I am thoroughly enjoying this and I KNOW you are going along and visiting these places solely for the purpose of writing about your experiences.

Follow the money...

Well, Kathie - don't give up on it just yet. You might be surprised at developments. Perhaps, just perhaps, some youthful entrepreneur is way ahead of you...

I report things as they are today, not what they might be tomorrow. Perhaps, <i>just perhaps</i>, my feeble efforts have a purpose.

Remember, too, that most people doing this cruise are first time travelers to the area. Remember that first trip to S.E. Asia? Everything was wonderful, amazing - <i>different</i>

I'll quote from Ms. Ned.

<i>Despite the hardsell from the children, I welcomed the opportunity to see what it is that I would never see in my own little part of the world. I don't know that I will ever recover from the culture shock...</i>

Remember also, when you are not 'captive' on a boat, you have to get there in the first place, find a place to stay, food you can eat...

Wouldn't it be a smart move to make a river-cruise for people just like you? Gosh. What a great idea.

I'm following along here, dogster, with the full knowledge that you wouldn't be raving about this cruise if it was all like this. I will await the unfolding of this experience.

I plead guilty. Definitely my first trip to S.E Asia. Not naive enough to think the mob of regularly scheduled tourists would do anything other than have an effect on the locals. By and large, very much the same in all parts of the world , except that the use of children to generate income is not always so flagrant.
If they did design a river cruise for the more intrepid explorers, it would most likely not be too long before the sharks would move in for the kill.
The Mercedes in the driveway was an irritant but the persistence of the miniature shills was equally grating.
However, I still prefer to pick up my glass, swirl, and see the glass as half full.

Kathie, I would not repeat this cruise or one like it should I return to Cambodia. It did reassure me that I could find my own way when I do return there. Just me...I need some sort of context to which I can refer before I move out of the box.
It was snorkeling in shallower water on lovely but less than challenging reefs that sparked the desire to scuba dive. Not the most apt comparison but it'll have to be enough for today.

ned, I've been traveling in SE Asia for some 25 years, so I'm more critical of this than others may be. I certainly respect that this experience has opened your eyes to traveling independently in this part of the world. Remember, I'm also assessing my interest in the Fodor's Love Boat Cruise should this be the cruise chosen. I'm one of those people about which is said, wherever there is an easy way there is also a harder way... which is the one I tend to choose.

I think I went to that same candy factory, Dogster. Tried to talk myu fellow cruisers out of buying the belts made from endangered snakes. Without luck.

Watching the first(and last)-time tourists soak it up is part of the experinece for me, part dread and part entertainment. We ran across Chinese made African "crafts" on southern Africa roadsides. The factories that make these trinkets for tourist villages all over the world, now that's what I'd <i>really</i> like to tour.

You sure beautifully nailed the male Aussie psyche, Dog. But then you would.

Dogster,

So glad you enjoyed the cruise!

Given your penchant for river exploration much farther off the tourist grid - I was interested to read this tale.

As always - I’m enjoying it all.

Please keep the installments coming -

Today was a generosity day. Today was a day to ease our collective conscience and give to the meek, the mild, the poor, the unfortunate, the homeless, the unemployed, the sick, the maimed and anybody else with their hand held out. Above all – today was the day for the orphans.

The passengers stumbled up the slope to the car park laden with plastic bags full of stuff. Orange racquets bulged out, soccer balls, pencils, erasers, exercise books, sweeties, toys, toothpaste, all bought in readiness for the great event. To greet us at the top, a pod of singing children - the day of conspicuous generosity had begun.

Quite where the singing children had come from was anybody’s guess. A school, an orphanage, a home – nobody cared. They were poor and sweet and cute and bashed out some sweet, cute Cambodian songs with sweet, cute smiles on the poor, sweet, cute faces. They were homeless, maimed, unfortunate – or none of the above; actually, all that mattered was that they were <i>children</i>. A compassion attack was upon us.

Compassion was dutifully stuffed in the donation box, carefully wedged between the kids and the kindness.

I met her after the obligatory sightseeing

She was sweet sixteen, a prom queen from Perfection, U.S.A. Perfect teeth flashed from perfect lips, perfect blue eyes shone from perfect blond hair. She was dressed down for the occasion, surrounded by a bevy of not quite so perfect Cambodian children. They were all having a wonderful time. I heard giggling as they playfully wandered over towards us.

In the distance I could see a dozen or so equally perfect American youths sun-baking on a makeshift platform surrounded with tattered drapes and what once was a proscenium arch. Above them a sign said: The Arts are the Key to Freedom. Apparently traditional dance will set you free. I’ve tried it. Not true.

Judging by the look of the stage the performing arts of Cambodia still had a long way to go. Striding amongst the idle youth was a solitary monk, his orange robes aglow with self-importance. This was His Highness, the venerable Monk Capone from the Wat Nokor Foundation for gullible American students.

I had to ask.

‘We come from Somewhere Nice,’ she gushed, clasping her Cambodian children in a hug, ‘we’re all here to do Good Things.’

