Andy Brouwer's Cambodia Tales

A visit to the dead and displaced in Ratanakiri

by Christine Dimmock

Christine Dimmock is an Australian who has travelled to Cambodia on a number of occasions in recent years, and penned her unusual experiences in the Cambodian northeastern province of Ratanakiri. My thanks to Christine for permission to re-print this insight into her trip, together with some of her own photographs.

On my third day, in Ratanakiri, November 2001, I decided to visit the old graveyard at Kachon village on the Sesan River, north of Banlung. In his 1997 Northeast Supplement to "The Cambodia Less Travelled", Ray Zepp had reported seeing polynesian-style carved statues here. My motodop Bee assured me he knew the graveyard and that at least half the road was in good condition.

On the road there wasn't much to see except the never-to-be-photographed minority people on their way either to or from the market on foot. As we rounded a corner, I was surprised by the unusual sight of rows of small stilt houses made of leaf panels beside a freshly painted concrete building. Graphic signs in two languages and pictures made it clear that photography was not allowed and there was no entry without prior permission. Bee tried valiantly to explain until, on hearing the word Vietnam, I realised I had finally stumbled on the somewhat controversial Vietnamese montagnard refugees. I had recently read an article in Bayon Pearnik describing how their counterparts in Mondulkiri lived in huts made of blue tarpaulins and played with Gameboys. It was interesting to see that the Ratanakiri setup was a little different.

Sooner than expected, we reached Kachon village and I waited impatiently to be taken to the graveyard. Instead Bee explained that he had to have relations with the minority people (that is, ask their permission) and we walked over to the riverbank, passing a large open building where minority people Police in uniform were holding a noisy meeting. There was a big termite nest sticking up through the floor. As we relaxed by the river, Bee told me the story of a large crocodile which the local people had caught about six months ago and taken to Banlung in a pickup en route to Vietnam. Unfortunately for them, it was intercepted by the Wildlife Police, driven back to Kachon Village and returned to the river from whence it came. One small victory for the wildlife of Ratanakiri!

Becoming more impatient and fearing some misunderstanding, I began asking about the graveyard, drawing very bad impressions of a Cambodian stupa, a Chinese grave and my idea of a carved polynesian-style figure. This provoked a little action, especially when a few minority people appeared along the path and Bee attempted to have relations with them. He finally found someone who could understand him, we were given the nod and quickly set off to our left. One look and I was immediately enchanted. My mother engendered in me an affinity with old graveyards and this was obviously the most unusual one I was ever going to visit. Some kind of path had already been cut to the general vicinity, but Bee opted to remain guarding his moto and I was left to plunge through the undergrowth alone to the closest gravesite. Looking further, I realised there were not just a couple of carved wooden figures but around 20 or more, usually one male and one female for each grave.

The more recent graves each had a rectangular fence, an elaborately shaped metal roof painted in bright geometrical patterns and the two carved wooden figures. All the figures were different. At the two remaining corners of each rectangle were what looked like large pairs of carved wooden horns in an unusual upright shape. Each site also contained household objects for the deceased to use in the afterlife and all the graves were spread through a peaceful well vegetated area near the riverbank. Rolls of film rapidly disappeared as I enthusiastically clicked and flashed away, struggling through prickly vines, red ants and anything in my path. Photography was quite a challenge due to the combination of bright sunlight and deep dappled shade. I tried to tread lightly because it was to me an intensely spiritual place and I was horrified to think that a loud tour group from my Guest House had been there the previous day. Even worse, there were countless tourists yet to come.

First I concentrated on the newer, coloured wooden figures. Some were wearing metal wristwatches, one female figure sported a pair of metal sunglasses. Red, green and yellow paint had been used to clothe them. Several male figures wore distinctly military style caps and one had a carved walkie talkie on his chest. Another carried a bow and arrows, and smoked a cigarette. His female partner wore round metal ear-rings and a green painted bra top which matched the large green pipe protruding from her mouth amongst the leaves. The older figures were unpainted, much less elaborate, more weathered and dotted with spots of lichen. Their only adornments were metal eyes and ear-rings and in one case a headband. Occasionally there was a touch of red on female lips or black on male eyebrows. Their heads were disproportionally large and round and their bodies lacked detail.

Items to be used in the afterlife included various types of baskets, china plates, bottles, cooking pots and often brown glazed pottery vessels the same as those I had seen in the Banlung market. I realised I had also seen several sets of cows horns and jawbones lying around and began to look for more to confirm that animals had been slaughtered at the burials.

Two ultra-modern graves had concrete fences and horns. Pairs of Phnom Penh style ceramic elephants featured on either side of the rectangle instead of carved wooden figures at the corners. This made them look oddly modern and out of place. The site had obviously been a graveyard for a very long time with structures everywhere in varying states of decay and I realised that in my jungle ramblings I was stepping all over the oldest graves which were marked only by pieces of rotting timber or broken pottery.

