Friends,
I'm a bit behind on my updates, but I'd be remiss to skip to the present and leave out the two incredible weeks spent in Cambodia. I arrived in the country's capital Phnom Penn, to celebrate the Bom Om Touk Festival. Once a year, where the Mekong River and Tonle Sap meet, a phenomenon occurs, defying natural laws and human logic. For a short period of time the flow breaks its southern bound pattern and reverts its direction, causing the rushing water to flow upstream, creating a chaotic and magnificent scene. The Cambodian people mark this bizarre occurrence with a celebration filled with days of races on 400 brightly decorated boats paddled by roughly 2,500 participants. While the competition sets the tone of the day, the evenings are a relaxed affair as people line the riverbanks to celebrate under a sky filled with an impressive display of fireworks. While this festival is a fantastic event highly anticipated and relished by the Cambodian people, my update will go no deeper then this description for I'm moved, no, required to share what I witnessed in an attempt to somehow convey the magnitude in which I was effected by the country's violent history and the valor of its citizens.

I arrived tired, but otherwise ready to embrace this new landscape and eager to start checking off an extensive and greatly awaited list of sights. In theory, I was primed to learn about the brutality of the Khmer Rouge, also known as the Pol Pot Regime. With the interest of a dispassionate scholar, I'd walk through the Killing Fields and Genocide Museums leaving informed and suitably distraught by the atrocities that have plagued this country. I imagined that I'd be adequately shocked but in reality, left mostly impervious with my focus remaining on the celebrations surrounding the festival. In theory I was prepared for whatever could be thrown my way, having considered myself well traveled and generally immune to shock. In reality, I was hit like a ton of bricks and would leave the country with an equal balance of dismay, inspiration and revelation.

Cambodia is a country that for the past century knows little other than corruption and widespread devastation. Years of military brutality and mass murder have left the people emotionally scarred and physical damaged. They have recovered, but in the manner of a wounded dog, they will always walk with a limp. The lesions of the past are undeniably written on their faces, leaving no chance it will ever be cloaked or denied. There is no need to dig into the history books or news archives to understand the effects of the government's aggression. Little more than walking down the street is required to get a clear picture of what any museum plaque will describe. It's not uncommon to be approached by someone who is merely a residue of the person they were born as. Until this trip, to have someone's physical appearance assault me is something I'd yet to experience. Not limited to, but the guaranteed presences of such people are found in the front of every museum and war monument. Like a quilt, they've become a patchwork of human flesh. They stand unabashedly, displaying a face without eyes, a body absent of limbs or a panel of flesh that lays in disfigured waves rather then the smooth texture it once new. Either from the detonation of a forgotten landmine or the sadistic torture of the government led by Pol Pot, these men and woman roam the streets, not as lepers but bold illustrations of a symbolic badge of survival. Unfortunately, while the military actions have ceased, this impairment has not escaped the younger generation. Thousands of children have not dodged the bullet, and amble through the streets as beggars, often abandoned by their parents and used by pimp-like predators who prey upon their desperation and the compassion of foreigners. At a young age their future was sealed when they committed the innocent act of setting off one of the millions of undiscovered active landmines. These explosives are found in innocuous places and as close to home as the children's backyard or the family's fields. Overwhelmed by the responsibility of the wounded, and the reality that they'll no longer be able to contribute with the physical duties required by the families, these children are further victimized and are orphaned to the cities and left to fend for themselves.

There is an inevitable exchange between traveler and child as they make their vigilant pursuit down the street. A marvelous display of linguistic prowess occurs as they plow through their verbal Rolodex to quickly pin point what language you speak and more importantly, what currency they'll receive. On any given day they'll know the exchange rate of just about any coinage and will rattle it off liberally in order to increase the donation. While uneducated, many of these kids have mastered the basics of up to eight languages and are so quick witted they rival even the most experienced improv comedian. As with India, to give to these solicitors is a complicated business. Short of throwing change in the air and watching the children fight for it like chickens going after feed (an image I cannot stomach), there is no way to escape the mob that is sure to ensue once you give to one, or buy a trinket from another. It's as though they've developed a super human power and can tell from a far distance that someone is spending money. Once the wallet breaks the surface, kids come out of the woodwork asking with practiced eyes, "why not me?" and "please don't forget about me!" It takes an insensitivity I've not yet acquired to escape unscathed.

