Sandwiched between Vietnam and Thailand, two relatively prosperous Asian countries, the Kingdom of Cambodia is noticeably poorer. The only images I had previously seen of Cambodia were the pictures beamed across the world showing the terrible famine of 1979. This famine followed the collapse of the ruthless Khmer Rouge regime led by Pol Pot and his coterie of ultra-communists. It is unfortunate but inevitable that the country is primarily identified with this, its darkest period.
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Here is a brief account of the tragic events that occurred in Cambodia’s recent past.
As a young man Pol Pot travelled to Paris on a scholarship to study electronics, whilst there he became absorbed in Marxism and upon his return to Cambodia joined the underground Communist Party (later known as the Khmer Rouge, literally Red Cambodian). He rose quickly up the ranks to become leader and orchestrated a persistent guerrilla war against the incumbent royalist government.
Meanwhile the Americans had carried the Vietnam war over into Cambodian territory by carpet bombing huge areas of the countryside in an attempt to flush out the Viet Cong; this resulted in the deaths of tens of thousands of Cambodian civilians and destabilised the country in the process.
At the same time a US backed military coup helped put a corrupt and incompetent right-wing general in power. When the Americans finally pulled out of Vietnam they also withdrew their support for the military government in Cambodia which by now was hugely unpopular. This provided a golden opportunity for the Khmer Rouge, ironically with popular support, to seize power.
Within hours of their victory Khmer Rouge soldiers marched on the capital and evacuated the population at gunpoint; this was the beginning of their radical agenda to create an extreme peasant-based communist society; an experimental agrarian utopia.
In addition to forcing all urban dwellers to become agricultural labourers, newspapers and television stations were shut down, radios and bicycles confiscated, money was forbidden, all businesses closed, religion banned, education halted, health care eliminated. Cambodia was effectively sealed off from the outside world.
Pol Pot declared ‘This is Year Zero’ and set about ‘purifying’ society. Initially he purged the educated, the wealthy, Buddhist monks, police, doctors, lawyers, teachers, former government officials, ex-soldiers and anyone suspected of disloyalty; eventually the purges spread to include top ranking Khmer Rouge officials as Pol Pot’s paranoia reached epidemic proportions. For the 3 years 8 months and 21 Days that the regime lasted, one third of the population, over 2 million people, were either murdered, starved or worked to death.
The regime was finally toppled following a full-scale invasion by the Vietnamese army, seeking to end Khmer Rouge border attacks.
Pol Pot went into hiding and continued a guerrilla war against a succession of Cambodian governments over the next 17 years. In 1998 the 73-year-old was finally arrested, only to die shortly afterwards from a heart attack before he could face trial.
To date, no-one has been brought to justice for their part in the genocide.
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I journeyed by boat and bus from Vietnam to arrive in Phnom Penh, the capital and by far the largest and most modern city in Cambodia. There is a buzzing nightlife and an almost religious zeal for the game of pool. English is more widely spoken than in Vietnam and I was pleased to be able to chat with local people again. I whiled away a few days in the pool halls drinking Angkor beer and smoking Alain Delon cigarettes; escaping the heat and waiting patiently for my Vietnam photographs to upload via the ‘very fastest broadband’ connection.
I had a haircut for 30p which included an unnerving shoulder massage; when it was offered I had assumed that the person cutting my hair would also be the masseuse, or indeed anyone on view, so I was a little apprehensive when a 'bring out the gimp' scenario left me at the mercy of a frustrated mid-op transsexual.
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Street children abound in Phnom Penh and some sell books well into the small hours to pay for school the following day; if they don’t sell a book then invariably they miss school. Teachers earn a paltry salary of around $30 per month (the average is $50) and subsequently demand money from their pupils for lessons. There are also a number of begging pimps; they control stables of children who roam the streets day and night tapping the lucrative Western guilt market.
It is important not to hand out money to children as this will only encourage them into a life of begging rather than learning a trade. It is OK to give food as long as it can't be resold and mealtimes are often spent surrounded by a dozen grubby little faces with angelic imploring eyes.
