Byline: Wayne McCallum

Proposals for mainstream dams on the lower Mekong River threaten the livelihood of more than 60 million people and imperil some of the most biodiverse freshwater life on the planet. Wayne McCallum investigates the Sambor Dam proposal and its potential impact on those who call the river “mother.”

Kratie Province, Sambor District

I have finally found it, that most rare of things: a group of teenagers who do not use Facebook. I am standing on an island in the centre of the Mekong, about an hour’s drive north of Kratie and only 500 metres from the “mainland,” but I could be in another world. There is a special feeling here of the Cambodia I knew 10 or so years ago, before things became so hurried and hectic. The teenagers of the island Koh Rongeav remain unflinchingly optimistic about their future. One, Sean Thirith, hopes to work for an NGO one day, two of his classmates wish to become teachers, another a healthcare worker. The young men are courteous and smile nervously when I ask them questions. When I leave 20 minutes later, I depart in a sea of waves feeling that, if these pupils represent the future, then all bodes well.

Ominously, however, their island and river are standing in the headlights of breakneck development. One proposal, a hydro-scheme at Sambor, would likely flood their school, homes and livelihoods beneath concrete and water. With them could vanish some of the last global populations of Irrawaddy dolphin, candor turtle and giant Mekong catfish. It’s a sobering thought as we gather for a group photo, the teenagers laughing and smiling, seemingly unaware of the forces coalescing around their island, swirling like a dark eddy in the Mekong itself.

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At 4,350 kilometres in length, the Mekong (or “Mother of Water”) is the twelfth longest river in the world and the seventh longest in Asia, with a catchment of 795,000 square kilometres. It originates in the glaciers of the Tibetan Plateau, then passes through China, Burma, Laos, Thailand, Cambodia and Vietnam before discharging into the South China Sea. The value of the river, and the life and ecosystems it supports, is immense. Mekong expert Professor Zeb Hogan, from the University of Nevada, describes the waterway as “the most productive river in the world.” In terms of biodiversity, the river is second only to the Amazon in the range of species and habitats that it contains. Some of this life is unique to the Mekong itself, including two species of the probarbus family: the thin-lip and thick-lip bard, large white fish that reach more than a metre in length. Both were categorised only in 1992, and the nature of this recent discovery hints at how little we still know about the Mekong.

More well-known is the king of the river’s fish: the giant Mekong catfish. Reaching up to 3 metres in length and 300 kilograms in weight, the catfish is the world’s largest freshwater fish and a true river behemoth. Sadly, with numbers of this creature declining by 80 percent over the last 15 years, the catfish is now categorised as critically endangered. Other rare species abound on the Mekong, including the Irrawaddy dolphin, the candor turtle and freshwater stingray. The list hints at both the Mekong’s ecological significance and its current plight.

But it is the more common creatures that provide a vital backbone to an estimated 60 million people who rely on the Mekong’s fish and other aquatic resources – including shellfish, snakes and frogs – for food and income. Between them they consume 2.5 million tonnes of wild fish, a sum representing between 47-80 percent of the dietary animal protein for this population. Crucially, the open access nature of the Mekong’s wild fishery means that it is vitally important to the poor, who find themselves increasingly marginalised from the region’s land and forest resources.

The incredible biodiversity and productivity of the Mekong can be attributed to several interrelated factors. These include: the share size of the river and the diversity of its catchment; the opportunities created by the seasonal variations in the river’s flow; and the productivity of its various instream and riparian ecosystems, augmented by massive sediment inputs.

For Simon Mahood, a researcher at the Wildlife Conservation Society, the discharge of water is particularly important. “The flow of the water regulates the annual flooding of the Tonle Sap Lake,” he says. “It supports an incredible diversity and abundance of fish that constitute the primary source of protein for Cambodia’s people, and brings sediment to farmers in the floodplain, sustaining Cambodia’s rice harvest.”

