A Mystery in a Jungle Monastery

We came to a stop in front of a gopura, with the characteristic faces carved on each of the four sides above the entrance, in front of dense woods. Judging from the half-square of food and souvenir stalls—most of them still shuttered—facing the gate, we’d arrived at the monument. “Enjoy your morning,” Mr. Ho told me before speeding off, rather than crossing towards the parking lot of packed red-brown earth as had I expected. I stood there bewildered, wondering if he intended to come back for me. I recovered after a moment, telling myself that he’d probably just gone off to have breakfast. I turned back towards the gate, stepping gingerly on the wooden steps to one side of the entrance which had been cordoned off for restoration work. “Good morning,” I greeted the old man sweeping nearby, and when he simply returned my greeting, I figured that I wasn’t trespassing. Sure enough, just a little way down the path in the middle of the woods, were three uniformed young men. They broke off their conversation as I approached, to check my pass, asking me—as I’ve quickly grown used to—my origins.

The footpath snaked ahead of me, tunneling through the trees which barely let the sunlight trickle through. To my right rose a strange birdcall, like none I’d ever heard before, deep and sonorous. After a while the woods opened up into the ruins, which you approach via a short wooden bridge, with another one being built a few meters away, parallel to it. On each side of the bridge were moss-grown rubble and in the periphery of the ruins grew more grandfather trees, their lush branches keeping the sun’s rays, which were starting to grow warmer, at bay. The main entrance to the monastic complex was roped off for renovation work so I turned leftwards, stepping over a highway of ants—hundreds, maybe thousands, of them—threading over the ground.

Pressing on, I came upon what must be the oldest trees I have ever seen in my life, their thick roots dripping over the stone walls, the trunks themselves like solid stone, some of them pocked with cavities where rainwater had gathered. Rounding a corner, I found the lady I’d crossed paths with earlier, a Japanese to judge from her delicate features, seated on a rock, scribbling on a notebook. I could make out some handwriting as well as squiggly drawings on its pages. She looked up at me and smiled. I was taking close-up shots of an enormous tree that had its giant claw-like roots clamped around a moss-grown building when I heard approaching chatter. Then a group of middle-aged Korean tourists poured through the stone doorway, wasting no time to assemble themselves in front of the tree, putting an end to my painstaking attempts to compose the perfect shot of it. Heaving a sigh, I turned instead to take pictures of the relief carving surrounding the doorway, before stepping through it into an inner courtyard.

There I found another rectangular enclosure with strikingly sculpted double doors of stone, surrounded by an air of mystery, for the doors were firmly shut and one could only surmise what lay behind them. Each pair of doors had a row of finely carved lotus blossoms running down the middle. I made a circuit of the structure, glad I had ventured deeper inside the ruins, which at first glance hadn’t seemed so promising.

I looped back the way I’d come in, to find that a traditional musical ensemble had assembled along the tree-shaded path. “Landmine victims,” a sign announced beside a stack of CDs that sold for ten dollars each, and a tray for donations. With their blessedly spared limbs, they coaxed lovely music from native wood and bamboo instruments, a livelier though less polished version of the gamelan music that serenaded me in Yogyakarta. A Chinese tour group, then a string of monks, was heading towards the ruins as I passed the band on my way out. Further on sat the gray-garbed guards—they seemed to have multiplied—who called out “You’re face looks like a Cambodian’s!” as I sauntered past. Suddenly remembering Mr. Ho’s parting words, I quickly scanned the parking lot and saw no sign of his touk-touk. I was relieved to find it in the shadow of the gopura, with Mr. Ho himself dozing inside.

(May 2007)