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Train journeys (not including tube trains): 9
Car journeys: 5
Old friends met: 4
Entertaining pieces of brick based graffitti seen: 2
Beds slept in: 5
text messages sent: 24
books read: 2
newspapers read: 3
talks given: 1
talks listened to: 1
emails downloaded late at night: 847
I’m in Grimsby now, having eventually got up here last night after a thoroughly enjoyable, if slightly tiring wonder around the UK. In edited highlights - the trip consisted of a cup of tea with Wes Sutton, leader of the Oasis Trust ‘church.co.uk‘ network, at the Oasis base in Waterloo. I was really impressed by what the network is doing in Waterloo, and excited to hear their plans for other projects, some alreadty on the go. Later that evening I returned to the same building, to hear Shane Claiborne speak about his experiences living as an Ordinary Radical. I found out about that event by signing up to a Chrisitan Anarchists mailing list, even though I’m not really an Anarchist. (Shhhh! Don’t tell!)
That night (Wednesday) was spent with Kyber and Mrs Netikos, at their flat in South London. Conversations ranged from virtual reality, to killlng sheep with bolt guns, to archery. And places in between.
Next day, I got to spend some quality time with a friend who wants to expand his clothing company to include a fully ethical range. He’s already working as hard as he can to ensure his suppliers meet the hghest standards of looking after their workforce, and is trying to integrate organic and fairly traded materials into his supply chain. Seems like I’ll be able to help him, which is great.
A bit of a rush over to Euston station then, where I was able to grab a few minutes with Dan Radice of Cokoon. It was good to find out what he’s up to, and to consider what possibilities there are for the future.
Off on to Northampton then, to spend some time with Julie, who is planning to join World Horizons in the summer. I also got a chance to meet Julie’s church, which is an interesting ecumenical fellowship in the heart of the town, very engaged with their community, and offering a whole load of services, from a shoppers coffee shop, to counselling rooms, and various other things throughout their five separate congregations.
On Friday I headed to Shrewsbury via Birmingham - Shrewsbury is home to Ian Matthews and his family. Ian is now working for Zondervan in the UK, but I remember him from our first meeting over ten years ago, when he came to work on a late and unlamented Christian magazine that I worked on at that time. Ian became a friend then, and has remained so, despite not having seen him for a long time.
It was fascinating to see how he and I, through very different paths and in relationship with very different people, have arrived at a very similar place theologically and philosophically (although he’s a left wing libertarian, and I’m not) - it was as surprising as it was encouraging. We both share the same desire to find a way of living in community as families that really works well - I think we agreed that the ideal scenario would be for a group of families to form an open cooperative, the co-op would then own the property, and the families would pay rent to it. Given that it nullifies the effects that personal ownership of property have, and allows for a vaiety of people to live in community in a wholesome way, it seems like the best option. Now, if we could find some other families in Grimsby who were up for that…
A reunion with Kelly and the kids (hooray) meant a short journey to Walsall where we spent the night, and after dispatching the kids to their Grandparents, we went off to the New Monasticism conference in Coventry - which was excellent. I shall blog further details of that soon.
A last laid back drive along the A46 took us all the way to Grimbo - and tea.
I’m off to London today, then to Northampton and other destinations before ending up at the New Monasticism conference in Coventry on Saturday - that means dont expect to hear much from me over the next few days, not that you have over the last few 
Episode 2.
When I emerge from the hotel a flurry of baseball cap wearing men stare at me excitedly.
“Moto sir?”
“Te, Arkun.” (No thank you.)
“Sir, moto-bike?”
“Te.”
“Moto?”
“No, arkun.”
Endlessly they vie with one another for my precious custom, ‘pick me, pick me!’
A little further away from the hotel where competition is not so fierce, a brief discussion and a bargain is struck, the driver will take me to the riverside, a trip of perhaps ten minutes, for a dollar.
We set off, he pleased with his pay packet, I pleased to be paying only a dollar. Taking the usual anarchic approach to traffic laws that is prevalent here, we sail the wrong way up a road, and squeeze through ranks of traffic to head off down a side street.