I did my best to adjust quickly to this new reality, and by the second day, I felt prepared to examine the source of the tragedy. I hoped that by facing the culprit I'd somehow be able to wrap my head around the catastrophe and therefore have a better understanding of the people and their current situation. My first step to comprehension was a trip to the infamous Cheuong Ek Killing Fields, followed by the controversial Prison S-21. I hired a bike to take me the 15 kilometers outside of town, and with my face covered with a protective mask, we road through the unkempt dirt roads to the site now referred to as the Genocide Museum. I realized that for the multitudes in the not so distant past, going down this same path was analogous to walking the cold cement halls of Death Row. Arriving in a bus full of people meant that certain death at the hands of a merciless executioner was near. These people were sacrifices to a madman's vision and sadly, their deaths brought little reform. In 1975, Pol Pot ordered his regime to fulfill his psychotic apparition of delivering Cambodia back to a more simple and pure time. By targeting the doctors, artists and teachers he felt he would eradicate the catalysts of progress. Anyone who was educated was considered a direct threat and he pursued them with an insatiable predatory vengeance. Those who were leaders with political savvy that could potentially impede his progress were also eliminated immediately. Many were victims of a witch-hunt fueled by rumors of impudence and treason. In just four years, the estimated death toll reached as high as 2 million, while many more died of disease and starvation. I was there to witness the documentation and physical spoils of these events.

As I entered through the arches leading to the open fields, our bike was immediately surrounded by people of all ages and degrees of mutilation asking for money. My driver implored me to give to the children and the pushed past the others to the entrance. The "museum" is not what one would expect. There are several informational signs scattered around the property giving the gruesome historical facts concerning the site. It is explained that tens of thousands of bodies were unearthed by the 1980's. Cambodians of every economic strata and political penchant met their grave end here. Photos of diplomats and international journalists who lost their lives getting caught in the fight are also on display. Around the premises are a series of deep pits, approximately 10X20 that are referred to as the "mass graves". Those implementing the orders of the Pol Pot Regime would kill most people upon arrival, but as the numbers increased there was not enough time in a day to both record and kill the new occupants. This meant their torture was extended as they were forced to wait; their final night filled with the sound of gave digging as a reminder of what was to come the following day.

The museum's main attraction is a huge tower shaped building, with an engraved plague saying, "Would you please kindly show your respect to the millions of people who were killed under the genocidal Pol Pot regime." As you walk closer, the tan colored texture divides, and the image of what lies behind the glass begins to become appallingly clear. The tall square structure is filled with skulls. Whether its function is to shock or merely serve as a display of veracity, it drives home a compelling message, and people are left flabbergasted. On the lowest level is a pile of dirty but unfaded clothes that were exhumed and untangled from the bodies found in the mass graves. Above, sits thousands of skulls stacked neatly on top of one another. Each layer and section shows a tag indicating the ages and genders of the departed. This exhibit represents only a portion of the remains found on sight. I filed out with the other visitors in stunned silence. All conversation had stopped as everyone slipped into his or her own head in an effort to process what they'd witnessed. I left wondering how long it would take before I would be moved to laughter or even felt like having a meal.

During the trip back to the city, my driver explained over the noise of the bike and through the muffled sounds of my helmet, that his father had disappeared by the time he was twelve and though it was never officially confirmed, it's a safe bet that he spent his final days at the death camps. I asked if it was difficult to visit the museum so often. He responded by explaining that it was important for people to learn Cambodian history so they would help fight the corruption of the current government. I'm shocked by his frankness as he continued to wail against the recent leadership. Fear has not silenced these people and there is no hesitation when explaining their political disgruntlement, which borders on hatred. The memories of their siblings being taken away in the middle of the night, and the pain of their widowed mothers is all to recent to be swept under the proverbial rug. What remains is a genetically compromised society with huge demographic gaps. The shocking absence of middle-aged men continues to resonate. Many of the Cambodians who are now in their late twenties and early thirties have grown up without fathers, uncles and male role models. Since a young age, they've been responsible for the survival of their families and because recovery was never complete, there's not been enough money for marriage and children. It's very clear they are in no way out of the woods and like a stain, the damage has seeped through and will continue to affect the coming generations.

