by Tara Winkler
The project provides jobs for the indigenous people who live in the area, and provides training and employment for new and existing mahouts (elephant keepers) using humane, sustainable animal husbandry practices. I thought it would be a magical learning opportunity for the kids.
Jack wrote back to say we were very welcome, so we planned our itinerary, booked the bus and got packing.
It was going to be a long trip. The road to Mondulkiri wasn’t sealed at that time, so it would be about seven or so hours on the bus to Phnom Penh and then a further twelve hours from there on to Mondulkiri—with a bus full of carsick kids. Yaaaaay. I was looking forward to Mondulkiri, but dreading the journey.
Nevertheless, we set off (with everyone dosed up on travel sickness medicine), and by the time the bus got to Phnom Penh, the kids were in the zone. They sat quietly, reading books, eating snacks and taking little naps all the way up the long dirt road to Mondulkiri Province. I did pretty much the same.
Many hours later, I came out of my bus coma to see that it was raining and the greenery that bordered the road had thickened into dense jungle. We were getting close but still had to cross some of the most mountainous terrain in Cambodia.
The dirt roads quickly turned to mud. The bus started to labour, until the driver pulled it to a full halt. He and the two ‘bus boys’ (the extra staff who support the driver) jumped off the bus and put chains around the tyres. These worked like snow chains, providing extra traction in the slippery mud. Soon the bus was moving again and we all let out a sigh of relief.
We made our first long ascent up the mountains, but when we reached a small plateau, the bus shuddered to a halt again. The next climb was a lot steeper.
‘No problem,’ said the bus driver. ‘Everybody get out and walk and I will drive behind you.’
We all spilled out of the bus and proceeded to slip and slide our way up the next ascent. We weren’t the only ones who had to walk. All the other vehicles on the road were in the same situation, so there were quite a few other people making their way up the mountain on foot, while the buses and trucks struggled noisily around us.
We trudged up one ascent, and then another. And then another. Our spirits started to flag as we found ourselves wading through knee-deep, sticky, slippery mud. Anna’s words of caution regarding child protection and safety rolled around in my head . . . I dreaded to think what she’d be saying if she could see us now.
Journ, our Khmer literature teacher, was the only one who was completely unfazed. He kept stopping to take in the spectacular views of the mountains around us, crying out like YouTube’s ‘double rainbow guy’: ‘Wow! This is amazing! SO amazing! In my whole life I have never seen anything so BEAUTIFUL! WOW! Oh my god, WOW!’
He had us all in fits of laugher. Everyone stopped to lift their gaze from the river of mud to take in the awe-inspiring view. It was as if the jungle knew it had an audience—the storm clouds that had brought the rain put on a spectacular lightning show, crashing over the jungle-clad mountains.
As we soldiered on, I kept counting the kids and calling out for everyone to stay together. I was relieved when we were finally able to get back on the bus. Unfortunately, that relief was short-lived. Only a few hundred metres down the track, the bus got stuck and we had to get back off again and walk. This happened three times.
By the third time, I started to get a bit concerned. It was starting to get dark and it was cold. Mondulkiri has a microclimate with considerably cooler temperatures than the rest of Cambodia. We trudged ahead of the bus, our muscles groaning with the effort of wading up a mountain through a river of mud. At the next plateau, we were told to wait for the bus. So we waited. The sun disappeared below the thick canopy. Still we waited. And waited. But there was no sign of the bus.
I was idly wondering whether there were still any tigers left in the jungle when Jedtha came striding up to me through the mud, looking stressed. ‘The bus is stuck,’ he said. ‘Everybody needs to go back and wait on the bus while I try to get to Mondulkiri and find another vehicle.’
I felt my pulse quicken. I was starting to feel genuinely concerned for our safety now, but I was relieved that Jedtha was stepping up and making decisions, because I was really out of my depth in this jungle landscape.
