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The reality of this place is so charged with magic that it beggars the imagination, while its grandeur is breathtaking. For centuries covered and protected in the warm bosom of the Cambodian jungle, the grandiose vestiges of this city of temples exude mystery. Everything is sacred and cyclopean, from the vegetation to the constructions. And the glorious silence hovering over the monuments is of an eloquence that defies description. An extraordinary world of stone is being attacked by the mastodontic roots of the kapok tree, while the ficus gibbosa trees are engaged in mortal combat with the walls, slipping into the cracks for a grain of earth. Angkor, the ancient and fabulously rich Cambodian capital, the centre of the Khmer civilization which, from the ninth to the thirteenth centuries, became the hub of the greatest empire in southeast Asia, incorporates numerous royal cities with an infinity of magnificent monasteries, temples, bridges, embankments, ponds, military fortresses, and dizzily high mausoleum-shrines built at the top of spacious terraces. The monuments are scattered throughout the jungle north of lake Tonie Sap not far from Siem Reap, over an area as large as the island of Elba. But after the Siamese occupation in 1431 all this languished and finally declined. In the first half of our century expert French restorers carried out a great many operations for the conservation of this heritage. Unfortunately, the tragic events that overtook Cambodia, the insurrection against the French colonial forces, the intervention of American troops seeking to ferret out the Vietcong troops that took refuge there, the civil war, Pol Pot’s ferocious Khmers Rouges, and the Vietnamese invasion, all constituted virtually insuperable obstacles, which made it impossible, except for a fortunate few, to visit these wonders. In 1978 the reopening of the sacred temples was announced, but the situation quickly deteriorated. However, since 1993 more and more foreign visitors have come to tour the country. Though concealed by the extremely dense vegetation, what remains of the Buddhist temple Ta Som, which dates from the end of the twelfth century, emerges all the same. Unfortunately, the walls of the building are partly inclined, almost as if resigned to undergoing the inexorable assault of nature, owing to the weight of the superstructures and to the constant washing away of the soil by the torrential rains. Within the outer enclosure, however, there remains a “prasat”, tower which, still upright, defies the centuries; while clinging to its summit a ficus tree, now a few hundred years old, luxuriates triumphantly in its conquest. The roots of this monstrous vegetal squid envelop, shatter, but perhaps even support the four silent and timeless faces of the Buddha Bodhisattva Lokesvara. The white tentacles hang, creep, penetrate every crevice, slip out again to wind about the stone head, or descend to close its lips. The imperturbable look and the divine smile, however, could be interpreted as the expression of someone determined not to collapse; so that titanic face-off of nature and stone still has no winner and no loser. I was unprepared for this incomparable vision, so that the combined effect was quite mind-boggling, and even hair-raising; indeed, it was an ideal subject for some work by the great surrealist painter Salvador Dali. I have loved Angkor since 1972 when, provided with a special pass issued by Unesco, I ventured there at my own risk, only a few weeks beforte the Khmer Rouges took complete control of this territory. At the time, accompanied by a guide, I made a tour of the temples on an elephant’s back. I still remember the rather unpleasant feeling, in all that solitude, that I was somehow desacrating the place. I came back to these ruins ten years later. Instead of the bloodthirsty Khmers Rouges I found the Vietnamese occupants. But what most impressed me was the destruction of so many religous symbols, authentic works of art like the statues of Buddha and other divinities decapitated by these guerillas. At other times I reached Angkor by taking advantage of the waterways on board a rickety boat, or by car, covering in days the five hundred kilometres that separate Angkor from Phnom Penh. Out of the vast plain rises the most classical, the most celebrated of temples, the one which at present enjoys the best state of all the temples of Angkor: the imposing Angkor Vat. This structure is for Khmer art what the Parthenon is for Hellenic art. The symbol and pride of the nation, it was built in thirty years by King Suryavarman II (1113-1150) for the Indian divinity Vishnu with whom, as the King-God, he identified himself. The conception of the king as the embodiment of the divinity was materially translated into the representation of the phallic symbol of the god himself, into the “linga”, an expression of the regality of both. A tradition of the khmer regime, which lasted from the first half of the ninth century to the end of the twelfth, made it mandatory for all successive sovereings to erect their own mountain-temples, and keep the linga there. After their death, the temple was to be transformed into a mausoleum. Just how to interpret this divine abode, whether temple or tomb, is still a matter of