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While in Phnom Penh I visited the infamous S21 prison, now known simply as the genocide museum; although auto-genocide might be a better description as the Khmer Rouge murdered their own people. The former high school was converted to a torture and detention centre between 1975 and 1979 where 20,000 men, women and children were incarcerated before their deaths.
Two Vietnamese journalists stumbled upon this place shortly after the Vietnamese invasion in early 1979. They photographed the bodies of the remaining victims, still chained to their beds having been tortured to death. These rooms have been left virtually untouched since their discovery. The rooms contain the bed, the instruments of torture and the journalists’ photograph of the dead prisoner; no more, no less; better enabling the observer to perceive the horror.
The main rooms are equally provocative, containing 100s of portraits of the victims; each one with the same hopeless expression. The rundown suburban school building and the eerie reflections cast onto the photographs make this place an intoxicating memorial.
Next I made my way to Choeung Ek, better known as the ‘killing field‘; there were killing fields scattered throughout Cambodia, this being the largest. The one-time orchard was the final destination for the prisoners of S21, where upon arrival they were blindfolded, bludgeoned and dumped into mass graves. Again, very little has been touched since the killings and in many places fragments of bone and clothing have worked their way to the surface of the parched earth. The sight of a chequered shirt sleeve or the hem of a once brightly coloured dress drives home the horror of the events more potently than the formal statistics meted out on information boards.
The nadir of that afternoon, and potentially that period in history, was a tree bearing a sign which simply proclaimed “KILLING TREE AGAINST WHICH EXECUTIONERS BEAT CHILDREN”. The executioners, as well as the guards at S21, were invariably teenage boys, and sometimes younger, who had been brainwashed by the regime and held a reputation for savage cruelty.
I headed by bus to the Southern province of Kampot and the provincial capital by the same name. Two main reasons for going there were that it was only a day’s journey (the maximum recommended dose) and that there is actually a ‘road’ that goes there.
Travelling around Cambodia is a little cumbersome; the roads, of which there are few, are generally in a terrible state, mostly un-surfaced and bearing more than a passing resemblance to a coral reef. Taking a motorbike is an even braver option; if you manage to navigate the moon-like surface you will not escape being entombed in a permanent dust cloud. A journey by boat, if feasible, is at best laboured in the middle of the dry season. You have to be committed (in both senses) to fully explore Cambodia as once your dishevelled body arrives at the end destination it is generally quite unremarkable, especially when compared with its illustrious neighbours.
Nevertheless a 12 hour bus ride somewhere will reward you with a slice of provincial life and if you’re lucky some faded colonial charm and the remains of a temple or two.
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While in Kampot I enjoyed a healthy slice of provincial life, generous helpings of (very) faded colonial charm, endless rural scenes, ancient cave temples and glorious sunsets (one benefit of the dust); making it a treasure trove by Cambodian standards.
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Kampot has a laid-back sleepy atmosphere and it’s easy to assume that this equilibrium was reached after years of peaceful slumber; not so, the civil war and subsequent genocide ravaged this region and Khmer Rouge guerrillas operated in the surrounding hills until the mid-1990s. In 1994 three Western tourists were kidnapped here and later murdered.
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The highlight was a night spent at an abandoned French hill station in Bokor National Park. The park is a vast tropical jungle that spills over precipitous cliff faces and out to the Gulf of Thailand. Elephants and tigers still roam the remote parts although you are far more likely to encounter a band of illegal loggers.
There are ruins scattered all over; a Catholic church, a royal palace, and most impressive of all, a once-grand colonial hotel and casino called Bokor Palace. The hill station was one of the last strongholds of the Khmer Rouge and witnessed some intense fighting, evidenced by the 1000s of bullet holes that decorate every wall, inside and out.
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I had the place to myself and it was fascinating to clamber around whilst trying to imagine scenes from its 1920s heyday. There wasn’t a warning sign in sight which added to the sense of adventure as flights of stairs ended in midair and floors were close to collapse.
