Siem Reap, postcards from the Old Kingdom

I kept wondering what the old kingdom must have been like, how life played out against a backdrop of imperial edifices and lush jungle. But there was little else aside from the complexes of dying temples and frozen stone faces to give insight to the daily tableau of ancient Angkor. Now, all that populate and bear witness to the splendor of the ruined kingdom are modern-day hordes of tourists, touts and peddlers. Yet the remains of Angkor, the seat of the once flourishing Khmer Empire, stand nothing short of being awe-inspiring.

At Angkor Wat, considered to be the largest religious monument in the world, throngs of foreign visitors littered the temple grounds. I made my way through each of the concentric galleries surrounding the central temple building, stopping by statues of the Hindu god Vishnu to take photos and gazing at intricate bas-reliefs carved along expansive stretches of the corridor walls. I made my way further inward to the site’s central structures, anticipating to learn and to see more of the temple. But my enthusiasm and interest were easily quelled by the sight of a swarm of tourists queuing their way up to the innermost shrine, and I pondered then on the reality that whatever religious significance that Angkor Wat bore in its olden times was now diluted in the third world socio-economic conundrum of mass tourism.

I took my bicycle, which I had rented back in Siem Reap, and proceeded to another one of the greater Angkorian temple complexes, Angkor Thom. Established by the Buddhist King Jayavarman VII, Angkor Thom—its name literally meaning “Great City”—was the last and most enduring capital of the Khmer Empire. Approaching the ancient city’s South Gate, I was ushered in by a silent retinue of stone figures lining the causeway that spanned over the city’s surrounding moat. The gate entrance was narrow, while high overhead at the gate’s lintel was a giant stone face that serenely stood stolid watch over all who passed through.

A while after entering the city gate, I eventually came upon the Bayon, Javayarman’s state temple standing at the very center of the ancient city. At the south side of the temple, some massive restoration operation was taking place, as workers in hard hats and with heavy machinery tended to a quarry of what appears to be torn down stone blocks from the temple structure. At the eastern terrace, I took notice of the temple’s disarray of mislaid stones, crumbled arches, and scaffoldings of wooden planks and steel pipes. The intricate motifs of dancing female deities carved onto standing pillars were defaced with chisel marks and scars left by stone cutters. For all its stately splendor and aesthetic richness, this centerpiece of Cambodia’s cultural heritage was in a delicate state of disrepair.

All throughout the entire temple grounds, massive stone faces frozen in placid countenance kept their perpetual vigil—silent sentinels which, throughout the centuries, have borne witness to the rise of a kingdom, its demise and surrender to the jungle, and its eventual re-opening to a modern world. I chanced upon a contingent of Buddhist monks touring the temple, along with all the other foreign tourists who were snapping away their cameras at the orange-robed ascetics, with as much attention as what they were giving to the temple’s infrastructure. There, amidst a flood of commercialism, I somehow managed to see traces of the spiritual significance that Angkor once held.

Angkor Thom held other monuments. I strolled through the Phimeanakas grounds, making my way to the garden edges where the outer fringes of the temple complex and the jungle met. There by the decaying walls that enclosed the temple surroundings, the jungle stood quietly, as if patiently lying in wait for the time when it can once again freely welcome itself into the domains of the ancient kingdom.

Phnom Penh, at the heart of a colored history

I freely wove my way throughout the open areas of the Royal Palace complex, taking stock of the various golden-spired buildings and the ornately masoned stupas littered among sprawling manicured grounds. Constructed between 1866 and 1870, after King Norodom relocated the royal capital to Phnom Penh during the country’s history as a French Protectorate, Cambodia’s present-day royal residence is a fine example of Khmer architecture with a slight French influence.

Within the central compound, the Throne Hall, where the king’s confidants, generals and royal officials once carried out their duties and which now is primarily used for religious and royal ceremonies, beamed majestically. Elsewhere, within the other quarters of the palace complex, stood other notable buildings: the grand open-air Moonlight Pavilion, serving as a banquet hall and performance venue for the Royal Dancers; the Silver Pagoda, which houses national treasures such as the Emerald Buddha; and the Khemarin Palace, where the King of Cambodia officially resides.

Outside the Royal Palace, I found myself immersed in the commotion of an active city, bustling with people going about their daily lives and streets roaring with the traffic of cars, buses, mopeds and tuktuks. From seeking out souvenirs at the Central Market, to sampling some num banh chok (Khmer noodles, Cambodia’s national dish) on the streets, to observing the local colors all along Sisowath Quay, I tried to explore as much of the city with whatever little time I had. I found my way through alleys and boulevards, figuring the local transport system to seek out nearby attractions that I gleaned from my online research.