I am flying back to the northeast, to Ban Lung, the provincial capital of Rattanakiri (again over pristine forest). This mine-free mountainous province will certainly attract more visitors in the near future. The whole of the northeast is a completely different world. In Rattanakiri, "chunchiet" (ethnic minorities like the Kreung and the Tumpuon) practice their own culture. Two American Baptists are working on establishing an alphabet for the "chunchiet". Of course, they have basically one book in mind to translate. It’s important to tell people about God’s word when they do strange things like this: Before a couple gets married, they spend some days together in a tree hut. There they try to find out if the spirits are favourable to that marriage. They may also include sleeping with each other during that time to find out if they fit together (that's the part generally known...) But I don't want to criticize the missionaries too much, as I don't know what other work they do there. As I will find out later, a lot of the local people are striving for survival.

Few aid organizations are in Rattanakiri, where the Ho Chi Minh path cut through Cambodia. Too remote, too difficult, population density too low. Nonetheless, believe it or not, Ban Lung offers an "American Restaurant". Don’t check what the kitchen or the toilet looks like, but the owner "Nai" provides some of the best and cheapest food in Cambodia, including hamburgers. On my first night, I eat one of them and encounter a very slim man in his forties, grey-black long hair, and very long beard of the same colour. He looks like a backpacker who has been travelling for 25 years. "USLTO?" (United States Long Term Observer), I ask. "No, I am an aid worker" - "In what project?" – "Rural development. Different projects". A quiet man. He doesn’t like to talk, especially not to travellers who apparently came here in the past to smoke Marihuana and sleep with virgin village girls. He knows about it, he’s been here for three years. It turns out that the long-bearded Dutch with his deep voice is the director of the regional CARARE (Cambodia Area Reconstruction and Rehabilitation Program) office. An important man with an excellent reputation. Never judge anyone from his or her looks...

Another interesting guy I meet at the "American Restaurant" is Ben, 32, an American himself. He is one of the two USLTO’s in Rattanakiri who is observing the post-electoral process. His Khmer is as good as his English, because he has been building wells in Kompong Thom since 1992. (NB: EU election observer Walter has been working on a similar project in Kompong Thom for the German government. Walter built the wells for free, Ben for a symbolic amount of money raised by the villagers. Experience has shown that if people have paid for something, they take better care of it. Two organizations doing exactly the same thing in exactly the same place in a completely different way). While working in Kompong Thom (where now the ruins of Sambor Prei Kuk in the middle of the jungle can be visited safely), Ben has been shot at several times by KR and once fell into an eight-meter hole. Before the election, he trekked through the forests of Rattanakiri for three days. On Election Day, he went only to the polling stations where he thought there might be problems. And apparently, there were quite a few problems in Rattanakiri, much more than in Stung Treng. Villagers had been threatened; observers had been forced to stand at the other side of the room while the counting was going on...

But now the election is over, and the demonstrations and legal battles are going on far away, in Phnom Penh, three days by pick up and boat, 40 minutes by the RAC plane, which comes like a thunder over that peaceful little town. At the friendly "Mountain Guest House", I hire a motorbike to go to Yok Lom lake. Yok Lom is one of the magic places in Cambodia: an almost perfectly round, crystal clear volcanic lake, about 1 km², surrounded by primary forest. You can take a swim, visit the little culture museum, and walk around the forest. It’s a wonderful peaceful place where you completely forget where you are. Nobody visits Yok Lom only once. The

romantic feeling would be perfect if one would not know that all of Rattanakiri once was full of primary forest like that. Logging is going on at an alarming rate. Big Vietnamese trucks take away the trees - which are sometimes hundreds of years old - directly across the border. They have built the roads themselves, and the Cambodians are thankful for it. No one has a real interest in stopping the deforestation of one of Asia’s last big forests. Everyone makes money out of it. The only ones trying to hit the alarm button are environmental organizations like Global Witness and sometimes parts of the local population which realizes that since the trees are gone, the rain is gone, too (not yet scientifically proven). But money needs no missionaries. It is a universal religion. The Vietnamese sell the wood on the world market for a price several times of what they pay the Cambodians. And loggers are not only dangerous to the environment, but also to humans. Once I am driving on the horrible muddy road towards Veoun Sai, where I want to inquire about a new national park. I pass the big trucks with armed loggers several times. I smile even though they don’t smile. My camera doesn’t make them happier, either. At some point, I decide it’s better to head back to where there are fewer arms and more smiles.