Cutting across another line of traffic, we get back on a main road and the driver accelerates, to little effect. His is not the most powerful bike on the road, and I am not the lightest of passengers. Hefting onwards we pass a long row of stalls all offering mobile phone sim cards, not for the first time I try and work out the logic of so many stalls next to one another, all offering the same product for the same price.
On the back of a motorbike is one of the few places one is free from the constant cries of ‘moto’ or the demented clucking of ‘tuk tuk, tuk tuk’ at every street corner and empty stretch of pavement I chance upon when walking around. I try and work out why the moto drivers adopt this approach, surely they can see I’m walking, and when they’ve seen me turn down half a dozen other offers, they know I’m not going to accept theirs?
Arriving at the riverside I enter the air conditioned café fresco which sits at street level beneath the famous Phnom Penh foreign correspondents club. I’ve come here because I noticed on a previous trip to the riverside that they offer free wifi access after 3pm with every purchase of coffee. I opt for a hot chocolate rather than coffee, and eagerly try and log on to the wifi.
Predictably its something of a damp squib, I manage to download about four emails, all spam, and cant quite get on to my blog to make a new post. I turn on skype and eventually it connects. I look eagerly to see who is online. No-one.
At that point I realise it’s actually about 8.30 am in the UK, meaning that Kel will be getting the kids to school, and wont be online for at least another hour or so. By that time my half hour token will certainly have expired.
I sit back, my plan has been scuppered, partly due to my own lack of foresight, and partly due to the vagaries of supposed wifi access.
Turning off the laptop which I have hugged to my breast all the way from the hotel I pick up a newspaper and flick through it, while enjoying the last half of my hot chocolate. A big story here at the moment is the rise in fuel prices, it’s heading up to about a dollar a litre, which is bad news for the various members of society who are dependant upon travel for work. A Cambodian teacher is paid about 160,000 Riel a month. This translates as $40. Little more than a dollar a day. By contrast a garment factory worker is paid 200,000 Riel per month. Which of course translates as $50. Or about £25 at current exchange rates.
Reading on through the article I read a little vox pop from a moto driver. Bemoaning the hike in fuel prices he points out that his average wage is about 5000 riel a day. Half of which goes on fuel. Leaving him on 2500 Riel to pay for food and housing for him and his family. That’s a little over 50 cents, perhaps about 30p.
I resolve not to haggle too hard with moto drivers, and to have more patience with the insistent cries of ‘moto sir?’
Reading on through the paper I notice that on November the 2nd, a week or so before I arrived, a 61-year-old German man was arrested in the hotel across the street from mine. He was charged with debauchery after he was found with a 14-year-old girl in his room, and pictures of four other young girls on his computer.
Evidently he had chosen this hotel because it isn’t popular with westerners, and he was less likely to be reported to the police. Makes me feel great about staying in this part of town.
All around this country are people living in desperate poverty, scratching a living in anyway they can, selling whatever commodity they can. Its unsurprising that Cambodia is a key fixture on the sex tourism circuit now. Even the disgraced pop star Gary Glitter spent a little time here on his recent tour of Asia. There’s plenty more who want to be in Gary’s gang.
It’s hard to tell sometimes where the line is between genuine relationships and economically motivated ones. Some are obvious, a pair of young looking girls fawning attentively over a grotesquely overweight man in a bar, seems like they don’t have all that much in common. On the other hand I know a number of western men who have found genuine happiness in relationships with Khmer or Thai women here. It’s difficult not to judge, and harder still to get the judgements right! After all, its only recently really that marriage wasn’t a primarily economic issue.
Walking back to the hotel from the riverside I notice yet again many large Lexus’ and other four wheel drives zooming their occupants through the rush hour. Their sleek and shiny silver or black paint jobs contrasting with the muddiness of much of their surroundings. Behind sleek tinted windows rich Khmer or foreigners are being whisked home, or perhaps to the aptly named ‘Lucky’ supermarket for a spot of grocery shopping. I too visit Lucky’s occasionally to pick up a bit of food – I always think that Lucky is a good name for it. Lucky to be able to afford to shop here.
Lucky’s is still the biggest chain of supermarkets here, although others are beginning to catch up. I remember seeing a Tesco in Bangkok when I was there a couple of years ago, and wonder whether they have people even now assessing Cambodia’s potential for investment.