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Yet, despite its massive ecological, economic and social importance, Southeast Asia’s “mother” river faces a mounting array of threats. In the Cambodian tributaries of the Sekong, Sesane and Srepok, economic land concessions are causing the wholesale destruction of wetlands and forests, the sponge-like lungs of the Mekong. Chemicals leached from mines have caused fish and livestock deaths, and burns to people who previously called the river friend. In the Mekong’s main stem, pressures from illegal fishing have caused a sharp decline in fish resources, while in the face of intimidation, including fire arms, local villagers have been left defenseless. Now, the specter of hydro-development in the mainstream of the lower Mekong is adding a new concern. Currently, the Laos government is proceeding with a project at Sispondone, the Don Sahong dam, despite international protests, including from the Cambodia government, which has called for a review of the scheme. Joining this protest has been international agencies, World Wide Fund for Nature among others, with calls for a moratorium on all mainstream dams until a full and detailed assessment has been completed.

But now, in the shadows, there are reports that Cambodia is planning its own mainstream project at Sambor, 40 kilometres north of Kratie. Sophoan Phean, project manager at Oxfam, is conscious of the scheme. “For the mainstream Mekong at the moment, one dam that is being discussed in Cambodia is the Sambor dam,” he says. “The information received so far are reports from the community of a Chinese group who came to take samples of water, drilling the river’s banks and beds, and topography studies.”

Hul Soeun, commune chief on Koh Thnot, another mid-stream Mekong island, has heard talk of the project. He recalls a visit by Chinese geologists in 2006 and a more recent visit, late last year, by another Chinese team. Back in town, Em Thirin, Sambor’s deputy governor, talks about a recent visit by consultants who came to gather information about the river’s communities. Despite this activity, none of the officials spoke of contact from the Ministry of Mines and Energy – the agency managing hydro-development in Cambodia – and my own efforts to raise the subject with the Ministry went unanswered.

Chinese consultants taking samples and a lack of transparency from the Ministry of Mines and Energy – it all sounds very familiar. The history of recent hydro-development in Cambodia has been underlined by an opaqueness as thick as the concrete that now spans the Kampot, Sesan, Srepok and Stueng Tatai rivers. Together, these suggest a planning environment that instills little faith in the processes of consultation, due diligence and professional levels of impact assessment should a Sambor dam move forward.

A search of the internet is more forthcoming. Online records show the first mention of a dam at Sambor in the ‘50s, with a survey later completed in the early ‘60s. In 1994, the Mekong Secretariat (a forerunner to the Mekong Commission) proposed the concept of a dam that would span the entire Mekong at Sambor and generate 3,300 megawatts of electricity.

Later, in 2006, the China Southern Power Grid Company signed an agreement to carry out a feasibility study for this massive project and a smaller dam that would generate 435 megawatts and block an eastern channel of the river (this timing corresponds to the reports of surveys on the river described to me). The smaller proposal, which is the focus of current interest, would entail the construction of a 2-metre weir to channel water from a reservoir – covering an area of 6 square kilometres – down a 20-kilometre-long and 350-metre-wide canal that would run parallel to the main river. After running through a set of turbines, the water would either discharge back into the Mekong or be diverted for irrigation.

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But what would the consequences from the construction of a dam at Sambor be? Officials and members from the local community offered their insights.

Fisheries Administration Cantonment Director Sean Kin is in a good position to comment. He grew up by the river and has spent 26 years promoting the sustainable use of the Mekong’s fishery resources. For Kin, the concerns range from impacts on the Mekong’s currents and the quality of river water to the survival of the river’s deep pools, some up to 30 metres in depth, which are vital to the survival of the remaining populations of giant catfish, freshwater stingrays and Irrawaddy dolphin. Reaching up with a desk ruler, one of Kin’s colleagues points to the place on a map where the proposed Sambor dam would go. In 2005, a survey by the Wildlife Conservation Society identified a major deep pool just below where he is pointing, reputedly the deepest of those on the lower Mekong. The area is a short distance from some of the last remaining Mekong dolphin populations – down to less than 80 individuals – living in the river.

Sam Sovann, executive director of Northeastern Rural Development Organisation, works closely with communities living on the Mekong islands of Sambor. He puts the importance of the Mekong to Cambodia succinctly, “The Mekong is the brain and the Tonle Sap is the heart.” His NGO, working alongside the local community, has helped to publicise concerns about the Sambor Dam and the upstream project at Don Sahong. In 2014, NRD organised for a party of villagers to travel to Kuala Lumpur to petition the Malaysia Human Rights Commission, protesting against the role of the Malay company, Mega-First, in the construction of the Don Sahong dam. Traveling with the deputation was Sem Vorn, a 60-year-old mother of nine, on her first trip outside the Kingdom. Following her travels, Vorn is now known locally as the “Brave Lady,” and one can only imagine what she might do if someone decides to build a dam across her island home.

