City of Temples

Henri stands in Siem Reap airport while his wife is detained at customs. The shiny floors and lush plants contrast the heavy military presence. Finally, she pushes forward through the crowds, her passport stamped “Welcome to the Kingdom of Cambodia”.

He has dreamed for years of visiting the magnificent city of Angor Wat and its temples. Shelly smiles with excitement though her eyes are heavy. “She really needs this trip,” hoping she will forget everything for a while.

They change some dollars for riels and look outside at the line of buses and tuk tuk drivers in the rain. “Let’s get a cab, Shelly. You need sleep. We’ve been traveling for 20 hours”.

Their pension lies on quiet and dark street. In the small bar there are a two couples sharing drinks and stories. The manager reserves a driver for their morning tour and gives them their key. Dragging Shelly’s suitcase up the stairs, Henri can see from their balcony that the adjacent lot is crumbling, but he is relieved their modest room is clean and stylish. Shelly is asleep in minutes, but Henri lies awake for an hour, his circling thoughts interrupted by the intermittent hum of the air conditioner and a chirping gecko.

A loud knock on the door wakes them. “Sir! Madam! Your driver is waiting for you downstairs. Please come now for breakfast.”

Shelly rushes to shower and dress while Henri collects his camera gear and sketchbook. He is already dressed and downstairs drinking a coffee when a soft-spoken man enters. “I am Eng, your driver. Please may I take your bag for you?” Henri puts his hand over his most valued possessions. “Non, merci. Je suis Henri.” Met with a blank expression, Henri adds “I am Henri. Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you. Shall we go now?”

“Yes,” tapping his foot. “My wife will be right down.”

Shelly rushes to meet them with her backpack, water bottle and hat in hand.

Shelley, this is Eng,” Henri gestures. “Good morning” they chorus.

It’s hot and muggy, and the long road is bumpy. They travel past makeshift homes in middle of rice fields with water buffalo toiling. “Many temples are ahead, but most people here are farmers” Eng narrates, telling them how he hid in a nearby cave during the Khmer Rouge occupation. He breaks the heaviness, chuckling. “Which Wat do you want to see?”

“Ha, that’s funny. What Wat? Preah Kan Temple, please.”

Saturated with sweat, they cross a bridge guarded by eagle-like garudas and enter a 12th century courtyard. Sinuous roots of enormous Banyan trees squeeze stone walls, which now depend on one another to remain standing. Henri wonders aloud, “How did Mouhat manage find these magnificent structures nearly choking under jungle vines? In the 1860s??”

Shelly shakes her head in amazed agreement.

Fading scenes and dancing apsara figures cover every surface. Stones lay in piles like jigsaw pieces, waiting to be assembled by archaeology teams. They haven’t realized that 3 hours have passed until Eng comes to meet them.

Outside, Cambodian musicians play hauntingly beautiful music. Shelly buys a CD, then spots a woman selling scarves and jewelry. Two young girls pop up from behind the table, quoting prices in several languages. She chooses a scarf, and models it in mock-glamour. After she pays them, they are rapt in in conversation and song, marching behind Shelley, imitating her every gesture and word. Henri grows impatient and interrupts their play with rolling eyes and a stern voice. “Shelly. The driver is waiting. We can come back later- Let’s go!”

Henri rushes ahead, grumbling about her diversions and their limited budget.

They cool off at their bar with drinks and some fruit. Henri continues his lecture on the region’s architectural history. Shelly is silent for the evening.

They arrive at Bayon Temple for sunrise. Streams of rays saturate the towers from behind, setting the temple aglow in a bloom of golden light. Monkeys scamper around the walls hoping for treats from the eager queue of tourists. An orange-robed monk extends his long arm to a macaque in time for the shutter’s click-click.

Vendors line the road, and Shelly has already beelined towards the sarongs and embroidered blouses. Two women are already bargaining with her in several languages. Shelly turns to disguise her search for bills, but Henri is waving at her insistently. She returns to the line, and he kisses her on the forehead.

Witnessing this moment from above are hundreds of smiling Buddha faces, said to be modeled after the King’s features. The crowds are oppressive, but the views are worthwhile. They bypass the last gallery to exit and get something to eat before the next tour.

Shelly looks back at the vendors under the trees, hoping to see her friends. Henri comforts her. “There will be another opportunity, don’t worry. And we can’t really afford to...”

“It’s those precious smiles. They are too young and smart to be working.”

“They seemed to be doing fine. Their stuff wasn’t that cheap,” Henri interrupts.

“Girls that age should be in school, not selling wares to tourists. They picked up every phrase I taught them!” She pauses. “Did you see how tiny they were? And their Mother?”

Henri tries to reason. “Shelly... I know, but you’re not their Mother.” He catches himself. “Maybe you’ll find them again. But we can’t help everyone,” he adds.

Silence.

“But they seemed happy, right?”

“Good morning! Are you awake...? We can’t miss the Angkor Wat temple, honey.” He rose early to bring her flowers and set them by the bed.

“I’ll be ready in 30 minutes, I swear”.

“Ok, I’ll wait downstairs. Eng and I will leave if you aren’t there by 8:45.”