My dad’s field of work is Leprosy. It’s still a massive problem, although most people don’t realise it. We’ve all heard of the cure that has been around for some time, which can rid the sufferers of the disease. But what is not so well publicised is that still the same number of people contract the infection every year, in fact it may be more, as I have a feeling it’s the same percentage of the population. I’ll have to ask.
Leprosy is a disease which principally affects the nerves. Someone with leprosy will not feel any pain if they cut themselves, their body simply doesn’t acknowledge the injury.
I wonder how much we in the west have a kind of institutional leprosy, tucking ourselves away behind the tinted windows and air conditioning of luxury, refusing to feel the pain which is eating away at the flesh of the world.
Few things hurt us, perhaps a rise in oil prices may cause us some minor irritation, but largely we’re well insulated. Especially when we can even appease our consciences by sending some helpful charity donations – this is made even easier when we can do it via the medium of a tv show or big concert! Wow, how great to be part of something which can make us feel like we’re all working together, we can give a substantial donation, give of our ‘excess’ (how do we define excess by the way? What’s left over after we have paid our household bills, including sky subscription and credit card payments?) We get thanks from all around us for all that good what we did, and then go home happy…
We prefer to remain in our leprous state, ignoring the pain of the world and slowly letting our global body decay.
The other day I took a quick trip down to Wat Phnom, the small hill with a temple or Wat in its centre, which is quite a big tourist attraction here. To be honest it’s a little underwhelming. Good for its novelty value perhaps, but not exactly fascinating.
At the bottom of the hill a wide walk way lined with benches is home to a whole range of beggars, kids, hawkers and gawpers. It’s also the day time home of an elephant, and presumably permanent home to a family of monkeys.
The elephant is a Phnom Penh fixture, taking tourists on stately rides around the hill. He looks tired and dusty to me. I wonder why a massive creature like that allows himself to be tamed – whether he occasionally has a yearning for the wild, and entertains thoughts of escape and rampage. Or perhaps he is a simple, gentle soul, happy with his quiet life, ferrying white people around the circular track. Maybe he is content in his friendship with the monkeys and his handlers, and has no need for adventure.
The monkeys on the other hand are full of mischief, some are old and grumpy looking, gazing at you as if to decide whether you might harbour some food they could purloin. Others are sedate, sitting quietly taking in the scenery before bursting into a run and disappearing up a tree. Baby monkeys seem like they are about one third eyes, which reminds me of my youngest daughter. They scamper delightedly around the ground, playing traditional monkey games with one another.
Nearby are sellers – some offering large bunches of bananas, ‘Sir, you buy banana for Munk’ee?’ Others with large cages housing dozens of tiny little birds. I think of the little birds which love my garden at home, and feel sorry for these tiny creatures in their cage home.
“What are the birds for?” I ask warily.
The bird seller waves her hands in the air.
“To let them go?” I query.
“Yes sir. You let go. Two birds, one dollar.”
Presumably this is some kind of activity related to the temple above me, whatever the reason I’m not impressed. I want to free all the birds, but can’t afford to. I stalk off huffing to myself.
When Jesus was presented at the temple, according to Luke’s gospel, his parents presented two birds for sacrifice – in accordance with the law of the old testament. The offering of birds in sacrifice was for the poor, for those who couldn’t afford a more expensive sacrifice.
This all reminds me that Jesus was a poor man, a refugee, from a poor family, not a man of position and influence, not a man of wealth, nor as some suggest ‘moderately well off’. That’s a load of crap. He was a wondering teacher, unwaged as the custom dictated. Homeless, with no place to lay his head. His disciples would eat corn they found growing in the fields. To pay temple tax Peter had to look in the mouth of a fish. Jesus has much more in common with the Khmer bird sellers, prostitutes and moto drivers than he does with us wealthy westerners with our tinted windows, air con, and nice churches.
Walking past a book shop I looked over the display of books related to Cambodia – along side the usual travel guides and historical explanations of the Khmer Rouge regime’s genocidal activities, one title proclaimed boldly ‘Girls, Guns, Ganja and Gambling.’
Well they are certainly all available here for a moderate price, although I think the guns are less widely available than they were a few years ago. At one point penniless soldiers would take tourists to firing ranges where they could have a go with AK47’s, Grenade launchers, the lot. Talking to a guy on the plane on the way here he told me that in his first week visiting Cambodia he saw two shootings. So far I haven’t seen any. I hope it stays that way.