“How wonderful,’ I smiled. This was a bubble I couldn’t bear to puncture.

‘We come here on our Spring break to work with ajahn Capone. He’s our school project.’

‘How great,’ I smiled, ‘I’m glad you’ve found someone to admire. You know sometimes these guys can be a bit… suspicious.’

She got my meaning. A brief cloud passed across perfection, she lowered her voice and eyes.

‘Yes, our school had some trouble last year. We found out our donations from the last monk weren’t really err… making it to the children. We had to let him go. Then we found Al.’

She looked fondly towards her blessed Monk Al, by now laughing with his young sun-burnt disciples.

‘So what do you all do?’

‘We raise lots of money and donate to the foundation then each Spring break we come over here and…’

She paused, uncertain as to what she actually did do, other than spend her parent’s money on expensive, charitable airfares.

‘We play with the kids… we help them… ahh, we…’

Her voice faded away. That brilliant smile never budged.

‘And how many children do you actually… help?’

‘Well, we all thought we’d be really busy,’ she smiled, gorgeous and gormless in equal degree, perfect teeth flashing white against cheeks glowing with goodness, ‘our monk said he had six hundred orphans - but we’ve been here for a fortnight now and so far we can only find twenty-five…’

‘Well, just keep looking,’ I said, ‘I’m sure you’ll find the other five hundred and seventy-five soon.’

She wandered off, chatting excitedly with her newest, bestest orphan friends. In the distance I heard high pitched Cambodian laughter.

We moved on, heading for the Big Event.

There’s an orphanage in Kampong Cham that I’ve become all-too familiar with; I’ve been watching it change for the last five years. Or rather, I’ve been watching it stay exactly the same. Only the children are different – in more ways than one.

As the bus rolled in through the gates it was evident our schedule was slightly askew. The children were hard at work hauling baskets of dirt from a huge pile just dumped by a truck, Tiny children wielded mattocks and shovels bigger than themselves, hacking away at the dirt, spreading it around a water-logged lawn, looking for all the world like Pol Pot’s peasant army.

The earth-moving detail rapidly dispersed, the tools disappeared and the child-laborers transformed instantly into sweet little orphan children, waving brightly at the incoming loot.

Tourists and their booty unloaded, the children assembled in front of a small auditorium of red plastic chairs, conveniently already laid out in rows. They look looking blankly at the enormous, smiling white things that had just appeared. Their director was hastily summoned. He arrived breathless and made the customary speech, translated dutifully by our Cambodian guide.

‘Our children are either orphans or have poor parents. Some are too stupid to work.’ The guide tapped his head. ‘Stupid…’ I think he meant retarded, backward, kids with learning difficulties.

‘We feed them and give them a home, send them to school and give them clothes…’

I could hear the collective ‘ah-h-h-h’ from the visitors.

Out came the shopping. Bags of bounty were piled high on a table in front of the children. Soon they almost covered the big white box with DONATIONS written in big blue letters on every side. The moment of conspicuous generosity had arrived.

Our Cambodian guide had seen it all before. He was professional, dutiful, but there was something about the blank look in his eyes that spoke volumes. He had been at pains, repeatedly, to tell the group that they could give their presents directly to the children. Beyond that, he was mute.

Taking their cue from the guide, some of the group broke into the booty, distributing cheap trinkets to the children. I watched as they thrust pencils into orphan hands, shoved little key rings with koalas, erasers, colored plastic balls at blank-faced children. It was an odd scene. There was no excitement in the kids, indeed, rather a lot of them seemed unenthusiastic, strangely unwilling to take anything. They were bored with it all, acting out their roles as unfortunates with stoic pride.

Strangely enough, I had a few questions. It wasn’t appropriate to ask them in front of the group so I’d arranged a private chat with the Director, accompanied by my translator, our guide. The guide was oddly enthusiastic about the meeting. He knew what I was doing. While we wandered and chatted the rest of the group were visiting the art room. Only two of them explored further than that. If they had, they would have seen exactly what I had seen, five years before. Nothing had changed. Nothing. There was not a toy in sight, not a soccer ball, not a bat; everything was clean, everything tidy – but there was no sign of life - just listless children, waiting for the next intrusion.

We were the third boat though that week.

Follow the money.

‘How much are the school fees?’ I asked with a broad smile on my face. I was intent on charming the Director. He was already wary of this alarming tourist. I knew he would clam up if he knew where my enquiries would lead. In this situation the technique is never to ask a question you don’t already know the answer to.

‘School is free,’ He mumbled, not very eagerly, then hastily added, ‘but we have to pay for books and uniforms…’

‘How many children?’

‘Ninety.’

I looked puzzled. There were a lot fewer than that in sight.

‘Some are at examinations,’ he added quickly, ‘some go to Phnom Penh, some go home...’

‘Where do they all sleep?’

