“This was the first pope,” says Tran Van Hoan, pointing to a dog-eared photograph. “He died in 1933. Or 1934.” “And this,” he says, producing another sepia-coloured snapshot, “was the last pope. He was forced away in 1956.”On a feverishly hot September day, Tran is fanning himself with a handful of old photos and explaining why the huge, regal chair in what is surely the kitschiest church in all the world remains empty. It is the pope’s chair; and the pope is gone.
The first pope’s indefinite death sometime in the early 30s caused limited concern in Rome because Le Van Trung was not “The Pope” but the first pope of the Cao Dai Holy See in Tay Ninh, Vietnam; a pope who communicated with spirits of the dead through séance, magic and mysticism.The last pope of the Holy See, Pham Cong Tac, was driven into exile in 1956, and while this was also largely ignored by the Vatican, it is of great concern to Mr. Tran. “There is no new pope. We have been leaderless many years now,” he says. “We can only hope and wait. Wait for something to happen.”
Waiting is a common pastime in Tay Ninh. The Holy See is just 96 kilometres from Ho Chi Minh City but the drive down Highway 22 can take several hours depending on traffic or, more accurately, on how many farmers have spread their harvests onto the road surface to dry in the baking sun. There is a tacit agreement that all traffic must avoid the local produce, and so scooters, cars, cyclos and heavy trucks play a continuous game of chicken along the highway, dodging left and right, swerving into the opposing lane or - only rarely - screeching to a halt to avoid a carpet of corn or a fully loaded Honda. The chaos halts only for the regular funeral processions that wind out of the city towards the war-era cemeteries that appear frequently along the road; when a hearse appears all traffic pulls over and waits in silence until it has passed and the ongoing motorised Russian roulette can continue. The dead, it seems, are due respect; the living, well, they have to take care of themselves.
Long before reaching the Cao Dai compound smaller temples begin to appear, but none of them prepare you for the spectacle of the Gothic spires of the rainbow-coloured Holy See. It is part Disneyland, part mosque, part gingerbread castle, part cathedral; an intricately detailed confusion of styles, bizarrely impressive and bizarrely out of place in the setting of rural Vietnam. At every corner a peculiarity stands out - here a coiled serpent, there a celestial globe or the face of Christ - but throughout the building and the surrounding grounds one image is paramount: the Divine Eye. It stares out from walls, doors and gateways, reminding us that God sees all.
The origins of Cao Dai, meaning “high palace”, can be confusing but it is generally accepted that the faith was founded largely by Le Van Trung and Ngo Van Chieu. In Vietnam, as in Europe, mysticism and the spirit world were tremendously popular around the turn of the century, and Chieu was much in demand at séances as it was rumoured his presence greatly improved communications with the other side. It was at one of these séances that in 1919 the two founders received the first in a series of revelations that were to provide the founding teachings of the Cao Dai faith.
A cocktail of Buddhism, Taoism, Confucianism, Vietnamese folk religion, Hinduism, Catholicism and Islam, the Cao Dai faithful believe in one God who combines both male and female deities. They also believe that in the past there were two distinct periods in which this God revealed certain truths to humanity. During the first period, Lao Tzu, early buddhas, and Confucian and Taoist figures were chosen to spread these truths; in the second period Shakyamuni Buddha, Mohammed, Jesus and Moses were given the task, but it is believed that in some way their messages were distorted and thus only relevant to their historical and geographical milieu.
The present age is said to rely on divine truths being communicated by spirits rather than humans, and during the height of the fashion for séance communication earlier this century a veritable who’s who of luminaries were said to have passed on their wisdom to the Cao Dai faithful: deceased Cao Dai clergy, Vietnamese leaders, Shakespeare, Descartes, Joan of Arc, Louis Pasteur and - on a quite regular basis - Victor Hugo, among others.
No simple ouija board sufficed to receive these messages. Instead, a medium held a pen or calligraphy brush - sometimes up to 60 centimetres long - and the spirits wrote via his or her hand. Another popular method was pneumatographie, which involved hanging blank sheets of paper sealed in envelopes behind an altar. After prayer and meditation, the envelopes are opened and - voila! - the pages were covered with the script of a divine hand. Sadly, Shakespeare has not been heard of since 1935, so would-be literary agents hoping to pick up a few lost sonnets need not apply. In fact, most scripture was communicated in the 1920s and “celebrity” séances are virtually unheard of today.
The Cao Dai may no longer talk with the dead but the Holy See has lost none of its other-worldly mystique. Prayer services take place at 6 am, midday, 6 pm and midnight, and are open to the public. Most people attend the midday gathering but the evening service is particularly atmospheric. The sun grows fat and orange on the horizon and bats begin to flit about the trees and spires in the temple grounds as figures in flowing robes materialize from the shadows and assemble before the Holy See.
The twilight drive back into the city is, however, not recommended unless you have a good guide or driver, as it can be somewhat unnerving. Returning from the Holy See at night the protagonist in the film version of Graham Greene’s The Quiet American ends up in a rice paddy with bullets whistling over his head, though these days wandering water buffalo and the Tay Ninh police are the traveller’s main concern. The latter rarely resort to gunfire, but they are adept at trumping up dubious fines, and a travel permit is required if you want to stay overnight in Tay Ninh itself.
Throughout both the Franco-Viet Minh war of 1946-54 and the Vietnam War that followed, the Cao Dai and their territory occupied a curious position. Within a year of its formal founding, the sect had more than 25,000 members and by the end of the Second World War had virtually established itself as an independent province within the state of Vietnam. This did not please the central authorities of course, and the sect’s army - established by the Japanese in 1943 - was disbanded and incorporated into the national militia in 1955. Then, a year later, the pope was driven into exile.
Barely tolerated by the authorities throughout the 1960s, the Cao Dai were openly persecuted by the communist government following reunification, largely due to the sect’s unwillingness to support the Viet Cong in its struggle. Land was confiscated and the leadership was disbanded throughout the 70s, and while there was a thaw in relations during the 80s that saw most land returned, many followers are still wary. The Cao Dai remains reluctant to appoint new leaders and thereby invite renewed persecution, and so for Mr. Tran and the other followers of the Divine Eye, there is nothing to do but wait.
For the foreseeable future, at least, the pope’s chair will remain empty.