It remains a terrible thought that this country is a tourist destination because of what it can offer in terms of the other three ‘attractions’.
I did see a homeless guy though, by homeless I mean a rough sleeper, as homes here are often merely a step away from the homelessness in the UK. In Heathrow the rough sleepers I saw all had a certain look – indicative of problems with alcohol or other substance abuse, and perhaps mental health problems. Clearly they had to be pretty skint to be sleeping in a tunnel near Heathrow, but how much more skint does one have to be to sleep rough in Phnom Penh? Later I passed the same spot where the homeless guy had been curled up. The tatty Khmer flag which had covered him was now hung in a tree, and where he had been lying was a few fragments of broken glass.
I guess he had been ‘moved on’ by the police or local shopkeepers.
Episode 1.
Arriving in Phnom Penh in an aeroplane which had propellers on the wings – was not what I had expected. Having been delayed in Heathrow by two hours before setting off, when we made it to Kuala Lumpur there was precious little chance of making my connection.
Nevertheless dashing out of the plane, I found a man holding a sign saying transit to Phnom Penh – charging over to him I desperately asked where I should go for the Phnom Penh flight – he directed me to gate G10, and told me I would have to hurry.
Hurry I did, bowling along through the sedate ranks of travellers, already looking slightly dishevelled after an 11 hour flight, and finding suddenly that my bags were much too heavy to carry when running.
But within the 15 minute deadline I had made it to gate G10, flinging myself through the security with gusto, and presenting myself boarding pass in hand at the desk.
The Malay girl at the counter looked confused.
“You are going to Phnom Penh?” She asked.
“Yes!”
“From London?”
“YES!”
“This is not the gate for Phnom Penh. This is Phuket.”
I felt like I was going on a bear hunt… ‘You can’t go round it, you can’t go over it, oh no, you have got to go through it! Through the mud, squelch squerch, squelch squerch, through the river, splish splash, splish splash…’
Newly redirected to gate H10, I set off again, charging along like an out of breath red-faced animal, wild eyed and flailing. Reaching the gate I again attempted to breeze through security. But they found my contraband.
“I am sorry sir, we need to look in your bag”
“Yes, yes, ok, but please quick!”
They were not quick.
“I am sorry sir, but you can’t take this on the plane.” The stern security guard holds up the 120ml bottle of mosquito repellent purchased 13 hours before hand in Boots, in the Heathrow departure lounge.
I look at the guy…
“I bought that in Heathrow departure lounge!” I protest dimly.
“Nothing more than 100mls sir.”
“FINE!” I yell, grabbing bags and coat and sweatily heading towards the desk.
“Oh sir, you are late!”
“Yes, I know, I am on the delayed flight from London.”
“Oh sir, you are too late.”
“No! No I’m not!”
“Yes sir, too late.”
“But there’s the plane. I can see it!”
“Sorry sir, doors closed.”
“No! Please, please let me on the plane!”
“Sorry sir, you’re too late.”
“But, but, they sent me to the wrong gate… I ran all the way, but they sent me to the wrong place…”
“Sir, why didn’t you check?”
“Because I was running! And anyway, the guy wrote it on the boarding pass, look!”
“Very sorry sir. Too late.”
As I spoke I looked again at the plane, and saw the tunnel begin to retract from the doorway. At that point I realised the futility of my quest.
“My bags?” I bleated plaintively.
“Don’t worry sir, your bags are not on the plane.”
On hearing that, I was suddenly glad that I’m not either.
The next flight to Phnom Penh was leaving in 5 hours… via Ho Chi Min city.
“Great”, I thought, eating a chewy microwaved croissant, and trying fruitlessly to log on to the wireless signal to check email. I love it when wireless signal is partial… just enough to keep you trying, but not enough to actually do anything. So productive and encouraging.
Ho Chi Min was wet – dashing from plane to bus and later from bus to considerably smaller plane I could smell and hear the thunder and see the lightning crack above me.
“Great.” I thought. “Good flying weather.”
