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The Farmerlosopher, Kâmpôt (2026)

I have run schools and built schools. I build homes for the homeless, nourish the hungry, and provide medical intervention for the ill. I educate women and children through scholarships. The “Teacher Tim Scholarship Fund” will provide education to the most vulnerable women and children, creating generational change to break the poverty cycle. https://www.gofundme.com/f/teacher-tim-scholarship-fund

And the “Walk With Me, my fellow humanitarians” campaign will help fund everything else that I do. https://gofund.me/e448ed31

02/03/2026

Dreamer Sophea.

Let me take you back.

It is mid December, and it is the second day at the refugee camp at Wat Athvea.

I have been to the markets at dawn, and have delivered the fresh meat, vegetables and fruit, to feed the gathering refugees.

It is about 7:30 am, and I am hungry. I have not eaten breakfast yet, and so I walk towards the cooking fires to see if the pig head soup is ready yet.

Before I get there, however, I am intercepted by a teenage girl, who falls in step beside me.

“Hello, my name is Sophea, what is your name?” in delightful smiling English.

She boldly fires off many questions… where are you from? Why are you here? Who are you here with?

I answer her questions… Today I am here alone.

I return the questions… Sophea is 18 years old, she is here with her mother, her sisters, her grandparents, and aunts, from Oddar Meanchey Province, in the far north, on the border with Thailand.

“Where are you going now?” she asks, and I tell her that I am hungry, so I am going to the cooking fires to get something to eat.

With a twinkle, Sophea tells me that her mother has been cooking with the food I provided, and can I please come and have breakfast with her family?

She skips beside me excitedly.

Their makeshift camp is around the side of the Pagoda.

Grandma and Grandpa are resting on the sleeping mat. There is a squabble of women sitting around a table, and Sophea introduces me to her mother and her aunts.

They leap to their feet, and squeeze around to make room for me, and find another chair.

Borbor sor, rice porridge, is ladled into a bowl, and boiled duck eggs are peeled.

Borbor sor is simply rice that has been boiled until it is a slurry, with a pinch of salt… the simplest of meals.

It is delicious, and I am grateful.

These gorgeous people, who have absolutely nothing, want to share with me.

Over breakfast, I ask some more questions of Sophea.

She has finished year 12, and would like to go to university to study marketing, however, she cannot. She must stay at home and work for mum, to earn money for her family.

I understand.

But what is your dream? Do you dream of working for your mum, or do you dream of going to university?

Sophea tells me that she doesn’t know, she needs to ask her mum.

No… what is your dream?

“My dream is to go to university.”

She tells me that Siem Reap has many universities that teach marketing.

I thank them for the delicious breakfast, and say my goodbyes.

They demand to know if they will see me again.

Yes.

You will see me again, I promise 🙏

The next morning, I am again treated to a simple, yet delicious, breakfast by this family from Oddar Meanchey, who have adopted me. Dried fish; crunchy and salty.

And Sophea has adopted a tiny puppy.

The wats of Cambodia are often crawling with puppies and kittens, as any unwanted litters get surrendered for the monks to care for.

When it is time for me to leave, Sophea nudges me, and wants to know if I have plans tonight.

I am invited back this evening, as the family wants me to join them for dinner.

A family with nothing, wanting to share.

I have a dinner invitation, but there is no way on earth that I am turning up to a refugee camp for dinner empty handed.

So I make another trip to the markets again, with my own money, and deliver food for a feast to my adoptive family.

Squeals of delight and gratitude, as they inspect the bounty.

I tell them I will be back at 6pm.

I am greeted with excitement and enthusiasm, and chairs are put out.

Everything is already prepared for a traditional Khmer BBQ and soup, only waiting for my arrival.

A pot of stock filled with bones and vegetables provides the broth, ladled into the purpose built BBQ plate, that has a well around the outside for the soup, and the hotplate in the middle for the barbecuing.

I am to do nothing, but sit and watch as the women excitedly cook our meal before us, repeatedly filling the bowls with soup and barbequed beef and prawns, mushrooms and vegetables.

Other gas stoves and BBQ plates, are spread about, to feed the extensive family at the same time.