Back on Koh Rongeav Island, commune chief Chhit Norn is especially worried about the likelihood of population displacement caused by the construction of any dam. “People’s lives here are connected closely to the river,” he says. “I do not know if a new location would be connected to the Mekong and how people live today.”

Across on the adjacent island of Koh Thnot, commune chief Hul Soeun puts its more personally. “We have grown many fruit trees here,” he said. “If we move we will have to buy this fruit and we will lose years of work and care.”

Next to Hul a colleague cuts in, “I am too old to clear and develop land again.”

For him, this is his home and he does not wish to move.

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Tellingly, the concerns of those living and working in Sambor are substantiated by national and international experts, for whom a primary fear, given its economic and ecological value, are impacts on fish migration and breeding. Concerns about the Don Sahong dam in southern Laos highlight the dimensions of this issue. When completed, Don Sahong is expected to block the only channel providing assured dry-season passage for fish moving up and down the Sispondone portion of the Mekong. Meanwhile, any fish moving down the river that hit this or any other future dams face being churned to pieces by turbines or diverted down canals and lost to the Mekong system. These impacts could precipitate the extinction of a host of key Mekong species, including the aforementioned thin and thick-lipped bard, which travel extensively up and down the river through their life cycles.

The operating regime of any mainstream dam will also invariably alter the natural flow patterns of the Mekong, disrupting the biological cues that trigger fish spawning and migration. Removed also, trapped behind a dam, will be a portion of the Mekong’s massive sediment flow, which helps to fertilise the rice bowl of the Cambodia plains and the Mekong Delta. These sediments are also crucial in replacing soil lost to the impacts of erosion and sea level rise. Above and below the dam, meanwhile, the future of the Mekong’s important deep pools will be uncertain, as dam-induced hydrological changes will alter the processes that create and maintain these unique environments. Scientists also expect mainstream dams to affect lake levels in Cambodia’s Great Lake, with unknown implications for one of the planet’s most significant inland fisheries.

Oxfam’s Sophoan Phean is working closely with the Sambor community and recognises the impacts on river connectivity as a major concern. “The river plays a very important role in connecting the spawning and growing areas between the Mekong and the Tonle Sap,” he says. “So, regardless of the measures that are taken to facilitate the migration process, the proposed dam will cause disruption and there are going to be certain fish that can no longer go upstream to spawn.”

Tracy Farrell, technical advisor with Conservation International, agrees. “What is sometimes forgotten is that there are both up and downstream fish migrations happening annually,” she says. “We can definitely expect to see declines in fish yields for dependent populations of people, mainly the poorest of the poor, as well as millions of others.”

The ecologically unique flooded forest environments around Sambor will also come under imminent threat from the construction, inundation and flow alterations from any hydro-development undertaken in the area. Each wet monsoon, these forests are inundated by the rise in the Mekong’s water levels, providing a temporary home and food source for a wide variety of fish and other animals, including rare species such as Cambodia’s national bird, the critically endangered Giant Ibis.

A study lead by Alan Ziegler in 2013 documents the likelihood that the development of dams on the Mekong will result in an increase in water and food associated illnesses, including schistosomiasis, dengue and malaria fever, diarrheal complaints, and even cancer (caused by the trematode fluke, Opiethorchis viverrini).

Behind all these changes are the impacts on human communities, ranging from consequences for food security and livelihoods to displacement and damage to homes and workplaces (a 2010 UN report estimated that 19,000 people could be displaced by the development of a dam at Sambor). These impacts are more than just physical, for the river is the spiritual home to the people who live along its banks, including members of the Kuy ethnic minority, who have resided on the Mekong for generations, creating lives that move with the rhythms of the river. This includes people such as Sem Sorn, Sambor’s “Brave Lady,” who each dry season transforms a small portion of a Mekong riverbank into a lush family garden.

