the same homework, nodded
and pointed to a small white flower growing in the shade of
the rock. “Did you see the movie ‘Tomb
Raider’?” he asked. “The girl found the
entrance to the temple by finding the flowers. Just like
this.” I looked closer at the tiny orchid, not much
bigger than a thumbnail with five delicate petals in the
shape of a star. It was a great reward for sitting still.
We ran through the list of fruit and vegetables and then
Bun showed me through the ‘Sacred Sword’
temple. We walked down the main corridor towards the
central sanctuary. “Look how the doors get lower as
we get closer,” said Bun. “This is to make you
bow before the statue of Buddha.” Bun had no problems
walking through the doorways as they shrank, but I could
not pass through them without bowing my head.
The Preah Khan temple covers an area of 700m by 800m. As
Bun led me over a pile of collapsed rooftop, I was glad
that I had a guide to show me the hidden details, like an
intricate carving of Shiva holding up the mountain and a
queen statue that I would never have found on my own. We
wandered down lost corridors to the southern gate where two
headless statues stood guard against the jungle.
“They guard against the monkeys,” laughed Bun,
as the screeches of gibbons got louder in the treetops.
Bun and I made our way to the South Eastern corner of
the temple where the Banyan trees had taken over from the
stone. The thick roots of the trees gripped the 12th
century sandstone blocks like the talons of a mythological
bird of prey, providing a base for the trunk that dwarfed
the remaining towers of the temple. “The jungle tree
and the temple need each other,” said Bun, “The
tree can not be removed. It holds the pieces
together.” He walked with me to the north gate where
he was delighted to find a French couple to help him with a
postcard he had been sent.
“Persimmon. I don’t know. I’ve never
eaten one. I think it might be a bit like this one,”
I said, pointing to where passion fruit was written on the
sheet. I sat with Jac under the cool canopy of trees
covering the crumbling ruins of Ta Prohm. Jac pointed to a
row of doorways topped by banyan tree roots. “That is
where they filmed ‘Tomb Raider,” he said. I
could see why. Unlike most of the other temples around
Angkor, Ta Prohm has not been restored. Instead it has been
left at the mercy of the jungle.
Academics argue about the merits of letting the site
decay to satisfy tourists who want to feel like Lara Croft
or Indiana Jones. Some say it is selfish to want to
discover the overgrown entrances as if for the first time.
As we sat in a green shady corner, listening to the birds
and lizards rustle in the jungle, it was hard not to marvel
at how nature had reclaimed the space.
We clambered over stones that had collapsed under the
weight of foliage and in and out of courtyards that had
been sealed on all sides. We slipped on moss and lichen
still eating away at the carved stones and I tried to
imagine what the place would have been like when 80,000
people had lived and worshipped there.
Another word was collected on the trek out the long
sandy track to the eastern gate, Jac jumped backwards as a
foot long shoelace came out of the grass and started to
slowly cross the path. “Is it a snake?” asked
Jac as I leaned closer. “No. We call it a
worm,” I said as he furiously wrote it down in his
notebook.
“Adventure. It’s a long and exciting
journey,” I explained to Tola, a monk who lived in a
monastery not far from Angkor Wat. Like most monks, he had
studied English for a long time, but he still came to find
tourists on Sundays on the third level of the main temple.
We sat and looked up at the steep steps that led to the top
of the central tower. Each step was about a foot high but
only just wide enough to fit a foot sideways. “You
get used to it,” said Tola, “I don’t even
think about the height, I just run down.” He pointed
to the summit as three Khmer boys threw their sandals off
the top and onto the flat stones in front of where we sat.
Then they ran, face first, down the steps without
faltering. Tola grinned, “There is a hand rail around
the other side.”
Tola met me at the top of the central tower. He climbed
in bare feet straight up the side, while I used the thin
metal handrail to pull myself 31m to the top. Once there,
Tola pointed out the significance of the design of the
temple. “This tower is Mount Meru,” he said,
referring to the place where Hindu cultures believe the
gods reside. “That is the ocean,” he continued,
gesturing out over the walls to the moat of still dark
water that forms a 1.5km by 1.3km boundary to the complex.
We walked around the top level, traditionally reserved for
Kings and high priests, until we were facing the paved
pathways and main gates in the west.
The sun was setting and the Angkor sky was orange,
tangerine, melon, paw-paw and blueberry. There was a colour
for almost every fruit on the homework sheet…
This article can be found on Dave’s website:
dave@dmfreedom.com
A very Brazilian affair in a very old established English
Lawyers Gallery. After a short presentation, a video on
flat screens round the Gallery, Gilberto Gil picked up his
guitar and this place became the Latin Quarter. He slowly
built up this very different audience of Diplomats, M.P.s,
Environmentalists and Lawyers into a group with many of
them singing along with some of his songs especially the
ones he wrote while in exile in London. The pace quickened
and joining in was Jim Capaldi the well known drummer, but
not with drums but making his mouth a bass and drum rhythm
section and he certainly helped drive it along. One of the
Partners told me the place had never been so alive and with
the wine flowing, the music playing, this did not feel like
a winter night in London but a music bar back in the warmth
of Rio. Sometimes you can travel without going
anywhere.