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Beng Melea: Cambodia's Ancient Soul
James Michael Dorsey
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Ruins in the temple complex
at Beng Melea. James
Michael Dorsey
Click image to enlarge.
Deep in the Cambodian jungle, in a land that time has not touched, and the modern world has never known, there is a hidden jewel. The scattered temples of Beng Melea lay silent and full of memories, covered by a web of banyan roots, crawling vines, and a praetorian guard of chattering monkeys. It is the ancient soul of Cambodia.
The temple complex is a mere 65 kilometers east of Siem Reap, the once quiet little village that is now on the fast track to rival Reno Nevada for neon capitol of small towns, and gateway to the trashy tourist stalls that are today’s Angkor Wat. While Angkor sits atop the tourist heap with millions of annual visitors, Beng Melea is known only to those who venture far off the beaten path.
Begun in the late 11th century and finished early in the 12th, Beng Melea is believed to be the model on which the main temples of Angkor were modeled, and satellite imagery shows a wagon wheel of roads emanating from its center in all directions, proving it once linked the entire Kmer empire, and stood as the hub of its culture. It predates its showier cousin by over a century.
The drive is brutal in an ancient car that has never known shock absorbers, let alone air conditioning, and the springs of the shotgun seat battle with my spinal column on every bump. The sun fries our brains as we crawl through one military checkpoint after another, leaving an offering at each one that goes directly into the pockets of the local generals. These are the same men who were mere lieutenants under Pol Pot and the Kmer Rouge. Now they run the country, and have fancier uniforms.
At one rickety guard house a soldier with an aging AK47 and uniform of rags, demands $2 US. I am out of singles and offer him a $5 bill in hopes it may buy us some good will along with a pass. He holds it up to the light and tugs on it hard as though he would know counterfeit, and I stifle a smile when he leans his rifle against the car and reaches into his pocket to give me back $3 in change that he pulls from a wad of Euros.
No sooner are we on the road than a Buddhist nun appears with an alms bowl. We slow to stuff a wad of bills in the bowl and I snap her photo, wondering where all these people live out here in the middle of the jungle.
We pass roadside shrines, elaborate as any altar in a renaissance church, with towering Buddhas and silk prayer scarves, yet rising out of the jungle as if an apparition. The logistics of such constructions makes me ponder which came first, the jungle or the shrine?
Finally, we reach the parking lot that is only a marshy bog imprinted by large round feet of a bull elephant, which in turn, has left behind a steaming pile of dung for the flies. Another soldier takes a dollar to guard our car. Guard it from what? I know I am paying him not to rob us, but he will probably do so anyway.
Things look different than when I was here one year prior. The jungle has been cut back to reveal the red and blue deaths head signs that signal a mine field. One year ago, I walked directly through there, looking for a short cut to the ruins.
Soukhouen tells me to step only where he does, and I need not be told twice. His footfalls rival a deer, and I cannot hear his steps upon the leaves. He is as much a part of this land as the stones, and I am putting my life in his hands once again. He guides me along an overgrown path lined with red and white marker poles left behind by the Cambodian Mine Action Committee, an NGO tasked with the removal of an estimated 9-11 million mines still in this country.
Their brochures proudly proclaim they have already found and removed one and a half million mines. With only 10 million to go, I can only hope their placement of safe zone signs is more efficient than their removal process. Before my arrival a year ago, this was declared a “clear” zone but now there are more warning signs than on an LA freeway.
When we finally stop for water, Soukhouen leans against a banyan tree and tells me he had been at this very spot just one month prior on a picnic with his wife and small son. He felt something poking him in the rear that turned out to be an anti tank mine. He just did not weigh enough to detonate it. The tree is in the middle of the current safe zone.
He says this with a small laugh as only one who daily lives close to death can, and I am having second thoughts about the importance of photographing here once again.
Music floats to us on the breeze, and up ahead we come upon one of the impromptu local bands that are a staple at every temple entrance. Six men are seated in the shade, and only when we are close can I see that two are blind and the others are missing various body parts. They are all victims of landmines in a country that has no money or facilities to help them.
Official estimates say one out of every six people in Cambodia has suffered death or dismemberment from a landmine and the only relief is from outside industrial nations. It is most surreal to look at a persons arm and read, “Made in China.”
The first sign we are approaching the temple is the seven headed Naga, a stone carving of a giant cobra, guardian against evil spirits that line all temple paths. Most of it has been shot away, and there are still three bullets imbedded too deeply for me to pry them out with my knife.
In a land that has known 2,000 years of war, one need only look in any direction for a vivid reminder.
