No one can say for certain why Pol Pot never ordered the destruction of Angkor Wat or of any of the surrounding temples. Buddhism had no place in his new regime and was systematically destroyed. Monks were slaughtered, Wats burned to the ground and temple coffers robbed, but Angkor Wat, the largest religious structure in the world, was left standing.

Maybe it was the prospect of future revenues from tourism that stopped him from giving the orders. Perhaps Pol Pot and his henchmen didn't have the time, the money or the tools it would take to raze a structure of such proportions to the ground. Or maybe it was left untouched to remind the soldiers of what once was. The ancient city of Angkor, which at its apex was home to nearly a millions residents, certainly exemplifies the glory and the grandeur of an empire that gave birth to modern day Cambodia.

It is rumored that the Khmer Rouge soldiers, mostly young and superstitious farmers, were afraid of what might befall them if they dared to mar the buildings, the work of their forefathers. One thing has not changed; Khmers remain deeply spiritual.


Nothing can prepare you for the first sight of it.

When you first pass the admissions gates, you head towards the southern wall of the temple. It is nothing spectacular, even a little boring. Just a long, 1000 year old wall. The moat, which you see when you get closer, is a little more interesting, mostly because of the thought that it was once filled with hungry crocodiles. There are rumors among the locals that one remains. This is probably just a story to scare disobedient children, but you wish it were true.

You stop paying attention to the ancient wall and focus on the dozens of tour buses, out of which spill hundreds of identically clad, camera laden, over eager Americans, Germans, Koreans. They stand about, waiting for directions, unable to move of their own volition. They are flanked on all sides by children in rags selling souvenirs; books, trinkets, silks and cans of Coke. The sun has not yet risen, but it is already hot, you're uncomfortable riding on the back of the scooter, over a road that is mostly potholes. Soon you are going to be part of a mob, trying to get the best view of a golden orb as it ascends the sky, in amongst piles of crumbling stones. You wonder why.

When you finally look at it, give it your full attention, you answer your own question. Even if ten times as many visitors arrived at this moment and started crawling over every inch of the building, it would still stand as glorious; there is no way to mask, to hide or cover up its magnificence. You hear the word "wow" escape from your body and wish you could be a little more eloquent at this moment.


The children here are the breadwinners of their families. Everyday, they arrive by the droves from the surrounding villages. They come to the temple before dawn, awaiting the first buses of tourists. They know enough English, French, German, Japanese, Korean and Italian to barter in any of these languages. When a bus pulls up, they crowd the doors, pushing their way to the front, hoping to be the first to show their wares. Do they know that at every temple there is an identical swarm of children with the same souvenirs and that the tourists are already laden with trinkets and immune to their childish charms?

But these children are hardened veterans. By the age of 6, they have perfected how to pout, smile innocently and give you the disappointed puppy dog face that melts your heart. They know how to turn a "no" into an "oh, ok"; they are expert salespeople. At noon, when most of the tourists have returned to their air conditioned hotel rooms for lunch and a nap, the children will strip down naked and cool off in the ancient moat and share a packed lunch of sticky rice and mangos if they are in season. They play like normal children do until the next bus pulls in.


The temples show scars beyond the wear and tear of the seasons. They have been victims to several pillagings by the Cham and Siamese Empires in ancient times. More recently, the Vietnamese left their mark on the ancient buildings by leveling off some of the stupas. This is most obvious in the surrounding walls of Angkor Wat. Even the Khmers are responsible; hundreds of starving farmers, fleeing the oppressive rule of the KR fled to the Thai border in the 1970's, taking with them relics and statues for sale. Everywhere you look you can see where icons have been hewed out of the stone, leaving behind a question: what was there? French colonists took quite a few pieces as trophies and now they can be seen on display in the museums of that nation, far from their ancestral home. The Cambodian government has asked to have these back, to display in the National Museum, as part of the nation's heritage. The French refuse. I can't remember the justification they gave; that's probably because it wasn't very convincing.


It is impossible to walk quickly through any of the temples. This is not only because of the fallen stones and cracking walkways, but because of the original design. The ancient architects wanted you to stop and look around, to take in the beauty of the sculptures, the bas reliefs, the metal work. To encourage this and dissuade visitors from rushing through, most rooms, even though they are at the same level, are separated by steep steps. Walking from one end of Angkor Wat to the other, you have no choice but to stop and contemplate you next step and in doing so, take in more of the splendor of your surroundings. They were clever.