Expedition to the "Virochey National Park"

A lot more smiles and no arms are at the headquarters of "Virochey National Park" in Veoun Sai. Khoy Sokhan, the director of the park, and his ten employees are incredibly happy to meet me and show me around. I am the fourth foreigner. There was Mr. X (forgot the name) from the WWF; there was Mr. Andy from the World Bank (a credit of 5 Mio. US $ is under consideration), there was Mr. Tom the geographer (and election observer), and now there is Mr. Marcel the journalist. The bad road is not the only reason why not more foreigners have made it to there. The headquarters have only been opened at the beginning of the year, and for the time being, that’s all there is of the so-called "Virochey National Park", a piece of land marked on a map, declared a national park by the King. Any attempt to get into the park itself is an expedition and should not be done in the rainy season. We have decided to go to the buffer zone close to the park, spend the night at remote villages. With a lot of supplies, Sokhan, three rangers, and I are driving up a river from village to village and through beautiful nature. After a long ride in the hot sun, we are getting out at the village of Koh Piek. To reach the forest, we have to walk through the village and cross the rice fields. The rain has finally set in - this means everyone is planting rice, the water is high - and it also means that it’s raining... The weather can’t decide between rain and sunshine, and my body doesn’t know whether to get soaked or sunburned. Sometimes the water is as high as my hips. At one specific point, there is something I would describe as a "minor lake" with one big wet round tree serving as a bridge. It reminds me of the balancing scene in "Dirty Dancing", except that this has nothing erotic in it. "Do we absolutely have to cross here?", I ask Sokhan. "Yes, but we can take another way back", he says. OK, if it’s only way, but there is no way I risk my almost 960 US $ camera (bought the year before in Phnom Penh, reportedly the cheapest place in the world for Nikon equipment), my exposed and unexposed films, and my life, by walking across that slippery tree. Sokhan and his friends have more experience - I give them my valuable stuff, let them cross (while I am praying) and then walk across the water, which is pretty much covering me. A GI in the Vietnam War must have felt like that sometimes, but I am not afraid of a sniper attack. I am, however, afraid that I might sink completely. I can tell you this: It’s much more fun after than while you are doing it. While you are walking through deep muddy water at the end of the world, questions like "Why the hell am I doing this?" cross your mind. Pretty much the same question comes up when you are walking across rice fields where people are eagerly planting rice. They stop whatever they do, watch me, smile at me. But even if it is not apparent, they are fighting for their survival. The rain set in late - and a bad harvest can mean death. So why am I tramping in between their rice paddies while they are struggling to feed their families?

After the rice fields, there is an area I would describe as "scattered forest". Brief visit at the village chief’s house to introduce myself. We have to pass on a flood warning. The villagers here in the buffer zone have cut the big trees for their own use; a few kilometres further north starts the national park. Tigers are around here. Nobody knows their exact number in Cambodia, but they are certainly in the hundreds. Here at Virochey National Park, villagers sometimes still go out there to hunt them. 4’000 - 6’000 US $ is a big incentive. The Chinese illusion of tiger penis making them more virile pays well. The village chief tells me that nowadays they have to go further and further into the forest to hunt tigers, whereas in the past, tigers were very close to the village. The potential for eco tourism would be tremendous; especially because protected areas are also on the Lao and the Vietnamese sides of the border. Maybe one day a trans-indochinese national park where potent tourists pay lots of money to see some of Asia’s few remaining tigers? (A tourism policy like Botswana or Zambia). Of course it’s all illusions, but illusions are better than headaches. And a headache is what I have now. I am not used to the weather changes, the fluid loss, and my general unfitness does its part. I tell Sokhan that I would like to return to Koh Piek instead of venturing further into the forest. As I had suspected, there is no other way to get back than over this beloved mini-lake of mine. Great stories to tell your great-grand-sons later on.

