“Artichoke. It’s like a hard, rough, green
\nflower.” The gears in my head whirred away as I
\nsearched for a description. All around me, serene faces
\ncarved out of stone blocks smiled. “What does it
\ntaste like?” asked Kay with pen poised. I looked to
\nthe grey sandstone heads for inspiration and replied,
\n“A bit like… Cabbage.”<\/p>\n
During the week, the Bayon and nearby stone temples of
\nAngkor resemble anthills crawling with travellers. Two by
\ntwo the tour groups scurry around the ancient monuments, up
\nthe steep sides and in and out of cool corridors,
\ncollecting knowledge, photographs and memories. On Sundays,
\nthe 200 carved faces of Avalokiteshvara smile smugly at
\nyoung Khmers carrying notebooks collecting English
\nwords.<\/p>\n
Kay is 13. He lives in the small village of Kok Tmey
\njust outside Siem Reap. He goes to the temples of Angkor
\nevery Sunday to find travellers willing to spend a few
\nminutes teaching him their language. That week his homework
\nwas to learn how to spell and pronounce a list of 28 fruit
\nand vegetables.<\/p>\n
In return for running through the list, Kay lead me to
\nthe bas-reliefs at the bottom of the Bayon where the first
\nlevel of carving depicts daily life in Cambodia. “My
\nuncle has one of these on his farm,” said Kay
\npointing to an ox-cart in a picture of Khmer soldiers off
\nto battle. “And this is the village where the boat
\ncomes in from Phenom Penh,” he said, pointing to a
\npanel that included a fish market. “Look at the
\nchickens fighting and the old men playing.”<\/p>\n
Kay tugged at my shirt sleeve. “Come this way.
\nThis is my favourite.” We walked to the western
\ncorner where a slightly faded panel showed a Khmer circus
\ncomplete with tight-rope walkers and a giant lifting three
\nother men.<\/p>\n
From that point on ground level, the Bayon was a jumble
\nof sandstone blocks. As we climbed knee high stone steps to
\nthe third level, the giant stone faces appeared in front
\nand in profile, smiling above and all around. I said
\ngoodbye to Kay and left him and his school friends
\ninterrogating a Canadian girl about the taste of a
\nguava.<\/p>\n
“Custard Apple. It’s like a small soft
\ncoconut with green skin,” I explained as I sat in a
\ndeserted courtyard inside the Preah Khan temple. Bun, one
\nof Kay’s schoolmates with the same homework, nodded
\nand pointed to a small white flower growing in the shade of
\nthe rock. “Did you see the movie ‘Tomb
\nRaider’?” he asked. “The girl found the
\nentrance to the temple by finding the flowers. Just like
\nthis.” I looked closer at the tiny orchid, not much
\nbigger than a thumbnail with five delicate petals in the
\nshape of a star. It was a great reward for sitting still.
\nWe ran through the list of fruit and vegetables and then
\nBun showed me through the ‘Sacred Sword’
\ntemple. We walked down the main corridor towards the
\ncentral sanctuary. “Look how the doors get lower as
\nwe get closer,” said Bun. “This is to make you
\nbow before the statue of Buddha.” Bun had no problems
\nwalking through the doorways as they shrank, but I could
\nnot pass through them without bowing my head.<\/p>\n
The Preah Khan temple covers an area of 700m by 800m. As
\nBun led me over a pile of collapsed rooftop, I was glad
\nthat I had a guide to show me the hidden details, like an
\nintricate carving of Shiva holding up the mountain and a
\nqueen statue that I would never have found on my own. We
\nwandered down lost corridors to the southern gate where two
\nheadless statues stood guard against the jungle.
\n“They guard against the monkeys,” laughed Bun,
\nas the screeches of gibbons got louder in the treetops.<\/p>\n
Bun and I made our way to the South Eastern corner of
\nthe temple where the Banyan trees had taken over from the
\nstone. The thick roots of the trees gripped the 12th
\ncentury sandstone blocks like the talons of a mythological
\nbird of prey, providing a base for the trunk that dwarfed
\nthe remaining towers of the temple. “The jungle tree
\nand the temple need each other,” said Bun, “The
\ntree can not be removed. It holds the pieces
\ntogether.” He walked with me to the north gate where
\nhe was delighted to find a French couple to help him with a
\npostcard he had been sent.<\/p>\n
“Persimmon. I don’t know. I’ve never
\neaten one. I think it might be a bit like this one,”
\nI said, pointing to where passion fruit was written on the
\nsheet. I sat with Jac under the cool canopy of trees
\ncovering the crumbling ruins of Ta Prohm. Jac pointed to a
\nrow of doorways topped by banyan tree roots. “That is
\nwhere they filmed ‘Tomb Raider,” he said. I
\ncould see why. Unlike most of the other temples around
\nAngkor, Ta Prohm has not been restored. Instead it has been
\nleft at the mercy of the jungle.<\/p>\n
Academics argue about the merits of letting the site
\ndecay to satisfy tourists who want to feel like Lara Croft
\nor Indiana Jones. Some say it is selfish to want to
\ndiscover the overgrown entrances as if for the first time.
\nAs we sat in a green shady corner, listening to the birds
\nand lizards rustle in the jungle, it was hard not to marvel
\nat how nature had reclaimed the space.<\/p>\n
We clambered over stones that had collapsed under the
\nweight of foliage and in and out of courtyards that had
\nbeen sealed on all sides. We slipped on moss and lichen
\nstill eating away at the carved stones and I tried to
\nimagine what the place would have been like when 80,000
\npeople had lived and worshipped there.<\/p>\n
Another word was collected on the trek out the long
\nsandy track to the eastern gate, Jac jumped backwards as a
\nfoot long shoelace came out of the grass and started to
\nslowly cross the path. “Is it a snake?” asked
\nJac as I leaned closer. “No. We call it a
\nworm,” I said as he furiously wrote it down in his
\nnotebook.<\/p>\n
“Adventure. It’s a long and exciting
\njourney,” I explained to Tola, a monk who lived in a
\nmonastery not far from Angkor Wat. Like most monks, he had
\nstudied English for a long time, but he still came to find
\ntourists on Sundays on the third level of the main temple.
\nWe sat and looked up at the steep steps that led to the top
\nof the central tower. Each step was about a foot high but
\nonly just wide enough to fit a foot sideways. “You
\nget used to it,” said Tola, “I don’t even
\nthink about the height, I just run down.” He pointed
\nto the summit as three Khmer boys threw their sandals off
\nthe top and onto the flat stones in front of where we sat.
\nThen they ran, face first, down the steps without
\nfaltering. Tola grinned, “There is a hand rail around
\nthe other side.”<\/p>\n
Tola met me at the top of the central tower. He climbed
\nin bare feet straight up the side, while I used the thin
\nmetal handrail to pull myself 31m to the top. Once there,
\nTola pointed out the significance of the design of the
\ntemple. “This tower is Mount Meru,” he said,
\nreferring to the place where Hindu cultures believe the
\ngods reside. “That is the ocean,” he continued,
\ngesturing out over the walls to the moat of still dark
\nwater that forms a 1.5km by 1.3km boundary to the complex.
\nWe walked around the top level, traditionally reserved for
\nKings and high priests, until we were facing the paved
\npathways and main gates in the west.<\/p>\n
The sun was setting and the Angkor sky was orange,
\ntangerine, melon, paw-paw and blueberry. There was a colour
\nfor almost every fruit on the homework sheet…<\/p>\n
This article can be found on Dave’s website:<\/p>\n