Despite the rather shaky flight I made it to a much drier Phnom Penh to be reunited with my baggage! Even better a friend turned up to take me to my hotel… where I checked in and slept the sleep of the dog tired traveller.
Easing myself through the first day I made it out to a friend’s house for a chat about business. In the early evening I got to a meeting with some friends which was great, and then headed off to meet a contact for a drink and a chat.
My drink and chat meeting went really well – we began to understand each other and things were feeling very positive, we come from pretty different points of view, he would probably describe himself as a bhuddist if anything, but I found myself agreeing with his comments about the problems concerning the church, and its triumphalist, imperialist approach to spreading the gospel.
As I stepped from the motorbike which took me back to the hotel, I noticed what seemed to be an unusual amount of activity in the street for the time of night. Heading up to my room I wondered again about what was happening outside.
Leaving the lights off, I walked to the window and looked out.
“That hairdresser’s is open unusually late” I mused, as I watched a group of young women mill around in front of the shop.
Then I watched as a motorbike rider pulled up outside the shop, and after a short conversation, one girl detached herself from the group, climbed on the back of the bike and rode off.
“Oh.” I thought.
For the next couple of hours I internally lamented the fact that the hotel I was booked to stay in for the next twelve nights was slap opposite a brothel.
Thinking that as a journalist I should attempt to document this outrage I held my phone up to the window, setting it on video capture mode I shot some footage of the girls milling around outside their workplace.
As I mused despondently on the tragedy of their situation in a country where the spectre of aids and other venereal disease looms large, and brutality is far from uncommon, I saw one of them glance up at the window where a dim glow was being emitted by the phone.
I withdrew it at once, feeling immediate shame at the fact that I was powerless to help these young women – and worrying that in filming them I had further commoditised their plight.
With the noise of the street and the sadness inside me I only got about four hours sleep that night.
Despite my lack of sleep, I managed to get to the shop, and internet café before being picked up from the hotel at 6.45 am.
After a brief moto ride, I jumped into the back seat of a slightly rusty Toyota pick up truck and headed out of the city.
There were eight of us in total – three people joined the original five, jumping in the back of the pick up, and clinging to the sides as we jostled through the traffic.
Looking out of the back window I saw one of the rear passengers was a young woman, and felt an immediate pang of guilt. Why was I sitting in the air conditioned interior when she was perched in the trailer?
At the next stop I made my move – “Would you like to go inside?” I asked, feeling noble.
After about five minutes of hurtling along the road, overtaking lorries and swerving to avoid rogue motorbikes, I no longer felt so noble.
I began to think of those games you play sometimes, when you have to choose who would be thrown out of a sinking boat. If you can only carry three people in the boat, and four people are in it, then who should be chucked out?
As the needle wobbled around the 80 mark, I began to think that while I may have done a good thing letting the girl take my place in the relative safety inside the car, I doubted my wife and kids would share my feelings should an accident happen.
I looked at my two companions in the trailer, both wearing motorbike helmets, and felt the inadequacy of my own floppy sun hat, as the brim slapped me in the eye.
I then began to wonder if my travel insurance would cover this kind of activity… somehow I doubted it.
A good chat at the village ended with me being given a bunch of picked cotton, which was very exciting. As we talked and laughed, me mostly laughing as I had no real idea what was being said for most of the time, I felt a sense of comfort and community. I watched puppies scamper on the ground nearby, and heard goats bleat from their small home a few feet away.
I began to wonder what would be for lunch, my usual vegetarian status had been updated to ‘freegan’ or ‘eat whatever I’m given’ setting as is usual when I’m travelling in places like this. Still my stomach doesn’t like meat, and doesn’t cope terribly well with digesting it these days.
Then one of my friends from the back of the pick up, who had come to teach the village kids, turned to me with glee. “Today they kill goat!”
“Oh good.” I thought.
The goat was surprisingly tender, although one piece that I had was suspiciously spherical. I managed to avoid the sour soup and stick with the goat, which was curried beautifully. The rice was local, and it tasted very good, my friends didn’t seem to mind that I ate mainly rice, leaving them to attack the goat curry and sour soup with gusto.
When I was a child we had goats. In my memory we lived in a kind of rural idyll – and I often long to go back to it. Our goats (the ones I remember) were called Nanny and Skippy. We didn’t eat them
One of them I recall eating washing from the line, and once or twice I remember one goat having an identity crisis and thinking it was a sheepdog, rounding up sheep in the pasture behind our house.