Maybe my great-grand-sons will also want to know about my night at Koh Piek (in the house to the right) which I spent in a hammock covered with a mosquito net (never had so many bites) in a wooden house with no walls. The fire on which we cook fish and rice provides for some romance and reminds me a bit of Africa... Koh Piek will always stay in my mind. Most probably, my great-grand-sons (and daughters) will not be able to see a real village like this anymore. TV and tar roads will destroy it. Here in Koh Piek, there is absolutely no evidence of the 20th century. No electricity, no roads, no Coke can, nothing. While Sokhan and me discuss about the environment and about his time under Pol Pot (he pretended to be an analphabetic), I actively look for signs of our century. There must be something. But all I see is wooden huts between palm trees and other plants, women with baskets on their backs, a pig every now and then, a chicken, a buffalo making strange sounds with his wooden bell. Finally, at night, there is something. If we listen very very carefully, we hear the overflight of a big airplane at an altitude of about 10 kms. It’s barely audible. The only thing foreign in this place is we with our motor boat. Do we have the right to disturb it? In the morning, I brush my teeth at the river covered with fog, look at the mountains (real mountains out here) where the national park is, and thank God that I had a chance to be here.

But the headache is still there. We go back to Veoun Sai, where we visit a Lao village. An English speaking Chinese (the Chinese are well respected all over Cambodia) chats with me - but no photos: "I am too old". Generally people die before they are 50 at these places, Sokhan explains. Even if there were effective medication available, there would be no money to buy it. Also in Veoun Sai, of course, there is no electricity. But the sound of a generator can be heard out of a "restaurant" where a TV and a Karaoke machine entertain about 60 people. 80% children and 80% of them find me much more interesting than the Karaoke. The rangers who have come with me are singing Khmer love songs to Thai kitsch videos. They are having so much fun that I am happy with them. A 19-year-old girl from the Headquarters wants to marry me. Even those with no marriage intentions would like to keep me at the headquarters of "Virochey National Park". They are about my age, earn 30 US $ per month, and are so much more happy than I am. 

The train to Kompong Som

Every time I get back to Phnom Penh, more political news. Basically: no new government formed because of the opposition protests, demonstrations still going on. Hun Sen says they can demonstrate as long as they wish. Let’s wait and see. This is Cambodia. My next destination is Sihanoukville, or Kompong Som, as the locals call it. In 1994, three foreigners were kidnapped and killed by KR on a train to the south coast. I find the "chef de train" in a yellow French colonial-style building and talk to him for a long time: "Yes, you can go to Kompong Som by train", he says in French, "there are no KR anymore". But quickly he adds: "We are not allowed to sell you a ticket. This would leave a trace...". (The government has prohibited the selling of train tickets to foreigners after the 1994 incident.) An offer for a free train ride to the beach without kidnapping and killing - that sounds nice to me. But because I would still like to take many train rides in the future, I continue my investigation. Everyone insisting on my own responsibility doesn’t help much. My well-informed motodop says something rather strange: "You can go, but you have to pray to your ancestors first". Hmm....- "What do I have to pray for with my ancestors? I mean, is there a special reason why I should pray to my ancestors?" – "We always pray to our ancestors before we undertake a trip", he says.