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Sem, Chhit and Hul are heartland people and those for whom the trickle-down effects of Cambodia’s development are eventually meant to benefit. However, in the race to power Cambodia’s economic growth – and the air conditioners, opulent villas and new malls of Phnom Penh – they and the river’s other inhabitants appear to be footing the bill. Recalling the smiling teenagers of Koh Rongeav School, the injustice is obvious, and yet all the people I spoke to in Sambor were balanced and fair in their approach to hydro-development on the Mekong. Most agreed that if proper and detailed impact studies reveal the impacts to be minimal, then it would be acceptable for a dam to proceed. Tracy Farrell of Conservation International is also conscious of the challenges facing power generation in the Kingdom and would like to see alternative options considered.

“There is no question that energy provision is a key development needed for the Lower Mekong,” he said .”What we would like to see is greater emphasis on where [dams] are located, how they are operated, and greater consideration of other alternative energy options, such as solar, wind and biogas.”

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From March 13 to 15, the first Mekong River Festival celebrating Cambodia’s “mother” river will be held in Kratie, just a few kilometres south of Sambor. Yet if the Don Sahong and Sambor dams – and up to nine others proposed for the lower Mekong – are completed, one has to wonder if there will be anything to celebrate in the future.

Whatever happens, you feel that the people of Sambor will not allow bulldozers to roll over their homes, history and livelihoods without a fight.

After a long day on the Mekong, with the sun now sinking below the sugar palms, I ask Sem Vorn what she loves most about living on the river.

Her crinkled face lights up with a warm smile. “The fresh air,” she says. “And the soil along the riverbank is fertile and you do not have to use chemicals. It is better.”

She pauses, then looks out across the Mekong, a steely expression of resolve crossing her face.

“It is my home,” she says. “I will die here.”

Twenty years ago this month, the bodies of three backpackers murdered by the Khmer Rouge were recovered from the hills of Kampot. Wayne McCallum explores their story and how the fatuity of our youth can go tragically wrong.

Guatemala, September 1993:

‘Beep’

‘Bang’

‘Shit! Was that a dog?’

The driver of the bus seemed undeterred as we trundled on in a vain effort to make our destination before nightfall, the light outside fading fast as we sped through the Guatemalan countryside. We were an hour out of Flores, weaving our way south down a dusty pot-holed road. Inside the heat was stifling, with a palpable sense of unease hanging over the passengers pushed in around me. The tourist police had posted a written warning back at the bus station: It was dangerous on the road; left wing guerrillas were stopping buses, robbing passengers. There had been shootings. Travelling at night for foreigners was strictly prohibited.

It was the summer of 1993 and Guatemala was in the dying throngs of a ‘dirty little war’ that had left thousands dead. It was foolhardy for me to be out on the road and on this bus rouletting with my future. But braced by naive bravado, born from a cotton-wool existence back in the West, I had little idea how treacherous it was out here in the ‘real world’: a lamb in the place where wolves hugged the shadows, just out of sight, waiting.

I met my ‘wolves’ ten minutes later as our bus screeched to a sudden halt and the driver quickly killed the engine. It became deadly quiet, save for the clucking of chickens and the squealing of a baby somewhere toward the rear of the bus. I inhaled deeply and held my breath, waiting in trepidation. A camouflaged figure appeared beneath the weak coach light and ordered us off the bus: ‘Fuera del autobús. Ahora!’ We silently complied, filing outside where his colleagues, ten in number, stood in a crooked line with M16s at their sides or slung causally from a shoulder. My heartbeat, already racing, quickened as I was ordered to line up against the side of the bus with the rest of my travelling companions. I shut my eyes for a moment and gave a silent prayer before re-opening them to see what would happen next. Inside I was petrified, asking myself: ‘Why, oh why, had I got on this bus?’

A trip to the coast

A year later three young Westerners had reason to ask themselves a similar question. Jean-Michael Braquet (French), Mark Slater (English) and David Wilson (Australian) had met their own wolves in the hills of Kampot, in southwest Cambodia. Like me they had ignored a travel ban, this one forbidding foreigners from boarding the weekly train that wound its way from Phnom Penh to Sihanoukville. The ban was well justified, the train having become a popular target for a regiment of the Khmer Rouge who still occupied the region of Phnom Voar, a small range of hills in the borderlands of Kep and Kampot provinces. Already the train had been attacked on six previous occasions, the Khmer Rouge robbing and kidnapping passengers in an increasingly desperate effort to fund their fight against the government.

