by Tara Winkler
He hiked up his trouser leg to show off his prosthesis. It was confronting to see that prosthesis on such a young kid’s leg.
‘When I was young boy I work in the field and I step on the mine,’ he said in a matter-of-fact tone, smiling his bright smile again. ‘Akira, he is good man. He have hard life too but his wish is to help many Khmer children.’
Later, Ethan filled us in on more of Akira’s story. He did indeed have a hard life.
‘Akira was born in the jungle and was basically brought up by the Khmer Rouge,’ Ethan explained. ‘They killed his parents and, as soon as he was big enough, he became a soldier. When the Vietnamese invaded, he was taken into the custody of Vietnamese soldiers, and eventually ended up in the Kampuchean People’s Revolutionary Armed Forces under the new government. He planted thousands of landmines himself—because that’s what they made him do. He never had a family, or an education, or a childhood. All the poor bugger knew was war and fighting and doing what he was told to stay alive. Can you imagine what that does to a kid’s head? But when he left the army, he started working as a de-miner for the UN. After he left the UN, he went back to the villages where he’d planted the mines and dug them up all by himself, defusing them with handmade tools. He still spends hours out in the fields on his own, working to clear Cambodia of landmines. He cleared all the landmines you see here. And he started this NGO to help these kids.’
I was impressed. It was such an incredible story—an amazing way to turn around a life filled with tragedy and misfortune.
Impulsively, I asked Ethan, ‘How did you get involved with the museum?’
‘I just wandered in and asked if I could help,’ Ethan said. ‘They’re always looking for volunteers here to help with the tours and teach the kids English and such.’ He then added perceptively, ‘Why, you thinking of volunteering?’
The three-week Intrepid tour was due to wrap up in Bangkok in two more days. I’d budgeted for eight weeks away, and it suddenly seemed frivolous, ridiculous, to go on with my holiday, to sit on a beach and forget everything I’d seen and heard in Cambodia.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I’ve got a few weeks up my sleeve, and, well, yeah—I am!’
3
Back in Bangkok, the members of the Intrepid group exchanged sad goodbyes. This was the end of the holiday for most and they were heading back home. Not me though. As far as I was concerned, my trip was just about to get exciting! I was impatient to get back to Cambodia.
I organised a one-month Cambodian visa starting on the first of June, and jumped on the next bus to Poipet, the Thai–Cambodian border crossing.
I decided I’d stop for a day or two in a province called Battambang, located in north-west Cambodia, between Siem Reap and the Thai border.
Battambang, I was told, was the ‘real’ Cambodia, without the flocks of expats and tourists. The province’s riverside capital, also called Battambang (pronounced Bat-tam-bong and affectionately known as ‘the Bong’), is the second largest city in Cambodia, and was formerly a Khmer Rouge stronghold. In Cambodia, the city is renowned for its lovely French Colonial architecture and its rich cultural history. It has produced some of Cambodia’s greatest singers, actors and painters.
The bus trip from Bangkok to Battambang was a bit ‘authentic’ (meaning ‘bloody hard going’). So the first time I laid eyes on Battambang, I was not at my best—but neither was Battambang.
This was a particularly hot, dry season, and the flat plains on the outskirts of the city were scorched and barren. The roadside was dotted with scrawny dogs that looked a little like dingoes, dilapidated buildings and skinny Brahman cows all covered in thick layers of red dust from passing traffic.
The outskirts thickened into shop-lined streets, but I was somewhat surprised when the bus screeched to a halt beside an old tin shed that turned out to be Battambang’s bus station. This was the centre of Battambang city? I now understood what was meant by the ‘real’ Cambodia. I wasn’t expecting skyscrapers, but Battambang was hardly a city. It was just a dusty little country town, practically rolling with tumbleweeds.
A tuktuk driver awaiting business grabbed my bag and rushed for his vehicle. I followed, saying, ‘Teo Hotel, Teo Hotel,’ hoping I was pronouncing it correctly. He nodded, not breaking his stride.
It was hot. Really hot. As I stepped into the tuktuk, with beads of sweat rolling into my eyes, I suddenly felt overwhelmed with exhaustion.
