Cambodia Letter:The sound of distant explosions in Ta Sen commune's Ochamlong village is not so unusual as to invite curiosity. After all, the village, near the Thai border, is situated in the middle of one of the most heavily landmined areas in Cambodia.
But Thang La (53) felt uneasy when he heard a loud blast at 8am on January 19th. "The [ deminers] normally explode the mines they find in the afternoon. I knew when I heard it so early something was wrong," he said.
He was right. Seven people had died in one of the worst single demining accidents in Cambodia, after what investigators believe was an inter-connected series of anti-tank and anti-personnel mines exploded. Thang La's son Hokly (22) was one of the casualties.
It was to this region that the Khmer Rouge retreated after losing power in 1979 and it was here their will to keep fighting the Phnom Penh government was slowly throttled out of them, with defections in 1996 and 1998 effectively finishing them. Their legacy, however, a vast network of minefields - the ones around Kamrieng laid primarily around 1986 and 1987 - means that two decades on later they are still taking Cambodian lives.
There is an estimated 4-6 million mines and other unexploded ordnance in Cambodia.
Landmines killed 440 people across the country last year alone, according to Cambodia Mine Action Centre (CMAC), the government-run agency that is trying to tackle the problem. The majority of them would have been in areas such as Kamrieng, where farmers must eke out a living on land riddled with the mines.
The 33-strong platoon working on the minefield near Ochamlong the day of the accident were Community Based Deminers, a CMAC/Japanese Mine Action Service affiliated initiative whereby teams of local people are trained to clear landmines in their own areas. Out of 150 countrywide, 93 are working in Battambang, earning between $70 and $80 a month.
A kilometre up the road from Thang La's small farm in Oanlok village, a little boy leads us down a dirt track to his family house. A simple wreath and a small Buddhist shrine outside marks this as a place of mourning.
The boy's father, Hul Huot (35), sits as his four young children, aged two to 14, gather around. Seven months ago, he stepped on a mine while clearing bamboo from the field beside his house. He lost his leg just below the knee. His wife and the mother of his children, Chea Houn (34), wasn't so lucky in January. "When I went to get her body, her head was gone, everything was broken. I could tell for sure it was her from her ID badge," he says.
Hul Huot's handicap forced his wife to go out and work as a deminer. Now his family's only income is from the soybeans he plants in two hectares of leased land.
"What is our future?" he laughs grimly. "I don't know. We were very reliant on my wife. Our living situation will only go down."
Hul Huot expects his family will receive $4,000 from CMAC in compensation, but he believes its responsibility goes beyond that.
Heng Ratana, deputy director of CMAC, says the scale of the accident at Ochamlong came as a shock. He is completing an intensive investigation into exactly what took place.
CMAC intend to provide extra training to its deminers in the wake of the accident. "We will do everything we can to ensure this does not happen again."
Hoeun Srey Narath (26) was 100 meters from where her sister Srey Roth (24), a group leader, was overseeing the uncovering of the landmine. "She was walking away from the mine towards me when the explosion happened," she recalls. "The soil from it went all over me and my sister's body dropped near where I was. Her body was not cut, but she was dead."
The scene was one of carnage.
"Heads and limbs were everywhere. The villagers and relatives went to the site and gathered as many pieces as they could. They are still going out there trying to find parts but they cannot go too far as there are so many mines."
While she thought about quitting in the aftermath, Hoeun Srey Narath feels she must continue. "I am almost too scared to do it again but I have to do it to support my family."
Mean Srey Orn (27), a mother of two who lives nearby, was only about 40 metres away from the explosion.
"The visor of my helmet was almost ripped off. I lay there for a while and felt myself to see if all my limbs were there."
She is pragmatic about what happened. "Accidents happen. After, relatives said I should stop but I won't. We must finish clearing all the mines from this area so the village can farm. I can't allow myself to be scared or I won't be able to do my job properly."
The path to minefield 5708B leads a kilometre from the road, through scorched woodland. Red flags flutter gently around and in the distance, marking the points up to where they have been made safe. It's a quiet, oddly banal scene.
Tiep So Phatha (43), on duty that day as an on-site medical adviser, points off in the brush to our right, identifying the scene of the explosion. It is not safe to get any closer. Remains of victims are still hidden in the long grass around us. The only people who knew the correct path to venture further in that section, are dead, he says.
Tiep So Phatha was in position at the entrance of the minefield when the explosion took place. Three months into his job, which paid $180 a month, he had regarded his role as easy. "I resigned the next day," he says. "I never want to see something like that again. The deminers get paid very little for the danger they have to face."
In Ochamlong, Pang Kan (48) weeps alongside her husband Thang La as he recalls their dead son. The only child working in a family of 11, Hokly La was a huge support to them, Thang La says .
"Why and how was he killed? No one can tell me." Yet, despite his loss, he recognises the crucial role of the deminers.
"Although he was killed by a landmine, I am happy my son's death was for the people and his community," Thang La adds. "If demining does not go on, how can the village survive?"