The stones of Angkor Wat can speak. But only to those who listen
The stones of Angkor Wat can speak. But only to those who listen
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For a guide, Kong Kea was remarkably reticent. As we drove through the rain, our destination Angkor Wat, he stared straight ahead and said nothing. It was a mood that suited me. After all, it wasn't everyday that one came face to face with the remnants of a long-lost civilisation. To prepare for those circumstances called for silence.
A moat outside Angkor Wat.
When the world-famous ruins finally swung into view, I realised why he had little to say. In the face of such dignified magnificence, one could easily get used to a world devoid of language. It took me a few minutes to find words too.
Despite it being my first glimpse, their outlines blurry through the rain, the spires of Angkor were instantly recognisable. They had made their presence felt from the moment I landed at Siem Reap-Angkor International Airport. They had stared up at me from my visa, stamped upon my passport by an expressionless immigration officer. They had looked down at me from Cambodian national flags fluttering at street corners. They had beckoned from grocery stores, via gold-coloured rows embossed on cans of Angkor beer.
Still, to stand before the actual ruins, the pride of the ancient Khmer civilisation, took some getting used to.
Even Kong Kea ufffd a man no doubt familiar with the temples since Day One on planet Earth ufffd had a look of reverence on his face, mixed with a subtle pride. And this was something he undoubtedly came across daily.
Stepping onto the concrete walkway, I began to cross the 190-metre wide moat, approaching the crumbling archways of Angkor like a pilgrim. The moat alone, I was told, had saved these ruins from the onslaught of the jungle. Most other temples ufffd and there were many, spread across the 400-square-kilometre Angkor Archaeological Park ufffd had simply been swallowed, hidden from the eyes of man for centuries, until the slow process of restoration had begun in our time.
Angkor was made to represent Mount Meru, home of the Gods. Its walls bore thousands of stone devtas, or demi-gods, all bearing allegiance to classic Hindu myth. And although there were other tourists hidden in the temple's nooks and crannies, all I could hear was the wind. I stepped through crumbling windows, onto patches of green, manoeuvring my way through fallen columns and the occasional stone god.
given the bloody history of Cambodia, the temples seemed a little out of place. It was hard to imagine hands beating stone incessantly, carving out lessons in morality while battle lines were being drawn and redrawn in the world outside. According to the Cambodian Mine Action Centre, there could be as many as six million mines and unexploded ordinances in the country even today.
As I walked passed bas-relief friezes extolling the wisdom of Hinduism, epitomising the grace of Buddhism, I thought of how things could possibly have come to this. The devtas, like Kong Kea, smiled their quiet smiles. They said nothing.
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