Middle-aged tourism's classes of life
Traveller's log: SE Asia offers three major complexes to the Western traveller who wants to spend the autumn being interesting at dinner parties: Angkor Wat in Cambodia, Bagan in Myanmar and Borobudur (top) in Indonesia. Pictures: www.pandaw.com, www.quangduc.com
Monday, October 22, 2007
IN EUROPE, the working classes go to the beach for their holidays while the middle classes visit cathedrals and art galleries. (Things are rather different in Brunei.) By the time educated Westerners reach fifty however, they may feel that they have had enough of ecclesiastical architecture and they begin to look for something new.
Husband and wife still enjoy the glories of the baroque and dream of a frieze of Italian putti around their four-poster bed, but many will shamefully admit that the contemplation of European art is now only a precursor to retail therapy or le menu gastronomique. They have realised that they really cannot face another summer looking at paintings of overweight madonnas or get excited about the exuberances of 18th century altar pieces.
If they are absolutely honest, they recognise that their interests have shifted away from the European tradition. They are happy enough sitting in a French cottage with a racey whodunit or converting a dilapidated stable into an additional bedroom, but they really cannot stomach another Gothic transept or crumbling chateau.
But this doesn't mean they've stopped enjoying travelling. She may be happy to indulge his new found interest in Buddhism or spice markets and be only too willing to start the annual break in the check-in queues at Heathrow's Terminal 3; this is a pleasant change indeed from filling the car for a trip across the Channel. He may understand fully her fascination with Islamic calligraphy or Persian carpets and may even share it.
By forty both can generally afford a flight to the Near or Far East. On winter evenings they discover the pleasures of looking at tatty old maps from their backpacker period. Unfolding them, they find "Erzerum" or "Tabriz" written in marker pen across the folds — a reminder of their hitchhiking days. They pour over old school atlases and borrow their children's Lonely Planet guides. By January they have bought their long haul tickets to the mystical Orient; no more dusty Tuscany churches or Greek and Roman rubble for them.
At holiday time these days, older European couples may be found wandering in the ruins of ancient temples or sweltering in the markets of Cairo, Bangkok or Saigon. Tourism, it might be said, has developed new forms of suffering: the unspoken codes of middle class behaviour still require them to acquire culture during their hard earned break, but now they have to do it in 30 centigrade.
For Europeans, temples are the new cathedrals. These awesome monuments have always been known to the specialists and to the ageing colonial types who helped preserve them in the decades after World War II, but they were rarely visited by the generalist; the difficulty of reaching them coupled with political insecurity dissuaded all but the most intrepid.
Nowadays of course it is easy, and even quite cheap, to get practically anywhere; and there are plenty of temples in SE Asia. The region offers three major complexes to the discerning traveller, who wants to spend the autumn being interesting at dinner parties: Angkor Wat in Cambodia, Bagan in Myanmar and Borobudur in Indonesia have become very accessible. These are the designer destinations for the discerning Dinky (Double Income No Kids Yet) as well as for more mature couples whose children have already fled the nest.
I was lucky enough to visit all three places at the end of the nineties, but I acquired a particular affection for Borobudur, which my wife and I visited again last week. Back in the nineties it was a magical place, a magnificent Buddhist temple built somewhere around the beginning of the 9th century by the rulers of the Sailendra dynasty. It is constructed of 60,000 cubic metres of stone. For centuries it stood forgotten, buried under volcano ash and gradually subsiding into its water-logged foundations. The site was cleared in the early 19th century under Raffles's administration of Java. The Dutch administration carried on the reconstruction in the 1900s and restored the monument's ancient splendour.
In 1998 there were few visitors and one could wander among the stupas and along the terraces, admiring the exquisite sculptured friezes of Buddhist mythology. There are over 1400 panels, which recount all the major episodes from Tripitaka scriptures. The temple was silent, a place for quiet meditation and reflection. It was easy to understand the attractions of this ancient religion. The monks who lived within the walls must have found it easy to escape the snares of earthly desire and enslavement to the ego, as the scriptures taught them to do. The view at day break over mist laden trees to the sea must have cleared the mind of all earthly cares. The serene Buddhas looked out over the jungle unmoved by the stares of the occasional tourist.
Things can go wrong however and Borobudur these days is rather different. Admittedly it was holiday time last week, but this great monument that has stood the tests of centuries, was being visibly destroyed by tens of thousands of visitors. They sat on the stupas, used them as rubbish bins for empty drink cans, left bottles and sandwiches on ledges beneath scenes from the Ramayana. Mounds of rubbish accumulated along the terraces and ice-cream cones and paper wrappings were pressed into the flagstones. It reminded me of the corpse of an insect being dismembered by armies of voracious ants. The friezes were visibly crumbling. Tannoys asked people not to climb on the stupas or touch the sculptures, but no one took any notice. I could have cried. The quietude of the place was shattered and we left as soon as we could find our way to the exit through the acres of stalls, selling T-shirts and whistles and cheap rattan handbags.
Fifty kilometres away at Prambanan the Hindu temples were properly managed. We were kept at a distance from the main temples and were able to appreciate their haunting grandeur. A little younger than Borobudur, these great monuments are dedicated to the gods of the Hindu pantheon. The outlying temples are a short walk from the main complex and not often visited. We had them more or less to ourselves.
Tourism is one of the great institutions of the modern world and I could never really tire of travelling. New destinations offer new experiences and insights. The occasional disappointment does nothing to cure me of the travel bug. The temples of the Far East are, without doubt, the perfect antidote to cathedral fatigue; South East Asia has some of the best temple complexes in the world and they are well worth the effort of reaching them. Borobudur is an object lesson in what can go wrong in an era of mass tourism. One can only hope that that the Indonesian Ministry responsible will sort things out in time to preserve this very special place for future generations.