debate. Angkor Vat is one of the greatest religious structures in the world and the most spectacular one ever conceived by the human mind. To this day it is still a spiritual centre where, before making important decisions, King Sihanouk often comes to meditate. The characteristic and unmistakable cone-shaped towers that boldly soar skywards, are the same ones that figure on the red field of the Cambodian flag, on the country’s banknotes, on the labels of its beer bottles, and on its cigarette packets. Someone has calculated that in its compass one could enclose a good part of the architectonic monuments of ancient Greece, while someone else has likened Angkor Vat to Versailles, emphasizing the common expansion of scenic effects, the perfection of its planes and the proportions of its open spaces. In my opinion Angkor Vat is unique and incomparable, a structure not created for man, for indeed the king does not reside there, but conceived while thinking of the sublime, as something to be contemplated. In the afternoon light slanting along the sculptured stone, I gaze in admiration at the delicate artistic execution of the delicious nymphs, whose clinging veils enhance and follow the sinuous movements of their slender bodies. A musical singsong and gaudy colours capture my attention as I turn to see three splendid girls who, I cannot tell by what magic, suddenly materialize, dressed in silk with gold-brocaded costumes and pearls, and sway with the ancient rhythm, just as the dancers did centuries ago, when they offered the king the joys of life. Gently and elegantly they move their hands and eyes, their heads and bodies expressing love and gaiety, but also hate and pain. The girls are dancers of the Ballet Royal du Cambodge, who are performing for a documentary film being shot there against a perfect background. A few days before, accompanied by an Indian archaeologist, I had flown over the region where the ruins of this temple are situated. The scientist drew my attention to the amazing hydraulic system, which was far superior to the grandiose constructions that from above looked like so many trinkets, like little votive gifts to the gods deposited in the green vastness of the jungle. Gifts that must have pleased the gods indeed, considering the superhuman efforts made by these simple men. I have to admit that I, too, was quite surprised by such grandeur. In those times Angkor must have been a boundless rice field. This is why it managed to become so strong economically and militarily, and why it was able to finance the construction of these huge monuments. The intensive cultivation of rice required hundreds of canals, besides dikes and “barays”. These immense reserves of water were a way of solving the problem of the excess resulting from the rainy season, and they were subsequently used during the dry season or drought. The barays, the strong point of this ingenious system, were not dug out of the earth but built, thanks to dikes and embankments, over the surrounding plain. In case of need, without resorting to pumping, one could simply open the dikes, let the water flow into the canals and irrigate the whole region - which was divided into regular and connected plots of land - by simply exploiting the force of gravity. The West Baray alone could hold 30 million cubic metres of water and its dimensions were impressive: 8 kilometres by 2.2. The East Baray was not much smaller: it took two thousand workers five years to build it, removing more than 400 thousand tons of earth. The level of annual production achieved in those days was incredibly high: 30 quintals of rice for each hectare of land under cultivation, compared with the 15 of our day. Well in view, illuminated in all its power majesty, was the central temple, the colossal Bayon. Bringing into focus the whole architectonic mountain, a riotous jumble of stone, took me a few seconds, because it looked like a formidable chain of mountains struck by a devastating earthquake. In the original frenzy of building, architecture, statues and ornamentation had all been fused in an paroxysm of creative energy, but it is precisely these factors that make it unique of its kind. Comparing it with the classical Angkor Vat, one could read it as a sort of savage baroque. In Bayon linearity, the delicate rounded columns of windows, and spacious luminous galleries were abandoned, while emphasis was given to the undulating rough outlines, narrow spaces, and lengthy shadows; for, like a sculpture, the essential element animating it is light. In the meantime, the rose-coloured sky had turned red, and by contrast, the ambient green lit up, and the pale mould and moss sprouting on this giant, asleep for centuries, took on a bluish tinge in the shadows, while those in the light reflected the intensity of the sun. Round the ideal centre of this 43-metre-high mountain-temple rose 54 majestic towers. Each of them obsessively presented the four gigantic faces of the ubiquitous Buddha. It is said that they are the likeness of Jayavarman VII himself in the new identification with this divinity. In fact, this was the sovreign who was the artificer of the religious revolution that replaced the Indian cult of the Brahma, Siva, Vishnu triad with the much more rigorous Buddhist creed; and above all, he is to be credited with