The next morning, at precisely 6:40 a.m., the "chef de train" is waving the flag, and the old train - which includes also three cargo cars loaded with soldiers - is leaving Phnom Penh at a speed of about 20 km/h. This speed we will keep up for the next 13 hours and 10 minutes until we reach Kompong Som - sometimes waiting half an hour for wood to be loaded or unloaded along the way. Soldiers hang their hammocks at the luggage departments and watch the rice paddies passing by. The whole family is working on the fields now that the rain has come. The train looks like in a Second World War movie, but the wooden seats don’t bother me at all. What bothers me somehow is that I am sitting in the very same train where a Briton, a Frenchman, and an Australian have been kidnapped and killed. Not that I am afraid that this is going to happen - Cambodia has changed a lot since then. But it did happen, right here. An English-speaking Khmer shows me Phnom Vour, where the three foreigners were taken to. The villages in front of Phnom Vour are still KR villages – "good KR villages", because they defected to the government. Some of the passengers are KRs. It was probably a train ride as peaceful as this one in 1994, when a KR attack stopped the train, killed 13 Cambodians and found three "barangs" to be held for ransom that was never paid. What kind of country did I travel to? Everything that works has been built by foreigners, who have a limited personal interest in sustainable development that would go on without them. While the aid workers take care of health care and education, the government takes care of logging and corruption. At least that’s what I’m told. They, too, are not interested in sustainable development. A slow train induce you to give judgments too quickly.

A blind man, about 60 years of age, walks from the front to the back of the train and sings constantly as if he was singing to a child - a very nice slow melody. Then he turns around, walks from the back to the front of the train - and sings. I will never forget his blind eyes and his nice voice. A few hundred Riels are being put into his pockets by the locals. Also the traders want money, at every stop, they sell bananas, coconuts, and God knows what else. One of the coconuts changes hands (to me) for 400 Riel - 0.11 US $. An elderly woman is laying down on the wooden seat and is being massaged by a relative - a clear sign that she has some kind of disease. Massage is for free (this type of massage...) and the only treatment available. Train is the cheap way to get to Kompong Som; the bus would be much faster and more comfortable. The only one, who doesn’t pay on that Tuesday, August 18th, 1998, is the big attraction. The "barang" is surrounded. "How much did that camera cost?" – "50 dollars", I lie. "How much did that watch cost?" – "3 dollars", that’s the truth (the Russian market in Phnom Penh, near the place where they sell illegal software copies). "Why are you putting this [sunscreen] on your face?" ... An elderly woman almost gets a spiritual orgasm when I can tell her the time in Khmer.... And then, the big attraction, "barang" pisses. Trains are no exception when it comes to the absence of public toilets in Cambodia. This means pissing into the bush at one of the numerous stops. Everyone does it, but a barang... Not that anyone of the app. 40 people on the roof and the 20 at the windows want to admit that they want to see the barang pissing, but yes, barang pissing is interesting. There is a certain amount of attention that I like. And there are certain activities where I moderately like to be observed. Pissing in the bush is not necessarily amongst them. Somehow it doesn’t bother me. I don’t even pay for this train. 

The landscape changes from rice paddies to former forest. We are practically driving from logging village to logging village. At around 6.30 p.m., it’s getting dark. Even without KR, there is the danger of robbery. I don’t know if the soldiers make me feel more or less comfortable. I arrive safely at Kompong Som. The town as well as the beaches are unspectacular, but nice for a weekend off or so. The 900 tourist beds are filled with about 9 tourists. Almost a ghost town. The few tourists there are of the pot-smoking kind ("It felt good to shoot a weapon in Phnom Penh", one mumbles) or of the "let’s-fuck-them"-kind. The expatriates living in Kompong Som are some of the most decadent in all of Cambodia. As far as they are concerned, I spare you the details. The only interesting guy I meet is a Taiwanese who has built a shoe factory, surprisingly the Swiss brand "Bally". A few afternoons at the beaches, then I realize that I don’t want to make holidays. I want to travel. The air-con bus back to Phnom Penh (Swiss standard – no kidding) costs about 3 US $.

