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Meditations on a trip to Cambodia"To be a mass tourist… is to spoil, by way of sheer ontology, the very unspoiledness you are there to experience, It is to impose yourself on places that in all non-economic ways would be better, realer, without you. It is… to confront a dimension of yourself that is as inescapable as it is painful: As a tourist, you become economically significant but existentially loathsome, an insect on a dead thing." - David Foster Wallace Of the hundred temples scattered across Cambodia’s Angkor Archaeological Park, none are more iconic than Angkor Wat. Built in the 12th century in dedication to the Supreme God Vishnu, Angkor Wat is the holy jewel of the Khmer Empire and is heralded as the largest religious monument in the world. It is a delirious marriage of theology and architecture. Its moat represents the Ocean of Milk from which the universe was born, its bas-reliefs depict the great battles of Hindu epics, and its central tower represents Mount Meru, the nexus of all creation. It is a wonder of stone and time. But even excluding Angkor Wat, the Archaeological Park is a menagerie of long-lost treasures. One moment, you are gazing up at the crumbling, smiling faces of the Bayon, the next you are stumbling through the jungle temples of Ta Prohm and Preah Khan, where tree roots have fused like shadows into the stonework. One hour, you are cycling between the dusty red sandstone carcasses of Pre Rup and East Mebon, the next you are crossing a walkway towards the island of Neak Pean, over haunting swampland. Yet despite being surrounded by wonder, it is hard to ignore that grinding feeling in your stomach that something is, well, a bit wrong. As you bump into fellow travellers in narrow temple corridors, as you clumsily dodge out of family photos, as you wave away the souvenir hawkers and trinket touts, the marvel of Angkor begins to slowly grind away. You start wondering: Are all these stones merely bait in one giant South-East Asian tourist trap? And once the realisation fully sinks into your chest, it’s all over. You realise that it’s you. You are both the trapped and the trapper. You are truly in the thick of it, in the deep end. You are just another insect in the global locust swarm of mass tourism. There is no escaping it. Indeed, we all come in great hordes via tour bus, tuk-tuk, and bicycle. We come for that perfect photo of sunrise over Angkor Wat, for an (ethically dubious) elephant ride around the Bayon, for that silly selfie on top of the Terrace of the Leper King. Even the orange-robed monks that visit Angkor shake the authenticity of the experience, as they also reveal themselves to be mere tourists, whipping out smartphones and waving selfie sticks. As David Foster Wallace puts it so starkly: As tourists, we are all insects on a dead thing. We come, we go, and Angkor remains a lifeless, breathless empire. But another thought also emerges. A thought that is reserved for those seeking a story that speaks not of a cadaverous empire, but of a modern nation-state. The thought is simply that perhaps it is contemporary Cambodia, and not just these ancient Khmer ruins, that is also a dead or dying thing? Cambodia’s recent history is a wretched one, that much is certain. Pol Pot. The Khmer Rouge. Year Zero. Three million Cambodians murdered by a deranged agrarian socialist experiment, or tortured and executed in the Killing Fields. To this day, the country remains one of the poorest in South-East Asia. While the country’s prospects are beginning to improve, over a third of the population is still living in poverty. To complicate matters, Cambodia’s current leader, Prime Minister Hun Sen, is by all accounts a strongman who has solidified power through corruption, cronyism and political violence. To this day, the country remains one of the poorest in South-East Asia. While the country’s prospects are beginning to improve, over a third of the population is still living in poverty. To complicate matters, Cambodia’s current leader, Prime Minister Hun Sen, is by all accounts a strongman who has solidified power through corruption, cronyism and political violence. In visiting Angkor, you can observe many of the challenges the country faces. You can see Cambodia’s weak education system in the children who run up to you, asking you to buy their postcards. You can see the country’s difficulties with unexploded ordinances in the disabled musicians who play at temple entrances. The beauty of stone ruins juxtaposed with the bluntness of social reality. It’s quite the contrast. Its no wonder that many Cambodians have elevated Khmer’s ancient past when the recent past has offered them so little. But does all our tourism, our buzzing mass tourism, only exacerbate the problem? By visiting only its distant, bas-relief past, are we encouraging Cambodia to form a national identity that is inherently backwardlooking? Honestly, I don’t have an answer. Cambodia very clearly has a future, it is just a question of whether it can realise it, just as how the ancient Khmer kings realised the magnificence of Angkor Wat. Perhaps in places like Cambodia at least, David Foster Wallace gets it backwards. Perhaps the dead thing needs the insects in order to remind itself, that deep down beneath the broken stones, it is still alive.
During my summer university stay in Tokyo back in 2012, I took a few memorable jaunts out of the city. One was to Kamakura, a seaside city to the south of the capital, as part of a class trip and the another to Yokohama, also to the south and the second-largest city in the country. Kamakura Our visit to Kamakura was mainly focussed on Kōtoku-in, a famous Buddhist temple. I'm sure I say something similar to this about the religious sites I've explored around the world, but I feel that Japanese temples are truly something unique in terms of their ambience and ability to blend in with the natural world. One thing in particular I love about Japanese temples and shrines are the colourful decorative sake barrels on display. They are known as kazaridaru and are empty barrels meant to honour the gods – the traditional idea being that delicious, delicious Japanese rice wine is meant to connect the people to the deities themselves. Kōtoku-is temple of the Jōdo-shū or "The Pure Land School" of Buddhism which was introduced to Japan in the 12th century and continues to be one of the most widely practised forms of Buddhism in the country. The literal and spiritual focal point of the temple is the Great Buddha. Excluding the platform, this magnificent bronze statue sits at a height of over 13 metres and weighs over 120 tonnes. It's also unusual for being an open-air buddha. This is because a tsunami washed away the original building housing it in 1498 and the statue was the only thing that endured. It's remained out and open to the elements ever since. Fun fact: close to the Great Buddha are a pair of huge traditional Japanese straw sandals that are nearly two metres long and weigh around 45 kilograms. These sandals were first woven and donated by a group of children back in 1951 when the country was still recovering from the ravages of the Second World War. The wish of these children was that “the Great Buddha would don them to walk around Japan, bringing happiness to the people”. To this day, children will create and gift a new pair of giant sandals to Kōtoku-in every few years. Yokohama I visited the coastal city of Yokohama with a friend on Marine Day, a Japanese public holiday that gives thanks to the bounties and riches of the ocean. It was a pleasant outing to an important Japanese port city. Although it is a short train ride from the heart of Tokyo, it is a breezy, relaxed and walkable international city that provides a welcome respite from Tokyo's frenetic energy. I'll be honest. My trip to Japan permanently changed me. It was my first extended trip abroad on my own (this being back in my poor university student days) and I've never looked back. I got bit by the travel bug hard and that fiery wanderlust has been with me ever since. I have to travel. I have to keep seeing the world for the rest of my life. Is this a curse? A gift? An integral feature of my personality? Even now, all these years later, it is still difficult for me to coherently express.
Wayfaring notes on Fiji
Ah! The relentless hammering and chiselling of the sea along the Great Ocean Road in Victoria, Australia. Highlights along the road such as Loch Ard Gorge, the London Arch, and the celebrated Twelve Apostles (of which there were never twelve in the first place) are just stacks of limestone carved by the harsh waves of time. Who knows when the next stone stack will collapse? Who knows when the next formation will be born, cleaved from the cliff walls?
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AuthorMing is an economist, traveller, and creative writer from Melbourne, Australia. He’s a nebulous collection of particles on the lookout for a good corner to sit with a book and a cup of coffee. Archives
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