There’s no tangible reason I should happen to be in a hotel less than a stone’s throw from a dance academy that warmly welcomed me. What are the odds?
Similarly, there was no particular reason to breakfast at Sister Srey’s (Sister Girl’s) Café beside the river in Siem Reap. Not the first time at any rate. Once having tasted the quality of the food and coffee returning several times was quite explicable. But there was something deeper that drew me back. On the first morning I noticed on one wall a painting detailing the major landmine sites across the world. A map of buried terror. On the wall directly opposite a poster with the image of a masked and caped animal: HeroRAT.
Similarly, there was no particular reason to breakfast at Sister Srey’s (Sister Girl’s) Café beside the river in Siem Reap. Not the first time at any rate. Once having tasted the quality of the food and coffee returning several times was quite explicable. But there was something deeper that drew me back. On the first morning I noticed on one wall a painting detailing the major landmine sites across the world. A map of buried terror. On the wall directly opposite a poster with the image of a masked and caped animal: HeroRAT.
I discovered that the café supported a project called Apopo. This non-profit was set up with the extremely ambitious, but not impossible, task of removing all landmines in Cambodia. Given that Cambodia has the dolorous distinction of being the most heavily land mined country in the world, even the thought of trying moved me to tears. A small postcard on the noticeboard alerted me to the possibility of visiting the project centre and I resolved to do so.
The books of life
Just outside Sister Srey’s was a tiny stall where my travel companion and I purchased several carefully wrapped used books. Tok Vanna, the proprietor, had no hands. With the books came a photocopied leaflet that told Mr Vanna’s story, based on an interview with BBC journalist Kate McGeown. (I use the name from the leaflet not the interview.) When the landmine took his hands, the outlook was bleak. Suicide seemed the most viable option . . . yet the man I met was lively and cheerful. He sustained a livelihood and a family. It was a long way from the days of despair when a landmine exploded all hope of a good future.
What's left to see after Angkor Wat?
Another whim of fate. The day I visited Angkor Wat, we drove via a different route back to Siem Reap. On a long stretch of country road I saw the sign for the Apopo Visitor Centre, and we stopped. Seeing firsthand how these African pouched rats are used in clearing landmines and returning land and peace to the communities was extraordinary. As was the respect and care verging on reverence the carers had for the animals. No rat has ever died in this work. Land that would otherwise take three days to clear can be declared safe in thirty minutes. The prospect of clearing Cambodia of landmines by 2025 suddenly seemed realistic. I wept.
How do you come back from hell? If Apopo shows the path writ large, Mr Vanna’s story is a map in miniature of the possibility of restoration. Without intangible guides, who amongst us could navigate the narrow and perilous path back to hope?