In a large new clearing right by the riverbank was the site of a fresh burial - obviously a person of some importance. It had no wooden figures, coloured paint or ceramic elephants, only a plain roof made of palm leaf panels in the local fashion and a bamboo fence. It's large selection of worldly goods included baskets of every shape and size, gourds, a cast net and a bet each way with a pot containing sticks of incense. Skirting respectfully around this newly cleared area, I was in the process of photographing a cows jawbone lying on the ground when I spotted beside it the horn of a rhinoceros (or so I thought at the time). I poked it gingerly, photographed it then moved on before being tempted to pick it up. (The photograph later revealed a buffalo horn. My imagination had run riot as I wandered among the dead!)

How could it possibly be that the villagers would not allow themselves to be photographed but had no objection to my intrusion in the last resting place of their ancestors? I heard voices approaching and as I hadn't seen Bee for at least an hour, half-expected to be accosted for trespass and desecration of a graveyard. I sneaked around very quietly indeed until the voices faded into the distance. Finally, I found myself back at the beginning again. I had seen and photographed everything at least once, therefore it must be time to go. Unfortunately, Bee, whose English was sound but limited, was unable to tell me anything about the graveyard or the beliefs of its owners. Somehow the mystery increased its appeal.

On the return journey during a small detour through a village I spotted an enormous bomb casing which I pointed out to Bee who didn't know what it was. He knew where it came from though - the United States of America. It was identical to many I had seen in Houa Phan Province in Laos, but the first I had ever seen in Cambodia. Appreciating my passion for graveyards, Bee then offered to take me to a small one at another village closer to Banlung. Smugly I agreed and we wandered off down a footpath, retracing our steps when he realised we had gone the wrong way. Relations with the minority people set us on the correct path and we passed under a cool archway of bamboo arriving at the site of about five simple graves with roofs of woven leaf panels. One contained a very large pottery vessel with the remains of a beautiful pastel coloured design.

I began photographing this until I was directed to another more elaborate grave by the unlikely word "aeroplane". In the undergrowth I could see a white roof with elaborate gables decorated in black and white geometric patterns. It bore the date 22-05-1997 (or perhaps 1999). The crowning glory was a home made replica of a helicopter. (Actually it looked more like a 1950s caravan with rotors). Why? I wanted to know why? Bee's only explanation was "important person". Well, I thought, some want white roses and some want a helicopter. I mused on what should adorn the roof of my own grave, but abandoned the concept when distracted by a walk to a communal bathing area where streams of water fell from bamboo pipes. Bee asked the women if I could photograph them. They said no.

We resumed our ride back to Ban Lung and to my surprise, Bee asked if I wanted to visit the refugee camp. I didn't like our chances, but one never knew. First he had to have relations with several uniformed men at the entrance. This consisted of them yelling, waving angrily at the signs and pointing at my camera which I thought was discreetly out of sight. It was pretty obvious we weren't welcome so we beat a hasty retreat, but not before I had a closer look at the huts which were lettered A,B,C and so forth in blue paint. I asked Bee whether the Vietnamese montagnards were allowed to leave the camp and go into Banlung, but he was struck dumb by the hostile encounter and didn't answer until five minutes later that they had to stay in the camp. Perhaps we can guess that they wouldn't exactly receive a warm reception in town.

It had been a bizarre and memorable day, quite atypical of what I had come to know as Cambodia. The origins and detail of the burial practices in the area remain a mystery to me but I have learned from Hector Rifa, a university professor from Spain that the Kachon village graveyard belongs to the Tampuan people, and the one nearer Banlung belongs to the Kreung. The military dress on the figures (the Tampuan told him) is because the Khmer Rouge protected them, so they dressed the figures in military uniforms. The helicopter is regarded as "one spirit that can see every thing". Professor Rifa has extensive knowledge and film footage of the minority people of NE Cambodia which he is in the process of piecing together into one or more documentaries. Enquiries from any source can be directed to rifa@correo.uniovi.es.

* Footnote: The Vietnamese Montagnard refugees, who are now under the protection of the U.N. High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR) near Banlung and Sen Monorom, say Vietnamese authorities have jailed tribal leaders, attacked their churches, severely restricted their movements and even prevented them from tending to their crops. They also say the government's policy of assimilation is destroying their culture. Vietnamese officials deny the allegations, arguing that the refugees are illegal immigrants who want to join their relatives in the United States. The UNHCR Regional Representative says his organization's aim is simply to protect the Montagnards.

Story & photos courtesy of Christine Dimmock (November 2001).

Click on any photograph to enlarge it. If you have a story from the 'other' Cambodia, e-mail me with the details.

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