The food is exquisite.

I take this opportunity to speak at length with Dreamer Sophea’s mother, discussing her dreams and aspirations, and what is possible.

It is such a humbling and precious honour to share this lovely meal, with such gorgeous people.

This is normal village life for me, but I will never take it for granted, and I will never decline a gracious invitation.

These are my people.

This is my tribe.

Christmas Day.

Christmas means nothing to the Khmer. Today is just another Thursday.

Dreamer Sophea and I walk the entire camp, from iron buffalo to iron buffalo, handing out watermelons to every child, with a warm smile and a “Merry Christmas”. Of course, they do not understand the greeting, but they truly appreciate the watermelon, and the smiles are returned a thousand fold.

One of the expectant mothers started having contractions, but it seems they are Braxton Hicks… the false alarm… no Christmas Day baby.

I have been becoming increasingly worried that the rest of the world has forgotten about this refugee camp. I consider that Siem Reap doesn’t know that we are here.

So far, I haven’t needed to supply rice, noodles, cooking oil, salt, sugar, sauces. All of the staples were provided from elsewhere.

I have been providing the nutrition… the protein… the vitamins.

Fresh meat, fruit and vegetables.

But the staples have ceased. There have been no further donations.

Every day I walk the stores with Chakriya and the monks, to inspect what is left, and every day the stores dwindle.

Soon I will need to start providing rice.

You have no idea how much rice 1,000 Khmer eat every day.

The prospect is scary.

This war is escalating.

Yesterday and today, Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, Thailand’s fighter jets bombed schools and hospitals in Battambang Province… well within Cambodian territory.

Every day the war gets closer.

I turned up at dawn on Christmas Day with the daily food delivery, and after the monks had finished their blessing, a truck rolled in.

A truck loaded to the gills with rice.

So many sacks of rice.

A line of men formed a conveyer, and the sacks of rice were transferred from the truck to the monk’s platform for blessing.

The sense of relief is overwhelming. I am so grateful for this delivery. My eyes water.

Merry Christmas Tim.

In recent days I have felt an overwhelming concern, that the rest of the world is oblivious. A fear that these people’s existence rests entirely in my hands… in your hands.

And then this.

An extraordinary contribution from nowhere, and the pressure is instantly lifted.

An hour after the truck departed, I receive messages.

Messages from a Khmer man I have never met.

A young Khmer man, called Bunle.

He tells me that he read one of my stories.

He shared with his friends in Phnom Penh, asking for their help.

And this truck full of rice is from them.

Oh My Buddha.

This is too beautiful.

I am surrounded by gorgeousness.

Merry Christmas indeed.

The following week I receive another message from Bunle, the Khmer man who facilitated the donations of a truck full of rice from his friends in Phnom Penh.

He would like to come out and visit me at Wat Athvea.

We walk and talk, and as I show him around, he peppers me with questions, and I learn more about him.

He lives in Siem Reap.

He studied at university in Phnom Penh, and then went on to study his Master’s degree in New Zealand, on a scholarship.

And now he is a university lecturer at one of the most prestigious universities in Siem Reap.

His university teaches Marketing, English Literature, Tourism, Accounting, Law, Public Administration, and Information Technology.

Oh, stop it.

I have someone I would like you to meet.

We walk to the cooking fires, where little Sophea is assisting the Ye in the distribution of lunch.

Sophea is most shy, but more so, she is incredibly brave.

As I introduce her to Bunle, explaining to her that he would like to ask her some questions, I request that the entire conversation be conducted in English.

She looks at me wide eyed, but trusting me, and with enormous courage, she answers every question beautifully. When I sense that she is struggling, I give her permission to answer in Khmer.

They discuss his university in detail, and every subject, and potential career path.

They discuss her exam scores, skills and capabilities, aptitude and competencies, and most importantly, her dreams.

Her face glows with excitement, but I can tell she is trying to withhold it, tempered by reality.

The conversation goes for half an hour, and when it is over, Sophea returns to her family with their pot of food.

When we are alone, Bunle starts talking about scholarships, and Master’s degrees in Australia or New Zealand.

