WE CAME TO the strange
Snake Temple on the outskirts of the city of Penang, in what used be
called Indochina.
This temple has been described over and over by travelers and
journalists. So many wars, such repeated destruction, and so much time
and rain have come down on the streets of Penang that I wonder if it
is still there. Under the tiled roof, a low, blackish building, eaten away
by the tropical rains, in a thick wilderness of huge plantain leaves. A
dank smell. A scent of frangipani. When we first enter the temple, we see
nothing in the dimness. A strong odor of incense, and something moving
over there. It's a snake stretching out lazily. Little by little we notice
others. Then we see that there may be dozens. Later we realize that there
are hundreds or thousands of snakes. There are tiny ones coiled around the
candelabras, there are some that are dark, metallic, and slender, they all
look drowsy and sated. Sure enough, fine porcelain bowls can be seen everywhere,
some brimming with milk others filled with eggs. The snakes don't notice
us. We pass down the narrow labyrinths of the temple, brushing against
them. They are over our heads, hanging from the golden architecture; they
are sleeping on the stonework, or curled up on the altars. Over there is
the dreaded Russell's viper; it's swallowing an egg, near a dozen lethal
coral snakes, whose scarlet rings advertise their instant poison. I made
out the fer-de-lance, several enormous pythons, the coluber de rusi, and
the coluber noya. Green, gray, blue, black serpents filled the hall. A dead
silence everywhere. From time to time, a bonze dressed in saffron robes crosses
the shadows. The brilliant color of his tunic makes him look like one more
snake, stirring lazily in quest of an egg or a bowl of milk.
Were these snakes brought here? How did they adjust? Our questions
are answered with a smile, we are told that they came on their own,
and will go on their own when they feel like it. The doors, in fact,
are open and there is no grating or glass or anything forcing them to
stay in the temple.
The bus was to leave Penang and cross the forest country and
villages of Indochina to get to Saigon. No one understood my language,
nor did I understand theirs. We made stops along the interminable road
at out-of-the-way places in the jungle,
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and passengers got off, peasants in unusual
clothes, slant-eyed and quietly dignified. By now, only three or four
remained in the undaunted old rattletrap that whined and threatened to
come apart in the sweltering night.
All of a sudden, I was seized with panic. Where was I? Where
was I going? Why was I spending this endless night among these strangers?
We were crossing from Laos into Cambodia. I took in the inscrutable
faces of the last of my fellow travelers. Their eyes were wide open.
They looked like robbers. No doubt about it, i was among the sort of
bandits usually found in Oriental stories.
They exchanged knowing glances and watched me out of the corner
of their eyes. Just then, the bus came to a dead stop right in the middle
of the jungle. I picked the spot where I would die. I wouldn't let them
carry me off to be sacrificed under those unfamiliar trees whose dark
shadows cut off the sky. I would die here on this bench in the rickety
bus, trapped among baskets full of vegetables and chickens in crates,
the only friendly things around at that terrible moment. I looked about
me, ready to face the fury of my killers, and I noticed that they, too,
had vanished.
I waited a long while, alone, with my spirit completely crushed
by the intense darkness of the alien night. I was going to die and no
one would hear about it. So far from my small, beloved country! So
far away from my books and from all those I loved!
Suddenly a light appeared, and then another. The road came
alive with lights. There was the sound of a drum; an outburst of shrill
notes of Cambodian music. Flutes, tambourines, and torches filled the
road with music and patches of light. A man got on and told me in English:
"The bus has broken down. Since there will be a long wait, perhaps till
daybreak, and there is no place to sleep here, the passengers went out
to look for a troupe of musicians and dancers to entertain you."
For hours, under those trees that were no longer intimidating,
I watched the lovely ritual dances of a noble and ancient culture and
listened, till sunup, to its delightful music flooding the road.
The poet cannot be afraid of the people. Life seemed to be
handing me a warning and teaching me a lesson I would never forget: the
lesson of hidden honor, of fraternity we know nothing about, of beauty
that blossoms in the dark.#
from Memoirs - Luminous Solitude
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