The popular version of the story is that the three backpackers had befriended each other in Phnom Penh. Somehow, still unexplained, they had managed to purchase tickets to travel to the coast on the fateful date of July 26, 1994. When that day arrived, things had gone well until, 30 minutes outside Kampot, the train reached a gully where Khmer Rouge soldiers, under the command of Colonel Chhunk Rin, lay in wait. After an exchange of gun and rocket fire, in which 13 Cambodian passengers were killed, the soldiers entered the train and stumbled upon the three Westerners. Excited about their value as hostages, they bound the trio and marched them into the nearby hills of Phnom Voar. It was here they were destined to spend the last two months of their lives, secreted away in a secluded village hut. In the outside world, meanwhile, the drama to secure their release was about to begin.

In the weeks that followed it became apparent the three Westerners, quickly dubbed ‘the backpackers’, were far from the cash cow their Khmer Rouge captors had envisaged. The reluctance of the French, UK and Australian governments to bend to demands for a $50,000-a-piece ransom had been the captors’ first disappointment. Matters deteriorated further with the commencement of a concerted shelling campaign in the Phnom Voar region by troops of the Royal Cambodian Armed Forces (RCAF). Particularly galling for the Khmer Rouge was the fact this offensive was initiated contrary to a promise by Prince Norodom Sirivudh, then the Kingdom’s foreign minister, that no such actions would take place. Unsurprisingly, the shelling campaign precipitated a hardening of the Khmer Rouge stance toward the negotiations and their three captives. Then finally, on September 25, a chilling radio message was relayed by the Khmer Rouge leadership in the north to the commander of the southern forces, General Sam Bith.

“According to the instructions of #99 [Pol Pot’s radio call sign], the recommendations are that these three have no further use. Suggestion to #37 [Sam Bith, southern commander] is that they must be destroyed… after the execution keep it strictly secret.” – Radio communication reported in the Phnom Penh Post in 1998.

A day or so later, the backpackers were allegedly marched to the rear of a hut, where Braquet and Slater were killed by single shots to the head. Two blows from a heavy instrument ended Wilson’s life. The bodies were hurriedly buried in a single grave that pro-government forces uncovered less than a month later, following the withdrawal and defection of Phnom Voar’s remaining Khmer Rouge troops. Yet the gruesome discovery was far from the end of the story. In the months and then years that followed, recriminations, claims and counterclaims have swirled around what really happened down there in the badlands of Phnom Voar.

For one, the question of who was to blame for the deaths of the three foreigners – not forgetting the 13 Khmers who perished in the ambush – was to shift and deviate, although ultimately Colonel Rin (the ambush leader), General Paet (Rin’s commander) and General Bith (overall southern commander) were to serve prison sentences for their role in the attack and deaths. Yet other vexing questions have remained unanswered. What, for example, became of a $50,000 ransom that was allegedly sent to Cambodia for one of the hostages, only for the money to mysteriously disappear? And why did the RCAF engage in a military assault in the foothills of Phnom Voar during a key point in the negotiations, despite the promise of a ceasefire? And what of the claims of disaffected Australian diplomat Alastair Gaisford about the role of his embassy in the affair? And perhaps, most unexpected of all, why, among the expat community of Phnom Penh in 1994, was there so much antagonism towards the victims and what they had done?

Hard to feel any sympathy

Gemma Palmer was a petite, quietly spoken Brit working as a childcare officer when I met her in 2005. It was wise not to make assumptions based on her appearance, which belied a tough-as-nails, no-nonsense attitude. Gemma had journeyed to the Kingdom in the post-Untac days, shortly after the 1993 election, and stayed on to work on child justice issues. Eleven years after the events, she still retained strong feelings about the incident when we discussed it in 2005.

What wrangled Gemma and a number of her compatriots was the repeated story that the three men – Braquet, Slater and Wilson – had bragged throughout the capital’s guesthouses and bars about their imminent departure on the train, laughing about how they had ‘got one over’ on the local ticket sellers. Such a cocksure attitude was unlikely to find many friends among the long-term Western community that had been through the travails of the past and was well aware of the risks that lay beyond the city’s outskirts.

It would have been so simple, Gemma believed, for a contact to have passed on information about the men’s plans to the Khmer Rouge, who then had ample time to plan their ambush. The subsequent deaths of the 13 Cambodian passengers were, to Gemma and her ilk, the real tragedy of the story, yet one the foreign press glossed over in its focus on the fate of the ‘poor’ Westerners.

