We came into a long dusty road, down which sat a dozen wooden buildings, some on stilts, some on concrete. One of them was obviously a Wat. Another crowd of people materialized around us as soon as we got off our bikes. Some of them were smiling, all of them were staring at us expectantly.
We asked for a toilet – that coconut had gone right through us. We were pointed off into the bushes, where we followed a well-marked path and nervously did our business, wary of landmines.
“Uh, Tracey, what do they want from us?” I asked.
“I have no clue.” She replied, with the same wide-eyed look I was wearing.
When we returned, they washed our feet and ushered us into a shiny little hall with Buddhist paintings on the walls. Dozens of people sat on the floor, and stared at us with big grins as we entered. Everyone was over 40, except for the monks and us. We walked in and sat down next to a step that served as a stage. Mean So Methe stood in front of everyone, with a big pad of paper, and began a speech in Khmer. After a few minutes, I realized everyone was periodically glancing in our direction, and it didn’t take long to figure out he was talking about us.
A tiny little brown monk with a kind face was sitting next to us, and began translating. The best we could tell was that we were in a room full of community leaders. As soon as Methe stepped down, and a middle-aged man dressed in a police uniform awkwardly took the stage. He didn’t speak to the hall as he stiffly stood there, he spoke directly to us, projecting his voice so everyone could hear.
“We are so glad you are here. It fills me with great happiness.” Our little monk translated.
I thought to myself “aw, what a sweet formality.”
But he didn’t stop. The police chief of this commune went on talking for five full minutes about his gratitude and appreciation of our arrival. We both breathed an inner sigh of relief when he finally stepped down. That was really strange.
Then a grizzled old man with powerful eyes stood up there, and with a deep voice began saying the exact same thing.
“My heart is happy because you have come.” Said translator, as the man went into his own five-minute monologue about the gravity of our presence. Tracey and I looked at each other, thoroughly perplexed.
This went on, as two more people stood up and spoke of their thankfulness.
“We are so happy. We hope in our hearts you can help us.” Said one old lady.
There are moments in life that you never really expect will occur, ones that just don’t happen in reality. This was one of them - having dozens of community leaders in rural Cambodia consider you the savior of their commune.
Finally, the venerable Mean So Methe stood back up, and with his big pad of paper, began writing down some statistics and pictures for us. It was hard to understand, but under pressure we gleaned a few things from those marks. I wrote everything down very professionally in my sketchpad.
7 villages in the commune.
5,487 people*
4kgs of rice needed per person.
1 dozen rice fields.
1 broken dam.
3 months until rainy season.
3 months to fix it.
“Uhm, how much will it cost?” I asked Methe.
“Fifteen thousand dollar.”*
After some blinking and coughing both Tracey and I realized they were seriously, desperately looking for sponsors. We were some of the only foreigners these people had ever seen, so it was logical for them to assume we had gobs of money lying around. All farang are rich in the eyes of these people, and by comparison we certainly were. But backpackers building a dam?
We were somewhat overwhelmed. I think they could tell this, because after standing up and telling the mob of respectable adults that we’d do our very best, they took us outside and fed us, then made us take a nap in the Wat.
When we woke up, there were more monstrous fresh coconuts sitting at our feet. Methe and the other monks were there, smiling at us as we rubbed our eyes.
“Come see dam?” he asked.
We tried hard to finish the massive coconuts, but failed again. They put us back on motorbikes and we buzzed out through the sand, then down into dry rice fields. We found ourselves at the end of a broad flat pasture next to a tiny ridge of hills, with a soupy brown pond cutting through the middle of them. A thin ribbon of brown water fed the pond and snaked off into the distance towards the mountains. Apparently about forty meters of hillside had been washed away by the stream in the rainy season a few years ago. We sat there staring at this sad spot under the hot sun. All the monks, the police chief, the village leaders, had ridden out there with us.
Tracey was assertive.