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The view from the hotel was impressive, spanning most of the park and miles of coastline. Views in the dry season are often compromised by a constant haze of dust and smoke; Cambodians have a tendency to burn everything in their wake, from rubbish to rice fields.
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I hired a moped and travelled along the shore to Kep, once the jewel in the coastal colonial crown, where at the turn of the last century the French elite would bathe and frolic; Cambodian high-flyers followed in their wake until the 1960s. Bombing and looting during the civil war, the Khmer Rouge regime and the Vietnamese occupation have left very little for the 21st century viewer. The colonial charm was definitely faded; bleached to a point of non-existence.
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I hired a motorbike guide, named Dara, to help me find some of the famous cave temples in the region; some were fascinating, revealing 1000 year old shrines and Buddhist imagery hewn from sheer rock.
There were very few tourists in this region and the approach of a white face never failed to disgorge a gaggle of ‘guides’ from every crevice and corner. The guides at the caves had wildly vivid imaginations, perhaps honed from years of dwelling in darkness; every non-descript stalagmite and amorphous lump of rock was earnestly compared to the shape of a magnificent beast or deity, with accompanying legend.
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In the evenings Dara and I shared dinner, palm wine (not bad, less powerful than rice wine, faint smell of vomit) and beer. Dara wanted to practice his English and I was happy to learn about Cambodia, his life, and to eat local style; reclining on a straw mat laid across a raised platform. I found this more relaxing than a conventional dinner table and the resulting debris is cleared with the minimum of fuss; one flick of the mat catapults everything to the ground where it is gratefully received by duck, dog, pig, cat, goat, chicken, rat; whichever happens to be nearest.
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The next morning we visited a vast area of salt fields; a bright white ethereal world of mirror-like pools (and back-breaking work).
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On to Battambang in the West; prudence dictated that going via Phnom Penh, although double the distance, meant surfaced roads and thereby a fighting chance of avoiding whiplash and the irreversible rearrangement of my internal organs. Battambang is Cambodia’s second largest ‘city’ and is approximately the size of Wimbledon, a solitary similarity. The main offerings once again were the dependable triumvirate of colonial charm, temple ruins and provincial life.
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Battambang proved to be an elegant riverside town with a very comfortable feel to it. It was certainly not a tourist town, with the last restaurant lowering its awnings a little after 9 and plunging everything into total darkness.
I met an excellent guide called Odam and mainly thanks to him I had a fascinating time. Now in his early 40s, Odam lived through the Khmer Rouge regime which claimed his father, two brothers and sister; all murdered for trifling indiscretions such as eating fruit or meat instead of the rice porridge that was provided (Khmer Rouge soldiers would carry out daily faeces checks and anyone found straying from the set menu was executed, harsh by anyone's standards).
He grew up in a refugee camp where he was afforded the luxury of studying English and trained to become a medic; he could not secure a job in his field as he couldn’t afford to buy one; skilled state jobs are primarily for sale it seems. He married and had 3 children before his wife ran off with another man, leaving the kids and no forwarding address. Despite all this he somehow maintained the characteristically warm Khmer countenance and was a pleasure to spend time with.
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We visited one of the many killing temples in the region; ancient Buddhist temples which the Khmer Rouge occupied and used as execution sites. This particular temple displayed exhumed skulls in a cage beneath an opening high above; an opening through which people were hurled to their deaths. I could sense in his stillness, that Odam, whose family were murdered in this area, might well be considering their remains.
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Odam invited me to a wedding the following day which I gratefully accepted. The wedding was held in his local village and the marquee provided an oasis of colour and splendour amidst the shacks and dust.
I was warmly greeted by the wedding party and fellow guests; within minutes of arriving the drinking began. Speed drinking of course. Every time a toast is proposed all the men are compelled to drink; toasts were proposed on a biminutely basis. The Cambodian attitude towards alcohol is, unashamedly, to get as hammered as possible as quickly as possible; weddings provide conditions for unrestricted inebriation.
