NOTE: This is Part 2 of 2, from an entry held until the client published.VIEW IMAGE GALLERY

It was a little past midnight when Austin’s brother in law shouted at me, “You want to go back to town? Come on, then!”

As fast as I could, I packed my gear, said hurried thank you’s to the men staring out at the ocean and ran, on half-frozen feet, across the snow-crusted pack ice to the snow machines. Snapping a few frames in the dusk of midnight, I stuffed the camera into the front of my parka, mounded the machine, and pulled my goggles down. We were off. (at right: an image of the pack ice shot just before departure)

Clenching the seat with my thighs, the back rail with one hand, and the other trying to keep my camera from smashing into the other, I broke into a grin, then a smile. I was being tossed around like a rag doll as we hurtled over pressure ridges in the ice, but we were in the most serene of landscapes.

I had spent most of the day watching the light change over a whaling camp positioned at the edge of the melting pack ice. I had the pictures I wanted: atmosphere, weapons, scenery, teamwork; I’d eaten traditional foods, helped them move the camp, gotten into the energy of whale watching and witnessed a successful seal kill. And now, in the extended alpenglow of a near-polar sunset, I was screaming across the ice heading back to Kivalina, Alaska, a native village of 400 whose existence still relies on subsistence hunting. For them, the day was like any other out on the ice. For me, it was a once-in-a-lifetime experience, something I’d read about as a kid, studied at university, and never thought I’d get to experience. (at left: whaling boat at the ready)

Getting out on the ice was no small feat. Apparently native villages, especially when it comes to hunting, aren’t the most hospitable. We were warned of this, but the general sense I felt was not a lack of hospitality, just that people tend to stick to their own. I suppose two journalists (in a growing stream of them) snooping around town asking questions about a very controversial subject qualify as something to watch from a safe distance. The town is suing 20 oil companies for climate change, the impact to their beach, and the fact that one major storm could wipe out half the town.

Part of it is not having a lot; the assignment was initially proposed with an adventure photographer in mind because there was no hotel. There’s no bar either: it’s a dry town (meaning, by law, no alcohol). I immediately thought “cool, home stay.” Now, having seen the weather beaten one to three room prefabricated government boxes, some of which house three families, I understand why we stayed at the school. There is no road to this town; supplies are flown in to their dirt airstrip during the winter and barged in during the summer. While they have a small store, packed with quality items like donuts, chips, and canned goods of dubious nutritional value, food is expensive to import. Most of the residents rely on subsistence hunting, and it isn’t uncommon to see drying hides hanging outside of homes or, in one case, the four upended legs of a frozen caribou on someone’s staircase. (at right: kivalina from the air; the ocean to the left, the bay to the right, and the river’s mouth in the foreground)

Another part of the guarded nature–in my unsubstantiated and opinionated commentary–is the nearly cheek-to-jowl, somewhat primitive living conditions. There is a moratorium on building because the village is bounded by water on three sides, an airstrip, cemetery, and landfill on the other. The only buildings with running water (and toilets) are the school and the teacher’s housing. The remaining houses are plumbed, but apparently a village administrator absconded with the funds to finish the project. So residents haul their water in plastic garbage cans from the city’s two water towers and use five gallon buckets as toilets. At one point I set my pack down in the snow outside a home only to hear a woman say “I wouldn’t stand there, your standing in shit!” Looking around, I saw a cardboard box filled with plastic bags of frozen human waste. Good to know.

I believe this close proximity has an effect on the social fabric, both positive and negative. The community functions as an extended family, in the literal and figurative, which can strengthen bonds. But I ran into a couple of people who made some venomously disparaging remarks of others; I suppose when you live next door to your hated kinfolk the only way to continue to exist is to not get involved in the affairs of others. (at left: ansbert sneaking into the frame)

What this meant for Ansbert and I is it was harder to make meaningful connections. The lack of a sense of time also complicated things; that far north long winter nights are complimented by long summer days. With no where to go, few real jobs, and endless days, time ceases to be important. For us it meant a lot of standing around simply “being there” in hopes of connecting. As such, I think we worked well together; I feel we had an even balance of leadership, discussion of which subjects would work best, and when it came down to only one of us getting out on the ice, I went and Ansbert found more interviews. I would have loved to have him out on the ice, but he found a way to do it through conversation.

We were fortunate that we arrived a day before two documentary filmmakers left; they were a pleasure to spend time with and were instrumental in introducing us to a few people, notably teacher Anna Hercha. Though not native, she’s a native Alaskan and has taught in Kivalina for 11 years. She’s a tough woman with an incredible sense of humor and a generous heart. Unasked, she came into the school two mornings in a row and cooked breakfast for Ansbert and myself. Also, in her company, I laughed harder that I’ve laughed in a long time–cheeks hurting, stomach cramping kind of laughter.

Still, there were a few moments when Ansbert and I, in the modicum of privacy afforded by the school’s faculty lounge, looked at each other and sighed. Would we be able to get what we needed to make this story work? He needed interviews, I needed portraits, we both needed atmosphere and something to represent the culture. And then, there were the enormous sandbags on the frozen shoreline I was supposed to make a dramatic photo of. They were white, buried in snow, and on the shore of a frozen sea. But they were the physical representation of the village’s fight to preserve itself. On our last night, we both had the same look. (at left: ansbert and myself at midnight)

“You know what I’m thinking?” I asked.

“How good a beer would be right now?” Ansbert replied.

“Exactly.”

While I can’t read the German, I feel it was a successful assignment on many fronts. For those of you who also are unable to read German, this is a summary from Ansbert:

“The story itself has three parts: At first I explain the traditional lifestyle, the whale hunt and how cliimate change threatens all this. The middle part is about the lawsuit: I discuss the tobacco wars, compare them to the law suit now and finally I tell how Kivaliina was caste as a plaintiff. Part three describes the life behind the picture of a traditional lifestyle, the alcohol and drug problem, the bad education, the welfare. Conclusion: climate change is there, it threatens them, but their lifestyle has changed already and will continue to change.”

It’s not the rosiest of pictures, but it seems pretty factual to me, based on the impression we were able to achieve.

For me, it was a great experience, I met some cool people, saw some beautiful sights, and pleased a client. Ansbert quoted the photo editor who, in a rare moment, exclaimed “These are paintings!”

Flattering. But even more so, was his admission: “I had shorten my text because the (page designers) refused to reduce the size of the photos - that is not usual here and says a lot about the quality of your work.”