The day's itinerary was not completed and we drove to visit Tuol Sleng, or S-21, the notorious school turned secret prison used for interrogation and torture. Found in the middle of the capital city, the school was converted in 1975 and did not close until 1979. Surrounded by a 20-foot wall and encased in barbed wire, the classrooms were used with a combined function of prison cells and torture chambers. The Khmer Rouge, adherents of Pol Pot, would hold people here who refused to join the ranks of the military or who were suspected of any activity that was considered subversive. Like a twisted dollhouse, or set in a horror film, every room of the prison simulates the condition it was left in before it was forced to shut down. The museum is divided into three sections. Each "Block" more appalling then the next. The rooms used for afflicting pain as means of punishment or coercion are set up in the exact manner found in official documentary photos. These prints hang on the walls and their graphic nature spares nothing for the viewer. Chains, steal bars, and battery chargers were just some of the tools utilized to punish and acquire information from the captives and all are visible for the visitors to see. It does not require a practiced imagination to understand what happened in these rooms.

The main part of the institution is a building with three floors of long halls, divided by classrooms that were transformed into brick walled cells to house the prisoners. The balconies are lined with layers of barbed wire thickly mounted to reduce the temptation to jump to their death; a common practice employed by the prisoners. The cells are shoddily built, roughly textured shared walled squares, with a stale smell and little light. I get the sense that they were hastily built in order to accommodate the massive influx of detainees.

The final section is a series of rooms filled with billboard size collages of prisoner mug shots. Thousands of frighten, forlorn and defiant faces stare back at me as I weave through the exhibits. Some of the children look as young as eight, while many of the women are holding their infant babies. The Khmer Rouge fastidiously documented their inmates as well as the torture they inflicted upon them, so there is no censorship in the displays. I catch myself fighting back tears and I put all my effort into managing the lump in my throat. The longest wall of the biggest room is lined with the steal devises used for torture. Across the room are enlarged prints of the people they were employed upon. I could no longer fight my reaction and I join the others who have tears running down their cheeks, many with hands covering their mouths in shock. I realize that getting the reality I sought turned into a bit of a voyeuristic nightmare. That being said, I'm convinced that this place and these pictures are more than anti Pol Pot propaganda, but in actuality, a medium used to reveal this country's gruesome memoirs.

The following days in Phnom Penn were filled with visiting the decadent Royal Palace, museum gardens and touring the Watts with my new friend, a bright eyed monk who enjoyed the opportunity to practice his English. His insatiable interest in all things western and Christian made for a fun couple days as we road motorcycles through the streets and tried to communicate with one another. One of the most memorable moments I had with him was in front of his Watt of residence. It was time for his afternoon prayer and once he had completed his daily chants, he asked me to teach him a prayer that I new. I referenced the Lord's Prayer and after hearing it, he asked me to write it down. The thing that was so special about the exchange was that it was not an exercise in proselytizing on either part. It was merely an admiration of one another's faith and mutual respect for the devotion to our different beliefs.

It was time to head up north and I bought a ticket to take a five-hour boat trip to Siem Reap. The day started early, but it did not take long for the sun to turn its' reflection into a field of diamond like sparkles that jumped along the waters surface. The fishermen were out in hordes, trolling through the water, as they tossed their wide nets with expert precision. Along the riverbanks were villages built on stilts to combat the rising tides brought by the changes of the seasons. The survival of these shantytowns is dependent upon the multitudes of fish and their small paddies of rice that sit in the adjacent fields. The next five hours were spent piled on the front deck of an overcrowded boat, taking pictures and reapplying sunscreen in an effort to minimize the burn I was sure to get. It was fascinating to see the floating villages and witness this variation of a nomadic society.

When I finally arrived at the small dock in Siem Reap, I saw a young man pushing through the swarms of tuk tuk drivers, holding a sign with name written upon it. A little shocked, but curious, I let him explain that my driver in Phnom Penn had alerted him of my arrival and if I'd hire him, he would spend the next several days taking me around the temples of Angkor. I figured he was as good a choice as any, so I hopped on the back of his bike, somehow managing to balance all my bags during our twenty-minute trip into town. I found a lovely guesthouse and made arrangements to meet the driver later for a sun set trip to Angkor. I was excited to get my first glimpse of the second wonder of the world I would have the privilege of seeing along this trip.

At 4:30 we headed out of town and I stopped to buy a three-day entrance pass to the temples. He dropped me off at the base of a small mountain and directed me to follow the crowds up the hill to Phnom Bakheng. After a twenty-minute climb I arrived amongst the mobs to the site. I battled to navigate between the waves of people as we awkwardly climbed the layers of steep and thin steps leading to the top of the temple, which promised to gleam the best views. Once at the top, I found the scene neither intimate of breathtaking, but there was definite humor in watching the people interact and fight for the best shots. What was even more entertaining was watching us westerners struggle to make our way around the ruins in our overpriced boots and titanium hiking poles, while the Cambodians of all ages, adroitly run up and down the steps in broken down plastic sandals with arms full of goods.