Seven rounds of wonderful food were presented, even the pig’s intestines had a certain zest, before the traditional Khmer circle dancing began. This involves shuffling around the perimeter of the dance floor at approximately 4 times the speed of a post office queue, whilst arching the palms of your hands and twisting your wrists in a circular motion; mildly sexy when performed by a woman, mildly ridiculous by a man and utterly ludicrous when that man has been speed drinking and comes from the other side of the world.
The music consisted mainly of traditional Khmer songs with a few amusing Khmer versions of Western pop songs and several renditions of the Crazy Frog which appeared to be the wedding song.
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At about this point the wedding photographer’s camera expired and being the only other person with a similar contraption I was honour-bound to step in. In truth I was glad to be able to help but my vision was somewhat impaired; drinking excessively whilst tracing endless circles in 35°C heat can take its toll.
The hospitality of the hosts and guests had been overwhelming; I was offered a dozen hands in marriage and had become ‘godfather’ to a similar number of men. Nothing prepared me for what happened next.
I heard an argument and a faint commotion outside, seconds later two men came tearing through the party in blood-stained shirts. They were hotly pursued by a bare-chested madman spurting claret from a vicious gash to his forehead and wielding a pair of gorily decorated meat cleavers. The wedding erupted into mayhem and the perpetrator set about slashing his utensils at anyone blocking his way. He was eventually subdued by a number of women (the men were too drunk), and in no uncertain terms, persuaded to leave the party. The wounded were attended to; through good fortune alone none of the injuries were life threatening.
The violent argument, obviously fuelled by alcohol, was unsurprisingly over money. There was no consideration given to calling the police; it appears that their primary objective is to supplement their meagre salaries. I left the wedding saddened by the sight of the bride in tears and the groom apologising profusely.
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The next day I travelled by boat to the town of Siem Reap, a fascinating river journey past floating villages and fishing communities across the vast expanse of Tonle Sap, SE Asia’s largest freshwater lake.
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Dotted amidst the jungle surrounding the town are the famous temples of Angkor.
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Before I had the chance to explore these mighty stone ruins I was forced to conduct a protracted survey of a far humbler and distinctly more modern porcelain temple adjoining my bedroom. The ablutions lasted for 4 days, during which I was unable to stray more than a few sharp strides from safety. One of the more mentionable activities I indulged in whilst whiling away the despondent hours was attempting to trace the source of my condition.
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The food here is interesting; years of starvation have lead these fiercely omnivorous people to eat pretty much everything; the snack stalls along the streets sell deep fried insects; the favourites being giant spiders and some kind of enormous cockroach; an atavistic throwback to an oxygen-rich era.
Eggs are a huge favourite, especially when they are fertilized and the foetus almost fully developed; a mockery of the times I've painstakingly fished through egg white to remove the tiniest particle of shell.
None of this made me ill, easily deduced as I didn‘t eat any of it. Instead I could recall a wet lettuce leaf journeying from a mysterious bucket onto my plate; this, I concluded, was the Trojan horse.
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For 100s of years the lost city of Angkor was simply a legend; a legend shared between peasants living near the dense jungle surrounding the North East shore of Tonle Sap. The stories told of temples built by gods or giants but were dismissed as fantasy, until, in 1860, the French explorer Henri Mahout rediscovered what many people today consider to be the eighth wonder of the world.
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Between the 9th and 14th centuries this was the centre of power for the Khmer dynasties who ruled one of the largest and most sophisticated kingdoms in the history of SE Asia. The ancient temples are billed by UNESCO as one of the top 3 cultural attractions worldwide and are understandably Cambodia’s foremost tourist destination (some detractors might say only), even forming the centrepiece on the national flag.
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There are over 1000 archaeological sites ranging over an area of 250km²; thankfully the most important and magnificent temples are concentrated within a manageable area just outside town.
Angkor Wat, built in the 12th century, is the most famous of all the temples and literally translated means 'the city which is a temple'. It is the largest religious structure in the world, covering an area of 500 acres and reaching a height of 65m; incredible that it lay hidden in the jungle for so many centuries.
