by Tara Winkler
After the sun slipped below the walls of the temple, we’d jump back in the tuktuk and head into town. We’d sneak into one of the big hotels’ swimming pools and go skinny-dipping, have a drink at a little expat bar, then we’d head back to the museum, slightly tipsy, before the 9 pm curfew and sleep under the stars in our little treehouse home . . .
It was all doomed, of course—she had a life in Ireland, I had a life in Australia. But a bit of doom isn’t so bad when you’re nineteen years old. It just makes everything even more romantic.
When we weren’t busy with tourists, Julia and I gave the kids casual English lessons or took them into town to internet cafes to teach them computer skills. The kids at Akira’s were enthusiastic students and learned astonishingly fast.
I was struck by the disparity between the kids at Akira’s and at SKO. There was such a marked difference between Akira’s small but thriving enterprise with all these happy-looking kids and that broken-down orphanage in Battambang.
Seeing what Akira had done was incredibly inspiring. It gave me hope that somehow I’d be able to make good on my promise to SKO. It’s so easy to be overwhelmed by the problems posed by poverty. But Akira seemed to be living proof that, with a little bit of money and enough motivation, something can be done.
The Akira Landmine Museum—known these days as the Cambodian Landmine Museum—is now backed by a US charity and an Australian war veterans’ group.
I still hear from Vanna and some of the other kids from time to time. They all seem to be doing well.
4
After my holiday was over, I returned to Sydney full of energy—I was back! The trip seemed to have been just the circuit breaker I needed to loosen the grip the eating disorder had on me. There had been no time for those starve, binge, purge cycles, so I had inadvertently established better, healthier eating habits. The negative thoughts were not gone completely, but they were quiet enough again to make me feel like I was finally ready to jump back into my life again.
I had a mental list of everything I wanted my life to look like: I would get back into martial arts, keep practising meditation, take more piano lessons, resume my fledgling career in the film industry, travel the world, learn a new language, support SKO and Chan . . . It was a long list.
I restarted piano lessons with one of Peter’s old students, the musician and keyboard player Carolyn Shine. She was great—smart, funny and well-travelled, strikingly beautiful with a gorgeous boyfriend, doing a job she loved with all these exciting creative projects on the side . . . When I looked at her life I thought to myself: That’s the life I want.
I thought about Cambodia constantly, and I couldn’t stop thinking about SKO and the sad little kids who lived there. Anyone who’d listen got an earful of my stories about the landmine museum, Chan and his family, and the SKO orphanage.
I was hoping I could support SKO from Australia in much the same way that my dad supported his friends in India. But I was only just making enough to support one life. How was I supposed to make enough to help all those kids?
I picked up a few jobs working on commercials, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get back my enthusiasm for the film industry. The reality of life in Sydney and working in a job that I didn’t love started to pull me down again. I conceded that maybe the film industry just wasn’t for me. So I set out to find another way to make money.
I decided that, if I was to help SKO, I needed to understand more about how the NGO world worked. So I volunteered for a while at Oxfam and UNICEF, hoping it would lead to something paid and permanent.
Meanwhile, to support myself, I taught horseriding for my childhood hero: my first riding instructor, Caz Stubbs.
It was great to get to know Caz all over again as an adult. When teaching people to ride, Caz would say that a rider’s hands should be steady but soft, firm but giving. And that was exactly what Caz was like as a person.
In between lessons we’d talk about my recent travels.
Caz was enthralled by my stories. Soon, we were dreaming up ideas to raise funds and fulfil the promise I’d made to the SKO orphanage.
At first, I thought these were all just pipe dreams. Caz’s ideas for running a fundraiser involved finding a venue, getting people to donate art for auction, finding musicians, caterers and volunteers all willing to donate their services. To me, it was like saying: ‘I’ll just pop off now and scale Mount Everest.’ But Caz is a doer. If anyone was going to make our fundraiser happen, it was her.
