Something old, something new

From across the west gate, Angkor Wat stands formidably grey against the Indochina sun. Inside its grounds, however, the sacred Hindu-Buddhist temple fades into a frenzied fair: tourist guides mouthing memorized scripts to unsuspecting patrons; tour parties pausing erratically to decipher engraved Khmer epics; and a sea of cameras hovering throughout the 200-hectare site.

Armed with brief history notes and bent on being charmed, I circled each section of Angkor Wat. The piled sandstone slabs, gargantuan, sculpted in bas-relief with the hells and heavens of Hindu mythology. The bright lawns that intersected dark, incense-filled halls. The concentric galleries that unveiled dragons and dancing deities.

I coveted a moment away from the jostling crowd and unexpectedly found an empty alcove. Just as unexpectedly, I was interrupted by a tour guide eager to offer his services for a price that was up to me (but preferably 25 dollars). Despite its vastness, Angkor Wat could hardly lend me an instance to absorb its overwhelming entirety. No surprise. After all, Angkor Wat woos thousands of visitors daily, and it pauses for no one.

A few hours later, I returned to my tuktuk and narrated the afternoon to my driver, Paris, who nodded knowingly, already anticipating my remarks.

We were by then on our way home when, near the temples’ tollgate, Paris made a sharp U-turn and (noticing my confusion) gestured at me to relax. Once more, we saw the outline of Angkor Wat, but instead of driving to the entrance, Paris parked at the corner. I raised him an eyebrow, to which he only answered, “you will like this”.

We sat on the ground for twenty silent minutes until slowly, oranges and pinks and yellows stretched across the sky, casting shadows on the outline of Angkor Wat’s corncob façade. As if on cue, three monks in saffron robes sauntered along its 190-meter-wide moat, emanating with their laughter a rare sense of otherworldliness that evaded the grasp of Angkor’s very worldly tourist industry.

“Hard to forget”, Paris said, breaking the silence. In a few fortunate minutes, I found the moment—that elusive moment—for which pilgrims flock to this simultaneously ancient and adolescent town—to embrace these proud ruins and the nostalgia they capriciously evoke for a time and place (and world) we never even knew. I smiled. “Impossible to forget.”