Siem Reap, Cambodia
Events have followed a cycle since I returned to Cambodia, some strange astral pattern, a cosmic rotation I can't quite figure out.
The last time I was here, my camera was dropped on cement by a drunk Cambodian friend, but still worked. The last time I was here, I accidentally packed the room key to my guesthouse as I left, and found it hundreds of miles away stowed deep in my bag. The last time I was here, a venerable saffron-robed monk hugged me as I caught my bus, hoping for my return.
Four months have now passed since then, and I have found myself in the same place, receiving another grateful hug from that Cambodian monk. My camera finally died the night I arrived, killed by injuries obtained four months previous, and I found myself staying in the exact same room, with a very well traveled room key.
This visit has been focused, definite. During my first trip I was a backpacker, absorbing all I could, letting experiences unfold before me. This is a trip with purpose and obligation, lacking idleness and ambiguity.
Four months ago I met eleven Cambodian monks, who drove me out into the countryside to show me a problem. A dam, 40 meters long, had been washed away years previous by flooding. The dam was primary irrigation for the surrounding rice-fields, providing fifteen thousand people in the local community with an agricultural supplement of rice, allowing them to plant an extra crop annually. To families with an income of around a dollar a day, this extra harvest of rice was enormous.
My return here has meant a lot to these monks. They have treated me with deference and respect, doing everything possible to be professional and kind. We have had three meetings at their Pagoda, where we sit around a table with tall glasses of warm water and talk. The meetings mostly consist of me asking questions, as only three of the monks, and one advisor speak any English. But the rest of them sit there just the same, looking serious and intent, sometimes taking notes in Khmer.
Much has transpired in these meetings, and much has been questioned. The monks are trying their hardest to raise money for their own NGO, which plans to rebuild this dam properly three months from now, as soon as the monsoon rains subside. It will cost them about $20,000 to move many tons of earth, and feed more than fifteen thousand people indefinitely.
After the meetings I have wandered around the pagoda, exploring the temples. I walk, and sit under prayer flags and draw. They have given me free range of the grounds, but like to follow me sometimes, telling me stories. I always get smiles and curious looks from the boys who live here. The pagoda is a place for those who cannot afford to live on their own, as well as a place of charity, community and education. It is a hotbed of young kids learning English. They swarm around my drawing pad in the hot sun, full of questions and wonder. Many of them are little monks, and smile broadly as I sketch them.
When I first became involved with this project, I had no idea why they were soliciting me. Building a dam is the work of a governmental or non-governmental organization, I thought; a group with experience and funds. I have no degree in water management, no political connections, and little understanding of international charities. Why would they think to ask someone like me for help in building a dam? I figured there must be some shady inconsistency, some long-shot scheme to hit up compassionate tourists.
It took time to understand. I visited the offices of Cambodian agricultural NGOs and attended meetings, armed with a project proposal and a healthy dose of skepticism. What I discovered during these was something I didn’t expect.
After many emails and phone conversations, I found myself in the squat and dusty city of Phnom Penh, with an appointment to visit Khim Sophanna, the director of an agricultural NGO called CEDAC. It was an odd, confusing trip into the alleys and residential dirt roads on the back of a motorbike. My driver and I putted down these roads, searching for the proper building for a long time. We finally found an impressive edifice with CEMAC written on its front, and the guards outside told me indeed it was the right place. "Khim Sophanna is director! If you have appointment, go right in!" I was confused, but barely on time to the meeting as I scrambled in the building.
I then spent fifteen minutes haggling with the secretary, telling her I really did have an appointment, confirmed by email that morning. When Khim Sophanna finally came downstairs in a crisp green uniform, he said he didn’t remember my email at all, and I bit my lip, realizing something was awry. I smiled, left, and called him at a street phone a moment later. He said “Yes, I’m waiting for you.” Back down the same road in a different direction, I found the real office of CEDAC, and the real Khim Sophanna.
I had suddenly passed into a Cambodian twilight zone: Same names, same street, different NGO, different director.
When I found the real Khim, he was a very well dressed Cambodian, with glasses and a thick french accent. After reading the proposal, he said it looked decent. He told me the government has a list of about 400 small-scale water projects pending. He said this dam was far too tiny to be on that list.
“Besides,” he said, “At the current pace of government work these projects won’t be completed for a hundred years. What you’re trying to do here simply won't happen on its own.”
The dynamic of fixing a dam in Cambodia is completely different from fixing anything at home. There are no aid organizations here waiting for the proper opportunity to help with a community project. There are no charitable trusts here, waiting for grant proposals and worthy causes. There are no contractors sitting idle, waiting to bid on a government project.
There is simply too much need, and too little help.
Every government organization is paralyzed by corruption, and every NGO here to fill that space has its hands completely full. I had assumed there was some established framework for fulfilling the needs of these people, a system that was not crushed by demand. I had assumed my monks lacked organization, or the proper connections. I hadn’t guessed that being distanced and pragmatic just didn’t work in Cambodia.
I walked out of his office into the dust and dirt of Phnom Penh that day, wondering how many foreigners visit this country thinking “things will just work themselves out in the end.” My sensibilities were entirely wrong for understanding these problems. There are no longer any excuses for inaction. I am doing all I can to push this project forward, and I am looking for help.
The monks of Wat Phreah Enkosa are attempting to raise money for a dam and canal, outside of Balang Commune in Siem Reap. I have been doing my best to organize the most effective means of doing this from the US. My artwork was the first step.
Monk Artwork
Dam and Canal Reconstruction Project: Current Information
My first meetings with the Monks: A Cambodian Cycle
Photo Galleries of Balang Commune and the Monks of Wat Phrea Enkosa
Next Journey | Stories Index | Projects