‘Okay, everybody—let’s go!’ I shouted. I did a headcount as everyone started making tracks back down the hill to the bus, and realised that some of our group had charged on ahead.
Jedtha hailed a pickup truck that seemed to be making slow but steady progress through the mud river and convinced them to give him and Meah a ride into town. He was just stepping into the tray of the pickup when I called, rather frantically: ‘Jedtha! Rouet and the five little kids are up ahead!’
‘Okay,’ he called back. ‘Come with us to find them. Then you can take them back to the bus.’
I quickly told Samnang what was happening and asked him to make sure everyone else got on the bus and stayed on it. Then I clambered into the tray of the truck with Meah and Jedtha and about six other people who were also hitching a ride.
We were all covered in mud from head to toe. It was almost funny seeing Jedtha, who was always so neat and dignified, in such a state of disarray. But before I could make a joke about it, the truck wheels screamed as they spun through the mud and the truck leaped violently forward. I was flung to the back of the tray where I hung on for dear life as it skidded down the slope.
Then the sky opened and the rain came thundering down.
I parted the curtain of wet hair plastered across my face and squinted ahead through the rain as the truck was washed down the mountain by the river of flowing mud. Thankfully I didn’t have much further to go—I could see Rouet and the kids in the distance, surrounded by other people.
Just as we were nearing the bottom of the descent, the truck lost traction and started veering sideways towards a sheer drop on the right-hand side of the muddy road. Everyone in the tray immediately scrambled over to the left side of the truck and hung off the rim of the tray, like a bunch of terrified Indiana Joneses. The pickup truck swerved the rest of the way down the descent and finally came to a sticky halt in the mud at the bottom.
I stayed there, welded to the truck for a moment while I processed the amazing fact that I was still alive. The gloomy, sludgy road through the jungle was by now lit up only by the small chain of trucks still attempting to clamber up the mountain.
Rouet and the five kids seemed relieved to see us. ‘Oh Tara! This is crazy, right?’ Rouet smiled broadly.
I nodded in emphatic agreement and opened my arms to Jendar, who had flung herself at me—probably for warmth as much as comfort. She wrapped herself around my torso like a koala bear and wouldn’t let go.
A few minutes later, Jedtha waded through the mud towards us. ‘I don’t think you can go back to the bus now—it’s too difficult,’ he said. ‘You should all come with us in this truck to Mondulkiri. Then we’ll find a vehicle that’s equipped to handle these roads to come back for the others.’
We looked at each other over the heads of the kids and in that moment everything changed—all the weirdness of the months and weeks since my trip to Australia melted away, and I realised that I had complete faith in Jedtha’s ability to navigate us through this. I was impressed by how calm, decisive and confident he was. Whether he felt it or not, he seemed to be in control of the situation, which meant I was free to focus my attention on making sure the kids were okay.
I took the hands of Makara and Teng and began walking towards the truck that Jedtha had lined up for us to travel in.
The new truck was bigger, but it still struggled to get through the mud. It heaved, skidded and lurched up the next slope through the rain. Then it got bogged, its wheels spinning with a fountain of mud being thrown up in its wake. Jedtha would usher us off and we’d walk a way up the mountain until he found another truck for us to hitch a ride on, and we’d repeat the process. It started raining again. We were on and off the back of about five diffe
rent pickup trucks before we finally reached the top of the mountain and could hitch a ride all the way into town. All up, it took us five hours to get off that mountain.
We were in quite a state when we finally arrived at a guesthouse in Mondulkiri town—shivering, exhausted and more mud than human.
Jedtha and Meah rushed off to mount a rescue mission for the rest of the kids and staff still on the bus. We were all worried sick about them. There was no phone signal in the jungle, so there was no way to communicate with them. Even if they were perfectly safe on the bus, they’d still be cold, hungry and miserable.
Rouet took the shivering kids off to have a warm shower. But what would they change into? I went down to reception, looking like the loser in a mud-wrestling match, and tried rather tearfully to explain our situation. The woman at reception took pity on me and supplied everyone with clean dry pairs of pyjamas. Then they had a big, hot meal sent to our rooms.