Bunle puts his arm around my shoulder and declares that this one has so much potential.

My challenge is to convince her mum.

Challenge accepted.

In the meantime, I continue talking with Bunly.

University placements have already happened for this year, and the next university year begins in October, and so we have plenty of time for Sophea to decide on her chosen course of study, and to apply.

Bunly tells me of an institution in Siem Reap that offers hospitality training, that is currently accepting applications.

He sends me through the details.

They have 200 scholarship positions on offer.

50 positions in Administration. 50 bartending and waitstaff. 50 housekeeping, and 50 chefs.

The scholarship includes free tuition, free study materials, free board in the campus dormitories, and free food. On top, it pays a small stipend each month for living expenses.

The training course begins in March, and runs for eight months, concluding in October.

On completion, each student is guaranteed employment placement within the hospitality industry in Siem Reap.

Preference is offered to young women, aged 18 to 25, from the outer provinces.

Oh my Buddha!

Sophea… is this something that you might be interested in?

As I talk her through everything, I can see her excitement build with each sentence.

She tells me that she must think about it, and talk with her mum.

Later that evening, she sends me a lengthy and articulate message, detailing all of the barriers to her studying, explaining why she cannot apply.

I sit with her the next morning, and we discuss at length every point, and at every point I give her the solution to her barrier.

I understand her mother’s trepidation. So far, her eighteen year old daughter is being made offers by strange, old men, about a training course that may or may not be legitimate.

I urge her to contact the organisation to at least start a conversation… when you have more information, you and your mother can then make a more informed decision.

She asks me if I will contact them for her.

I say no, I will not… you must.

And so, this shy, but immensely brave young woman, makes contact.

She is invited in for an interview the next morning.

She asks me if I will take her to the interview, and I insist I will not. This is something that you must do alone. You must demonstrate independence.

She is interviewed, and invited back for a test.

The test is in English.

She is terrified.

But she goes, alone.

I am standing with little Sophea by the cooking fires of Wat Athvea when she receives a call.

She has passed the test with flying colours.

She is offered a full scholarship into the Administration course, which will include business administration, computer studies, accounting, and marketing.

Again, I sit with Dreamer Sophea’s mother, to discuss her concerns, and what is possible.

Mum is delighted.

Dreamer Sophea, and all of her extended family, are still at Wat Athvea.

Their homes in Oddar Meanchey have been destroyed by Thailand’s bombs.

They have no homes to go to.

But they are happy.

And today, they are excited.

Today, Monday the 2nd of March, is Dreamer Sophea’s first day of school.

New beginnings.

New hope.

Some days are diamonds.

Snippets of joy.

22/02/2026

It is the wedding season here in the Kingdom.

Every year, during the dry season, roughly from October through to May, sensibly is the preferred time for weddings in Cambodia.

I have been to dozens of Khmer weddings over the years; maybe thirty so far? Maybe more?

I remember my first wedding experience in Cambodia, back in 2018.

I had been in the country for three days, in Kampong Cham, a few hours north of Phnom Penh on the Mekong River. I was there to assist some Australian pig breeders with a social enterprise project.

I had been allocated a driver and interpreter; a Khmer man called Dara, and we swiftly became friends.

His sister was getting married, and I was invited.

The wedding was on an island in the middle of the Mekong River, connected to the mainland by a hand made, rickety, bamboo bridge. Every year, during the wet season, when the Mekong is swollen and raging, the bridge gets washed away. And every year, during the dry season, the villagers on the island rebuild the bridge as their lifeline.

This was in April, in the height of the dry. The country is brown and dusty, and every day is baking hot, in the mid forties.

It takes us about an hour to cross the bridge, and weave our way through the jungle and tiny villages, on the winding dirt track, to the wedding in the middle of the island.

Enormous marquees fill a cleared paddock, and the tents are filled with round tables and chairs; 120 tables, with ten chairs at each, for 1,200 people.

I am told that the wedding will go for three days, with 1,200 people each day. I am there for only one evening.

The two Australians who own the pig farm are there, and including me, we are the only foreigners.

And I am quite the sensation.

Everyone is staring at the alien.