contriving to make them live together in peace. The deafening chirps of millions of locusts reached the roof of this shady earthly garden, where time seems to have stopped. Cautiously making my way among the ramifying ferns and stepping over camouflaged stones, I went in through a breach in the long 600 by 1000 metre temple wall of the royal monastery Ta Prohm. The entrance, guarded by the usual Buddha faces, as well as the tourist itinerary, were far off, but from that point the spectacle that spread before my eyes surpassed even the most fervid imagination. Even more than the work itself, which must have been equal to the others in monumentality, the real protagonist was nature, which here gave free rein to its fecundity and power without reserve. A few enormous old trees, propped up by free-moving plants, lay heavily on the ruins; others, crushed by their own weight, shattered the roofing of vaults, architraves, and chapels. The invasive and destructive power of these unstoppable roots managed to break through the outside wall of a few galleries, while the creepers, with stalks as strong as steel, throttled the fallen statues of the apsaras; and also the courtyards and colonnades were obstructed by the ruinous fall of masses of stone. While I observed this “fair”, intent on the savage and voracious banquet, I was overcome by a wave of disgust which hit me like a blow to the stomach. Everything was deliberately sacrificed to the ligneous jungle; by now the condition of this monument was such that it was useless to try to restore it. By scraping the mould from the stones, one could discover the high level of greatness achieved by the majestic Ta Prohm eight centuries ago. It was Jayavarmn VII who had it built in honour of his mother. Dwelling there was a numerous religious and social hierarchy, which from historical documents seems to have been composed of 18 archpriests, 2,740 officiants, more than 2,002 assistants, and 615 celestial dancers; and also registered in the reliable accounts was the consumption of 165,744 candles, as well as the inventory of the treasure locked up in the strongboxes, which included: 5 tons of silver, 35 diamonds, 45 thousand pearls and 4500 precious stones. For the upkeep of the temple of Ta Prohm the king thought of creating a territory formed of 3,140 villages with the ambient countryside, in which about 80 thousand people would be working. At that time Mouhot was in Siam for the Royal Geographical Society of London. He had heard talk of a mysterious city hidden in the heart of the Cambodian forest, but no one, not even the rather superstitious locals, dared to venture into it, because they believed that it harboured ferocious beasts. But Mouhot, a man who sought not only adventures but antiquities, braved the sea and endured a twelve day’s journey on an elephant’s back until he arrived at Ohnom Penh. Here, the king signed a letter for him that would facilitate his expedition. He crossed the Tonie Sap river and, after a journey of only a few days, following the river Siem Reap, he came upon the forgotten city, which became one of the most important archaeological findings of the last century. On his return from the expedition, seated between the skin of a tiger and one of a monkey, with a trunk nearby containing insects waiting to be catalogued, Mouhot wrote down his thoughts by the light of a torch. “The monuments of art that I have seen are gigantic and in my opinion represent a higher level than any other human work left by the ancients”. And again, “I have never been so happy as now in this grandiose tropical scene and, even if I knew that I would die here, I would never change this existence for the joys and the comforts of the civilized world”. Perhaps it was a presentiment. In the autumn of the same year, he came down with malaria, fought it for twenty-two days and then died. After his burial at Luang Prabang, two faithful servants entrusted his precious notes to a British diplomat, who had them sent to Mouhot’s family. However, it was only in 1898 that the Ecole Francaise d’Extreme-Orient Foundation, set up in Saigon, compiled a list and a summary description of the Indochinese monuments. Following this, the same institute created the Conservation d’Angkor, whose first big assignment was the eradication of the vegetation which was suffocating the two most important constructions, Angkor Vat and Bayon; after this the same work was to be carried out with the others. This done, the work of restoration was to be promoted. The Society for the Preservation of Angkor was first entrusted to Henri Marchal, then to the archaeologist George Groslier, and then to his son Bernard-Philippe. It was only in 1927 that their patient work was awarded, when they made significant progress in the definitive chronology of the temples. With the passing years the explorations and restorations were extended to all of Cambodia, and among other things, it was discovered that in about 800 archaeological sites some monuments had been erected on other older ones. This work went on until 1972 - that is, up to the moment when the civil war broke out. Preah Khan, the “sacred sword,” is a very complex city. Grouped in it, around the temple built in 1191 and consacrated to Jayavarman VII’s father, are a number of religious constructions: chapels