‘Here,’ he said, pointing at a block of three rooms. Each room held twelve beds cramped hostage. Each bed was a raised white metal bed-frame, exactly the same as those at Tuol Sleng. On top of each bed was a timber platform in lieu of a mattress, each with a rolled up straw mat at the head and a wooden cupboard built into the base at the other end. Each cupboard was closed tight and padlocked. Each dormitory had that same chilling brown and grubby white tiled floor from Tuol Sleng. The rooms had open windows and a few scattered plastic chairs. A few scattered children not on show sat listlessly, staring at me staring in.

‘So what do the children do when they are not at school?’

‘They do art…’

‘You mean the art for sale over there?’

He nodded. In another block was a room hung with orphan paintings. Strangely, all the orphans painted exactly the same. The art-work was just like anything you might see in Saigon, mass-produced pictures of Asian houses, painted with a great deal more skill than one might expect from a group of children. Proceeds from the sales go ¼ to the artist, ¼ to the orphanage and half to a mysterious organization called ‘Global Children’.

‘And they make crafts.’

‘You mean the bags for sale in here?’

We were standing outside a dormitory, transformed into a gift-shop for the tourists. An array of bags and purses and bags and purses and bags and bags made from mass-produced cloth, doubtless from the silk-weaving village, jostled for space along a wooden table. It was exactly like everywhere, except it was sewn by orphans, somehow adding to its cachet.

He nodded enthusiastically.

‘And they do gardening,’

‘You mean the earth moving gardening just here?’

He nodded, explaining the problem with flooding at this time of year. As we talked another truck arrived and dumped a load of new dirt for Pol Pot’s army to ‘garden’ when we left.

‘So how many boats come every week?’

He hesitated. I jollied him along.

‘I hope many boats come, you are doing such good work. It must be very expensive.’

‘Five.’

‘Wow, that’s more than two hundred and fifty people a week. For forty-two weeks a year. Wow. How great!’ I smiled sweetly. ‘Do they all bring donations?’

He was loosening up. ‘

‘Not everybody,’

‘That’s a lot of pencils.’

He smiled.

‘And a lot of toys…’ I added, gesturing at the table groaning with today’s donations.

‘Yes, we get many things…’ He was looking stressed again.

I looked around. I still couldn’t sight a single toy.

‘You must have to look after everything very carefully. These children would break them…’

He nodded, relaxing slightly

‘What do you do with all of them?’

‘We keep them in the activity room.’

‘Oh, I’d love to see that.’

Glumly he led me across the quadrangle to a large house built on stilts.

‘Is this your house?’

‘Yes.’

‘It looks very nice. You should have a nice house. You are the boss. You are an important man.’

He led us under the house to a locked room. I continued the praise as he prised open the door.

‘My office,’ he said with a smile.

His desk was neat and clean, huddled in the one clear corner of the room; a large important red chair sat in front of closed blue curtains, a huge calendar taped to the wall, his pens and folders were arranged neatly on the glass-topped desk. He was a very professional man.

The rest of the room was piled high with treasure. The booty covered most of the available space and climbed in haphazard constructions toward the ceiling. Piles of exercise books four feet high filed one corner, around them thirty of so plastic bags crammed with magic markers, pencils, erasers, brightly colored picture books, plastic toys, balls, bats and god-only knows what else lay strewn across the floor.

We were only three weeks into the cruise-boat season and already the ‘activities room’ was close to bursting. So was my heart. Every single thing was taken away from these kids as soon as we left. Every toy, every pencil, every ball…

A table held two large globes of the world, hundreds and hundreds more pencils and pens, forty or fifty thick scrap-books in folders, containers of pencil sharpeners and erasers in clear plastic holders. A desk beside them groaned with more folders, another globe, fifty large boxes of Colgate toothpaste and more unopened plastic bags.

In the next corner I counted eleven soccer balls, a sack of plastic shoes, a large bag of sleeping mats and a pile of folded sheets of blue plastic laid on top of a mound of invisible generosity. Next to them were eight huge green sacks of rice.

‘Wow,’ I said, snapping as many pictures as I could, ‘you’re a very smart man. I see you rescue the toys from the children. Very smart...’

We left. I was silent as we drove back to the boat. I couldn’t bear to tell the other tourists just what would happen to their kindness.

As we headed down the road I whispered to the guide.

‘Do you know what I was doing back there…?’

He nodded sadly.

‘Yes.

There was a long pause. He sighed.

'Someone has to show what is happening…’

I report what I saw. I report what I heard. I suppose I'll be branded as a cynical curmudgeon.

I'm no expert on the compassion industry in Cambodia. All I know is the numbers don't add up.

Follow the money.

And thank you for reporting what you saw.

It takes a lot of research to figure out how to have a positive impact in these very poor countries.

I, too, appreciate the report. Somehow, I'm not altogether surprised. Except by how much you got to see.

Follow the money...

I am so glad you are writing about this, Dogster.

I'm sure you're not surprised, Mr. Thomas Peter. If you can, please tell us why you feel you have to participate in this charade.