The old woman walks several kilometers to the Bayon temple everyday. She carries with her some food and water and a krama to sit on. She is blind in one eye. She walks with a limp. Her skin is wrinkled and hangs off her body like a heavy cloth. The bottoms of her feet are tough as leather and she has no need for shoes. She leans against the 1000 year-old wall, under one of Jayavaraman's faces, whose smile has baffled anthropologists since its discovery. She sighs and waits for the tourists to come. When they do, she will put out her hand in the international gesture of beggars. If you ask her, she will tell you stories about her life, but chances are they are the kind of stories you don't want to hear, that will chill you even on the hottest day. It's easier to give her a dollar and walk away.


Despite the decay and the years of neglect, the temples remain highly emotive. They resonate with their former glory, like skeletons of dinosaurs. You are left with only an outline, a sketch, an idea, lots of blanks to fill in on your own. The stones, despite being stripped of color, of metal, and of music, stand defiantly tall and proud, as if in ignorance of the decline of the Empire, now long dead. For this reason it is vital you arrive with your imagination in full gear.

At each of the temples, I first walk around the perimeter, slowly working my way towards the center. I wander through the tunnels and corridors, over fallen stones and under sagging gateways. I find a quiet space to sit and then close my eyes. I mentally walk the same path again, stripping away the years, adding the colors, the smells, the sounds. I run my hands along the cool stone I am sitting on, hoping to feel in it some spirit of the ancient past, wondering what hands had touched it before, waiting for a private séance to begin.

It never does, but above anything else I cherish the opportunity. I have been to the grand churches and castles of Europe. I have walked through the homes of monarchs and looked at thousands of relics from the past in museums around the world. There were always so many restrictions; do not touch, do not sit on, do not lean against, do not breathe on. Ropes held me back, guards eyed me suspiciously, yet I always tried to touch at least once. At Ta Prohm, there is no need to hide my yearning to have direct contact with the past. I can touch to my heart's delight, caress, press my body into whatever I choose, like the trees that have grown into, onto, under, over the stones.

I spend most of my time running my fingers along the carved bas relief's, imagining the chisels, held by long dead hands, working their way into stone. I let my hand sweep along the balustrades as I walk alongside of them. When I see Buddha, I touch his feet in reverence, whether or not he has a head. I sit across from him and mimic his posture, wondering who was the last to offer him prayers and who was the first. I look into the eyes of monsters that have stood in place with frozen looks for centuries and stick out my tongue at them. I trace their lips, I poke their noses and pull their tails. They never bite.


Until recently, Angkor Wat was a dangerous place to visit. Since 1997, with the surrender of the Khmer Rouge and the establishment of a democratic government by Hun Sen, it no longer is. International agencies like the Canadian Mines Advisory Council (CMAC) and Mines Advisory Group (MAG) have been clearing the area of land mines. Most of the temples are free of all war souvenirs and tourists need not worry about being blown to bits should they stray from marked paths.

Business has experienced explosive growth in nearby Siem Riep, and the once quiet, provincial town is now the center of the nation's economic revitalization. The modern tourist need not worry about substandard service. There are now direct flights from Bangkok, Hanoi and Hong Kong. Dozens of hotels and guest houses open up each year and the daily ferry from Phnom Penh is always full beyond capacity. There are more brothels per capita than anywhere in the country and a 1999 UN study reported that close to 48% of these girls are HIV positive. Cambodia's Minister of Tourism, found last year in a Sihanouk hotel with a Bulgarian girl kept against her will, is attempting to eradicate Cambodia's image as a Mecca for sex tourists.

All kinds of people come here.


RainDropUp's list of pics is great. In the first one you can see where one of the stupas at Angkor Wat has been damaged. I am adding one more, which doesn't show a lot of detail, but captures some of the magic.

http://www.talesofasia.com/Cambodia/PhotoGallery/AWat-monsoon.jpg

And, if you have time, there are hundreds of photos at the following link. I especially recommend taking a look at the Ta Phrohm photo album to see the age old, intricate dance of stones and trees.

http://www.marlandc.com/~AngkorWat/