I think part of that success came from how we worked as a team. I look forward to a chance to do so again. (at right: hamming it up while waiting for our flight out at the airstrip)

VIEW IMAGE GALLERY

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NOTE: This entry (part one of two) was written over a month ago and held until the client, der Spiegel, published.
View the article in PDF (in German)
View their web edit

I was awake when alarm number one went off, with that nervous feeling of sleeping in; the kind of energy I have before an alpine climb. With only three and-a-half hours of sleep, I hit the snooze and rolled over. Minutes later alarm number two, the clock radio, went off. Madonna’s “Holiday” quietly reminded me I had to get up. In two hours an aircraft would be taxing across the Anchorage, Alaska, tarmac, with or without me. It was four in the morning and I’d been up until one trying to finish some work for a non profit client. (at right: attorney Heather Kendall at home)

By midday I would be in Kivalina, a 400 person native village on the northeast coast of Alaska. The assignment, given to me last week, was to accompany a writer for the German news magazine der Spiegel. The story was about how this native village, essentially an extended family steeped in an ancient way of life, is suing 20 oil companies for climate change, ie. global warming. But, technically, it’s about property damage.

The chain goes like this: the beach is eroding so the village needs to relocate; it erodes because of winter storms; the storms destroy the beach because the pack ice melts early and forms late; this is because the climate is changing, it is warming up, due in part to carbon emissions from burning liquid fossil fuels. Oil.

If I have this right (don’t quote me and if you’re a lawyer please correct me by commenting below) but in California, where the case has been filed in Federal court, tort law says if your actions have been injurious to others’ property–in whole or in part–you can be held liable. With few jobs and a subsistence-based lifestyle, Kivalina needs someone to pay for its relocation. After 15 years of trying various government agencies, and recently being told that Congress can’t afford it, as a last resort the village is turning to the oil companies. (at left: writer Ansbert buying last minute supplies in Anchorage)

While this is a lot more complicated than I can summarize here, in its treaties the Federal government essentially said it would take care of an indigenous population if it exercised some semblance of conformity.

When Alaska became a territory, and later a state, the government mandated all native children attend school. This effectively ended their nomadic native practices for the government plunked down school houses and little else in locations of its choosing. It established an official school at a summer fishing camp on a narrow, vulnerable spit of land best suited for barged resupply and an airstrip.

More at stake than Kivalina’s beach front property, with its sweeping panorama of the sea, is a native culture that, while struggling, is very much alive. A large part of that culture is subsistence hunting; beluga and bowhead whale when pack ice fills the Bering Sea; walrus and bearded seal during the spring break up; arctic char and dolly varden in the summer when the river runs free, and caribou and wolves throughout the year. With the changing climate animal migration or access to wildlife is changing, altering a traditional way of life. Kivalina is said to be in the top 10 of 180 native villages facing cultural extinction.

Showered, I stuffed the last items into my over-filled pack. Heather Kendall, the only native Alaskan attorney working this litigation had given us a primer the day before. Chiefly, be self-contained. We would sleep on the floor of a classroom, for $50 per night, and may have access to a small kitchen where it was expected we would do our own cooking. Layered in my pack were items I’d take backpacking; high-calorie, easy to cook (or simply consume) foods. Cheese, meat, some canned, and a couple hardy vegetables. My German companion, the writer Ansbert, had tossed in some Oscar Meyer hot dogs. Classic. (at right: groceries to take to Kivalina)

The reason for the self sufficiency, Heather explained, is that food is expensive to ship in and is also difficult to go out, find, then kill. To be invited into someone’s home for a meal, in this reserved community, would be momentous. It should not be expected and, if offered, treated with utmost respect and appreciation. Even if it is whale meat soaked in rancid seal oil.

We’ll see. I’m kitted out with my regular winter climbing clothes and the same digital media studio I had in Cambodia six weeks ago. I’ve got four days to build relationships that allow me to photograph a story about a culture facing extinction in today’s changing climate. Even though, on paper, it is really about liability and property damage. (at left: pack ice from front street in Kotzebue, a small town and layover on our way from Anchorage to Kivalina–which lies over the hills in the distance. BTW, there is a wi-fi restaurant on front street!)

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I’m pretty used to rejection these days; not in the dating sense, necessarily, though I’m well steeled for that kind of rejection too. It’s my collection of rejection letters I’m talking about. Internships in college, contests, grants, and the all too common editor-who-never-responds-to-proposal-X. This business requires the hide of a rhinoceros. Thick.

A friend and mentor, Wes Pope, told me he once papered his wall with rejection letters. Even though I’ve only got a file, I liked the idea. The collection showed me that at least I was trying.

So when I pulled the mail out the other day, saw the address, and felt the weight of the envelope, I though I knew what was inside. A one-page form rejection letter.

Instead, much to my thrill, it read:

“It is our great pleasure to inform you that your 2008 Individual Projects application to 4Culture has been recommended for an award in the amount of $7500 in support of your project: Cambodia: From Victim to Survivor.”

There were 220 applicants asking for a total of $1,153,924; of those, 75 applicants were selected for support and provided with funds totaling nearly $300,000. I was one of them.

I received the maximum amount to cover the expenses of returning to Cambodia and printing an exhibition showing why people might migrate and the risks associated (human trafficking) in an effort to celebrate the many immigrants who’ve made it to King County to try their hand at the American dream.

It was a complete chance I applied; I was picking up my exhibition from Cheryl dos Remedios in the City of Kent offices when she mentioned a workshop starting in an hour for a grant due in a few days. Speaking with Heather Dwyer, the King County 4Culture program coordinator, and dos Remedios forced me to shape a story from the mess in my head; I’d been home less than a month and my mind was still spinning.

Later, Heather commented “It is really your great work and commitment to the project that won the panel over,” but I don’t think I would have had a successful entry without their guidance.

So this fall I head back to Cambodia to finish this segment of an ongoing project. Now all I have to do is raise the rest of the proposed $23,000 budget–the part that pays me a living wage to do the reporting and multimedia work.

See the 4Culture Newsletter and the Recipient List.

Excerpts from the grant application:

Project Description:
War, poverty and natural disaster limit the livelihood—and life–of many across the globe. These factors drive migration, some documented or “legal,” but most undocumented, from developing countries to the developed. King County is host to a large immigrant population that arrives here filled with the hope of finding religious or political freedom and economic success. However in our state, as many others, migrants are often left in the precarious position of relying on unregulated transnational migration.

Human trafficking, estimated as the third largest global criminal enterprise behind arms and narcotics, preys upon the vulnerable and disadvantaged seeking a better life for themselves and their families. Victims are lied to, cheated, beaten, raped; their documentation–if any–is often taken from them. Identity-less and “illegal” in the first place, victims are unwilling to approach law enforcement for fear of imprisonment or deportation. Slowly, governments worldwide are addressing this aspect of migration and realizing how economically and politically destabilizing it is, but also how profitable this human commodity is to criminal groups.

I am seeking funding to continue my documentary work raising awareness about the affects of and efforts to counter human trafficking. For this phase of the project I am focusing on Cambodia, a nation torn by genocide and 30 years of occupation and civil war. It is but one example of a vulnerable population forced into migration, either transnational or within its borders.

