Preserving a way of life

Of the three provinces in the Northeast, I was most excited to visit Mondolkiri, having never been there before. I had already heard of its breathtaking and untouched beauty from my colleagues, who had visited the province only four years before. It is completely covered with forest, they told me.

As we drove past the border of Kratie Province, it was apparent to them that the province had changed. Not only were the red dirt roads completely paved but many of the forests lining the roads had been cut down, small family settlements from neighboring provinces, taking their place. There was not yet the abundance of cashew and rubber plantations as we saw in Ratanakiri, but it was not difficult to imagine, in a matter of years, many of the fields being cleared for that purpose. As we entered Mondolkiri, we began our ascent upwards past jungles and tropical forests to small mountains covered with bright, green grass and forests of pine trees. The air was cool and refreshing and I was reminded of being in Europe and not a tropical country. Over the years, elite mountaintop communities have formed with homes and land belonging to high-level government and business officials.

All along the way towards Senmonorom, the capital of Mondolkiri, workers were paving, cementing, and locking down the roads that would connect the three Northeastern Provinces and their valuable natural resources to the rest of the country, and more importantly to Vietnam. Wood, cashew, rubber, and even coffee flowed out, while processed items and cheap produce from Vietnam flowed into the country, overwhelming the local markets.

We stayed in a guesthouse owned by Mon, dark and broad-shouldered, hair shaven, strutting army boots, and Ray-Bans. Mon had come to Mondolkiri five years ago from Kampong Chhnang, when Mondolkiri was only forest. His father died leaving behind Mon and his siblings to take care of his mother and the family. Mon’s eldest sister decided they would take a chance in a place where few had dared to go. They came with nothing but their bare hands. At first, he was afraid of the forest, dark and menacing with wild sounds. But he got used to it as well as the rain, which often poured continuously for months on end.

Now a large, cement bridge runs over their property, bulldozed in by Chinese ex-prison laborers. They cut down all their avocado trees and would have taken everything in sight, if they were not there to constantly protest and send letters to the provincial governor. The family’s guesthouse and restaurant has become a favorite with local and high-level officials, with vegetable gardens and fruit trees running through the property and a gushing stream that feeds a small electric dam that he and his family built themselves. The property is completely energy self-sufficient.

Through the years, Mon has become connected with the surrounding indigenous villages. They started bringing him wild honey and wild meat from the forest as well as knitted scarves and woven baskets, which he began selling in a small gift shop. Some members of the villages now even make a bit of money performing for guests and taking tourists on elephant treks through the jungles. Mon showed them how valuable it could be for them to preserve their indigenous culture.

Mon took us to meet Ta Ting and his family, members of the Banong Indigenous group, who had adopted Mon as one of their own. We drank rice wine served in a porcelain jar and drunk through hoses made of bamboo and plastic and smoked herbal cigarettes – all traditional ways to offer us their welcome into their home. Ta Ting began talking about how popular he was and how many pictures had been taken of him when he visited Phnom Penh because of the large bamboo earrings that pierced through his ears. Ta Ting’s brother also bragged of his own popularity. He’s even made a split-second guest appearance once in a Cambodian music video, dressed in indigenous clothing, crouching out of his hut. He posed for the camera naturally and even let down his long hair for a picture. He told me proudly that he was one of only a very few left who still wore their hair long.

Mon began riling up the family and asked them to bring forth their drums. They danced and played almost mechanically, going through the rhythm of every movement and gesture as if done so many times before in front of so many guests seeking the wild, native experience. I wondered what they thought of their culture, now being preserved not for its own sake and for the sake of future generations, but to entertain tourists in search of a good show. Can a way of life be traded for money like any commodity? How does tourism preserve but also ultimately alter the traditions it seeks to preserve?