I sat and waited and tried not to let my imagination run away with me.
About an hour later, Jedtha and Meah arrived back at the guesthouse, upset and defeated. It was just too wet and dark now to get a vehicle to drive back for the rest of the team on the bus. We barely slept a wink for the rest of the night, worrying about everyone still stuck on the bus in the jungle.
Yeah, it was an epic fail as far as child protection goes.
Early the next morning, we got hold of Jack, the founder of the Elephant Valley Project. He picked us up in a rough old truck equipped with big, thick tyres that scorned the mud.
I want me one of these! I thought, as Jedtha, Jack and I set off to retrieve the rest of the kids and staff.
The poor bus looked very tiny and vulnerable, stuck in the mud at the bottom of a steep hill in the middle of the mountain range. You can imagine how overjoyed everyone was when we pulled up beside them. They’d had an uncomfortable night on the cold, smelly, muddy bus, with disconcerting sounds coming from the jungle outside. None of the adults had slept at all.
Jack did several trips, shuttling everyone into town for comforting hot showers and not one, not two, but three servings of breakfast.
The capacity of Cambodian people to bounce back from life’s little dramas never fails to amaze me. Once they were stuffed to the gills with food, everyone was cheery and keen to put the night behind them. So we set out for the elephant sanctuary in high spirits, ready for another adventure.
Mondulkiri is one of the most beautiful places in the world to experience pure, unsullied nature. With the thick, unspoilt jungle, stunning mountain views and a range of very different indigenous minority groups, it was like arriving in a whole new country.
For the next three days, the kids, staff and I learned how to care for the elephants while following them through Mondulkiri’s gorgeous jungle with its huge variety of plants, birds, insects and animals.
Elephants love to swim and it was magical to watch them swim in the sanctuary’s many waterholes, and to see them interact with the environment and each other, just as they would if they were truly wild.
Away from the stress of case files, of policies and reports, and of the demands of fundraising, my eyes were opened to how wonderful my team really was. We all spent more time chatting and laughing together than we ever had before. The kids kept exclaiming: ‘I’m so happy I could die!’
Samnang has this incredibly loud, wonderful belly laugh. Even now, every time he laughs, I laugh at his laughter. Savenh and I sat side-by-side on a rock and watched while Samnang and the kids had a water fight in the Bou Sra waterfalls. Samnang’s laughter as the kids splashed him set Savenh and me off into fits of giggles. All the awkwardness and resentment between us just disappeared.
Today, the kids remember the trip as just a fantastic adventure. Despite the hellish journey getting to Mondulkiri, even the staff say they feel lucky to have visited the region while it was still so isolated.
That trip to Mondulkiri ended up being much more than just an activity to pass the time during the kids’ school holidays. The rift between me, Jedtha, Savenh and the rest of the staff was now a thing of the past. Jedtha had regained my trust and I was impressed to see what a good leader he could be, and what good people Savenh and the rest of the team truly were. It was such a relief to find we were all friends again.
Jedtha and Savenh have both since told me they feel awful about the falling out we had during Chloe’s visit. I have completely and wholeheartedly forgiven them both and also apologised for the part I played in bringing on the conflict.
In the months that followed, the culture at CCT completely transformed—the motivation levels, work ethic and camaraderie of the team was palpable. I’d wake up in the morning and bounce out of bed, looking forward to seeing everyone at work.
CCT is still like that, and we work hard to make sure our workplace culture stays that way. Life’s too short not to enjoy your work and the people who you do it with. Of course, there were challenges, but I had learned that you are only ever as good as your team. I learned that people will go above and beyond for you if they are made to feel safe, if they are trusted and given the opportunity to try and fail, to learn and grow.
The task we had ahead of us, to change our model from an orphanage to family-based care, still seemed incredibly daunting. But I made sure that I let the team know that I believed in their potential, and their ability to rise to the enormous challenges ahead.
