Gathering in the early morning light, Sarin, Samath, Dominique, Pheara and myself piled into the Toyota Camry and headed out of Phnom Penh across the Chrouy Changva bridge. National Road #6, which weaves through small hills and vast fields on its way Kompong Cham province and eventually to Siem Reap and Angkor Wat on the opposite side of the country, nearly burst at the seams from excess traffic. We traveled for several hours, narrowly avoiding collosions with overloaded freight trucks, Landcruisers carrying members of parliament, endless parades of motorcycles and flatbed trucks piled up with cheering supporters of various political parties. Around nine in the morning we passed by a traditional pagoda entrance bearing the inscription, "Vatt Dhammalanka".
I directed us down the narrow dirt road under the pagoda gate. The scent of deep red earth filled my nose as I recalled how scholars in Phnom Penh had told me about Vatt Dhammalanka. I couldn't remember why, however. We rolled down our windows and shouted at passing firewood gatherers traveling back to the main road by bicycle, "Do you how far it is to Vatt Dhammalanka?" "I haven't heard of it, uncle!" came the response. We kept going anyway.
After several kilometers a hill to the right became visible, the narrow spires of the vihara peaking out through the trees. We all hoped that wouldn't be Vatt Dhammalanka, because the road may have been of the non-existent sort. We were deep in the countryside now.
Turns out our hopes came true. Vatt Dhammalanka was just ahead of us, at the bottom of the hill, surrounded by a wide variety of trees. We drove in and parked. But a quick talk with the monks there revealed that this was not the temple we were looking for.
"Yes, we practice the traditional ways here. But if you want to study about dharma songs, then you'll need to go to Vatt Proes Mas," a young monk informed us.
Vatt Proes Mas, the "Pagoda of the Golden Stag," as my friend John Marston had reminded me the other day in Phnom Penh. Yes, this would be a true traditionalist temple. It would be another seven kilometers down a unbearably rough road. Unbearable for those not driving, that is. Some passengers requested to stop along the way, at times to admire the elegant scenery and at times to vomit into the rice paddies which lined the road. If we hadn't been blessed with marvelous sunny weather that day, there would have been no chance of us getting through.
The temple sat nestled in a thicket between the village and a small hill. We drove in under the main entrance gate, admiring the classical carvings that adorned the spacious vihara. Parking the car near a large monastic dwelling, we got out to the sound several dogs barking from inside the building. Cautiously, I approached the entrance, only to be confronted by canine jaws chewing at my pant legs. Another member of our shouted, "Need we worry about the dogs?" A gruff voice from inside building answered, "No, not at all!" We removed our shoes and stepped inside.
The gruff voice belonged to the abbot of the temple. He sat on a bed smoking a hand-rolled leaf cigarette, his robes in disarray. A few novice monks sat on the floor around him, tending to him with large fans and stroking the dogs' backs. The abbot motioned for us to sit as the novices brought in woven plastic mats for us to sit on.
We bowed three times before the abbot and introduced ourselves to him. His speech, colorful and full of grunts, seemed perfectly matched to his wide smile. My interview with him was long and frequently interrupted by brilliant smot and dharma songs from him and other monks his junior. At one point I was asked to smot too, in Khmer and Thai and Lao and Vietnamese and English styles. I felt a powerful sense of exchange there, a powerful sense that our presence was welcome in quirky way, that Dharma was looking for itself.
We left from there to head off to a string of other temples, Vatt Bhumi Bnau, Vatt Brah Trabamn…
I directed us down the narrow dirt road under the pagoda gate. The scent of deep red earth filled my nose as I recalled how scholars in Phnom Penh had told me about Vatt Dhammalanka. I couldn't remember why, however. We rolled down our windows and shouted at passing firewood gatherers traveling back to the main road by bicycle, "Do you how far it is to Vatt Dhammalanka?" "I haven't heard of it, uncle!" came the response. We kept going anyway.
After several kilometers a hill to the right became visible, the narrow spires of the vihara peaking out through the trees. We all hoped that wouldn't be Vatt Dhammalanka, because the road may have been of the non-existent sort. We were deep in the countryside now.
Turns out our hopes came true. Vatt Dhammalanka was just ahead of us, at the bottom of the hill, surrounded by a wide variety of trees. We drove in and parked. But a quick talk with the monks there revealed that this was not the temple we were looking for.
"Yes, we practice the traditional ways here. But if you want to study about dharma songs, then you'll need to go to Vatt Proes Mas," a young monk informed us.
Vatt Proes Mas, the "Pagoda of the Golden Stag," as my friend John Marston had reminded me the other day in Phnom Penh. Yes, this would be a true traditionalist temple. It would be another seven kilometers down a unbearably rough road. Unbearable for those not driving, that is. Some passengers requested to stop along the way, at times to admire the elegant scenery and at times to vomit into the rice paddies which lined the road. If we hadn't been blessed with marvelous sunny weather that day, there would have been no chance of us getting through.
The temple sat nestled in a thicket between the village and a small hill. We drove in under the main entrance gate, admiring the classical carvings that adorned the spacious vihara. Parking the car near a large monastic dwelling, we got out to the sound several dogs barking from inside the building. Cautiously, I approached the entrance, only to be confronted by canine jaws chewing at my pant legs. Another member of our shouted, "Need we worry about the dogs?" A gruff voice from inside building answered, "No, not at all!" We removed our shoes and stepped inside.
The gruff voice belonged to the abbot of the temple. He sat on a bed smoking a hand-rolled leaf cigarette, his robes in disarray. A few novice monks sat on the floor around him, tending to him with large fans and stroking the dogs' backs. The abbot motioned for us to sit as the novices brought in woven plastic mats for us to sit on.
We bowed three times before the abbot and introduced ourselves to him. His speech, colorful and full of grunts, seemed perfectly matched to his wide smile. My interview with him was long and frequently interrupted by brilliant smot and dharma songs from him and other monks his junior. At one point I was asked to smot too, in Khmer and Thai and Lao and Vietnamese and English styles. I felt a powerful sense of exchange there, a powerful sense that our presence was welcome in quirky way, that Dharma was looking for itself.
We left from there to head off to a string of other temples, Vatt Bhumi Bnau, Vatt Brah Trabamn…