These are stories of survival; I am showing that today the same struggles leading to the founding of the United States still exist. In America, in a land of privilege and comfort where the prevailing idea is if you work hard enough you will succeed, I believe we tend to forget what it means to live without opportunity. It is difficult, when lulled into complacency, to understand why someone might knowingly take the risk of years of exploitation or death simply to find a job.

Through stories of human trafficking in Cambodia I will show a nation struggling–in trauma-speak–to become a survivor after decades of victimization. With these stories I hope to build awareness, empathy, action and an attitude of greater openness to and understanding of immigrant communities in King County….

Project Impact:
Immigration is an important political issue in America. With its agricultural businesses Washington state is on the migrant labor circuit; this is a somewhat divisive issue between the more conservative eastern part of the state and the more liberal western counties. While Cambodians and Hispanics are culturally disparate, the same issues of economic gain and freedom are at the root of migration.

I believe my work illustrating precursors to migration will help King County citizens better understand the migrant laborers and the immigrants in their midst. I also feel that immigrant residents, particularly our relatively substantial Cambodian population, will have cause to reflect on their origins with a sense of pride and success.

Most importantly, I believe this project will add a strong voice to the growing awareness of the global nature of human trafficking. The United States is a destination country; our demand for sex and cheap labor make us a crucial part of the chain of exploitation and a powerful voice in ending it.

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Editor’s Note: The idea of guest authors was sparked awhile ago but Jessie is the first I’ve asked. I met her at a time when she was discouraged. She was reeling with the raw nature of Cambodia, but I think she was also facing herself.

Jessie is struggling a bit with her early 20’s and Cambodia was a something of a mandate from her family. Her sister asked me to check in with Jessie when I was in Siem Reap; I had to work, but I found some down time I to spend with her. The Jessie I met was incredibly open, honest, and a pleasure to hang out with. So, when she wanted to head home in frustration, I encouraged her to stay and put a little more effort into connecting. I hoped she would be able to see Cambodia as a place not just for adventure tourists, but a country full of people trying to succeed in life–as we are–but with fewer opportunities.

Jessie did connect, marvelously.

———————————————————————————-

Guest Author Jessie Hoffman:

The first thing I noticed about Phnom Penh was the smell. I later learned that it is a combination of Khmer food, hot garbage, human waste and exhaust. The air in Cambodia is heavy and the smell almost penetrates your body. One person described it perfectly when he said “the air in Phnom Penh feels like it could corrode your skin off.” The smell was the first thing I resented, and incidentally, it was the first thing I became accustomed too.

I wasn’t supposed to be in Cambodia. I should be in the second semester of my junior year in college. But life has a funny way of NOT going accordingly to your plan. I failed out of not one, but two colleges. I have a smattering of credits almost qualifying for an Associates Degree, and have I little to no career experience. My parents were fed up, tired of spending time and money on a fruitless investment, meaning not just my schooling, but me. I was lost. I had no direction, no passion and no idea who I was or where I wanted to go in life. I was just as fed up as my parents.

Driving home, my phone rang with a strange number. I thought it was a prank, but it was my sister. She has been living in Phnom Penh, Cambodia, off and on for two years working for different organizations and is in the process of starting her own company. She sounded like she was in a box, but I made out three distinct words: “Come to Cambodia.”

Thinking, I took the long way home from school. I had no idea what Cambodia was like. I didn’t know what language was spoken, how the people lived, what state the economy was in. Nothing. I pictured streets filled with men in pointed straw hats and rickshaws behind, rice paddies, bungalow houses on stilts and people eating crickets and spiders. I had no clue.

My parents gave me 24 hours to decide during which I frantically researched, called friends, and smoked way too much. But I left two weeks later and arrived jet lagged and ill-prepared for my first day as a volunteer English teacher at the school my sister worked for.

I spent most of my days helping the kids with the new computers the school had received. I had no clear instructions, only to “hang out” and adjust. Apparently I did something wrong. The owner of the school told my sister that I “wasn’t working out” and was “not what he expected.”

Re-cap: I flew 15 hours to a country where I knew only my sister, who I think saw me as a burden, to work a job I thought I had for 6 months. I felt trapped, alone, and lost in a world I knew nothing about. To top it off, my parents weren’t receptive when I called them, hoping to find an answer.

Scared and feeling helpless, I met one of my few friends for lunch. He encouraged me to stick it out and gave me the website and a contact person for an organization working with kids.

I arrived at the Cambodian Dump Children’s Committee, a part of the Center for Children’s Happiness. It resembles, for lack of a better word, a compound; there is a rec yard, a rusty swing set, a little garden and two huge buildings. One was the boy’s dorms and school rooms, the other the girl’s dorms and main building for the kitchen, theater stage and computer room. About 93 children live there, most orphans found at the city landfill, Steung Meanchey.

There were so many children there, but one little girl changed my life. Her name was Srey Ka. She wanted to be a traditional Khmer Dancer, but was too young to start training. She would watch the other girls and copy their movements. When I asked her what she was doing she took my hands in her tiny ones and moved my fingers into extremely painful positions, mimicking the movements.

I think I needed her as much as she may have needed me. We could only communicate in mime, usually with her laughing at me, but she loved being held. She wanted to know that I wouldn’t let go. Once I opened up to her and the other kids, Cambodia became different. It wasn’t a scary place, it wasn’t as dirty as it was before and the more I relaxed, the more the country offered. I met more people, explored the city and found wonderful new places. I could get on a moto taxi and know where I was going. My perpetual fear gave way to an entirely new sense of independence; I knew freedom.

Leaving Srey Ka was hard. They were simply being themselves, but she and the other children opened my eyes to the beauty of Cambodia. Those kids have never played Xbox, eaten a Twinkie, watched prime-time television, or done the many things Americans equate with happiness, yet they were happier than any other group of people I have met. They have the uncanny ability to look at each day as the gift that it truly is. They don’t tell themselves to relax, enjoy, or absorb; they do it naturally.

I left with a sense of hope, something I had lost a long time ago. I don’t fear tomorrow anymore then I dwell on yesterday. I was only there three months, but I learned the importance of loving myself and loving others, of being accepting, open, and kind. One day I hope to return to Cambodia to give back as much as I received.

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Rob Haggart, former Director of Photography for Men’s Journal and Outside Magazine, ran a blog titled “A Photo Editor” in which, while remaining anonymous, he rather openly discussed how it is behind-the-scenes in the world of editorial photo editing. Entertaining and insightful, it quickly gained notoriety in the photo world.

He quit his job at Men’s Journal for a lifestyle change you can read about here, came out of the closet about his identity, but has continued to develop “A Photo Editor” with a purpose he is still exploring (read this post).

