May 14, 2009
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OUT OF THE JUNGLE: Jack Howell and guide Sovann pause to take in the tranquility of the Jungle Temple outside Siem Reap, Cambodia.
Editor’s note: This is one in a series written by John Howell about his recent trip to Asia to visit his son, Jack, and his family who are living in Vietnam.
There was no mistaking Jack at the Ho Chi Minh Airport. He stands a good six-foot-six, a beacon among Asians at the arrival gate.
He was returning from a business trip to Hong Kong and an hour later the two of us would take a flight to Seim Reap, Cambodia.
“You have got to see it, before it changes,” he said a month earlier as we planned our trip. He and Jen had toured Angkor Wat and several of the temples, amazed that they could climb among the ruins and run their hands over bas reliefs carved in sandstone in the 12th Century and even older. As remarkable for them were the signs of Pol Pot’s repressive regime during which almost a quarter of the country’s population starved to death, died of disease or were killed. The galleries of Angkor Wat still are chipped from gunfire exchanged by Khmer Rouge defectors backed by Vietnamese and loyalists to Pol Pot barely 15 years ago.
Ours would be a 24-hour visit but to come all the way to Vietnam and not take the 30-minute flight to Seim Reap would be foolish.
Jack had already shed his tie and suit jacket. I carried a pair of casual shoes for him along with another pair of pants, hat and shirt. We wouldn’t need much and everything was stuffed into a carry on for our quick sortie.
From Jack’s description I expected a tiny, rather primitive airport. That wasn’t the case. It is artistically designed, in keeping with the historical nature of the surrounding area, modern and welcoming. On our brief flight both of us completed the required visa forms. We even thought to have the required passport-sized photos and expected to breeze through immigration. As luck had it, we had the first seats on the flight so it looked like we would soon be on our way to the hotel.
But officialdom in Asia, like other parts of the world, operates by its own clock.
In front of us behind an impressive wood counter sat six blue uniformed men in a row. It appeared they were prepared for the onslaught of new arrivals seeking visas. Jack stood in front of the first and I headed for the second. I was quickly admonished.
But nobody was in front of the second official, or for that matter, the four others seated beside him.
“You’ll see,” said Jack.
The lead official thumbed through Jack’s papers, looked at his passport, stamped them, accepted the $20 visa fee and handed everything off to the second official. Now it was my turn.
“Nice to be in Cambodia,” I said, figuring it might help expedite the process and not prompt him to question why my son and I share the same name which had caused such confusion when we checked in with Vietnam Airlines. He didn’t as much as grunt. He stamped the papers and pushed them to the next man. He made sure he had my $20. I followed down the line. It was another mistake.
“Over here Dad,” called Jack. I went to stand beside him at the end of the line of officials. We were joined by at least a dozen more foreigners while the Cambodians and those already with visas moved ahead of us.
Soon another official appeared. He had a handful of passports. He leafed through them, stopping at the photo and then scanned the crowd to identify its rightful owner.
The second clearance went no faster. Now that we had visas they had to be checked. A seventh official verified the work of those before him.
This creates jobs, but none was more superfluous than the attendant at the airport parking lot we encountered on our way out of the country. Like airport parking everywhere, there was a charge. As we arrived at the gate, the driver pushed a green button. The machine spit out a ticket, but before the driver could grab it an attendant handed it to him.
Apart from the officials, who displayed an officious tolerance for tourists, the Cambodians we met were most gracious and welcoming. I had the feeling that first they wanted to show off their country and second – well, it could be first – that they appreciated whatever money you would be spending.
Our guide and a driver met us at the airport and, like most connections of this nature; it was accomplished with a sign with our name on it. The routine is that you are relieved of your bags, a car door is opened, and the process reversed at the hotel.
Our guide, Sovann, and the driver clasped their hands as if in prayer and bowed to greet us. The same occurred as we met other people.
Was I to greet him in a similar manner, or would that be disrespectful, almost mocking? I extended my hand.
Sovann shook it vigorously.