The writer is the principal of Jerudong International School and can be reached at John.Price@jis.edu.bn
The Brunei Times
Husband and wife still enjoy the glories of the baroque and dream of a frieze of Italian putti around their four-poster bed, but many will shamefully admit that the contemplation of European art is now only a precursor to retail therapy or le menu gastronomique. They have realised that they really cannot face another summer looking at paintings of overweight madonnas or get excited about the exuberances of 18th century altar pieces.
If they are absolutely honest, they recognise that their interests have shifted away from the European tradition. They are happy enough sitting in a French cottage with a racey whodunit or converting a dilapidated stable into an additional bedroom, but they really cannot stomach another Gothic transept or crumbling chateau.
But this doesn't mean they've stopped enjoying travelling. She may be happy to indulge his new found interest in Buddhism or spice markets and be only too willing to start the annual break in the check-in queues at Heathrow's Terminal 3; this is a pleasant change indeed from filling the car for a trip across the Channel. He may understand fully her fascination with Islamic calligraphy or Persian carpets and may even share it.
By forty both can generally afford a flight to the Near or Far East. On winter evenings they discover the pleasures of looking at tatty old maps from their backpacker period. Unfolding them, they find "Erzerum" or "Tabriz" written in marker pen across the folds — a reminder of their hitchhiking days. They pour over old school atlases and borrow their children's Lonely Planet guides. By January they have bought their long haul tickets to the mystical Orient; no more dusty Tuscany churches or Greek and Roman rubble for them.
At holiday time these days, older European couples may be found wandering in the ruins of ancient temples or sweltering in the markets of Cairo, Bangkok or Saigon. Tourism, it might be said, has developed new forms of suffering: the unspoken codes of middle class behaviour still require them to acquire culture during their hard earned break, but now they have to do it in 30 centigrade.
For Europeans, temples are the new cathedrals. These awesome monuments have always been known to the specialists and to the ageing colonial types who helped preserve them in the decades after World War II, but they were rarely visited by the generalist; the difficulty of reaching them coupled with political insecurity dissuaded all but the most intrepid.
Nowadays of course it is easy, and even quite cheap, to get practically anywhere; and there are plenty of temples in SE Asia. The region offers three major complexes to the discerning traveller, who wants to spend the autumn being interesting at dinner parties: Angkor Wat in Cambodia, Bagan in Myanmar and Borobudur in Indonesia have become very accessible. These are the designer destinations for the discerning Dinky (Double Income No Kids Yet) as well as for more mature couples whose children have already fled the nest.
I was lucky enough to visit all three places at the end of the nineties, but I acquired a particular affection for Borobudur, which my wife and I visited again last week. Back in the nineties it was a magical place, a magnificent Buddhist temple built somewhere around the beginning of the 9th century by the rulers of the Sailendra dynasty. It is constructed of 60,000 cubic metres of stone. For centuries it stood forgotten, buried under volcano ash and gradually subsiding into its water-logged foundations. The site was cleared in the early 19th century under Raffles's administration of Java. The Dutch administration carried on the reconstruction in the 1900s and restored the monument's ancient splendour.
In 1998 there were few visitors and one could wander among the stupas and along the terraces, admiring the exquisite sculptured friezes of Buddhist mythology. There are over 1400 panels, which recount all the major episodes from Tripitaka scriptures. The temple was silent, a place for quiet meditation and reflection. It was easy to understand the attractions of this ancient religion. The monks who lived within the walls must have found it easy to escape the snares of earthly desire and enslavement to the ego, as the scriptures taught them to do. The view at day break over mist laden trees to the sea must have cleared the mind of all earthly cares. The serene Buddhas looked out over the jungle unmoved by the stares of the occasional tourist.
Things can go wrong however and Borobudur these days is rather different. Admittedly it was holiday time last week, but this great monument that has stood the tests of centuries, was being visibly destroyed by tens of thousands of visitors. They sat on the stupas, used them as rubbish bins for empty drink cans, left bottles and sandwiches on ledges beneath scenes from the Ramayana. Mounds of rubbish accumulated along the terraces and ice-cream cones and paper wrappings were pressed into the flagstones. It reminded me of the corpse of an insect being dismembered by armies of voracious ants. The friezes were visibly crumbling. Tannoys asked people not to climb on the stupas or touch the sculptures, but no one took any notice. I could have cried. The quietude of the place was shattered and we left as soon as we could find our way to the exit through the acres of stalls, selling T-shirts and whistles and cheap rattan handbags.
Fifty kilometres away at Prambanan the Hindu temples were properly managed. We were kept at a distance from the main temples and were able to appreciate their haunting grandeur. A little younger than Borobudur, these great monuments are dedicated to the gods of the Hindu pantheon. The outlying temples are a short walk from the main complex and not often visited. We had them more or less to ourselves.
Tourism is one of the great institutions of the modern world and I could never really tire of travelling. New destinations offer new experiences and insights. The occasional disappointment does nothing to cure me of the travel bug. The temples of the Far East are, without doubt, the perfect antidote to cathedral fatigue; South East Asia has some of the best temple complexes in the world and they are well worth the effort of reaching them. Borobudur is an object lesson in what can go wrong in an era of mass tourism. One can only hope that that the Indonesian Ministry responsible will sort things out in time to preserve this very special place for future generations.
The writer is the principal of Jerudong International School and can be reached at John.Price@jis.edu.bn
The Brunei Times
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