I met Rob several years ago while I was helping to create and manage the trade organization Travel and Outdoor Photographer’s Alliance; he came and spoke at one of the State of the Industry panel discussions we held. His participation was a gesture I appreciated helps me appreciate even more the work he puts into “A Photo Editor”.

Rob put the Folio Browser website together as a resource for photo editors and a place for photographers to find new clients. As a photographer, it’s an inspiring collection of some talented photographers. And, I’ll confess, it’s validating to know in Rob’s eyes I made the cut. I’m about half way down the page amongst the other journalistic imagery.

Enjoy his blog and the work of so many skilled photographers!

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It took me a month to be able to talk about it with perspective, another month to try and catch up on my affairs (I’m still behind), but I think I’m ready to start telling stories. Feathered Friends, my past employer, my past land lord, my alma mater, is graciously donating the space.

These are stories about the anti human trafficking work being done in Cambodia. I’ll be up front, some of the stories are hard. Some of the pictures are difficult. But it’s all real and many of you, because you care and want to know, helped me get there to find these stories.

This is the slideshow I’d hold in my living room, were it big enough. The work is not finished, but I’d like to share with you what I have, what you helped create.

Feathered Friends
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
7.30pm
119 Yale Ave N, Seattle 98109

See the full page poster here.

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Last year, as a means of processing, I wrote a personalized multimedia essay focusing on my week in Phnom Penh. There I worked, more or less by sheer perseverance and chance, with the non governmental organization AFESIP which provides A-Z services for female victims of sex trafficking.

This year, during the two months I stayed in Cambodia, I began tracing a map of the story I wanted to tell on the tile wall of my guest house. Thinking in terms of psychological trauma, I decided to portray Cambodia–the country–as a victim struggling to become a survivor. With a story to represent the figurative Cambodia, I began piecing together the literal. I feel I am halfway there and hope to return when I have the funds (I’m applying for grants, looking for assignments, or other funding sources). I want to take a moment, again, to thank all the private donors who made this most recent trip possible.

Below is an eight minute multimedia essay. It is an overview on the themes of human trafficking, with Cambodia as an example. It is more an introductory tool for advocacy than a complete story, and is my first stab at incorporating HD Video. This time I worked closely with James Pond and Transitions Cambodia. He is a man who wears his heart on his sleeve, who is a wealth of information, and who trusted me enough to provided incredible and unfettered access so I could learn and understand just how complex sex trafficking is in Cambodia.

Not everyone can move to Cambodia (or another developing country) like the Ponds (see story here) who founded Transitions Cambodia. But there are two things to note: human trafficking happens here in the United States and, without a support base in the States, work by small NGO’s cannot be accomplished abroad. By talking about this issue you are doing something, but please also consider:

• Telling your friends by linking to this blog: http://www.timmatsui.com/blog
• Using a direct link to this media piece in your blog or facebook: http://www.timmatsui.com/media/20080328_PNH_web/20080328_PNH_web.mov
• Or go one step further and consider helping one of the Cambodian NGO’s I’ve listed here.

NOTE: on this video, I’ve been told people have trouble viewing it. i suggest after “clicking to play” hit the “pause” button (lower left) and let it load completely before hitting play again. I am looking into alternate means of posting. thanks!

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In Cambodia I worked with James Pond at Transitions Cambodia. In fact, his random email to me in December 2007 was what psychologically sealed the deal for me; there were too many things pointing me in the direction of going to Cambodia to ignore.

I’ve found working with non governmental organizations, especially the smaller kind, the ones who are working at ground level, requires a great deal of mutual professional respect, openness, and trust. I also found he and I have similar thoughts on how to tell the story of sex trafficking. We put a fair bit of trust in each other; he in allowing me unfettered access to him and his center for trafficking victims, me in giving him extremely liberal licensing with my work. I figure at this point, were I keeping a tab, I’ve provided well over $10,000 of creative work for free. I must have drunk the kool-aide. But I’ve also met the girls and staff at Transitions Cambodia, I know some of their stories, and I’ve seen them working hard to heal, to truly reintegrate into society with dreams and lives pointed toward the future.

I could go on, but click the image to the right or THIS LINK to see the KGW News video on how, and why, James and his family ended up in Cambodia for three years. In search of purpose, not everyone needs move to a developing country, but this is an example of people will. Just to make a difference. Photos courtesy of yours truly.

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View this multimedia short of Andrew Hida’s ongoing project “Slow Healing.”

I met him about a year ago, in a coffee shop, on the recommendation of an acquaintance. She said he was fresh out of school, into photography, and looking for direction. I’ve been there and while I didn’t choose the most expedient path to full-time photography (nor the most profitable), I have picked up a few helpful tips along the way; from my experience or from the more experienced. I didn’t know what I could offer him, but at least I could meet him.

Of Asian ancestry, Andrew Hida grew up in Hawaii; he fronts a surf-skate image, glorifies the near-water qualities of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer, and for him everything is “sweet” as in, “leave your sweet email” or “take a sweet break” or just plain “pretty sweet.” But do not be fooled by the lingo or laid-back attitude; I’ve seen him learn and work with intelligence and diligence. It’s kind of hard for me to fathom this, seeing as I feel I’m just bumbling along in my career, but I believe I’ve ended up in a mentor’s role for Andrew.

What I can say with confidence is in the year I’ve known him I’ve watched his photographic style change, his development of story concepts improve and, above all, his commitment to the craft of documentary project photography. He even called me the other day to discuss a revelation he had on the bus: documentary photography doesn’t happen by sitting at home waiting for it, you have to go out and do it, be in it, and push those doors open.

Sounds simple, but working on project means you’ve got to sell it to yourself before you can get on the phone and cold-call someone with much greater power, prestige, and stature than yourself to say “um, can I take your picture?” And the same goes for the core subjects of the story; the relationship you build with them is one of trust and the understanding that you’re bearing witness to their life with the purpose of sharing it with others. So you must be confident in yourself that you can do this, for they are relying on you.

I believe Andrew has come a long distance from his travel and street photography to being able to see an opportunity that supports his project on Traumatic Brain Injury, negotiate the access, and then spend five days completely immersed with a family struggling through the aftermath of the signature wound of the Iraq and Afghanistan conflicts. A year ago he could not have done this. Dare I say I’m proud of him?

View this multimedia short of the ongoing project “Slow Healing.”

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Chad is a raw revolution. Leaving out the personal development and self awareness the death of his wife and a bout with cancer have influenced, I’d still have to say he’s changing. Again. I used to call him “silent bob” but now “chadderbox” is more fitting.

Focused and goal-oriented, he’s always been an athlete. For instance, before becoming a climber he was a snowboarder; a step less-structured than his days on the Olympic luge team.

