April in southern Laos is not the balmiest time of year.
A visitor will note the mid-morning heat. It shimmers hazily from the attendant green hills. Meanwhile, the mighty Mekong River gurgles contentedly in the background. Overhead, the sun beats so fiercely that everyone flees indoors for fear of heatstroke.
In short, the atmosphere is one of tranquil calm with subtle undertones of danger for the unwary. The visitor would be a fool to brave such conditions without first preparing themselves. It was with this pioneering spirit that I found myself piloting a rickety bicycle along Champasak’s not entirely busy main road.
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My destination, tranquil Wat Phu, was 6km away. The ruined Khmer temple, of first Hindu then Buddhist persuasion, has lain dormant at the base of its parent mountain, Phu Kao, for many aeons.
After an exhausting cycle, aided by the canine bodyguard I picked up en route, I reached the impressive site. Catching my breath, I stared across the flat earth at this imposing multi-levelled edifice. My mind formed the image of an imperious but decrepit colossus blindly surrendering to the ravages of time.
Quiet peace
Lichens swabbed the ruined palace buildings of the lower level. Below, the ground slowly swallowed fallen masonry. Daubs of orange, grey and black formed psychedelic swirls on the weathered mortar. And yet, the atmosphere remained vibrant with calm and serenity. All was silent save for the circling birds and rustling trees.
Despite the temple’s obvious disrepair, the vanguard of dok champa, Laos’ national plant and planted at every Buddhist temple, provided welcome relief from the blast furnace rays of the sun. Many in Southeast Asia consider the flower sacred. For them, it imbues a certain kind of sanctity upon any site in which it grows.
With the sun reflecting off the champa’s white petals and highlighting skeletal branches, I became transfixed. At the heart of the flower lay a yellow spiral, compact and heavenly gilded. The petals intersected and shrunk into nothingness. They seemed to afford the briefest glimpse into the infinite stretch of history itself. The celestial flowers provided a suitably grand backdrop for my climb to the upper levels.
Grand stronghold
Further exploration revealed more of the history of Champasak. The natural spring that has never dried out. The wall carving that shows the trinity of Shiva, Vishnu and Nom. The mysterious crocodile stone that, rumours suggest, provided the terminal backdrop for countless human sacrifices. All pointed towards a grand sense of pageantry and intrinsic importance, seemingly at odds with Wat Phu’s eternal rest.
As I stared out over the spectacular patchwork of the Mekong Valley, it felt as though the area was in the thrall of this tiny beacon. The temple gave off such harmony that it seemed to have flattened the surrounding area.
The neighbouring super-temples — the brooding grandeur of Angkor Wat, the t-shirts and touts of Wat Pho, the mountainside stupas of Borobodur — rightly have the kudos. But, to my mind, secluded Wat Phu Champasak stands alone in terms of peace.
Walking back to my yapping fan club, I took in one last panorama of Wat Phu Champasak. The grace floored me. I saw, once more, a worn monolith placidly surveying its domain. There it exists, riding out the ravages of time. Its buildings may crumble, and its borders might become indistinct and overgrown, but its memory will always remain.
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