The oppressive humidity has soaked my clothing and clouded my camera lens, as the dense foliage reveals the first glimpses of ancient stone. A crumbled wall has formed a small ridge that I attempt to climb for a camera angle, but Soukhouen yanks me hard by the elbow and whispers “Cobras” softly in my ear; a subtle reminder of the crawling death that seeks the shade of these stones.
I pick my way carefully, making as much noise as I can, and at the top of the rise, get my first look at the old library. Two original walls still stand, held up by the Aspara dancers carved in sharp relief, frozen mid pose for a thousand years. The walls are dark slate gray and appear as if they would collapse were it not for the giant Banyan roots enfolding them like the hands of God.
From this perch I can see scattered temple blocks in all directions and realize the main buildings must have at one time, been immense. Wherever I look I see carved walls straining for release from their jungle prison, thousands of stories trying to be told.
Before I can climb down, an old man has appeared at my side. He is just there, like a spirit with a wispy beard. He takes my arm as I descend, and though he is holding me up, his touch is so light as to not be there.
At first I think he wants money, but Soukhouen reminds me it was this same ancient little man who came to my aid almost a year ago to the day. This is where I dropped my CF card while reloading the camera, down into the tangle of vines and stones, close enough to see, but too far away to reach.
This weathered little gnome who wanders the temple as a freelance guide, went into action, and without me hearing or seeing anything, people began to materialize out of the jungle. He had called them somehow in that silent jungle way that only animals and those who dwell within can hear, and they gathered to help me.
Women burned incense and chanted, invoking Buddha, while men shouldered giant stone blocks and slid them inches at a time under the blazing sun, moving tons of rock with nothing but sinewy arms and legs, while I prayed a weeks worth of photos would return to me.
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A small musical band formed
of disabled landmine
victims. James Michael
Dorsey
Click image to enlarge.
They labored for hours, and in the end, could not retrieve my card, but by that time I no longer cared. I had been given a far more valuable gift. I had watched these amazing people labor all day in brutal heat, for no other reason than a stranger needed help.
In that moment, Buddhism had been revealed to me, and I realized I was not meant to retrieve that card. It was now a time capsule, waiting for some distant date in the future to give up its secrets, while I was being swept along in this great drama. Instant karma.
When I tried to pay them, no one would accept it. Soukhouen explained they had lost face by not retrieving my photo card.
Each of them came and bowed to me, some with tears in their eyes, and I knew not one of them had an idea of what they had been trying to retrieve. It did not matter. That day had showed me the very best of humanity, and made my loss seem trifle. I watched them disappear, one by one, back into the jungle, like dust on the wind, and hoped I would at least become a story around their evening fires.
When I return from my reverie, the little man is beaming at me through a one tooth smile the color of beetle nut, happy that I now remember him.
The loss of that card is why I have returned. There are too many images here to have let it go, and I need to recreate everything that was lost; that and to relive those perfect moments of mankind at its humble best. The little man will not leave my side, determined to see I have no more mishaps on his watch.
He is with me throughout the day as I systematically photograph every inch of this magnificent ruin. It looks as though the Almighty has taken a giant set of blocks and hurled them across the jungle floor.
Bas reliefs peer at me through the foliage, and I wonder what visitors they have had since taking their place on these stones. The roots of one banyan tree have grown around a small carving of a man, leaving only his face protruding as a silent sentinel from his jungle prison. It is so hot the monkeys have ceased their endless chatter and sit huddled under shady branches, watching me pass with open mouths. Bright yellow and purple geckos scurry over the stones, keeping pace with me and stop to do push ups when I turn my lens toward them.
I am hot, tired, and dirty, and have never felt more alive.
There is no one else here. Soukhouen has gone off to pray, and I am alone with my silent little guide whom I have accepted as a modern day guardian angel. We have no common words with which to communicate and none are needed. When I look at him he smiles, and I know people pray to have days as good as this one.
I move stealthily through the tangled mess of rock and jungle, willing there to be no cobras, and at the end of the day, the wonder of Beng Melea lies safely within my camera. Half of me wants to tell the world about this unique place, and half wants it to stay hidden.
I sit on a tree root sorting through money, trying to decide a fit reward to give my little shadow for this wonderful day, but when I look up, I see his back disappearing into the undergrowth. He took no money then, and he will take none now. We both know his actions will bring good karma, and he will return tomorrow to help whoever may take my place.
We find our car intact with the guard sitting on the hood, and I am so grateful I give him another dollar that he accepts with a shocked look.
Soukhouen and I tumble inside, drenched in sweat and exhausted. He gives me a tiny smile and whispers, “Cambodia.”
James Michael Dorsey is a freelance photojournalist and
frequent contributor to The World and I Online. His work can
be seen on the Web at jamesdorsey.com
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