It wasn’t easy. Australian law governing fundraising for a charitable cause is a mire of complexity, involving registered names and great piles of paperwork. Getting it wrong could leave us open to huge fines.
After many frustrating and confusing phone calls, we decided the safest way forward would be to hire a charity consultant to set things up for us. It would cost us $2000, but we figured it was worth it to get it right the first time and steer clear of legal trouble.
The consultant recommended we register as a ‘charitable trust fund’.
I was in the middle of teaching a group of horse-obsessed ten-year-olds when Caz appeared, phone to her ear. ‘Tarz, quick, what do you wanna call the trust? He needs the name now so he can submit the paperwork.’
We’d been throwing around ideas for names for weeks, but nothing had stuck. All our ideas were either too corny or too vague.
‘I dunno,’ I said. ‘How about Cambodian Children’s Trust? Keep it simple?’
‘Okay then, Cambodian Children’s Trust it is!’ Caz grinned. When she got off the phone she said: ‘CCT, eh? This is the start of exciting things to come. Now let’s raise some money!’
If I had a time machine, I’d go back now and scream: ‘Nooooooo—call it something Much. More. Original!’
Actually, this is a perfect moment to stop and just make something very clear: We are not the Cambodian Children’s Fund. Our name is the Cambodian Children’s Trust. T for Trust. Got it?
Okay. We can move on.
About a week later, I was in the middle of a group lesson in the main arena when Caz raced up to the gate. She was beaming.
‘Guess what?’ she cried. ‘It’s sorted! My friend Maxine Hawker is on board to help us make this fundraiser happen. We’ll hold it at my mate Stephen Mori’s art gallery on the first of December. He’s going to ask all his artists to donate a work. Max is going to sort the catering through her work. We should be able to raise heaps! We’ll go and meet Max and then check out the gallery tomorrow. How cool’s that? It’s all happening!’
‘Oh. My. God!’ I stared at Caz, awestruck by her ability to make things happen.
My heart began to soar. I realised in that moment that, very soon, I’d be back in Cambodia! I had too many concerns about the transparency of SKO to just send over the money we raised. I would have to save enough cash to buy a ticket back to Cambodia and make sure that every cent donated was spent on the kids. I also had to save enough to help Chan and his family.
In that moment I decided to tighten the purse strings for a while. No more shopping. No going out. No more Bondi brunches with friends.
‘Tara!’
One of my young students snapped me out of my reverie. There was a pile-up of ponies in the corner of the arena, all placidly ignoring the flapping legs of their small riders.
‘Pull your right rein!’ I called. ‘Nope. That’s your left rein. Pull the other one and keep kicking. That’s it . . .’
I turned back to Caz. ‘We’re going to need volunteers—and musicians!’ I said. And as soon as the words left my mouth, I realised I had great contacts for both. After all, my dad was a musician and my friends and family were already keen to help. ‘I’ll get on to organising it. Far out. I can’t believe it’s really happening!’
With the wheels now in motion, I signed up for a Teaching English as a Second Language course in the city. The qualification meant I could teach English to the kids at SKO without feeling like a total fraud. Hopefully, I could help
them learn to speak English just as fluently as the kids at the Akira Landmine Museum.
Feeling motivated, I saved for the cost of my flight and managed to put away some funds for Chan, too. I remembered him telling me what a great asset cows were in Cambodia. He said that Cambodian families who owned cows were ‘rich families’.
So, I decided to buy Chan a cow.
‘What a brilliant idea, Tara!’ I hear you say.
I know, right?
I sent him an email telling him of my plan to return and asked him how much it would cost to buy a cow for his family. I was a bit shocked to see his reply a few days later—it turned out that a full-grown cow could cost as much as US$1000. Geez, is that more than a cow would cost in Australia? I wondered.
Nevertheless, I trusted Chan and I was committed to the idea now. He sounded very excited about it but pointed out that if he was to keep his own cow, he’d need to build a solid two-metre-high fence, which would cost another US$150.
