Compiled from BBC
It’s late afternoon in an incense-filled hall in Angkor Wat. A
tough-looking teenager in sunglasses and ripped jeans approaches an altar. On
woven plastic mats, women pray to a Buddha statue, barely visible through the
thick jasmine smoke. A fortune teller earnestly reads Jataka tales – stories of
the Buddha’s former lives – and from the surrounding cloisters, lined with
smaller, standing and seated Buddhas draped in saffron silks and fresh
garlands, the sound of distant chanting echoes. The teenager takes off his
trainers, carefully placing them next to the women’s flip-flops, and silently
puts his hands together to join the group in prayer.
Angkor Wat is the world’s largest religious structure, an
architectural representation of the Hindu universe and the undoubted star of a
massive temple city
built, over the course of 600 years, by dozens of rulers who considered
themselves part god, part king. Known today, rather prosaically, as Angkor Archaeological
Park, the 150-square-mile
site was the political and cultural centre of the Khmer empire and at its peak
supported a population of one million.
The temples are still active centres of faith and everyday life
today. Among the tourists who cross Angkor Wat’s sandstone causeways to explore
its warren of chambers, courtyards and covered galleries are ranks of the
devout. The Gallery of 1,000 Buddhas is now bereft of the vast majority of its
eponymous statues – a legacy of the brutally destructive Khmer Rouge era of the
early ’70s. Yet its spiritual significance remains undimmed.
As evening
approaches, sunlight inches across the gallery’s courtyard to probe the dim
cool of the covered walkways. Here, bas-reliefs of apsara dancers and pillars
enlivened with Sanskrit inscriptions celebrating good deeds take on a rosy hue.
The source of the chanting is revealed to be the Hall of Echoes, on the
northern side of the gallery. As newly crowned Khmer kings once did, a group of
young boys is harnessing the unusual acoustics here by pounding their chests, a
process thought to offer mental and physical purification.
The walled and moated city of Angkor Thom sits about a mile due north of
Angkor Wat. The most common approach to this sprawling complex, built by King
Jayavarman VII as a statement of power in the late 12th century, is the
stone-figurelined causeway to the crumbling South Gate. Despite its graceful,
moss-swathed decay, the gate is undeniably imposing, its four giant bodhisattva
faces staring beatifically out. Disturbed by a passing motorcycle rickshaw, a
macaque pokes it head from beneath the arch to observe the scene, before
retreating nonchalantly into the shade.
At the exact centre of the city stands the enigmatic Bayon – the
state temple of Jayavarman. Built nearly a century after
Angkor Wat, its 54 stone towers are carved with more than 200 huge faces; their
resemblance to the famously hubristic king is not thought to be coincidental. A
Buddhist altar is tucked away in a dark tower of Bayon;
outside, rocks thought to create curses if removed are piled in small,
thoughtful arrangements.
At Ta Prohm, to the northeast of Angkor Wat, strangler figs
spill like liquid over 39 temples in various stages of ruination, creating a
tangle of tipsy roofs and dark hallways. Inside one temple, an altar of Shiva,
replete with gold-foil decorations and offerings of mangoes and Sprite, is
tended by a ‘wat granny’ – the term for older women, often widows, who have
taken monastic vows and help maintain religious buildings between meditation
and prayer. She whispers blessings into a string bracelet before attaching it
to the wrist of a devotee.
Monastic communities continue to live throughout Angkor, with Buddhist monks often passing through the
historic sites on their way to and from their pagodas (a blend of temple and
monastery). Tao Lav is 18 years old and joined Ta Prohm Meanjay, a pagoda
outside Ta Prohm, earlier in the year. ‘When I became a monk, it wasn’t
difficult – just a little bit boring,’ he says, laughing. ‘The first few days,
I missed my family and friends, but the longer I stay, the more I give up, and
now I’m happy.’
He lives in a simple thatched hut and is one of only five monks
at the humble pagoda, and also the youngest. ‘This is a good pagoda. There
aren’t many monks or noise, so it’s easy to meditate. And this is a heritage
area, so the government doesn’t allow it to get built up. It’s very peaceful.
Now that I’ve learned how to meditate, I like doing it. I feel so fresh
afterwards. I’m trying to meditate more and more – no more thinking about the
outside world.’