It is explained to me that many of these villagers have never left this island.

For most of them, I am the first foreigner they have ever seen.

Children gather around me, excitement mixed with fear, wide eyed, fascinated and terrified.

One will find the courage, and dash forward to touch the hairs on my arm, and squeal in shock, before retreating behind his mother’s skirts.

This emboldened the others, and throughout the evening every child comes to stare at and poke the hairy giant; the King Kong in their village.

I am seated with family, at the front of the marquee, and Dara is beside me.

Boxes of hot beer are delivered to every table, and buckets of ice with sets of tongs.

Dara polishes a glass with a tissue, plonks a chunk of ice in, and fills the remaining space with hot beer, as everyone else around the table does the same.

Dara is instructing me as we go, explaining to me in English every new experience, what to do, and why, and I am grateful for his generous tuition, assisting me to understand his culture.

Our glasses are all full, and we all stand.

We raise our glasses, and one man leans forward towards me, with his glass extended and declares “CHOY MOI”… and so I do the same… we clink glasses as I broadcast enthusiastically “CHOY MOI”.

The table erupts in laughter.

The surrounding tables, including the bridal table, all glare at me.

Another man reaches forward with his glass, again with “CHOY MOI”, and I “CHOY MOI” in return, and there is more raucous laughter, apparently at my expense.

Dara is bright red with embarrassment, and leans into me, requesting my attention.

“Bong Tim… not CHOY MOI… it is JUL MOI… Jul moi is cheers, choy moi means F**K ME.”

I am the subject of a classic practical joke, and the men around me are too delighted at having the opportunity to exercise it on the only foreigner they have ever encountered. Who am I to rob them of their fun?

I laugh with them, however learn my lesson at my very first wedding.

Over the coming years, at every wedding, engagement or party, someone will try to pull the same joke on me, and I will laugh with them in delight, however explaining to them that I will not fall for their joke ever again.

Dara goes on to explain the Jul Moi in intricate detail, so that I understand the practice.

A man will lift his glass, and thrust it forward, and declare “Jul Moi”.

And everyone else must all clink their glasses, with everyone else present, and declare “Joi Moi” and drink.

When one person drinks, all people drink.

Nobody drinks alone.

Rarely will a woman instigate the Jul Moi, and they will usually politely pretend to sip their drink.

The men, however, drink heartily and regularly. One man will raise his glass, and at Jul Moi, we all clink glasses and drink. And then the man beside him will raise his glass… and then the next. It never stops. The hot beer is never in the glass long enough to be chilled by the ice.

A most important detail. The beer glass is extended with the right arm, and simultaneously, the fingers of the left hand will be touched to the right arm; where on the arm, depending on the level of respect you wish to convey. If you touch your fingers to the wrist, you are displaying to the others that you are superior, and you believe they are beneath you, almost a sign of contempt. If you touch your fingers to the shoulder at the top of the right arm, you are indicating that the others you are drinking with are elite, and you are privileged to be in their presence, and probably feel that you do not belong. The general practice is to touch the inside of the elbow of your right arm as you Jul Moi, as this indicates that we are all of equal status and equally respected.

And then it goes further.

Generally, the glasses will clink side by side, on level with each other. If your drinking partner dips their glass below yours, to clink from underneath, they are communicating the most extraordinary respect, and highest of regard.

I touch my right bicep, halfway between the elbow and the shoulder, as a permanent display of respect and gratitude, regardless of who I am with. And if they clink the underside of my glass, the next time I will beat them to it, and return the honour.

This practice of touching your extended right arm with the tips of your fingers of your left hand, is widespread across society, well beyond drinking. This practice occurs at every transaction. At the markets, when the seller is handing you the fish you have just bought, she will be touching her fingers to her arm as she offers it forward. When you offer her the money, you will be touching your fingers to your arm, and when she returns your change, she will also be returning the honour. The bartender will do it when delivering your beer. The shop assistant. The tuk tuk driver.

Handshaking is not a part of their culture, however when they do it to appease the foreigner, the fingers of their left hand will be touching their extended right arm.