Our goats were, I’m sure, a bigger kind than the sort kept by the Khmer. Even so, I felt sentimentally sorry for the goats I saw living in a kind of goat prison, raised up from the ground on stilts. I have a fairly utilitarian view of these kind of animals, but I do like to see them kept in greater comfort.
I took another look at the goat prison, and felt a sudden jolt as I realised that one enterprising guy had managed to get out of the prison’s inner sanctum, and perch on the outside edge of the goat house, about ten feet from the ground.
I don’t think that goat would have any real problem jumping from such a height – they are such strong creatures. But this one was making no attempt at further escape. He just looked at me with deep dark eyes – lacking the confidence to take the next step which would lead to an attempt at freedom.
“Perhaps,” I considered, “He just has nowhere to go. No escape route seems open to him. Perhaps he lacks the necessary self confidence to go it alone, away from what he knows. He just feels trapped.”
In my mind the goat became the young prostitute who had gazed dimly up at the window the previous night. Meat for someone, a commodity, a possession for another. Lacking the escape route, the self confidence necessary to make a change – living a life that she is trapped in.
Arriving back in Phnom Penh after another two hours in the pick up trailer clinging on for grim death, I thought about the journey. I had clung to the side, feeling the peril of the journey, while one guy simply sat on the ice box they had taken for water. Seemingly unnerved by the perils of the journey, only occasionally did he lurch forward or back when we took a sharp turn or braked suddenly.
On the way back to my hotel I made a detour via a shop and bought some cotton wool to put in my ears and perhaps help me get some sleep that night.
Only when I got to my room did I consider the irony of having bought a bag of cotton wool balls, when I had just returned from the village with a bag of raw, organic cotton. “Ho hum.” I thought.
At the hotel I needed to pay for my room, taking the plunge and confirming the booking there for the remainder of my stay, I handed over the money. The manager gave me a sly glance.
“You want a girl? In your room?”
“Oh! No – no thank you!”
“Why not?”
“Um, well, I mean, I’m married!”
“Oh.”
I twisted my wedding ring around my finger as if for good luck, the manager gave me another sideways look, clearly unimpressed by my reasoning, and wondering whether to strengthen his pitch.
Before he got the chance I was in the lift and heading up to my room for a sound night’s sleep, wishing all the while that I’d been able to come up with a better off-the-cuff response.
finally got round to getting on the blog while I’m here, so in the next two posts you will find two travelog type essays giving some of the flavour of what I’ve been thinking and doing here.
Hope its of interest, back in the UK soon with news of cotton!
tonight I head off for Cambodia - this trip feels like the least well prepared trip I have taken in a long time, because of my own stupidity and emails not getting to people when they should have, I’m not even sure where I will be staying when I get there… ho hum.
However, it’s good to be out of your comfort zone… isnt it?
And I am excited by the potential of this cotton project to move forward, I got prices through the other day for ginning and baling equipment, which may be a worthwhile investment at some point in the not too distant future, certainly if there is a business oportunity for someone not directly involved in the farming side of things, that is where it lies.
I promise to try and take some good photos and post them up… honest, I really will.
Is this undeveloped ground ripe for transformation into a cotton farm?
I sent out an email tonight about the cotton project I’m working on, given that I’m back off to Phnom Penh again in a couple of weeks, I thought I should try and update people.
For those of you who didnt get the email (my fault for certain!) I’ve pasted most of it below - happy reading.
First a quick catch up: About three years ago I was prompted to begin working on setting up a fair trade garment business in Cambodia. The vision for this enterprise was to enrich and empower impoverished people, make great clothes and make an impact socially and environmentally. This is part of what I see as taking the gospel – the good news of the Kingdom of God – to the many people who are least reached in the world. The bible tells us that the kingdom of God is justice, peace, and joy in the Holy Spirit, there is no getting away from the fact that this affects bodies as well as souls!
Cambodia like many countries has many who live in dire poverty, and that has been made unusually bad in some situations, by the dreadful civil war which wiped out huge numbers of Khmer people, and set the development of the country back many years.