Before you leave this piece thinking Gemma was a heartless soul, consider the sympathy she felt over the fates of Dominic Chappell and Kellie Wilkinson, a well-known and liked couple who ran a popular restaurant in Sihanoukville – Café Rendezvous – and their friend, Tina Dominy. Their tale provides an interesting contrast to the way the two sets of deaths were mourned by Phnom Penh expats at the time.

In April 1994, Chappell, Wilkinson and Dominy were kidnapped while travelling by car between Phnom Penh and Sihanoukville allegedly, again, by Khmer Rouge soldiers. Dominic and Kellie had been journeying to the capital to stock up on supplies for the Khmer New Year holiday, while Tina had chosen to extend her stay in Cambodia to enjoy the festivities.

Like the backpackers three months later, a ransom was demanded but not paid. It was July, around the time Braquet, Slater and Wilson were boarding their train, that the bodies of the three friends were discovered in shallow graves. Investigations revealed they had likely been murdered almost immediately after their capture and the call for a ransom had meant nothing. For the fallen Sihanoukville friends, Gemma could shed a tear. For the ‘backpacking three’, as she coolly stated, it was “hard to feel any sympathy”.

Political, military and diplomatic

Khmer Rouge kidnappings weren’t a new phenomenon in early 1990s Cambodia, with captures and prompt releases a frequent event before and after the Untac elections of 1993. However, by 1994 things had grown progressively more dangerous as the remaining units were driven to ever more drastic measures to fund their operations and achieve diplomatic points. In early February, an American woman visiting the ruins at Angkor had been kidnapped. Another Westerner was shot and wounded in a botched kidnap attempt near Kampong Speu.

Still Braquet, Slater and Wilson had fair grounds to believe their capture would be no more than an interesting footnote in their lives rather than the final chapter. The US citizen kidnapped in February had been released, while the fate of the three Sihanoukville friends was still unknown. Even their captors gave cause to believe the whole matter would be over quickly:

“They thought they were just tourists and would be released. I told them that I thought it would be done quickly. I didn’t know it was such a political, military and diplomatic thing.” – Colonel Chhouk Rin, reported in the Phnom Penh Post, 1995.

But as Colonel Rin’s statement suggests, things weren’t so straightforward. Politics, individual and factional self-interests, and intrigue ran deep, leaving some tantalising questions and half answers about how and why events unfolded as they did.

For a start, at the senior level of the Khmer Rouge, it remains unclear if there was ever a shared strategy about the use and fate of the three foreigners. For Rin, Paet and Bith in the south, the men’s capture likely represented a quick and easy way to make some much-needed money to fund their operations. However, the ensuing unwillingness of the hostage’s home countries to negotiate a ransom deal saw this anticipated opportunity evaporate quickly. For Pol Pot, squirrelled away in his northern enclave and increasingly delusional, events suggest he saw the hostages offering a much wider geopolitical opportunity, namely a means of leveraging an end to Australian and French military support for the fledgling Cambodian government. However, when neither country appeared willing to negotiate on these grounds, the value of the hostages to the Khmer Rouge leader dwindled. Very quickly, the expected assets became a liability to both commands.

Wider political machinations in the south added further complexity to the affair. Following the 1993 elections, the royalist Funcinpec party had consolidated a powerful support base in the southwest. With Khmer Rouge units progressively defecting to the government, there was ongoing tension between the Cambodian People’s Party and Funcinpec over which party these units would align with, bringing with them military strength and experience that could alter provincial power balances. It’s plausible the CPP, fearing a Funcinpec-brokered deal for the hostages could precipitate a defection to their rival, could have sought to scupper any deals that threatened their own efforts to court the southern Khmer Rouge factions. This offers one tantalising possibility as to why a ceasefire brokered by a Funcinpec minister (Prince Sirivudh) was subsequently violated by commanders aligned to the CPP.

Among Khmer Rouge commanders in the south, meanwhile, things were far from rosy. Rin and Paet are rumoured to have fallen out over the way spoils from previous raids had been shared. Later, in October, it was Rin who chose to defect with the bulk of the unit’s troops across to the government side, although not, crucially, to the Funcinpec faction. Does this mean either Paet or Rin ordered the killings in order to tarnish the reputation of the other? Or did the two men simply follow the orders of Pol Pot and carry out the executions as instructed?