The largest and most impressive of the temple complex is a magnificent vision from a great distance. The Angkor Wat, with its five glorious towers in the shape of lotus-buds, is surrounded by a 3-mile moat. A life-long dream, deferred yet another hour by the hordes who arrived 30 minutes before them.

Shelly, winded, takes a break halfway up the steps to the highest gallery. Henri jokes that “The tower is modelled after Mount Meru, after all!” Not humored, she waits outside with the other women who forgot arm coverings while Henry explores a shrine. She mutters “Who would remember a sweater in this heat?”

She finds a shaded spot in the eastern gallery where she can stare into the Churning of the Sea of Milk. Henri joins her, explaining the figures and the Hindu creation legend for another hour. Henri urges them forward to the next gallery and Shelly resists. “I am over devas and Shivas and temples! But I am hungry – for lunch!”

Henri snaps “If we leave now, we’ll have to wait two hours to get back in here. I finally have a chance to study this place after waiting for years- and now you’re going to act like this!”

He stops to witness his temper turn her to tears.

She steps back. “I’m going to get something to eat for them. I’ll send Eng for you at 6.”

He calls out, "I'm sorry, but-”

She is already out of sight. “Merde”.

Henri returns to explorer mode and sketches the west-facing side. He eavesdrops on a fascinating French scholar describing the 1.000 Buddhas Gallery that drew pilgrims here to write about their good deeds. HIs distinguished voice diminishes as his audience follows through the gate, but Henri is banned from entering.

In the clearing, Henri spots a small black notebook. He picks it up and waves it in his hand, thinking someone nearby might return to claim it. He tires, sitting on the ground to open the cover. Meticulous miniature drawings of the temples and their designs fill the first half. Inscriptions and symbols translated into French cover the rest of the pages.

Eng is waiting in front of all the patient drivers. “Time to meet your wife, Mr. Henri!”

Shelly reclines on their balcony, cooled by the breeze. She invites a kiss when Henri offers a gentle apology. It’s decided that they are going to treat themselves to a nice dinner. Henri explains how he found the notebook. He pulls it out of his bag, loosening a business card with an address on back. They immediately walk across the bridge and call a taxi.

“Can you please take us to the Grand Hotel?”

They enter the spacious lobby of the palatial structure, looking up at the massive palms and tropical birds. “Does this notebook belong to a French professor staying at this hotel? I found it at the Angkor temple today.”

The concierge is delighted. “Oui! Merci, Monsieur,” she exclaims as she slips it under her desk. “I will return this immediately to Professor. He will be quite relieved,” then whispers instructions into the phone.

Henri is hopeful. “Is it possible to meet him? Maybe we could have a drink here at the restaurant and wait?” Shelly nods in agreement.

“Maybe not possible- he is quite busy tonight... But please, you must drink here,” she gestures towards a table by a mirrored pool filled with lotus flowers. They order luscious cocktails and all the dishes the host recommends. It’s going to be expensive.

Henri asks “How was your afternoon, darling?”

She pauses, then tells him everything.

“Their names are Bopha and Davi, and their mother Kesor is only 26. We learned some Cambodian songs and dance moves. Then we had lunch and I taught them phrases, including “You are bea-ut-i-ful!” to potential customers.

She laughs. “They learn English from tourists, but really need lessons. The girls run the stand when Kesor takes care of their father, so they miss school.”

“What happened to him?”

“He was pulling a cart on their farm and fell under its weight. He may need a plate in his leg, but they can’t afford a surgery.”

“How awful. Maybe we can create a fund, or get him in touch with medical volunteers?”

“We’re working on that. Maybe we can go visit tomorrow?”

“I don’t see why we wouldn’t. It’s our last day, so maybe we can go to one more temple at sunset”

“Perfect!” she agrees.

He signs the bill after the passion fruit dessert, pretending to ignore the price. Shelly notices Henri looking around the room and walks to the reception. “Can I leave his business card for the Professor, please? My husband is an architect and is fascinated by all things Cambodian- and French, of course!” The concierge takes the card and wishes them a good night.

Content to miss breakfast, they linger in bed. As Henri checks his shoes for frogs, Shelly spots a thick envelope beneath the door. A tiny image of the city with “Angkor Temple Exhibition: 100th Anniversary” is stamped on the back.

He carefully opens the seal. A thickness of Euros falls from between the folds of a handwritten note:

“Merci, Henri. You have restored my faith in humanity. We shall meet soon, as I am again in need of your services. I will call you from Paris. -Professor Delaporte

Shelly wonders “That notebook must have been precious.”

Henri consults his phone. “At today’s exchange rate, this is $20,000! Quite a finder’s fee, right?”

“A gift from the gods!! Thank you!” Shelly raises her arms, inviting him to a celebratory dance.

Henri searches his phone. “Delaporte is all over the French news. That book contained his drawings of the temple’s layout and translations of texts. His foundation is building another replica of Angkor in Paris to celebrate the 100-year anniversary of the first copy. He needs a team and they are well-funded.”

He remembers Shelly’s dream. “This money can also fund the license for your language program in France and here! That’s only if we-”

“We want to,” she continues.

“Now let’s find our girls and a good surgeon,” Henri adds. “They need to get back to school.”

“And we have a sunset to catch.”