The tuktuk carried me to the Teo Hotel, and I dragged my bag up to a tiny, windowless room, had a cold shower and fell straight into a deep sleep.
Lonely Planet told me that Battambang ‘city’ was walkable, so the next morning I decided to brave the heat and spend the day exploring at a slow, easy pace.
Old yolk-coloured buildings with cute blue shutters lined the streets. They were dilapidated but beautiful. I imagined how grand the quiet, shady boulevards must have looked long ago.
It felt good to observe real Cambodian life—not the show put on for tourists. I passed a vacant lot where a group of young boys were playing a spirited game of volleyball. About fifty saffron-robed monks filed past them, stopping at a local eatery to receive alms. A dainty pony trotted down the street hauling a heavy load of coal.
Battambang was a strangely antique world—quaint and otherworldly. After the crazy hustle and bustle of Phnom Penh, Siem Reap and Bangkok, I revelled in its quiet, laidback atmosphere. But Cambodia’s poverty seemed much more apparent here, or perhaps just less hidden from tourists’ eyes. There were, of course, lots of kids begging from tourists in Siem Reap and Phnom Penh, but here I saw groups of little kids working, dragging big plastic bags around, shoving discarded cans and bottles into them. Older women, dressed in rags, pedalled through the hot streets with heavy loads of junk strapped to their bicycles.
When the sun started to throw red-gold light across the town, I stopped at one of the slightly tattered stalls along Stung Sangker River to buy a cold mango shake.
A tired-looking girl about my own age served me. She was carrying a newborn baby. Her hair, like mine, was long, dark and tied back in a ponytail. I noticed that her face was gaunt and sunken, and her teeth were stained brown.
This is me, I thought guiltily, in another life.
My privileged childhood flew into sharp focus. While I was at school, riding horses and scoffing smoked salmon bagels, what was she doing?
The fruit shake cost less than fifty cents but, impulsively, I handed her $5 and gestured for her to keep the change.
Her expression switched from confusion to gratitude. She pressed her palms together and thanked me profusely. I felt a little uncomfortable. Did $5 really mean so much to her? I felt suddenly ashamed of the wealth I had done nothing to deserve. I was just born in a different country . . . that was all.
When I got back to my hotel, a driver who’d been lying in his tuktuk by the gates, waiting for business, jumped out to greet me.
‘Hello, miss. Oh, you come back so late! Cambodia real dangerous in night-time! You must be so careful! Next time you call me, okay? I can come get you!’
He handed me a small piece of torn paper. His number was scribbled in pencil with Mr Chan TUK TUK written underneath.
‘Thanks, maybe tomorrow,’ I said, keen to make my escape into the hotel. Tuktuk drivers were always offering up tours in Cambodia—I’d become quite used to saying ‘No thanks, not right now, maybe later.’
But Mr Chan was not to be brushed off so easily. ‘Oh, yes. Sure! Tomorrow I wait you! Mr Chan! My name Chan. I wait you!’ His face was now alight with hope, his smile stretching from ear to ear. I warmed to him in that moment. It was clear he badly needed the work.
‘Okay!’ I said, smiling. ‘See you tomorrow then, Mr Chan.’
I turned into the gates when he called out again ‘Sorry! Miss! What your name?’
‘Tara,’ I called back, making an effort to roll the r.
‘Oh! Tara. You look same Cambodia people and your name is Khmer name, too! It name of s
pecial star!’
I laughed and made my way into the hotel.
I slept late the next morning and forgot all about meeting Chan. But, sure enough, when I finally made it out of the hotel gates, there he was, waiting patiently.
‘Tara!’ he called out, waving to me with that big warm grin of his.
He handed me a very carefully written note outlining his plans for our tour. It read something like: Bamboo Train. Old temple. Stop for eat lunch. Kamping Poi Dam, bat cave.
‘Sounds great! Let’s go!’ I said, jumping into the tuktuk.
‘Okay!’ Chan cheered, clapping his hands together. ‘We go!’
And with a splutter of the engine, we were off on our tour of Battambang’s attractions.