I had more hope than ever before that if we worked at it, we could find the solution together.
Several weeks after we returned from Mondulkiri, Carolyn came to visit me in Battambang. It had been a long time since I’d had a proper break from CCT, and even though my spirits were high, I was tired and needed some time out. So I took the opportunity to have a few days off.
Like me, Carolyn was bowled over by Cambodia’s raw, awe-inspiring beauty—and the gobsmacking sights you see as a matter of course every single day.
I took her to the Angkor Wat temples in Siem Reap. We sat in Ta Prohm temple, just the two of us, watching the sun go down and the sky turn into pastel swirls of pinks and purples. Sitting next to Carolyn in the enchanted temple, surrounded by twinkling fireflies under a fairy-floss sky . . . I felt like I was lost in some magical fantasy world.
Back in Battambang, Carolyn gave the kids music lessons with a little weighted keyboard she had brought with her from Australia.
It was a surprise to everyone to see how our shy, quiet Rithy blossomed under Carolyn’s tutelage. He learned to play incredibly quickly, and was soon her star pupil. Carolyn was so impressed, she gave him the keyboard when she left.
It was transformational for Rithy to find a way he could express himself, and discovering that had a natural talent for music was a huge boost to his self-confidence. Over the next few months he changed from a boy who was happy to go unnoticed to a little creative genius, excelling at music, painting, drawing and dance.
I fell in love with Carolyn on that trip. It was so effortless to be together, talking, laughing, putting the world to rights. Seeing how she loved Cambodia, the kids and even my dogs had a powerful effect on me. I was crazy about her. And, finally, she seemed to be returning my affection in full.
When Carolyn returned to Australia, she stepped up her involvement with CCT. She started helping with the writing and proofreading for our website and she tapped into her enormous network of friends to raise more funds.
She was in touch every day, sometimes several times a day and sent me long, romantic, enthralling missives. She wrote songs about her time in Cambodia with me . . .
I’d never felt so loved, and so in love.
I was collapsed in an exhausted heap on my bed when I got the text from Carolyn.
I’d been up since three that morning, at the local pagoda with the kids for the P’chum Ben festival. My phone had run out of battery life and by the time I got home and charged it, I was tired, hungry and not in the best mood. And then a text from Carolyn buzzed through. Excellent! That would che
er me up.
The text read: So I slept with Chris last night. I think we’re going to try and give a real relationship a go this time.
I had a sudden, uncontrollable urge to put my fist through a wall. I didn’t give in to the impulse, but I did feel such a flash of anger that I smashed my tiny, piece-of-shit Nokia phone onto my tiled bedroom floor.
Those bloody phones are almost indestructible, so to my intense annoyance, it just bounced and landed on the other side of the room, still fully intact. The screen, with that fucking message still on it, lay on the floor mocking me.
I’d met Chris before. He was a quiet person, a brilliant musician. I knew Carolyn was in awe of him, but I had definitely not seen this coming.
It was the way she told me, blunt and out of the blue, that really cut me. I couldn’t even bring myself to reply.
I started asking myself why I was investing so much time and effort into a long-distance relationship that mostly only existed in cyberspace. What was the point?
My life was here, in Cambodia. Maybe I should focus my attention on the people around me, build relationships with people I could actually connect with in real life, instead of staring at a screen all the time?
I never did reply to that text. I never let myself cry, either. I convinced myself that the relationship wasn’t good for me, and that it was time to move on.
But of course, underneath the pride and the bravado, I was hurting badly.
Around this time, the Australian Story producer, Ben Cheshire, started to email me ideas for the documentary. He said something like:
We’d like you to talk about why you’re in Cambodia. We need to really delve into your deeper motivations, so the audience can understand what’s driving you. Otherwise the story won’t have any depth. From what you said at the first meeting, it sounds like you were struggling with anorexia and depression, and going to Cambodia and helping the kids is what saved you?