Today he is training for a return to China to attempt Siguniang; two years ago he and his team were shut down by iced walls and horrendous weather. Last year he was returning from a scouting trip when a local outfitter rode into base camp to tell him his wife had an accident. He ran the dozen or so miles–at altitude–out to the nearest phone.

Last year he and Joe Puryear were awarded the McNeil-Nott award; this year it’s the Lyman Spitzer, a step up in prestige for him and his partner Dylan Johnson. Neither are terribly substantial sums, but they offset expedition costs and, more notably, are a judicial nod from the American climbing community. For Chad, a general contractor and sometimes professional athlete, this recognition means he is more likely to pick up sponsorship thus enabling him to spend more time training.

To go out with him means you’ve got a built in altimeter, stop watch, pitch counter, and voice of reason. He is steadfast, determined, and a veritable machine. And he is planning again, but with new goals in mind.

Nerves as cold and hard as the steel on his crampons? Nah, but razor sharp focus like the pick on his ice tool? Absolutely.

Chadderbox is the Raw Revolution.

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If I were on my mom’s track, four years ago I would have had me, and in 30 years I would retire. It was a bit of a novelty to me that, on my 30th birthday, my mom would have her 60th. Four years later she retired from a lengthy time serving the Everett public. (at right: my mom and the roses my sister brought her)

As head of the children’s department she held sway in the redesign of the library when it expanded from the original small, brick building; she also kept my hands full with more books than I could possibly consume. As a youth, I had a voracious appetite for literature which she kept well-fed; some were meant for me, but many were books she had to review or read so she could give book talks. Looking through the photo album her staff put together was a trip into the past.

Since I was a kid, I have a child’s recollection of this time. Because of all the books she brought home, I think it was 6th grade I tested in with an 11th grader’s literacy; this promptly gave me a complex leading to nearly every traditional English teacher trying to hand me off to some other poor soul. I think 10th grade, when I was in a combined social studies / English honors class, was the only time I wasn’t a total pain in the ass. Mr. Kimball, who promoted his quirkiness, was a Vietnam vet tasked with introducing us to Siddhartha, Apocalypse Now, Heart of Darkness, and other, more classic works. Ms. Mukai, the social studies component, was way cool because when she saw the Led Zeppelin sticker on my binder told me she’d *actually* seen them play in Seattle. I was an insta-fan.

Typically my dad has always had the higher-paying job working in the ultrasound field. But being attached to more…shall I say “fringe” projects…his work was off-and-on. When it was “on” he was at the office sometimes until 8 or 9 at night. I’m not sure if I was born with this trait or learned it subconsciously, but I think I have the same work ethic. Still, my mom went into full time work where she stayed, probably in part because she likes to be busy, that is, until March 28, 2008. (at left: my dad laughing with Jodi, one of my mom’s long time children’s librarians)

She eased me into cooking with notes like “put the casserole in the oven at 350 degrees at 5:00.” My dad did the more “artsy” cooking, dominating the Japanese cooking and anything having to do with the grill (go figure), but my mom planned the week’s meals while working her random schedule as a city public servant. Spaghetti sauce, casserole, meat loaf, roast, curried leftovers, and the occasional tuna casserole. Today, I’ll make that dish–minus the peas–as a kitschy joke, even though I must be honest here: I kind of like it. I think the key thing to note is it’s inexpensive and VERY easy to make. A dish a mother of three who works full time could whip out with ease.

The ’80’s weren’t the easiest for my parents. They have a big house–a custom built dream house–that, understandably, they wanted to hold on to. And with the ambiguities in my dad’s work (like mine, but a lot more stable) and the government pay my mom had it meant many long hours for them and for us, in the winter, it was warmer to do our homework by the wood stove. Being non-parent-focused, as many high school kids are, there were some winters I found myself in my bedroom wrapped in a red fleece blanket (which I still have), wearing fingerless gloves and seeing my breath in the air. Later I would warm myself by the fire, rewarding myself with a couple chapters in a novel my mom had brought home and a bowl of Cheerios liberally doused in sugar. Which, of course, was the exact time she wanted to catch up on my life and my day at school. Now, as an adult, I understand that. But at the time I just wanted to read. And here’s an embarrassing but super cool fact: I had to fight to buy lunch at school like all the other kids. My mom got up early enough to make healthy lunches for all of us AND cook us breakfast. Which, because I’m usually late, meant I ate on the way to school. Boy howdy.

The whole point of recalling these moments is largely to pay tribute to her in my own way; as an adult struggling to hold onto my personal dream (the work I do) and not having a house, spouse, or kids when–by my mom’s schedule–I should have a four year-old and a one year-old. All I can say is I’m impressed with what she has achieved both at home and in the work place; I would’ve done it–I would have had to–but probably not as well. (at right: the librarian staff)

I guess that’s what retirement brings on: reflection. It’s a milestone in life and, while my dad is busy as ever doing contract work, it seems they’re taking more time to enjoy all those moments the three of us children monopolized. My mom even bought another minivan. I inherited the last one–upon which I cut my mechanic’s teeth–but this time they might follow the lead. They’re looking to do some road tripping. I figure they could put a bed in the back, with storage beneath, some velcro curtains, a cook kit, an iPod, and off they’ll be on the road trip I wish had the time for, except I have to work.

Huh. Sounds like a bit of a role reversal.

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The offer hung between us since my return: a long weekend skiing up in Canada with friends, a free stay in a townhouse, and accessible back country so I didn’t have to pay for lift tickets (for which I don’t have the money). Seemingly a no-brainer for many, but the biggest hurdle for me was the pressing feeling of having work to do. It wasn’t until the day before they left that I shrugged to myself: “why not?”

I drove up with Dan and Allison, two friends who’d been in Cambodia with me, while Deb, Chad, and Mileva came up in a separate car. I still took the opportunity to do five moderately productive hours of work in the car. (at right: chad goes for a run)

I’ll spare you the details and simply say it had its relaxing moments and the back country was beautiful. While we watched snow mobiles high marking and even saw a tow-in ski jump, it was pretty calm out there.

My fitness was lacking, but the snow was forgiving knee-deep powder on the lee slopes. Overnight it became wind-loaded so on the second day–on slopes we’d already skied–Chad set off two slab avalanches. They were fairly inconsequential, considering the depth of the slab (4-8 inches) and breadth of the fractures, but there were no cliffs or trees to be battered against. Still, it reminded us to respect the randomness of nature and–for me–the reminder that you’re here and then you’re not. Just like that.

Not everything went as planned, which was easy enough to roll with, but I noticed I stifled moments of unidentifiable anger while passing through the resort area. Watching people, listening to snippets of conversation, I was seized with judgment about the sheer excess built around lift-serve skiing. The back country was the counterbalance, the thing that helped me relax. (at left: self portrait in a frozen landscape)

However, I couldn’t help but feel a bit guilty and hypocritical having a townhouse to kick back in afterwards. But in an attempt to find balance, I found pleasure in the good meals we made, the company of friends, the cocktails in the hot tub.