It may be no more than a sideshow, but the claims of disgruntled Australian diplomat Alastair Gaisford added fuel to the fire over the events of 1994. Gaisford’s story is remarkable in its own right: originally posted to Cambodia in the mid-1990s, shortly after the backpacker affair he released allegations of paedophile activity among his fellow diplomats at the Australian embassy, an act for which he was later suspended. It’s not surprising Gaisford was described as a ‘hostile witness’ in the coronial inquest into David Wilson’s death, which was eventually released in 2012: a full 18 years after his murder. To the coronial hearing, Gaisford testified that the Australian embassy had deliberately played a low-key role in the affair, believing that, should things go wrong, it would be able to absolve itself of direct responsibility. For Gaisford, a self-styled whistle-blower, this was tantamount to the betrayal of David Wilson by his country’s government.

Searching for David

Truth, lies and intrigue: 20 years on, it’s difficult to piece together what really happened out there in the hills of Kampot back in 1994. Despite all that I read and learn, I still can’t get a sense of who Braquet, Slater or Wilson were as individuals. What made them laugh? Cry? What brought them to Cambodia? At the centre of the story, they remain almost invisible as personalities, reduced to tragic figures in photos and rare film footage.

I find one photograph of David Wilson, taken in a guesthouse in Phnom Penh, a few days before his ill-fated trip. He is laughing, smiling, surrounded by Khmer and expat friends. He looks like a man brimming with life, the liberation of travel and a tad too much alcohol. I seek out Peter Wilson, David’s father, calling all the P Wilsons in the Melbourne phone book with the hope of learning more about the man in the photo.

I’m down to the last possibility when I put through the Skype call. Three ring tones and a frail-sounding man answers. I feel awkward about introducing myself and the reason for the call. I keep it simple and ask the man if he is Peter Wilson and whether he had a son who came to Cambodia. The line goes quiet. I can feel the invisible person thinking about their response. A tired voice comes back through the line: “Sorry, I cannot help you.” [click] I sit for a moment, staring at my computer screen. I’m not sure, but I have a feeling this was the Peter I sought. Still I have nothing and David remains as elusive as when I started my quest.

Phnom Voar

If I can’t learn more about the three men, perhaps I can get a sense of Phnom Voar, where the events unfolded. Early October finds me in a jeep travelling down a dusty road where, like much of the Cambodian countryside at the end of wet season, the hills of Kampot look vibrant and lush. We pull over and I step out of the vehicle to join my travelling companion on the road’s verge. “So, which one do you think is Phnom Voar?” She looks around and points off in the middle distance. “That one looks the tallest. I think that must be it.” I look to where she is pointing and consider the possibility. “You could be right, but that one over there looks taller,” I say, pointing. “Maybe! Who knows?” she shrugs. After three hours of looking for Phnom Voar, she’s bored and increasingly mystified as to why this place means so much to me. Conscious of her mood, I decide not to press things and judge it time to end this trip. Phnom Voar will have to wait for another day.

The sun is slowly sinking as we hop back in the jeep. I gun the engine and we are quickly gone, a soft plume of dust and two lone tread marks the only reminder we’ve been there. Like so much about this story, Phnom Voar has proved elusive. I steer towards Kampot, leaving the hills to their memories and the past.

Guatemala, 1993:

A man pats me down, his hand lingering where he might expect to find my wallet. Finding nothing, he moves on to the woman next to me. She’s a young campesino and I can sense her unease at the presence of the rough-looking soldier. He mutters a few words and makes a token effort to look inside her basket. Members of the Guatemalan army have stopped us.  Better than guerrillas? Perhaps, but with a history of death squads and village massacres, nothing is certain. Still, I can feel a sense of relief among my fellow passengers. Someone down the line cracks a joke and the soldiers laugh. A few moments later, the commander points to the bus and orders us back on board.

Sitting back in my seat I’m joined by the young woman and her baby, together with five chickens tied together at their feet. The diesel engine fires and we are soon moving, leaving the checkpoint far behind. My neighbour looks up and gives me a gentle smile, while from her lap the baby chuckles softly. In 1993, I survived my encounter with the wolves. Not everyone is so fortunate.