This is a gorgeous practice, and is now second nature to me. Even when I am back in Australia, I do this subconsciously, on every occasion.

The hot beers never stop.

Box after box of hot beer is delivered to the table.

It is only my third day in the Kingdom, and I now understand my mission.

My mission is not pig breeding social enterprise project management.

I had yet to front a classroom, and as yet, Teacher Tim had never been considered.

My mission is to teach these people to put their beer in ice, instead of ice in the beer.

The food never stops either.

Dish after dish of exquisite food is delivered to each table, in a seemingly never ending feast.

And over the years, I come to appreciate the similarities of the dishes at weddings, regardless of the wealth or extravagance of the families.

A spicy green papaya salad with seafood. A whole baked fish. A roasted duck or chicken. Sliced beef, with green tomatoes and raw onion. Prawn soup. Mushroom soup. Pork soup, often the entrails instead of meat. Fried rice. Crispy fried vegetables and spicy fresh salads.

Sometimes the wedding table will be served black chicken. Black chickens are rare, expensive, and highly regarded. Not just the feathers, the skin is black, and the flesh is black. It is believed that eating black chicken brings health, vitality, and fertility.

Every guest at the wedding has a small paper envelope before them, where they are invited to contribute towards the wedding, with whatever is in their means. The envelopes are slotted into an elaborately decorated barrel, and official money counters open each envelope, and document in a bound book, the value of each donation and the donor’s name.

This enables even the poorest of families to have a wedding celebration, within the means of their community.

I have been to weddings in Dyna’s homeland, surrounded by some of the poorest families that I know, where guests will offer forward their bare hands, holding a handful of rice as their contribution, and it is received gratefully, and they take their place at a table and feast along with everyone else. Sometimes the gift will be a fish caught from the stream, or a single piece of fruit from their own tree, or some wild herbs gathered on the way. All gratefully received. At the end of the evening, these families are sent home with bags filled with abundant leftovers to feast on for days to come.

Weddings can go for one day… or two days… or three days, depending on whatever, including the affluence, or absence of, the family and the surrounding village.

The wedding will often occupy the road through the village, out the front of the family home; the celebrations, the marquees and impromptu kitchens, obscuring the road to all traffic for the duration of the ceremony.

And this happens everywhere in the country.

Throughout the entire wedding season in Cambodia, roads will be blocked everywhere, in every city and town. On any given day, there will be several roads blocked in Kampot to accommodate weddings. Hundreds of roads across Phnom Penh will be blocked by swollen marquees.

And it is all tolerated and accepted as a gorgeous part of life in this country.

The weddings will begin before dawn with a procession of everyone along the road to the Bride’s family, with every guest bearing gifts.

There will be multiple official and traditional ceremonies throughout the day, and across the days, that seemingly go on for hours. Each ceremony requires costume changes by the wedding couple, and their immediate families, often resulting is several different wedding outfits across the duration of the wedding.

There are ceremonies where the groom and his family are attempting to impress the bride’s family sufficiently to enable their children to join.

There are ceremonies where the groom is trying to convince his potential bride that he is worthy.

A ceremony where the bride’s family concedes and agrees, and a ceremony where the bride is then presented.

Hair cutting ceremonies. Ceremonies with swords. Ceremonies spraying fragrant water. Family blessings. Village blessings.

Eventually, after eleventy seven ceremonies, we are presented with a married couple.

It is all too beautiful, and I love it too much.

I am always honoured and grateful to be included in these gorgeous traditions.

My first wedding in the Kingdom, on my third day in country, was the perfect introduction to many more to come.

As the token alien foreigner on the island, I was required to pose in all of the wedding photos with the bride and groom, no doubt immortalised on the walls of a family home, somewhere on an island in the middle of the Mekong River.

I was required to dance with the mother of the bride.

Every time I was dragged to the dance floor, I was immediately surrounded by dozens of children all mimicking my unique dance moves.

I was required to pose for selfies and portraits with every pretty single woman.

The Jul Mois continue indefinitely.

I have drunk eleventy seven thousand warm beers.

And my driver Dara, seated beside me, has drunk exactly as much as me, as we must Jul Moi in unison.