“You have a good flight?” he asked, before briefing us on how far we had to travel to the hotel and what was planned the following morning. The tour was pretty much spelled out, although Jack wanted to add the Jungle Temple that had impressed him so much on his initial visit.
Jack handed over the itinerary, suggesting it might be revised.
Sovann didn’t seem to understand.
“We see Angkor Wat, the biggest,” he said.
“Can we also see the Jungle Temple?”
Would this require clearance, did Sovann have the authority to make the change? Would we be stuck to a rigid schedule like those at the airport?
Sovann flashed a smile. He understood. The itinerary was entirely flexible.
Sovann, who directs about 14 tours a month between other jobs with Christinair Tours, was a font of information. He rattled off dates, the names of temples and the stories behind many of the countless stone carvings we saw, although his pronunciation occasionally had us wondering what he was trying to say. He displayed a patriotism and loyalty to his country. He decried what Pol Pot had done to Cambodia; was irritated by the current border dispute with Thailand and angered by the Koreans. He said Koreans outnumber all other nationalities of tourists to the country. They stay in Korean hotels; visit only Korean restaurants; have Korean guides and spend little money in Cambodia.
Also high on his list of injustices is the company that has the contract to sanction temple tours. A one-day pass to the temples costs $20. The pass was part of the package Jen arranged, but nonetheless we had to get it the next morning. The processing center handled the influx of tourists arriving by bus, car, motor scooter and tuck-tuck –a motorbike-drawn cart big enough for four passengers. We stepped to a window, were photographed and the pass was produced on the spot. On the way back to the car our passes were checked and punched.
“Two million visited the temples last year,” Sovann said. “That’s money we don’t get.”
I pressed for some more details. Was the company required to pay for temple restoration; how much of the $40 million went to the government and how many Cambodians were employed?
It was a little too much for Sovann, or perhaps he thought better of airing his gripe. He politely shifted the conversation to the Jungle Temple.
On the way we got a glimpse of the towers of Angkor Wat rising above the trees. It would be the last of the temples we would visit. Temple in the jungle
None of the temples we visited are far from one another, although they each have a unique feeling. As the name implies, the Jungle Temple gives the feeling of being consumed by the environment. Giant trees have embraced the temple, growing from its midst and, as Sovann indicated, destroying it in some cases and holding it together in others. We were free to go wherever we wanted. There was no set course, although Sovann had a plan. We followed its outer walls, circumventing displaced building stones and ringed balustrades strewn about. We practically had the place to ourselves. There were no Korean tour groups, although we did find them later. Wooden stairs were in places where it would have been difficult to otherwise reach. Inside, it was cool and dark and serene and earthy. We reached the inside of a tower by following its cloistered passage. Sovann told us it once contained a statue of Buddha but the Hindus, who converted the temples for their worship, removed it. We looked upward. Light filtered in from missing stones.
“You know why they have olds.”
Jack and I must have looked dumbfounded. Olds? What could be older than where we were standing, where monks and worshipers had paid respect to their deities, in a structured agriculturally based society at a time when Europeans were living in a feudal state and charging off to slaughter Muslims in the crusades?
“Olds,” Sovann repeated as he pointed to golf-ball sized holes covering the tower walls.
“They put in gold, precious stones,” said Sovann. I didn’t question how he knew this, as I doubt there are written records or remaining gold and gems, although it occurred to me to be worth checking.
“You know why they have gold?”
I waited, knowing he had the answer. The treasure had been used to reflect light and enhance the grandeur of the Buddha.
Some places were cordoned off, but as Jack said, the temples were not regulated or commercialized. We went at our own pace, Sovann directing us to locations that provided good photographs, pausing while we explored a bit on our own. The tranquility was interrupted by the buzz of a chain saw. We came upon a giant gum tree. Scaffolding was erected around it and cables stretched from its upper limbs. It was being cut down in sections. The chunks, even from the upper extremities were enormous.
“Tree can break in storm,” Sovann explained. We had an answer. We crossed over what was now a dry moat, leaving the Jungle Temple.
After a short walk through the forest, we came to a collection of musicians sitting on the ground. Some were missing legs, others hands.