The next several days hopping around Angkor were amazing. The temples are nothing short or phenomenal and the construction is a miraculous illustration of engineering. From the massive Tikki stone faces at Bayon, to the sprawling wall carvings of Angkor, this child of the ADD generation was captivated for three solid days. With ancient dust on my legs and the sounds of monks playing in the moat, I took a few moments to take in what I had just seen. One of my favorite temples, Ta Prohm, notorious for being the backdrop in the movie Tomb Raider, sat deep in the jungle and gave me the feeling that I'd gone back in time or maybe jumped ahead to the future. I could not decide. As I entered the caverness structure I took time to run my hands along the mixed material composition of the walls. I found myself being led to a series of dead ends were a small Buddha sat, surround by burning incense and the daily offerings of flowers and fruit (sure to be eaten by the animals at the days end). I followed the mixture of oxidized green and tired rust blocks back to the center where I was treated to a spectacular sight of nature improving upon what man had built. Massive white barked trees towered over even the highest point of the ancient temple, spreading their arms wide in a protective fashion. At their base, their gnarled roots gripped into the ground and dug through the ruins like a rippled arthritic hand. The largest tree, grounded by a ten-fingered claw, was white knuckled as though it was fighting gravity to hold its place in the ground. Statues, some strikingly androgynous while others boast of a gender adorn the grounds of the temples. Once again I see that the hands of Hinduism and Buddhism have come together in an act of worship. Cricket like bugs harmonize to fill the jungle with a ringing sound so high pitched that it borders on unpleasant, but settles on a magnificent chorus of pulsating melodies. I begin to notice that the brilliance of the Watts of Angkor had tainted me. I catch myself walking past monuments and carvings giving the fine art little more than a glance. These statues and carvings would, in any other setting be the main attraction, but here, amongst the giants of the world, they go neglected and used for the simple purpose of shade or a place of rest. I leaving the temples thinking that the Cambodian people are a lot like these temples; they are worn down from their abuse, but still stand strong with a beauty analogous to this wonder of the world.

The people of Cambodia are fighters but today seem to be loosing the war in the final battle. Their struggle is no longer with a fanatical leader; it is with basic health and infectious disease. While there is treatment for the most common of the aggressors (TB, HIV and Anemia), there is neither the governmental support of the medical personal to administer it. A sad cycle began years ago, when the Cambodian people began to fall prey to the neglected and inferior medical system. Children would go to the hospital for dehydration and diarrhea. There, they would be treated with UNICEF and WHO sanctioned drugs, drugs that have been banned in the western world of medicine for almost forty years. These drugs often sent the children into a state of anemic shock requiring them to be readmitted in desperate need of blood transfusions. The catch is that the Cambodian government will not equip the hospitals with the technology needed to scan the donated blood before administering it for transfusion. HIV carriers often donate blood and unknowing pass alone the disease to the thousands of anemic children needing daily transfusions. Again, the hospitals do not have the essential equipment or personal to test the incoming blood donations, and the demand is so aggressive and urgent, that the contaminated blood continues to be distributed. As a result, there is a deep distrust of the medical system, and people turn to the corner store, which doubles as their pharmacy. Without malicious intent, they distribute the drugs obtained inexpensively from the black-market. These drugs are also generally banned from the western world, since they have been found to carry lethal side effects. It's a vicious cycle that did not seem to have an end in sight until a gregarious Swiss Pediatrician came into the picture.

On the way to ancient sites of Angkor, I'd pass through the town and noticed, without fail, a horde of Cambodian people either in line or mulling around the entrance of a large and notably modern building. My inquiry led me to learn that this structure is a hospital for women and children, which provides free care for those who seek help. Dr. Beat Richtner is the philanthropist behind this and the two other Cambodian hospitals he's established throughout the country. After being evacuated as a Red Cross volunteer in 1975, he was on the last plane out as the Khmer Rouge entered the town. In 1991 he returned as a tourist and took the time to visit the hospitals he'd once worked at. He was appalled at the condition and decided to devote his life to restoring the hospitals. Each of his three hospitals now meets the westernized standards of healthcare, and he's able to service all the Cambodian people who can make it to one of his facilities. Now, he is taking on groups like the World Health Organization and UNICEF and challenging their notion that third world countries deserve sub par health care. He's calling them out on their existing policies and philosophies, which profess that treatments should be limited to primary healthcare and that preventative measures should be ignored.