“There’s no way we can raise that kind of money in three months.”
“Yes yes, we understand.” Translator monk said.
I started going over the figures in my sketchpad and talking to Tracey in very fast American english so they couldn’t understand us. What they needed was a civil engineer, or at least the resources to hire one. They have the labor available, and they aren’t really starving, so if this is a community project then they don’t need the money for rice per say, but to pay the workers. These poor young monks wrapped in orange robes were looking for guidance and funding with the best intentions.
After taking a bunch of photographs of the dam and some dirty children that were hauling puppies around, we got back on the motorbikes and buzzed along for a few more miles. We got off our bikes at an entirely different Pagoda in a sandy courtyard next to a very steep hill. There was a giant staircase leading upwards, carved from huge blocks of ancient red laterite stone.
“Old temple.” Little brown monk said.
We ascended, and found ourselves on a beautiful hill, with an old cracking 1940’s era Wat sitting atop it. We walked around the Wat, and realized that little temple was not the old one he was talking about.
A mammoth structure sat on the hilltop, commanding the entire view. We were in the midst of a thousand year old temple, older than Angkor Wat and far too isolated from Siem Reap to ever be discovered by tourists. Huge creeper vines and giant roots were hugging the intricately carved stonework, slowly and quietly ripping it apart. We walked around this holy edifice in complete awe, with the little saffron draped monks as our guides.
Cambodia’s Angkorian temples number in the dozens, and are spread out over hundreds of kilometers. Some were entirely forgotten through their years of strife, and some are still being discovered. This one was the monks secret, and they were showing it to us out of gratitude for simply listening to their cause.
We spent an hour absorbing that place and those moments, getting lost in the ruins and letting the monks show us out. When we descended the hill and walked back to the motorbikes, they chopped open two more huge coconuts for us. I think they believe foreigners subsist on 90% coconut milk.
Over the next two hours we were taken to Methe’s brother’s house and parent’s house, where we met every one of his extended family, drank two more coconuts each, and were fed papaya and palm sugar until sunset. These Cambodians were extremely hospitable people, almost to the point of absurdity.
By the time we had made it back to our guesthouse at 7pm, our heads were spinning from their kindness and perhaps a lack of solid food, and I was overwhelmed by what I had seen. I couldn’t understand why they were putting so much faith into our ability to help them, but after a day of reflection I knew why.
Inherently, I think he could tell that if we were willing to sit on the back of a motorbike for an hour choking on dust and diesel just to listen to their cause, we would do our best. He knew we couldn’t just give him fifteen thousand dollars. He knew we were young. But he understood that the resources at our disposal, being from a first world country, could expose his cause better than any Cambodian. Somehow he could tell that we were going to try.
This is the commitment I made to them, to get their message out and relate my experience to those who might help.
The Monks of Wat Phrea Enkosa are trying to rebuild a forty-meter dam which feeds thousands of people. Before they do anything they need funds for a civil engineer. As I left the venerable Mean So Methe gave me a piece of paper describing the organization he’s begun.
“We monks, as children of the Cambodian people, must reduce their hardship. They are suffering, and it our hope that you might help us however you can.”
I told him I would raise funds for his project. I have been drawing Cambodian monks since then.
This place is different. Taking a simple step out of my comfort zone and following a random thread here gave me an experience to remember for the rest of my life. Cambodia is such a country that you can throw a stone in any direction and hit a worthy cause. Perhaps with the right intention this stone can block a river.
Dam and Canal Reconstruction Project: Current Information
My Return to the Monks: A Cambodian Cycle
Photo Galleries of Balang Commune and the Monks of Wat Phrea Enkosa
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* After much additional research, it has been deduced that the dam will have a substantial positive effect on over 18,000 people in three local communes: the benefit area is much larger than originally estimated by the monks.
** After finally getting proper engineering and external consultatnts to the site, the project cost has been pegged at just under $50,000, well above the original estimate.