close to one another, annexed buildings, small courtyards and perhaps even some family graves. However, these buildings lack the architectonic tidiness seen in other Anghor monuments. The city’s particular structural layout reminds one of a place of private meditation rather than of one open to the cult; but the plan of the city is clearly modelled on the others. A wide exterior moat runs along the perimeter, while three concentric boundary walls enclose the temple proper which, in its turn, is sheltered by a high wall marked at regular intervals by high-reliefs, more than five metres high, representing the garuda. All the religious symbols on the pilasters flanking the avenue leading to the temple have been chiselled off. This does not seem to have been furtive or even recent work, as some think, but rather carefully considered work, whose purpose was to remove systematically all images of Buddha and to leave in their place the imprint of a repressed rage. And indeed, this was how the aristocratic priestly class, badly damaged by the religious choice of Jayavarman VIII, reacted immediately after his death. As at Ta Prohm, here too the luxuriant forest seems to have dug its claws into everything, and loosening its grip is not likely to be an easy task. In fact, the restoration work has been limited to the reinforcement of a few ceilings and some sloping walls. I lingered somewhat amidst that gigantic nature which conferred life on the ruins, trying to guess what these monuments must have been once, and thinking of how many people must have toiled for this king with his mad dream of greatness. To know that I was so near Banteay Srei, which is in an off-limits area, and that I couldnt go there, was something I simply couldn’t swallow, so the urge to go back there was very strong. No one knows why Banteay Srei is called the “Citadel of Women”, but it is probably because its small-scale architecture and its closely-packed, even extreme ornamentation suggests the harmonious grace of the female figure, to which may be added the composure of its structural solidity and the frivolousness of its decoration. Indeed, the beautiful Banteay was little more than a toy compared with that great “beast” the Bayon. “Citadel of Women” came to world notice in 1924, after Andre Malraux’s unsuccessful attempt to make off with several works. This, of course, is the same Malraux who later became a world-famous writer and Minister of Information and Culture in de Gaulle’s government. After disembarking in this isolated place, together with his wife Clara and friend Louis Chevasson, he removed from the temple a few bas-refliefs which, sent down the river, should have arrived in Saigon and then France. Arrested by the colonial authorities, he was condemned to three years of prison, but thanks to the intervention of a few Paris intellectuals, he managed to regain his freedom six months later. Of this adventurous journey in Cambodia there remains, for the benefit of the whole world, his splendid novel The Royal Way (La Vie royale), which is the store of two Europeans who hope to reach the lost city, yet to be discovered by westerners, and to profit from the sale of its works of art; actually, it was only a public apology for that theft. In the early seventies I met this intellectual adventurer at Phnom Penh, when he had already left the Ministry. We had nearby rooms at the “Le Royal” hotel which, although it retained its classical colonial style, had lost most of the splendour of the old day The now seventy-year-old Malraux, still sharp-minded and strong in character, talked with me about his life of action, about the civil war in Spain, his German imprisonment during World War II, his daring escapes and his great journeys, undertaken to avoid the routine of everyday life. But never antything about his private life with all its misfortunes, or anything about the story of Banteai Srei. Although the period of Angkor’s historical splendour lasted only five centuries, its decline was much more rapid. The Khmer empire, a giant with feet of clay, which in its full geographical extension included not only Cambodia but Thailand, southern Burma, Laos and Vietnam, demonstrated how fragile a centralized power could be which was moreover based on a slave organisation. It was inside that system that the causes of its weakness probably came to a head, already in the decades following the death of Jayavarman VII in 1219. The country was unable to support the heavy weight of those colossal constructions for long, and even less the continual wars with the bellicose Siamese and with the Khans. The mythical city lost its population as if it had been decimated by the plague. Abandoned by men and by kings, the population transferred to the vicinity of Phnom Penh, but it did not grow as it had at Angkor. Consequently, in no time at all the jungle reclaimed it; wherever the wind brought bits of earth, there, was soon a sprouting of plants, creepers and roots which twined around the macroscopic world of stone and broke it up. Tigers began to stalk along the pawed streets, the temples became a hiding-place for panthers, and a legion of monkeys took possession of the places where merchants used to display products from every corner of the Orient. |
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