‘Sure. Fair enough,’ I thought. And I promised to send him the money as soon as I had it.
Chan’s email also included a very warm invitation for me to stay at his home for as long as I liked. Even though I couldn’t really imagine how or where I’d be sleeping in his single-roomed home, how could I say no? I thanked him and said I’d certainly stay for a few days when I first arrived.
The fundraiser at the art gallery went incredibly well. Sue’s friend Hugh Wade was our MC for the night, and he did an amazing job revving up the crowd. He gave it his all and literally resorted to auctioning the shirt off his back to raise a few more bucks. Thanks to Hugh, Caz, all the artists, and volunteers and the generosity of the friends and family who attended, we raised about $20,000 for the SKO orphanage.
A lot of people were inspired by the night, and put their hands up to help. Some of my old school friends started buzzing with excitement about saving up to come over to volunteer at SKO for a while. And Sally Power, a film production manager I’d become friends with through my work in the industry, also stepped forward to help.
Sally had long nurtured a dream of setting up an eco-village in the developing world, so when she heard of my plans with SKO, she was hooked. She offered to manage all CCT relations in Australia. This was great news for me, as I couldn’t manage admin in Australia and work in Cambodia, and Sally is very good at what she does.
She bought me a decent video camera. ‘We’re going to need the best footage you can get of the kids so we can let people know where their money went,’ she said. ‘And you should make a video diary of your time there, too—we might use it on the website or to get corporate sponsorship or something.’
Uh—okay. The thought of turning the camera on myself was never going to be appealing to me. Ever since I was sixteen and had first developed an eating disorder, I’ve never enjoyed having my photo taken or being filmed. But I decided to be brave and embrace the discomfort. I trusted that Sally knew what she was talking about when it came to the power of photography and film.
In the weeks that followed, life was all about my upcoming trip to Cambodia. I sent Chan the money I’d promised via Western Union, and soon got an excited email from him with photos of a shiny new fence and a very handsome white Brahman cow.
I also wrote to SKO to let them know I was coming back with some funds that I’d raised, and I was now qualified to teach English.
I got a reply from a man named Jedtha, who introduced himself as the new director of SKO. His English was a bit better than that of Reaksmey, the staff member I’d met when I visited SKO. He said he was very happy to hear of our successful fundraising efforts and looked forward to meeting me. He said he’d arrange an affordable place for me to rent for the three months I planned to stay in Battambang.
It was an exciting time and I felt like I was on top of the world. Except for one thing. A good friend of mine from school, Fiona Reynolds, was very sick with a brain tumour. Fiona, or Fee as we all called her, was exceptional in every way. She was down-to-earth, good at everything and adored by everyone. She was both school captain and dux of the year in year twelve.
Fee was in hospital recovering from her third operation, which hadn’t gone so well. She had already suffered setbacks from the previous operations, but this time she was suffering paralysis down the left side of her body.
I visited her in hospital before I left, bringing my guitar and a songbook.
No matter how sick she was feeling, she’d sing along as I played. I felt terrible saying goodbye and heading off overseas while lovely, vibrant Fee was stuck in a hospital bed. But I was certain that if anyone could beat it, Fee could.
It was dark when I stepped off the plane in Phnom Penh in late November 2006, but the thick warm air that embraced me as I walked across the tarmac felt wonderful. My spirits lifted as my head filled with visions of coconuts, sticky rice, tuktuk rides and $5 massages.
I checked into a cheap hotel by the river for the night, and the next morning hopped on the first bus for Battambang.
I could hardly believe the change in the Cambodian landscape. In just six months the dry, dusty brown countryside had transformed into a tropical paradise of swaying palms, sparkling waters and rice fields in vibrant shades of bright green, emerald and gold . . . it was like I’d tumbled down a rabbit hole, into Wonderland.