“Maimed by land mines,” said Jack.
Sovann was impressed with Jack’s knowledge, which brought the conversation back to Pol Pot.
Did we want to see the Killing Fields of Seim Reap? The question came up on our drive from the hotel. Seeing a collection of human skulls was too much of a reminder of the inhumanity. We said no.
And here was a scared band playing in front of us. We were the only audience. Before proceeding, I opened my wallet. We moved on and as we left the temple grounds, a gang of kids anxious to sell packets of postcards accosted us. The U.S. dollar is the preferred currency in the country.
Kids know how to make a sale
“You buy post card from me, only one dollar,” implored one girl. A boy held up a guide to the temples.
“For you, 10 dollars.” We headed toward the car. “Special price eight dollars,” he said. As we pulled away the boy ran beside the car, holding the book up...“Five dollars.”
We found similar young vendors outside every temple. They know how to read people and, as Jack concluded, fingered me an easy mark.
I was in awe of their English and, I have to presume other languages, as they approached and spoke to French, Japanese and, yes, Korean tourists.
Sovann just kept on talking and leading the way as Jack and I said “No” to whatever was being thrust in front of us. We waved our arms as if shooing off flies. Finally, curiosity got the best of me.
“Where did you learn English?” I asked of one boy who told me his name is Ian. I really wanted to inquire how he got his name, but that was a stretch.
“I learn from tourists,” he answered.
He told me Alaska is the biggest state and that Washington is the United States capital. He said he likes Obama. He named his two daughters. He asked what state I was from. He hadn’t heard of Rhode Island.
In no time, kids came running to see what was happening. They had assortments of handcrafted wares and the ever-present packet of postcards. One of the girls held up a handful of woven bracelets.
“Three dollars,” she said.
I shook my head. Jack and Sovann had already moved ahead and were openly amused by my predicament. Buy from just one and it was unfair to the others.
“No,” I insisted.
They persisted.
“Maybe after visiting the temple,” I suggested.
These kids had heard it all before. They knew the game.
Ian went for the kill.
“I will be in school.”
The girl wasn’t to be out done.
“You get for your wife,” she said swirling the bracelets, “you make her happy. That’s good for you.”
“Why is that good for me?” I asked.
Lis, that’s what she said is her name, started laughing. The other kids joined in. The game was over or so I thought.
As I walked toward the causeway over the moat at Angkor Wat, Lis ran up to me. She handed me a piece of paper with a note thanking me for visiting Cambodia.
“I’m very happy to meet you; nice to speak with you,” it read. On the opposite side of the paper she had drawn a flower and written “forever happy smile.”
I told her to keep it, but she insisted. She turned away, saying goodbye.
“She got ya, Dad,” said Jack, as I walked up with a handful of bracelets. He was right.
In the shade of a tree on the banks of the moat, Sovann spoke of the temple that had become a Cambodian icon. Images of its five towers, rising like pinecones from a fortress, adorn the currency and billboards and advertisements. Not far from us, a group of Buddhist monks in orange robes sat watching other monks swim in the moat’s murky waters.
We spent the next three hours walking through and climbing the stairs of the temple. The heat became increasingly repressive in the afternoon, as we came upon two Buddhist ceremonies and ongoing restoration projects.
As we walked the bas-relief galleries, Sovann related the stories they told – some of actual events, others of deities.
“This is bottle,” he said pointing to a phalanx of men carrying spears. We knew exactly what he meant. It was a battle.
It grew increasingly dark. The air was still and sticky and Jack and I were in a sweat. Sovann, in his white shirt, black pants and dress shoes, looked ready to carry on. But he knew what was coming. We just made it back to the car before the skies opened, delivering a deluge that turned the streets of Seim Reap into rivers.
Sovann delivered us back to the hotel and was back within the hour for the ride to the airport. He and the driver jumped out to give us a hand when we got to the airport. They did their blessed bowing routine. We shook hands.
“I wish you great set-sex,” said Sovann, with a smile.
We smiled back at him.
Indeed, our visit had been a great success.
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