Dara drives me back through the jungle in his tuk tuk, and across the bridge. I wake up the next morning in my own bed, in my guesthouse in town.

It occurs to me, that maybe the ice in the beers may have saved my life.

Over the years, I was an honoured guest at the weddings of every young Khmer teacher who worked for me, including Sopheap’s wedding last year.

Weddings within my villages, wherever I was living at the time.

Weddings across the country.

Family weddings.

Friend’s weddings.

This season began with the engagement of my friends Nik and Ching in October. The celebrations are every bit as elaborate as a wedding, and now we have the actual wedding to look forward to.

In early November I mounted Serenity, and rode across the country to Kampot to attend the wedding of Sreymom’s brother, Sokun and his gorgeous bride Pheak.

Do you remember the wedding of my friends Danny and Gigi? I married them on the beach at Kep, last year.

Well, one of Gigi’s twin daughters is getting married, and I am invited.

Late November, and I mount Serenity again for a ride to Phnom Penh.

I am there for the full two days of the wedding, and across the entire ceremonies and celebrations, Danny and I are the only foreigners.

I am invited to a wedding in Kep by the Princess, which would have been an extraordinary occasion, however I needed to decline the invitation, as the wedding was during the height of the war with Thailand, and Wat Athvea was being inundated every day with more families seeking refuge. I decided that I was where I was required to be, and she understood.

Dyna’s Aunt Ming messages me with a wedding invitation, back in Dyna’s homeland.

I deliberate for weeks over whether I can go, or whether I am required at Wat Athvea.

I meet regularly with my team to discuss and debate what is possible and appropriate.

A ceasefire is announced, that none of us have any faith in.

It is the release of the eighteen Cambodian soldiers that had been held hostage for six months, on New Year’s Eve, that gave me the confidence to take a couple of days off.

I went to the markets before dawn, and bought enough meat, vegetables and fruit, to feed 1,150 refugees.

We packed everything necessary in ice.

And I left directly from Wat Athvea, mounting Serenity and riding through the day to Dyna’s village, to immediately douse myself with scoops of cold water to wash the dust and the stink off, to put on my wedding kit, and get to the wedding on time.

The wedding of Dyna’s cousin Raksa, and his stunning bride Chanthaa, was a gorgeous celebration of family, that I dearly needed.

An occasion to celebrate with Dyna’s family.

Celebrating with Ye.

Celebrating with Pa.

Celebrating with Dyna’s sister Sreynet, and our stepsisters Sreypov, and Chanto.

Celebrating with Dyna’s brothers, Sunny and Makara.

Surrounded by all of my adorable nieces and nephews, cousins, uncles and aunts.

Surrounded by love.

I didn’t realise how much I needed this precious time with my adoring family.

I was recently invited to my first wedding in Siem Reap, in a tiny village within the Angkor Wat complex of temples. As is often the case, I am the only foreigner amongst one thousand celebrating Khmer, and everyone is fascinated with the alien.

And I have two more wedding invitations over the coming weeks, in Siem Reap, as my new community grows.

Feels like home to me.

Jul Moi.

I will forever be honoured and grateful to be included in these celebrations, and every wedding is a delightful celebration of love and culture, however, every wedding will also be a forever, bitter reminder of the wedding that didn’t happen.

14/02/2026

I know… I have been terribly negligent.

Busy.

But busy is never an excuse.

So please allow me to give you a long overdue update.

Christmas Day means nothing to the Khmer. Just another Thursday.

And Christmas Day will never be the same for me again.

Up before dawn, and off to the markets to buy hundreds of kilograms of meat and vegetables to feed 1,200 refugees at Wat Athvea.

And I also bought some fruit.

200 watermelons.

Dreamer Sophea and I walk the entire camp, from iron buffalo to iron buffalo, handing out watermelons to every child, with a warm smile and a “Merry Christmas”. Of course, they do not understand the greeting, but they truly appreciate the watermelon, and the smiles are returned a thousand fold.

It is mid morning when I return to my empty house.

I make a Bloody Mary, and fry a slice of leg ham in butter until it is crisp, as my garnish.