It was the marked contrast to the previous months that struck me the most; the gentle silence of the snowy peaks, the ice-cold air that numbed my face, the pleasure of exercise while climbing the slopes, the laughter and discussion, the sweeping views of distant mountains. When you’re wound tight, relaxing is hard work. I’m not sure I was prepared to face that kind of exertion when I got home. It has kind of caught me off guard. (at right: chad and deb)

The only pictures I took were with Chad’s small point and shoot…something I would love to own one of these days. After I get that 8-core MacPro tower so I can process video, upgrade the laptop, the software, and trade-in my lovely 1D Mark II’s which weigh a ton. I’m looking for a sugar-person (to be politically correct), or that one killer job that enables me to make a much-needed hardware upgrade. Non-profit work isn’t….well…very profitable. Any suggestions out there?

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One of the difficulties I find inherent in simple ‘reporting’ is the article tells the reader just how devastating a situation is, and then leaves it at that. My experience working with sexual violence and psychological trauma through the FEAR Project has shown me that a story with hope in it draws a far greater audience than one with pure pain. Even better, I believe, is to provide the reader with a way to process or utilize an emotional reaction. I think one of the most difficult things is to watch an injustice unfold and be powerless to act.

To that end, I have compiled a list of Non Governmental Organizations in Cambodia who I believe are doing good work. Undoubtedly, it is a biased and incomplete list based on my experiences. However, I hope it gives you a chance to see how you can become involved and to realize that Cambodia is just one developing country out of many. Learning what these NGO’s are doing will help you understand what others are doing in other countries, helping you choose where to send your money, spend your time, or simply to talk about. I believe awareness is the first and most important step.

To review the list, go to this page.

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Touchdown. It’s slate gray outside, 18.41 local time, and it looks cold. There is no orange light, no heat radiating from the pavement. 30 minutes ago we began our descent; the flight attendants on the Taiwanese airline, stern in their efficiency, sent us to our seats. Again, my gut sent me to the toilet thinking of a climber friend returning from Pakistan; he either took off or landed in the bathroom. It’s not that bad for me, it’s just not right, so on my way to the airport I grabbed a de-worming regimen from the pharmacy. The local expats do this every few months and said I’d been around long enough to pick something up. I hope it’s that simple.

Most of the flight I’ve been staring at the back of the seat in front of me. Since leaving Phnom Penh 15 hours ago I’ve been wondering about the stories. There are so many; some are bigger and complex, others just moments. If asked “how was it?” I’m afraid I’ll just stare, wondering what to say. (Above: Srey Neth, 19, and Transitions Cambodia Executive Director James Pond visit Neth’s old home and place of capitivity, the impoverished Group78 slum in Phnom Penh.)

I met a woman who I connected with; we spent nearly two days straight just hanging out. She had stories; some were cohesive and some scattered as thoughts bubbled forth. As we drank later and later into that first night, she shared a beautiful mix of moments from her backpacking days, both scary as hell and funny beyond belief. There was the tourist bus that left her and two companions somewhere in remote Pakistan; the next one was in 10 days. Instead of hiking out by the road, they went cross-country for 12 days. (At left: 19 year-old Srey Neth in the slum where, at 14, she was sold into sexual slavery. Neth is now on staff with the victim aftercare NGO Transitions Cambodia.)

Or when she heard the Iraq border was open–no visa fees–she grabbed a taxi and was halfway there before hearing about a guy who nearly made it. He turned around, several thousand dollars poorer, but alive. There was a guest house where, fortunately, she barricaded the door. And the time she cut her dreads with a pocket knife, ate half her journal, and sat awake with the embassy number written on her arm. Her travels took her from Japan to Jordan, and many countries in between. Some of the stories are on her blog and some are more private; at least two countries have files on her and, today, seeing men with guns gives her flashbacks.

At one point I shook my head. “You’ve got balls,” I said.

“Yeah I do,” she replied proudly, cupping an imaginary basketball. “This big!”

In Phnom Penh, when things got safe, everything caught up to her. Underweight and self medicating, she sought out counseling and now can name what she has: post traumatic stress. She knows some of her triggers, but some things are blocked; when she gave me her blog she read a few entries. At one point she exclaimed, “There was a man with a gun outside my door! I didn’t remember the gun, but it’s right here.”

What has festered deep within her psyche, what has governed her subconscious, is emerging. I think parts of the adventures were hard, but I think the real work is happening now. I’ve met others like her; some, just so they can function, run from the painful mess of their experience–either knowingly or unknowingly. PTSD is difficult, for everyone involved, and her efforts to heal have my respect, for the process means reliving every trauma. She has to stand firm and face it. (At right: Tieng, 18, a resident and good friend of Neth’s outside the after care center on Valentine’s Day.)

As I pulled my gear out of the overhead compartment and crowded out of the aircraft, I realized this woman is now part of my story. But I have only been on the baby-soft edge of the place she went. I’m afraid of the pain, struggle, and risk that comes from reaching deeper. I am more cautious than others who’ve thrown themselves in for I know it’s not just the physical self that can be lost. Yet in some of the work I’ve done, I have felt a certain power in the idealism, the hope, the reward of having an effect–however small–and it is not something I can turn away from. At least not yet. Maybe not until I know how far is too far, even if that leaves me standing, shaking, in that same chaotic place she was.

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The warnings are written clearly in a book a traveler gave me; it is about three idealistic twenty-somethings who meet in Phnom Penh. They end up working for the UN, through Somalia, Haiti, Rwanda, Bosnia, Liberia. It is a story about their descent into the hell of bureaucratic apathy, political inaction, professional incompetence, and genocide. It’s as much a story about the places they’ve seen as it is their experience, justification, struggle, and reward wrought from the trauma they endure. All three were nearly lost to themselves. The book is titled “Emergency Sex,” for that moment when you’ve narrowly escaped death, when the emotion is so intense you have to fuck to prove your existence. To release. (At left: Orphans who once lived at the city dump pose as human traffickers prior to the educational CCH “Roadshow” performance to rural community members. 14 year-old Sayorn is second from right.)

My friend gave me the book after we visited the landfill together; we had been talking at length about sexual exploitation, trafficking, and the NGO world in Phnom Penh. She understood the urgency in the work, the intensity of a moment; her ‘day job’ is fighting organized crime.

A lot of tourists visit Steung Meanchey; it’s a smoking mass of rot where the impoverished collect a living from recyclables they sell. I was working with CCH, an NGO that recruits orphans out of the dump, gives them a home, education, and a chance at a future. All the youth have a dream, which in a country full of victims is no small feat. As far as my trafficking piece goes, this is a preventative measure; it decreases the number of vulnerable children, if only by a few hundred.