We stopped first at a roundabout on the way out of town to pay our respects to Battambang’s local deity—a huge black statue of a giant king brandishing a staff.
‘Battambang mean “lost stick”, ’ Chan called over his shoulder as we pulled up beside the frankly completely-fucking-terrifying-looking statue. Chan explained that a cowherd found a magic staff and used it to overthrow the king. The cowherd-king’s skin turned black and he grew to be a giant. But then he lost his staff in battle with the old king. The victorious king made him serve as the bodyguard and protector of Battambang.
People were lighting incense and praying at the statue’s feet. ‘Khmer people here all pray to him to pass exams and win lottery!’ Chan grinned and kicked the tuktuk’s moto back to life.
We rattled out through dusty roads to the countryside, stopping in a small village of little houses on stilts to visit Battambang’s famous ‘bamboo train’. The ‘train’ was basically a square bamboo platform with a two-stroke engine attached that travelled on a single set of rickety old railway tracks. The bamboo train is a functioning mode of transport used by locals, but even though there weren’t many tourists visiting Battambang in 2005, it was still one of the city’s main attractions.
I climbed on top of the bamboo platform for a ‘magic bamboo carpet’ ride across fields and jungles. Whenever another bamboo train came up the track from the opposite direction, the driver of the least-laden vehicle (usually ours) dismantled the bamboo platform, engine and wheels and pulled it off the track, so the other vehicle could pass. Then he’d put it all back together again and continue on. It was kind of ingenious.
After that little adventure, Chan and I visited pretty pagodas, a pre-Angkor Wat-era temple called Banan at the top of an incredibly steep mountain, and a half-finished statue of the Buddha that juts out of a mountain beside a cave that was filled with millions of bats.
It was all quite fun, but mostly I just liked hanging out with Chan and hearing about everyday life in Battambang. At lunchtime, he took me to eat at a local restaurant. It was basically just a cluster of small bamboo huts with thatched roofs set in a big paddock, with some rather strange statues of things like swans, pineapples and zebras scattered around the place. We entered one of the huts and lounged on the hammocks strung up on either side. A young waitress came over and Chan ordered.
I couldn’t read the menu but politely reminded Chan that I was vegetarian. He waved his hand and said: ‘Don’t worry, you will love this food so much! Real Khmer food!’
Predictably, both dishes that arrived had meat in them. One was stir-fried chicken with vegetables and the other, a bean dish with raw beef. I picked around the chicken at the vegies doused in loads of soy sauce and, as tactfully as I could, steered the conversation away from my lack of interest in lunch.
‘Chan, I will stay in Battambang for two more days,’ I said. ‘What do you think I can do here?’
‘Maybe I can take you to see some other village in Battambang?’
‘Okay, great! And I would like to do something small to help some of the poor children I’ve seen here. Is that possible?’
‘Oh! You are so kind girl! Yes, I take you one or two hour from Battambang. We can go to market to buy some book and school clothes for the children who are the poorest in the village. It not cost much money. I can also take you to visit some children in orphanage. They real need help too!’
‘Okay, yeah, that sounds like a good plan, Chan.’ I was impressed by his enthusiasm to help people poorer than he was. And not even a whole lot poorer, as I later discovered.
The next morning we set off early for the market and filled several garbage bags with second-hand clothes, school uniforms, schoolbooks and pens. Chan did all the haggling, so the whole lot cost just a few dollars.
‘We must take moto to the village because it is dancing road!’ Chan said with a high-pitched chuckle. ‘Very bumpy. No good for tuktuk.’
We piled the bags onto Chan’s bike: some in front of him, and the rest stacked high behind him, leaving the tiniest little space for me. I spent the next hour with my arse hanging off the back of the bike, my face mashed awkwardly against the hot, black garbage bags, which I had to embrace so I could cling by my fingertips to the sides of Chan’s shirt.
We slalomed around the bends and potholes of that dusty red road with the burning sun beating down on us. When we finally pulled up in a tiny rural village, I wasn’t a pretty sight, and getting myself unstuck from that precarious position on the back of the bike wasn’t easy.