I carry one of my ferns upstairs and decorate it with hand made trinkets that I had bought from the street children of Siem Reap.

Make a cauliflower cheese.

Glaze a ham.

Bake a leg of lamb… and veggies.

I am making the gravy… me… that is who.

Set the table.

Fill eskys with beers, and bottles of gin.

And my mates turn up.

Teacher Sam and Teacher Jules, from Kep.

They contacted me a couple of months ago to tell me that they miss me, and that they will come to Siem Reap for Christmas, because they do not want me to spend Christmas alone.

They bring a friend with them, Caroline from Thailand, who has flown in to join us.

And Dara, my sidekick, joins us.

We have the most gorgeous afternoon, eating exquisite food, drinking good gin, great wine, and mediocre beer.

Grazing, laughing, singing.

The sun sets, and the celebrations do not.

I am surrounded by love.

30/01/2026

Little Sophea the Dreamer is becoming bolder every day.

She teases me brazenly, and every joke around the cooking fires is at my expense, bringing the Ye to hysterics.

Her favourite trick lately, is a sharp poke in the ribs after sneaking up on me from behind, causing me to jump and squeal, much to the amusement of all the Ye.

Too delightful.

Sreychun, and her darling newborn have gone home; her husband Rhitha driving his small family home in their iron buffalo, shoulders back, and chest puffed out in pride, as Sreychun waved and beamed her gorgeous smile as they chugged out of the camp for the slow trip home.

Before leaving, he gave away all of the furniture that he had hand crafted out of bamboo, to other families within the camp.

They were sent off with a sack of rice, a carton of noodles, bottled water, bags of fruit, and enough money for fuel, and to buy food when they arrive at their homeland in Oddar Meanchey Province in several day’s time.

I promised them, that one day, one year, I will track them down and visit.

There may have been some tears… probably only mine.

Savy has also gone home with her newborn.

Savy required a cesarean for the birth of her enormous baby boy, and spent a week in hospital before returning to the camp at Wat Athvea.

Her entire extended family, with brothers and sisters, several children, and many elderly, have made their own camp of shelters under the eucalyptus trees, surrounded by their iron buffaloes.

Savy, however, did not arrive on an iron buffalo; she arrived heavily pregnant, on a broken old motorbike, driven by her husband, with her three other small children, all five of them piled up with a few meagre possessions, for the treacherous journey from Banteay Meanchey Province, fleeing the war on the border.

I understand why they want to go home.

I understand why she wants to be in her own home, with her newborn, and her small children, and return to normal life in her village.

She is still in enormous pain, and has difficulty walking and carrying her child.

Additionally, she now has many more possessions than what she arrived with; all of the bedding that I supplied her family on arrival, plus all of the baby essentials that we gave her when her darling arrived… bedding, mosquito net, blanket, nappies (size L), baby shampoo, and hand knitted beanies.

And, of course, a sack of rice, box of noodles, bottled water, and fruit for the trip.

There is no way I am sending the entire family, including a newborn, back home on the back of the broken old motorbike.

I hired her a car and driver, a new SUV, to take her home.

We laid down the back seats to turn it into a wagon, and made her a bed for her and her baby boy, so that she can return home in airconditioned comfort, while her three other children sit excitedly in the front seat, with their faces pressed to the window.

Grateful Dad follows on the bike.

The rest of the extended family remain, as they do not have homes to go home to.

We still have nine pregnant women, and are expecting more newborns in the coming weeks.

Two more families arrived overnight, bringing the total to 55 families still living at Wat Athvea, as their homes have either been destroyed by Thai bombs, or are on the wrong side of the artificial border created by Thai soldiers out of shipping containers and razor wire.

The cease fire still holds, tentatively, however the conflict is far from resolved.

Thailand still illegally occupies thousands of square kilometres of Cambodian land, including the land of our families at Wat Athvea.

We are nervous about the impending election in Thailand on the 8th February, concerned that political motivations will trigger more violence.

These families at Wat Athvea, are welcome to stay as long as they need. They are well fed, healthy and happy.

Of course, they dream of going home to a home.

I dream of building them new homes.

Peace and love,

Tim the Dreamer.

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