I stared out the window all the way, mesmerised by the beauty of it all. I’ve learned it’s impossible not to fall in love with Cambodia towards the end of the year. The weather is divine and the sunsets turn the sky into a real-life Monet.
Before the bus even came to a stop in Battambang, I spotted Chan, Mina and their kids. They were standing together on the kerb, scanning the windows of the bus for me.
‘P’oun srey! So happy see you!’ Mina embraced me, with little Chea in her arms. Chan’s smile was so wide he looked like the laughing Buddha.
He grabbed my bags from the bus boys and swung them into the tuktuk. Ponlok and Bopha took my hands and we all climbed aboard, arranging ourselves awkwardly around my luggage.
When we arrived at Chan and Mina’s place, Chan proudly opened the gates of the new, rather ominous fence around his tiny home.
Inside the house, I immediately noticed that their wooden bed, which was previously covered only with a grass mat, now had a new single mattress on it. It was adorned with a crisp, pink frilly satin sheet and a lumpy hard pillow with Hello Kitty on it.
I was excited about staying with Chan and his family, but I felt terrible that they’d gone out and spent money on me, the spoilt foreigner. ‘Oh, wow, Chan, this is very nice of you,’ I said, ‘but where will you all sleep?’
‘Oh, we just sleep on the floor,’ he said with a proud smile.
I could feel the smile on my face fade. ‘Chan, I don’t want you to sleep on the floor while I’m on your bed! I can stay at a hotel.’
‘No, P’oun srey!’ he snapped in a surprisingly stern tone, almost a shout, before switching straight back to the higher-pitched, friendly manner that I was more familiar with. ‘You not understand. We always sleep on floor! It is Khmer way.’
This strange moment lingered in the air. I felt suddenly a little woozy and disoriented. I understood I’d insulted Chan.
I said softly, ‘Thank you, Chan. You’re very kind to me.’ Then I changed the subject. ‘Where’s the cow?’
‘Oh.’ He looked down, his demeanour completely changing again. ‘We sell the cow already. I hope you not angry me! It was so nice cow. But the cow, he make our house smell so bad. It not easy for Mina to clean every day. But we get so good price! Now we think, if you are happy, we can buy one small car.’ He looked at me imploringly. ‘I’m sorry I not tell you before, P’oun srey! I not want you to angry me!’
‘Wait—the cow was living in your house?!’ But of course it was! I should have realised when I saw the photos of the new fence around their house. With barely a metre-wide strip of land surrounding the modest house, where else were they going to keep the cow but insid
e with them—like an extremely large, cloven-hoofed, methane-excreting dog.
‘Uh—yeah!’ I cried. ‘The car’s a much better idea!’ I knew Chan could make good money by driving a car as well as a tuktuk and moto.
I realised how foolish it was to assume that a cow would be appropriate for a city-dwelling family of non-farmers. My steep learning curve had begun.
Mina prepared dinner on the red-hot coals inside the ceramic stove, while Chan and I made plans to go to SKO first thing in the morning. I told Chan that SKO’s director, Jedtha, had said he’d arrange a house for me.
Chan shook his head sceptically. ‘I can get you house, P’oun srey—more cheap, good house and close to my home, too.’
‘Oh . . . well, we’ll see,’ I said, trying to be diplomatic.
I didn’t sleep much that night, partly because I could feel the wood through the thin foam mattress, and partly because I was excited and nervous about going back to SKO.
Before I went back to Australia, I wanted to make sure the $20,000 we had raised for SKO was used effectively. I just didn’t know what exactly that would look like. Something that would make a good, sustainable difference—not like the tokenistic bag of old clothes and books I had donated last time. I hoped this director, Jedtha, would turn out to be a sound guy with good ideas about how to do that.
I look back now on the earnest youthful certainty I felt that night and just cringe. We’ll talk more about the whys and wherefores of that later. But for now, please remember not to mistake the story I’m about to tell you for an ‘inspiring’ story. It’s a good story, I hope. But ultimately, it’s a cautionary tale.