Anyway, the garment enterprise hit a number of obstacles. One of the key factors was that upon investigation, it transpired that none of the ‘ethical’ manufacturers in Phnom Penh that I met, were using materials which were totally ethically sourced. Instead they were relying on imports of poor quality materials, which had been produced in questionable conditions. In short – there were severe supply chain issues.
On investigating this further – I realised that the best way to take this project forward would be to start from the ground up, and work on developing the raw materials. In particular I could see the amazing potential offered by organic cotton production in Cambodia. I was inspired by what I saw of other organic cotton projects in other countries.
One particularly successful project was set up in India – the aim of that project was to alleviate the plight of small holder cotton farmers who were struggling for survival. The project’s stated aims were: “to address the problems of bankruptcy, rural-urban migration, deteriorating soil and water quality, crop vulnerability to pest attacks, and market access in an effort to create economically, environmentally, and socially sustainable livelihoods for smallholder cotton farmers. The objective of the project was to create more vertical supply chains to open the market for organic fair trade cotton.”
This project has gone on to be successful in every way – an evaluation survey of some of the small holders later found that: “90% reduced their indebtedness, 98% experienced less financial hardship, 58% saw a check in urban migration, and 100% attributed reduced incidences of illness in their families to the adoption of organic cultivation.”
You can read more about the Agrocel project here and visit their website too.
My aim is now to establish a project with similar redemptive qualities in Cambodia.
Last year I visited Cambodia again with some friends who were able to advise me on different areas of production. Together we visited potential sites for growing cotton, and made a number of contacts who were interested in helping with the project in different ways.
In particular we were taken to a village where some land is available for the start of such a project – it is peopled by former Khmer rouge soldiers. The village also has a school set up by an NGO to teach agricultural techniques. In some respects it seems like an ideal place to start the project.
This summer along with the rest of my family I visited Phnom Penh for a few days, and during this visit I was introduced to someone who had previously grown cotton successfully just outside of Phnom Penh.
At the beginning of November I will return again to Cambodia – this time for two weeks, to try and see if I can marry the diverse elements which currently exist together, and try and get some cotton growing. Of course this is only the first hurdle. Although there exists a huge market for Organic cotton, because there is currently none grown in Cambodia, finding someone either to buy the raw cotton, or to process it locally still remains a challenge. However this does not seem insurmountable – the possibility of seeing real transformation at a community level is getting closer!
I would like to ask you to pray for the project over the next few weeks – this is likely to be a crucial time.
After last year’s trip I ended up wasting a lot of time by being distracted - I don’t want to waste time like that again.
My hope is that through this project, and others like it, we can make a significant impact on the lives of people in desperately needy communities. Moreover, as Cambodia is heavily dependent on garment production for its export economy, and currently it imports all its raw materials – we could make a significant impact on the economy of the nation should organic cotton production take hold in Cambodia!
I’m some way out of my teens, but I still want to see the world changed – I hope you do too.
If you are willing to pray for this project, these are some points I’d like to ask for prayer on:1) That the links in the chain would fall into place – that none of those important links would be missing!
2) That funding would come through in order to pay for the materials and so on which are necessary if we are to get this thing started.
3) God’s grace for both my family and me, as we are apart again.
4) Wisdom and discernment as I deal with lots of different people – all with different motivations.
If you know of someone who might be interested in being involved in this, or another organic cotton project, then please direct them to me, a basic description of the project is to be found on the organic cotton project page of this site.
If you have any questions – about any aspect of this project, I’d be delighted to try and answer them.
I’m off to Cambodia again in November to see if we can move the organic cotton project on a bit - unfortunately I’ve just spent the best part of a year being led up a garden path by someone who shall remain nameless… he knows who he is… a lot of time has been wasted, and when you are dealing with very poor people, time is valuable!
So I think it’s back to where I left off, working on setting up a small community based project. I think I can get the seeds, the land too shouldnt be a big problem, the expertise is at hand, now the next stage is fiding someone who can process the stuff - no point in growing it if we can’t sell it.
I’m considerably happier about the idea of setting this up on a small scale again, it allows the project to be much more personal, and to have a real community level impact. Hopefully too it should be replicateable and scalable - in other words there should be some sustainability built in, something which is far from guaranteed when one works on a larger/commercial scale.
