Guanyin statues, hundreds of Guanyin statues arranged in neat rows down a series of terraces, right in the middle of the jungle. Their once white skin has turned grey and yellow with dust and mold. Some have started to crumble, fingers or whole hands falling off, halos collapsing down onto their heads, one has even been bisected, only her legs remain. The jungle has slowly started closing in, vines creeping up from below to ensnare a few of the statues; thick taro roots snaking along the terraces, their giant leaves sprouting up at irregular intervals; moss crawling across the concrete. A Buddhist chant comes rising up from a temple somewhere below, cranking up the ambiance to eleven. Two questions keep running through my mind as I explore: “what is this place? Why are they here?”