Although hot, smokey, and nauseating it wasn’t one of my more intense experiences. But it left me drenched and exhausted with an itch in my lungs; I can see why so many of the dump residents develop respiratory problems. Standing in the midst of the slick mess my friend surveyed the scene.

“It’s awful,” she said over the roar of the garbage trucks. I turned to our guide, 14 year-old Sayorn, who shrugged shyly. “No problem.” He was in flip-flops. He lived here until CCH offered him a new life. (At right: In the wake of the bulldozer, a young boy picks recyclables out of the Stueng Meanchey landfill.)

When I returned to the guest house my pants smelled so bad I left them soaking in the sink. Two days later, in the cool confines of the French embassy talking about pedophiles, I pushed my feet across the hardwood floor as far as I could. My shoes stank of rot, just as they would on the plane.

But these are just moments.

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What is our capacity to understand? What is just another day in Cambodia, Nigeria, Burma, Somalia; what is just another day when you live it? My stories are nothing compared to cataloging corpses for a genocide trial; nothing compared to the everyday life of kicking in doors, shooting people and getting shot at; nothing compared to the experiences of some of the people I’ve met. (Acid burn survivors pose for a portrait near the offices of the Cambodia Acid Survivor’s Charity, Phnom Penh.)

Yet by my second night in Seattle I’d already had moments where I’d stare into the past and start speaking about something I saw. I often falter when I do this, snapping back to the present to find concerned looks of people whose evening I might have spoiled. In Cambodia, it’s just another day.

Phnom Penh is rich with stories, as are many other parts of the developing world. Roslyn is going to another UN post in Kandahar. Gillian to Sri Lanka. Romy is thinking about Africa. Others are re-upping their contracts, staying another year; things in Phnom Penh are mellowing out, creature comforts more prolific, but there is no shortage of work for the well intentioned. It’s just a little less likely you’ll be shot off your motorbike, fight a second assailant, then drive off with bullet holes in your forearm and ass. It sounds odd, but it happens. I can introduce you to the guy. (At left: Son and daughter watch over their dying mother, a victim of an acid attack, at the Children’s Surgical Center, Phnom Penh.)

Sometimes I wonder what people really want to hear. I might reply “intense, frustrating, emotional, beautiful, satisfying” and smile that empty smile. Because maybe in that moment I’m thinking of the story about victims of acid attack. It’s about the stench of burned flesh; the sound of rapid, shallow breath; the sight of a semi-conscious woman and the deflated, resigned look of her adult children. It’s about her grand daughter, who at three years died in the attack. Five days later the woman died too.

It makes me think about Cambodians as victims, but also Cambodians as survivors. There are some who seek to heal, to move into that realm where trauma no longer controls them. I made portraits of acid attack survivors, of women so scarred it was difficult to look. But the more time we were together, the more I saw their confidence as survivors. They laugh, they flirt, they are feminine, they will look you intently in the eye–those who still have them–as if to say “I am a person, see me as one.”

Not long ago the NGO CASC set up an acid burn hotline; more women are coming forward. Data about victims is not terribly reliable; hospitals don’t classify burns, people tend not to report the cause of death, and victims hide in shame, but it is estimated that Cambodia has a higher per-capita number of acid attacks than Bangladesh, the poster child of acid attacks. (At right: Acid attack survivor, 28 year-old Srey Own, is now the and BABS bag-making trainier at the CASC.)

This had an impact, on a personal level, for I smelled that woman’s flesh for a week. But it’s just another story, just another moment.

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I spent some time with an investigative organization focusing on street-based foreign pedophiles; a very narrow subset of the Cambodian sex industry, but one which attracts more attention than the neighborhood brothels servicing thousands of Khmer men. (at left: Handcuffed to the truck, the suspected American pedophile returns to the jail after a day in court.)

One evening we motoed around, following a suspect who repeatedly returned to Cambodia, ostensibly to groom one child in particular. The child, according the NGO, didn’t receive much kissy-kiss until after dark. They were waiting for the suspect to take the child to a guest house, at which point they would call the police. I asked to be informed when this occurred.

During my last week in Phnom Penh, the NGO moved on another American suspect. Because of a miscommunication, I wasn’t called when they made the bust.

The Cambodian police kicked in the unlocked door of a guesthouse on the Lakeside. Inside was the American, without his shirt, and two girls age 12 and 16. The American and his friends say it was a set up, that the girls offered him a massage, that they were paid by the NGO to trick him into extortion. The NGO and the police say he is a pedophile, that they’ve built a substantial case against him. (At right: Another suspected American pedophile exhibits grooming behavior with a Cambodian child, Phnom Penh.)

It may have been fortunate that I wasn’t in on the arrest for I think it allowed me a relationship with the accused and his friends. I presented myself as who I am: an American journalist wanting to document their side of the events. They were quite open and hospitable and shared a lot with me; at the same time I was receiving a lot of prosecution information through back channels. It is an odd position to straddle and, at times, required me to clarify my boundaries; I can only observe.

So I watched; at the courthouse he sat in his rumpled suit and tennis shoes, staring at the handcuffs he wore, gently testing the steel. Later, in the jail cell, I saw false bravado as he told his friends they should leave. The next moment he shuddered with sobs and embraced their hands through the heavy steel bars. On my first jail cell visit, he was weak and sick. Unable even to hold water, he gently vomited in front of us. It was a surprising hiccup of embarrassment he rushed to clean. He slept on the floor with no blanket; the guard, through pantomime, said he might tear it into strips and hang himself.

According to the American, after hours of questioning the police handed him a statement written in Khmer–which he can’t read or speak–and asked him to sign it. He refused, asking for a lawyer and interpreter they did not provide; his friends then hired an attorney and later an interpreter. Last I heard, his friends paid $200 to have him moved from the cockroach and mosquito infested police jail to a more accommodating prison just outside the city. He will wait a month until his case is brought to trial. (At right: Mike, a friend of the jailed suspect, at their nascent NGO office and residence. The NGO, if established, will mimic the suspect’s retreat in India where residents live an agrarian life under Hari Krishna principles.)

The US Embassy contacted his friends but is fairly hands off, issuing a statement that “American citizens charged with criminal offenses in Cambodia are fully subject to the Cambodian judicial process.”

Without his friends I’m not sure he’d have legal representation, an interpreter, or anything but the simplest of foods and human comforts. At the moment, I don’t feel it’s appropriate to say more about the case.