I am encouraged, although to be honest still annoyed at having wasted so much time on someone elses’ ego trip.
More as it develops… and yes I am looking for people who can process cotton on a small scale (or any scale) in Cambodia, so if you can help me in any way, please let me know!
Kel turned 30 while we were away, hot on my heels! So we had a number of celebrations, the official one was in a Thai restaurant around the corner from our hotel in Phnom Penh, here’s a little snap of the Birthday girl partaking of a celebratory coconut.
We got married when we were 20, she’s still as beautiful now.
I’d like to say a few words, well lots of words actually, but I’ll try and say them one at a time. There are many many things I’d like to write about, so I’ll begin by telling you about a subject very close to my heart…
Music
despite my mp3 players preference of Jack Johnson, I do have somewhat wider tastes - in fact I have very broad tastes. I tend to listen to what’s sometimes described as World Music, although I read recently that the term ‘World Music’ is patronising… so we should call the same stuff - ‘global beat’… hmmm.
Anyway, one of the stops of our trip around South East Asia was an overnight in Singapore, where I am sorry to say I wasnt able to go to ANY of the WOMAD concerts that were on. I only just missed a gig by Scots band Shooglenifty who I have only heard a little, but are probably a great live band. They remind me a bit of the , who I saw years ago, and enjoyed immensley.
Shooglenifty dont have any pipes though….
So I have been listening to a fair bit of Jack on my travels, I think I have all the albums apart from the one with lullabies and stuff on, not lovin the lullabies Jack.
I’d be hard pushed to choose a favourite Jack album, I really like all of them, and I hear a lot of political comment in may of the songs which I find uplifting. Talking of that, my dad played me Norah Jones’ latest album, which I hadnt bothered with previously, I liked her first release, and found the second a bit too country gal, this one seems to have a really cool jazz vibe to it, puts me in mind of New Orleans somehow, as does her criticism of the American regime…
“God save the President, the evil fascist resident, he sure is a moron, potential h-bomb” (mine not hers, just playing the pistols riff through my head).
Listen to a couple of tracks at Norah’s website, look under the media section, and click on the record player for a list of tracks. Less well known is Norah’s half sister, Anoushka Shankhar, daughter of Ravi of course, who is an excellent musician in her own right, she plays some beautiful Sitar, some mp3 samples are available on her site… I would reccomend a listen to some of the Rise remixes for an easily accessible sitar vibe.
If you like your sitar hardcore, check this video out.
shame she’s so pug ugly of course… sure it really holds her back in the music industry.
Before we came home I had the pleasure of winessing an Andy Hunter gig, last time I saw Andy DJ he was in an outfir called Hydro, many moons ago. In a magazine review at the time, I rated Hydro’s Aborigination as one of the albums of the year. I since lost my copy, and have been reduced to downloading tracks from iTunes.
Anyway, Andy was of course excellent, he cuts an unlikely figure in some ways, he’s tall for a start, and all the musicians and personalities I’ve met (their name is legion, for they are many) have been right little squirts, the smallest was Victoria Beckham, who was still Posh Spice back then. She’s no bigger than your thumb!
Back to the point, Hunter’s gig was excellent, even if I was a bit of a cardigan clubbing grandad in comparison to the rest of the crowd, I managed to have a brief chart with him before the gig, and he tells me the new album is finished, so thats something to look forward to.
Want to hear some of his tunes? Visit his site.
I didnt buy any decent music while abroad, but I did hear some very nice bossa nova music published by the Putumayo label, a very fine label indeed.
On that note, which is a good one, I’m off to get my hair cut, I dont have far to go, just to the dining room. Those hair clippings make good compost!
well after a lightning fast visit to Cambodia, and an overnighter in Singapore, we’re now in the Phillipines, where I at last have decent internet connection again… but still nothing important to say
Actually some interesting movement on the cotton growing front in Cambodia, where I met someone who has grown organic cotton on a small scale there, and is willing to get involved in a larger scale program, also great to see others of our friends there, who do incredible work with people who melt your heart.
We’re in the Phillipines for a fortnight on holiday, and I’ll blog some more while we’re here, but just to say that I heard from Wales that the celebration was awesome… still waiting for more details on that score.
Back soon!
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