Drinking and shooting party

Back in the capital, after almost two months in the country, numerous night time motor rides, a peaceful election and for the most part peaceful demonstrations, I get reminded where I am. "The world’s biggest automatic shooting range" says an advertisement on the road, co-owned by a Taiwanese-American named Victor, one of the most important men in town. The "Marksmen’s Club", as his shooting range is called, is not the only element in his empire, which also includes a Casino, the "Holidays Hotel", the "Manhattan’s Club" (the most exclusive night club in town), a radio station, an island off Sihanoukville, and I think he has something to do with the new "President Airlines". Certainly an interesting guy to meet. But the first guy I meet (picture below) at the range about 8 km outside Pochentong is one of his bodyguards. Our accents are the same - he’s Swiss

There is something strange about talking in Swiss German ("We have a good reputation. The bandits know: One shot of us is enough. And I am not afraid") in front of about 40 individual ranges where you can realize all your dreams as far as weapons are concerned: Hand guns (from 19th century revolver to laser-guided hand gun), guns, machine guns, grenades and grenade launchers. But contrary to the army range, security is high on the agenda here. Everyone on the staff is experienced. The Swiss has been a bodyguard in Bangkok, the guy from Sri Lanka has participated in that civil war, and the Russian doesn’t talk about his past, but is known to have been a "tough guy" in Afghanistan. Anyway, they do make sure nothing goes wrong. They say that one of the best customers once shot for 1,200 US $ in one session. Also Victor, who joins us, is experienced. The naturalized American with his deep voice and his dark glasses was in Vietnam. He seems delighted to talk to me. He says I came at a good time, since he will be having a "drinking and shooting party" with some of his equally important friends.

This "drinking and shooting party" is also one of those ... things I’ll never forget. Imagine a few people sitting around plastic tables on plastic chairs. Alcohol is constantly provided. Every now and then, one of them stands up and does the whole training course: get out of a car, shoot a few human silhouettes ("always hit the one closest to you first"), shoot a hostage-taker (not the hostage), shoot through a hole out of concrete, finally tramp into a door and also shoot some figures inside, ... I don’t recall all the details. All has to be done as quickly as possible with as few shots as possible. The scores clearly decrease with alcohol consumption. (NB: I limit myself to the alcohol.) "If I hadn’t drunk so much, I would have hit better", one of them once says. Jokes are being made a casual atmosphere. At around 6 p.m., serial fire can be heard. "Is this from the range next doors?", I ask Victor. "No, this is probably the two army compounds next doors having an exchange of fire. The atmosphere changes immediately. When the shooting gets real, it’s time to go. Hundreds of serial shots can be heard. Victor radios half of Phnom Penh to find out what’s going on. He decides that we leave in convoy, not on national route number 4, the normal way back, but on national route number 5, driving around the city. I am joining Victor in his car. His loaded silver handgun is next to the handset of his radio. Personally, I am sitting on an AK-47, which hurts my ass every time we hit a pothole. "I want to know where little Igor [code for his little son] is, by street number", he orders. He also tries to radio two of Hun Sen’s advisers. It’s become dark. No one knows what’s going on. People are on the streets looking into the direction of the shots. Sometimes Victor first touches his gun before finding the handset on the seat next to him. But he's in control, it's not the first shoot-out. Reports come in that the shooting has stopped. 12 people dead. A few days later, it will turn out that these people have died of rice wine with too much rat poison (reputed to make you more virile), and that people were simply shooting at the Ghosts...

The party goes on in Victor’s "Manhattan Club", the most upscale place in town. Even the prostitutes are upscale. "Absolutely no firearms" is written in front of the metal detectors - much more appealing for me. Victor himself is doing the DJ from time to time ("I wanted to bring music to Cambodia"). After I’ve had my share of drinks and dancing, I would like to go back to my beloved Hotel Indochine. At around 2 a.m., I am sitting on the back of a motorbike, like so many times before. I am a bit uncomfortable because I don’t know the driver. He’s trying to communicate with me in extremely bad English, and I am just saying: "Indochine, Hotel Indochine". At a street corner, a nightmare: soldiers lying in hammocks. Some of them pick up a few bricks and throw them in our direction in order to stop us and probably rob me. The driver thinks: "Oh, they are throwing bricks, let’s better slow down". I think: "Oh, they are throwing bricks, let’s better hurry up". I am shouting at him: "Go! Go!" - a word everyone understands. Maybe he’s teamed up with the soldiers. Bricks are still coming our way. From the back of the bike, I take the gas device into my right hand and accelerate myself. No bricks have hit, but the message is understood: It’s summer of 1998, there is no government, and you are in Cambodia.