I tried to slide off the back of the moto without losing the contents of the bags. In doing so, I accidentally slid off the wrong side and got a nasty burn on my leg from the exhaust pipe. The red dust had stuck to my sweaty skin and my arse was totally numb. I’m not sure if you’ve ever had the privilege of experiencing a completely dead bum, but let me just say it makes walking rather difficult. To top it off, I realised that somewhere along the way my Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses must have fallen off my head.
I was dangerously close to falling down in a heap on the dirt road and having an I-feel-sorry-for-my-dirty-numb-burnt-sunnylessself meltdown. But the sound of about thirty chattering village kids heading our way snapped me out of it.
Most of them weren’t wearing shoes, many wore only shorts and some little ones weren’t wearing any clothes at all. Their teeth were brown and their hair was ratty, but my god, there was so much joy in their little faces.
There was a lot of pointing and giggling.
‘They excited to meet a foreigner!’ Chan told me, while trying to dab my weeping burn with a minty smelling white paste.
‘Is that toothpaste?!’ I exclaimed, pulling my leg away. ‘Please, Chan, I’m fine,’ I said. ‘Let’s just hand out these clothes.’
‘Toothpaste is very help the burn,’ he explained. ‘But maybe no good for foreigner,’ he shrugged. ‘We go to doctor when we back in Battambang. Now time to make the kids so happy!’
Dozens of little faces beamed up at me as we opened up the garbage bags and started handing out the contents. The kids went bug crazy—it was like I was Oprah, and I’d just announced that they’d all won a free car or something. They clapped and cheered and jumped up and down. More and more kids came running, and some mothers came too, reminding the kids to say ‘thank you’ and pushing the tiniest kids’ hands together in the traditional Khmer gesture of thanks. When the bags were empty, I watched the kids trying on the clothes and comparing the books and pens as if it was Christmas morning.
A couple of the kids came and held my hand and looked up at me with bright eyes and sweet, shy smiles.
Their warmth and openness was like nothing I had ever encountered in Australia. The experience reconfigured my whole mental map of the world.
In that moment, all the discomforts and annoyances that had bothered me just minutes earlier were gone. All that remained was a humbling, spine-tingling sense that I had just glimpsed what is truly important in life.
It felt wonderful. It felt real. It felt significant. And it had been so easy to do so much.
Or so I thought . . .
Without the overstuffed garbage bags the trip home was a lot more pleasant. But I couldn’t help bombarding Chan with questions about his ideas
on poverty, the war, the government, corruption, the NGOs he’d worked for, and the future for Cambodia. He seemed delighted to answer all my questions, and I was impressed by how open all his responses were—all while navigating the incredibly dodgy road.
Chan had never attended a day of school in his life and spent most of his childhood in a refugee camp. Many Cambodians lived in refugee camps to escape the ongoing fighting and the famine that continued after the fall of the Khmer Rouge. In fact, for a long time, the largest settlement of Cambodians outside Phnom Penh was a refugee camp on the Thai border.
Despite the rough start, Chan kept his family together through street smarts and a strong work ethic. Most of his English education had come from practising on the foreigners he ferried around Battambang.
It had been a life-changing day for me. I was tired but still glowing with a deep sense of satisfaction. I had a lot to digest, a lot to think about.
Early the next morning we made the same trip to the market to buy things for the orphanages Chan had arranged for us to visit. This time we filled three garbage bags with clothes, books and pens. And this time we were travelling in comfort—the tuktuk felt like luxury after hours perched on the back of Chan’s old moto!
The first orphanage, which was on the outskirts of town, struck me as a rough place for kids to live. The buildings were dilapidated and dirty, and the grounds dry and dusty.
But the kids seemed incredibly happy. They came bounding out of the building like excited puppies to greet us, their eyes bright with curiosity. They crowded around me while Chan and I opened the garbage bags and distributed the goods, accepting them with a polite sampeah and a big beaming smile.
Soon they were clinging to my hands and arms like I was a long-lost relative. One of the little girls tried to engage me in a giggly game of rock–paper–scissors. They really were very sweet. I found it quite remarkable to be treated with such affection at our first-ever encounter.