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I had a brush with Cambodian bureaucracy as I tried to make a portrait of General Bith Kim Hong, Director of the Cambodian National Police Anti Human Trafficking and Juvenile Protection Department. I wanted to make a power-portrait of him, for multiple sources credit him with ensuring the arrest of “Sasa,” a convicted Russian pedophile. He was recently sentenced; 13 years and $100,000 for victim number one. There are 18 more victims to go. (At left: Police General Bith Kim Hong, Director of the National Anti-Human Trafficking and Juvenile Protection Department)

The day before I left Cambodia we had tea in the General’s office; no interview, but portraits were ok. Permission, which took six weeks, was personally approved by the Minister of the Interior, Hok Lundy. The email proposal I sent was translated then reviewed by the same guy whose stamped signature adorns my visa. Lundy is so far up the government chain I am surprised he reviewed the proposal but, on the other hand, this is a sensitive topic for which he has received bad press. None the less, I was happy to meet the General for if Cambodia is going to pick itself up it has to have strong, incorruptible leadership; something the General seems to represent. I hope to work with him again.

Yet this moment is coupled with many others; tales from sources illustrating how difficult it will be in the current political and economic climate to make a positive difference for the people of Cambodia. None of the sources would go on record but one person told me a little anecdote: the tiger is strong and powerful. If you get on the back of the tiger you are strong and powerful too, but you have to go where the tiger goes. If you get off, he will turn and eat you. Working with the government, he said, is like that.

Politics play out in the NGO community as well. There is an issue that too many brothel raids will net too many girls, taxing the aftercare system, but recently there was a struggle over which NGO would get some rescued girls. It was expressed to me by several people that numbers matter to donors and donor dollars–but shouldn’t it be about the victims?

There’s also a chasm in the anti-trafficking community, seemingly bridged only by professional necessity, as judgments are cast out by the more conservative faith community while the non-faith community returns with its own opinions of the religious. This split crosses the Pacific; some donors prefer proselytization while others are adamantly opposed to anything smelling of religion. But it’s not just faith dividing the ranks; I can’t forget the distrust between some Cambodian and foreign NGO’s.

I walked into this with several endorsements and introductions; I became the photojournalist poking around the anti-trafficking community. This led to questions about me and not all the answers were positive; I have an ex in Phnom Penh. I hadn’t been in-country but two and-a-half weeks and I had a reputation.

It was limited to the faith community, but phone calls and emails propagated, reaching as far as Washington D.C. I think the themes were about me being unethical and exploitive, which were probably compounded and twisted by others, but I can’t say for sure. In one low point, I made a phone call to an NGO which the week prior had been positive and receptive. What I heard this time, in a cold, shaking voice was “I’ve been told not to speak with you.”

It’s kind of awkward to start a professional relationship with “So, those things you might have heard about me–I don’t know what they are, because the source won’t say–but I’m really not a bad person. If you have any concerns I’m happy to discuss them.” But a few went that way. One director, after meeting me, essentially shrugged; he hadn’t paid much attention because he’s been a victim of slander in the past. It must come with the turf.

It felt like high school, except it’s not the senior prom at stake: it’s millions of dollars and the lives of vulnerable people. I’m sure the people judging my intentions and work were saying the same. I just wished they could–and would–have an open dialog about their concerns. For the few who responded when I reached out to clarify my ethics and intentions, I appreciated their professionalism and respect. But again, in spite of the impact I perceive this had on my work, it’s really just a moment.

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I know some people don’t like the intensity and immediacy of this kind of experience; I think it’s offensive that I might expect others to want it. Not everyone wants to face the frustration, bureaucracy, religion, corruption, or the feeling of impotence in the face of great need. And who am I to judge? I’m still on the edge, peering in. Indeed, it would be easier for me to check out, to work a ‘regular’ job, to challenge myself with seemingly important social dilemmas, financial gains or athletic pursuits. Here, in America, it’s hard to see your impact and much easier not to care. (at left: friends of the alleged American pedophile currently in jail awaiting trial.)

But I met a rescued girl whose brother was sold for labor by her mother to pay the girl’s “debt” now that she’s not turning tricks at the brothel. At a shelter a teenage sex trafficking victim held me in goodbye; just as I was beginning to feel uncomfortable she looked up and said “do not forget about us.” And yet another girl, who always put me at arm’s length, ran to her room at the last moment. She came back with the tackiest pink rose in a sea of fiber optics. It now sits on display in my living room, flashing its multi-hued colors.

I watched a village chief, proud of his TV, proud to feed me the fish he caught, brush his teeth in water full of fecal contaminant. There was the couple, forcibly relocated by the government, who showed me their wedding portrait. It hung in a palm-frond hovel squeezed into rows of similar shacks. (At right: Moat Clas village chief.)

And then there are the people committed to the betterment of others–simply because. The younger, the more idealistic, but even the jaded and cynical seem to keep at it. When “Cambodia Wins Again” they get back up, brush off the red dust, and go for another round.

This is the theme of “Emergency Sex,” they throw themselves at the world, they do some good, but ultimately get spit back, scarred from the fight. It could be hopeless, except in those moments one makes a difference. And that is the immediacy; there are people willingly fighting for survival, for justice, for opportunity. The difficulties are complex, but there is hope, there is success, and there is more we can do. Now, in this moment.

I am spinning down, readjusting to what “normal” is here in the States, and sifting through all that is swirling in my head. As I struggle to produce a coherent story I realize I float between two places: on one side are the people who cannot engage in the reality of Cambodia–it’s too much–and on the other are people who live a greater horror every day, casually, and for them these stories are inconsequential. (At left: Srey Neth with center director Jaya, left, and executive director James, right, in the building she was held captive.)

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My phone beeped the arrival of a text message, waking me. I lay twisted in my flannel-covered duvet, the early morning light soft through the window, a crisp Seattle breeze feathering across my nose and cheeks.

01149…the number started. Germany. It’s Romy, the only woman I kissed while in Phnom Penh, something I’m sure the guest house staff doesn’t believe. Dating, as we know it in the west, isn’t a much practiced social convention for conservative Cambodia. You pretty much have to propose to a girl to ride a motorbike together and not cause scandal–for her. When Kath kissed me on the cheek after our pre-dawn motorbike ride to Oudong the staff wouldn’t let it go for a week.

My last few days in Phnom Penh were as busy as any, both professionally and socially. I made it to my second Elsewhere party, where I met Romy. On the dance floor, of all places. There was a going away party, my own going away bar session, the trip to the dump, the portrait, a Khmer wedding, meetings and introductions, time with the suspected pedophile; it was exhausting. But there was something about stopping and being with her which was calm. Safe.

I sat behind her on the moto as she drove, very Khmer-like into oncoming traffic, and wrapped my arms around her waist. I held her hips, pressed my hand flat against her belly, my muck encrusted shoes on the foot pegs, our helmets bumping gently with every stop and start. We shouted over the wind and the traffic; we hardly knew each other and there was a lot to share. We were both leaving t