Mondulkiri: Hills, forest - and the elephant

And Cambodia has much more to offer, even during these troubled times. I am off to the eastern province of Mondulkiri, where the ATR-72 lands on a dirt road in the middle of Sen Monorom. Even the provincial capital has no electricity. The few generators are used for Karaoke and TV. One morning in the market I can see with my own eyes how culture gets destroyed: literally hundreds of chunchiet, baskets on the back, pipes in their mouths, are sitting and standing around a TV showing some Thai soap opera. Even those outside use every hole of the basic house to get a glimpse of that strange machine showing things from far away. They will probably show Thai kick boxing one day. Mondulkiri is one of the last places in the world where people live in their traditional way. Only four foreigners are resident. And of course, the people have the right to change their lives; they have the right not to die of malaria if medication is available. They have the right to improve their life quality by building sometime in the future a dam to get permanent electricity. And yes, they have the right to watch TV and see how the Western (American) way of life is. But do these mostly illiterate people really know what they win and what they lose? In the end, we will have to share the responsibility of the consequences. As soon as we set foot on these territories, we have made this change inevitable. I am happy and sad at the same time to be able to see something that will not exist anymore in the not too distant future.

My personal not-too distant future is exploring the green hills of Mondulkiri with a motorbike, on which I could luckily get my hands on at the friendly "Pich Kiri" guest house. Two nice waterfalls. I hear of a third one at Bou Sra, near the Vietnamese border, which is much bigger, on three stages, much more beautiful, but difficult to reach. I decide I want to go there, but as so often, have not the slightest idea how.

In Mondulkiri, I experience something I have experienced at many remote places in the world: Difficult access means interesting people. One is an employee of the education ministry, with whom I have extensive discussions in French about education and development policy. Another one is Paolo, a Colombian Human Rights monitor working for the United Nations. With the latter and his assistant Tho, we arrange an elephant trip through the forest. Elephants have even been used to transport election material inside this province, because if there is something at all in the forest, it’s a path. There are reportedly still wild elephants around, but as with the forest and the tigers, they become scarce. A local tourism official (there used to be a time with tourists...) helps us hire the elephant at the village of Phulung. We pay way too much, but going through the Cambodian jungle by elephant is worth almost every amount of money.

If you can climb a mountain, you can also climb an elephant. That is the motto we follow when we try to get on this hairy sympathetic Asian elephant. A small bamboo thing keeps us from falling down. Off he goes. After a few minutes into the forest, we are on paths that can only be used by elephants. Sometimes I am wondering where she will go now. We cross rivers, and around us is nothing but the sights, sounds, and mostly the smell of that wonderful forest. For the local population (mostly non-Khmer), the forest is not necessarily something good. It’s where the diseases and KRs are. Therefore we have to stop at a deserted waterfall to calm down the spirits of the jungle. "Very important", says our "elephant driver". We sacrifice a few bananas and smoking sticks. The guide mumbles a few prayers. Tho donates a smoking cigarette because he has no smoking sticks with him. We have to drink rice wine - reluctantly, because we still remember the 12 deaths recently... Surely they have not put rat poison inside here...

Then we take a bath in the perfectly clean cold water (you could even drink it, no human population further upstream). The elephant takes a little walk by herself to eat some green stuff. What a wonderful peaceful place. You can't believe you are in Cambodia here, and you want to stay forever. On the way back, I insist on taking a different path, and I will have to bear the responsibility for it. Sometimes it’s going up so steep that we are almost sure that bamboo thing we’re sitting on will break. I am joking about the message that would be posted at the FCCC: "Two employees of the United Nations and a foreign journalist have been killed while fulfilling their duties on an elephant ride in Mondulkiri". Paolo finds it not so funny: "That’s not the way I wanna go". Thorns and rain are also making the trip back less of an enjoyment. The elephant proves to be very intelligent. When a water bottle falls down, he stops immediately, even if nobody has recognized it. But she’s also stubborn: if she wants to eat, she wants to eat. But the spirits have been well meaning, and we all have a wonderful time.