Most people think that if the problem is not in their backyard, or if the consequences are not felt among the citizens of their own country, they will remain unscathed. I believe this is both dangerous and faulty logic. If we all share the same air, finite resources, and walk the same planet, it's safe to say that we are analogous to a single body. Then, like a body, if one finger or leg is sick, the rest of the body registers the problem and responds accordingly. The issue is that our system is not working properly. Our brain is sending out the message of distress to the rest of the body, but it's failing to respond. If the problem becomes septic, so to speak, there will be no escaping its effects to the whole. We are like lepers who have lost all feeling and no longer pay attention to the ailing element of our body. Eventually, the disease will take hold and leave a crippling effect on the rest of the system, rendering it impossible to function with the strength of full capacity. I am not a humanitarian, nor am I a preacher. I'm not notably generous or sensitive, but what is happening outside of the comforts of the western world cannot go unnoted. There are people like the good doctor who have heard the cries and are responding to the call. Today, in addition to running all three hospitals, Dr. Richtner puts on a concert every Saturday night in an effort to raise money for the hospital. He implores visitors to give money or blood, and then entertains us with his wit and a beautiful cello concert.

My final stop came right before I left to the airport. I grabbed a tuk tuk and headed out to the deeply rooted and potholed road leading to the Land Mine Museum. It's in these surrounding fields that hundreds of thousands of landmines have been triggered, killing thousands annually and leaving thousands permanently wounded. Aki Ra, a brave and unassuming Cambodian man is the founder and director of this humble site. As a child of age five, the Khmer Rouge murdered his parents and subsequently he was forced to fight with the Vietnamese army. As soon as the Vietnamese pulled out of Cambodia, he immediately was able to switch alliances and fight against the powers that orphaned him and turned his country into a place of disarray. Now, to the dismay of the current fraudulent government, he's dedicated his life to the deactivation of the same landmines he set as a child. He educates the travelers and takes in orphaned children who have been left damaged by the landmines and abandoned by their families. Education is compulsory and his charges all graduate high school in addition to working with him at the museum. The grounds are simple and resemble army barracks more than a museum. Entrance is free while pamphlets providing information is offered at a small price. On display are the various types of landmines and photographic records of the deactivation done under his supervision. An estimated six million land mines remain unfound in the Cambodian soil, but with heroes like Aki and the volunteers that work at the museum, lives are being saved with every one they are able to locate and disarm.

I make my way to the riverbank were a sixteen year old boy sits, scratching at the nub of his right arm. He explains he works at the museum but was taken in at eight years old when he lost his arm and his brother and sister to the same landmine. His family lives a couple hours away, but after the accident, his parents could no longer have his around. While they wanted him to get the medical attention he needed, his disfigurement was also a direct reminder of the total losses of that day. He explains this without self-pity and remorse. Most notable is his excitement to graduate and his pride in the work he's done in the fields disarming the explosives. He'll graduate from high school next year and boasts that he wants to go to college. I leave feeling inspired by the courage and tenacity of this young man.

I will hold on to many precious moments of my time in Cambodia. That's really what it adds up to.Seconds of pleasure that become engraved into your memory and serve to deepen the lines of laughter around your eyes. The plane takes off and my mind drifts. I think about roaming the temples while being followed by some not so bashful monks who continued to urge one another to push the boundaries a bit further. I remember the simple gesture of a child silently grabbing my hand to lead me through a maze of halls to his secret spot. There he would push aside the shrubs and show me a stone Buddha completely preserved and framed by a colossal tree trunk. I look through my bag to find a simple drawing done for me by a def boy. I'll remember his toneless sounds of pleasure as I took his picture and I know I'll tote his gift around with me for the rest of my journey.

After a trip filled with heart wrenching realities, indescribable beauties, new friends and a renewed belief in the goodness of people, I'm left with one overwhelming emotion. I want to encourage everyone to see these things for themselves. My descriptions are bound to fall short but if there is power in anything I've illustrated, I hope it will move you to walk this path on your own so you to can ride the pendulum of emotion and dive into the history of one of the poignant and most incredible places on this planet.

Heather Connolly
myunbeatenpath.com