I spent a fascinating week visiting the temples and soon realised that careful planning was required to avoid the huge crowds. 2 million people visit each year. I unbuttoned my shirt and donned hat and bull whip to travel further afield, exploring temples that have been left as they were found, almost completely subsumed by the jungle; a reminder of nature's permanence and man's brief appearance.
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Power cuts are a common occurrence in Siem Reap; in the daytime they go largely unnoticed but at night this is not the case. Temperatures hover around the 35°C mark, in this, the cooler season. To ensure a good night’s sleep I was obliged to prostrate myself in a World in Action pose (da Vinci’s Vitruvian man for the non-Brits) under the solitary life-supporting fan; when the rusty blades groaned to a standstill I had no choice but to yield to a sleepless night and submit to the shroud of perspiration that crept over my body.
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Cambodia still suffers acutely from the legacy of landmines and there are constant warnings not to stray from well-trodden paths. 1 in 275 Cambodians are amputees and the estimated 6 million landmines that remain claim at least 35 new victims each month.
I visited a landmine museum in Siem Reap established by an ex-Khmer Rouge soldier named Aki Ra. Aki Ra, whose parents were casualties of the Khmer Rouge regime, was forced to become a soldier at the age of 10. After years of laying landmines he now devotes his life to clearing them and training others to do the same.
The museum displays a dizzying array of unexploded ordinance and a disturbing variety of mines. The museum is also sanctuary to 20 young landmine victims whose families could no longer care for them. They bravely explained the workings of the many destructive devices on show; instruments of their own misfortune.
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Whilst in Cambodia I felt the desire to volunteer in some capacity; the country clearly needs all the help it can get. There are a multitude of opportunities to help out on charity and development projects, from tackling human trafficking to teaching English to street children.
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I started working for the Trailblazer Foundation, a charity established by an inspirational American couple, Scott and Chris Coates, which implements various projects and initiatives to help the poorest villages in Siem Reap province.
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Despite having the heaviest concentration of tourists in the country and many pockets of 5 star luxury, Siem Reap remains one of the most impoverished regions in Cambodia. Contaminated water causes high mortality rates; particularly amongst children.
Establishing a reliable source of clean water is Trailblazer's primary objective and underpins the success of any future development. Clean water is provided by digging pit and ring wells which operate in conjunction with simple biological water filters.
One water filter provides enough clean potable water for a family of 6 for at least 15 years at a cost of only $40. (http://www.thetrailblazerfoundation.org)
Once a supply of clean water has been established the focus moves to building schools and establishing various cottage industries.
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It is vital that the communities are involved in the projects and take ownership at the earliest opportunity. Before a project is implemented discussions are held with the village chief who is encouraged to set up a committee with representatives for key areas such as finance and education. It is a successful model and we would regularly travel to the villages to meet with the chief and his committee for discussions.
Although I was sat cross-legged on the floor sipping from a coconut and swatting flies, it wasn't that far removed from meetings in London; after all, people are people and a project is a project.
It was a fascinating experience working alongside Scott and Chris, gaining valuable insight into the daily ups and downs of running a small and highly effective charity in the field. It started me thinking, especially as Chris and Scott, funding permitting, will be setting up Trailblazer in other countries and are keen for me to become involved; I shall stay in touch.
I spent my last day in Cambodia visiting a remote floating village and flooded forest; being the height of the dry season neither the village was floating nor the forest flooded. Instead I was greeted by the bizarre sight of houses perched precariously atop 20ft poles.
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I certainly didn't expect to spend 7 weeks in Cambodia but I'm glad that I did; one of the benefits of travelling alone is being able to take opportunities when they present themselves. Although Cambodia wouldn't be the first place I'd recommend as a holiday destination it certainly has its charms. The history, although brutally depressing, is completely absorbing; the countryside offers a genuine experience of SE Asia with little Western influence and the temples of Angkor are unforgettable.
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