Bou Sra - Paradise on Earth

I hope the spirits will do their best to allow me to go to Bou Sra. It takes me literally days to find someone who is prepared to take the risk to go to that reportedly most beautiful waterfall. Three rivers to cross and rain almost every day. What if we reach the falls in the morning and then rain makes the way back impassable? Finally, 15 US $ (driver and big motorbike) are enough to convince a local driver with absolutely no knowledge of any language I know. I proudly practice my 60 words of Khmer with him during the whole day.

The drive is 40 kms. The road is acceptable (dry so far...), the first two rivers doable. At the third one, the current is simply too strong. We could not even push the bike across. 35 of 40 kilometres are behind us, but this river won’t let us cross, with the bike. We decide to hide the bike in the bush, try to cross by foot and walk the last five kilometres. More than once we think that the current is going to take us away, but we safely arrive at the other side. The guide also nervously looks if clouds are coming up. No clouds so far. After less than an hour’s walk, we are there, at Bou Sra, 15 km from the Vietnamese border, which is not open for international travellers. If it were, Bou Sra would be one of the major eco tourism attractions in South East Asia. It’s a waterfall on three stages surrounded by nothing but pure jungle, as you would imagine it - evergreen majestic trees. The trees are kings here. As I am sitting on a stone on the second stage looking down 70 meters, I am writing in my diary: "God has created a wonderful kingdom right here on Earth. What I see in front of my eyes, is nothing less than Godly perfection". I can see how the water cut itself a gorge over millions of years, without any help from man whatsoever. It’s just perfect.
I would love to camp here, but I have no equipment and too few supplies. We have to go back. The afternoon rain sets in when we have already crossed all three rivers, and we reach Sen Monorom without any major problems.

Talking about problems, ordering food in Mondulkiri is not all that easy. If you do that in the friendly guest house (no English spoken), you do precisely that: order food, whatever food is available that day on the market. The formula is: rice + x. My little bit of Khmer helps to order: "Njam njam bey-pii" – "eat six [o’clock]" – and at six o’clock there will by surprise dinner served by the smiling owner of the guest house. The Khmer are generally very friendly and hospitable.

Before I leave my favourite province (where NB: app. 350 KRs officially defect while I am there), I meet another fascinating person. I forgot to write down his name; he’s a hero without name. The Vietnamese sent him to prison from 1979 to 1987 for contra-revolutionary activities. Apart from occasional torture and a handful of rice a day, he had to endure forced labour and detention conditions beyond imagination. And now it comes: When finally the day of his release came, it was not revenge; it was reconciliation that came to his mind. Maybe it has to do with the time you have to think; maybe it has to do with him being Buddhist. But since then he works to improve the human rights situation in Cambodia. An American organization sent him to Mondulkiri where he goes out to the villages to tell people about their rights. He was also the provincial chairman of COMFREL, the most important national observer group. Sometimes his observers had to walk for two days to get to their polling stations. His wife and his three children are back in Phnom Penh; he sees them every three to six months. "My life is very miserable"; he says in French and has some kind of smile at the same time. But I can see definitely no bitterness in his face. The hate for the Vietnamese is universal in this country. But this man doesn’t hate the Vietnamese, who tortured and humiliated him. He even lives in a province with a lot of Vietnamese, and leaves the past behind. This man is a hero for me. He is a hero of reconciliation, a hero of peace and democracy. While Paolo and I listen to his explanation we are close to tears.

Next Page...

Basic Info

The Culture

The People

The History

Attractions

Environment

Money & Costs

Getting Around

Entertainment

Photos

Hotels

Links

[ site design: © access web-design 2004 ]