In
this instalment of A River’s Tail, we explore how two communities are being
affected by the ecologically devastating practice of sand dredging, and how a
building site in Singapore can forever alter the lives of those who live along
the Mekong.
Writing
and Colour Photographs by Luc Forsyth, Black and White Photographs and
Videography by Gareth Bright
Luc Forsyth
Luc Forsyth is a photojournalist
and writer, specializing in social, environmental, and humanitarian reportage.
His images and writing have been featured in media outlets such as The New York
Times, TIME, and Al Jazeera. His non-profit partners include the United Nations
Population Fund, Handicap International, and the Gapminder Foundation, among
others.
Visit Luc’s personal
website at www.lucforsyth.com
Email Luc directly at lfphotographs@gmail.com
“I
used to swim across the river when I was a kid,”
“I
used to swim across the river when I was a kid,” Yea Bunthea told us in the
small cafe his family operated out of their home. “I probably still could, but
I think I’d be exhausted.” Though he meant it as a joke, there was an
underlying sad truth to his words: in the community of Khpob Ateav, the
Mekong’s banks were washing away at an alarming rate. “10 years ago the river
was only 700 meters across. Now it is more than a kilometre.”
From
where we sat the truth of Bunthea’s statement was apparent. Instead of a
naturally sloping river bank, there was a hard, uneven precipice that dropped
abruptly to the water five metres below. As we watched two of his children
throw stones into the river, it looked as though an earthquake had ripped the
land away by force and left a jagged scar in its place. Whenever they got too
near the edge, he shouted at them to move back, apparently worried that the
sandy lip could give way at any time.
"Our
house will also collapse into the river soon.”
Looking around, it was easy to see why he was worried. To the left of his home was an empty lot where his neighbours house had been; a lonely staircase was the only remaining evidence that it had ever existed. Where it should have stood there was no land, only empty space over the water. “Our neighbour took his house down and moved inland a few years ago,” Bunthea explained. “We are also planning to move in a few months because our house will also collapse into the river soon.”
Bunthea’s
brother Bunsong took us on a tour of the family property, showing us the narrow
patch of sandy earth that lay between their home and the Mekong’s currents.
Bunsong said the banks were eroding at the rate of 4-5 metres per year, and had
been doing so for the last decade. If the trend continued, as it almost
certainly would, the family had very little time left.
Only
human activity had the power to affect the environment in such a drastic way
River
banks are shifting entities, not static structures. They collapse and expand
according to water flow, rain patterns, and sediment replenishment. But what we
were seeing in Khpob Ateav was too fast and extreme to be part of any natural
cycle. Only human activity had the power to affect the environment in such a
drastic way, and from our preliminary research, we knew what was responsible.
In
Singapore, over 14 million tonnes of sand have been used for construction.
Sand
is a commodity that is generally taken for granted. It lacks the glamour of
substances such as gold or diamonds, and is worth far less by volume than coal
or oil. It is a substance that most of us think of as abundant and virtually
worthless, and yet it is neither. Wherever concrete is required - which is in
nearly every building project anywhere in the world - sand is needed in great
quantities. In Singapore alone, which has expanded in size by more than 20%
since the 1960’s, over 14 million tonnes
of sand have been used for land reclamation and construction - much of it coming from Cambodia.
That
sand has to come from somewhere, and in Cambodia that often means dredging it
from the Mekong.
The
international natural resource and human rights watchdog Global Witness has
released a far more comprehensive report
on the impacts of sand dredging than we could possibly hope to match, so we will
keep it simple: sand dredging changes the course, flow, and sediment
distribution levels of rivers. For the residents of Khpob Ateav, that means their
land is being washed away much faster than it is replaced.
They
knew that something was wrong, but not why.
Talking
with Bunthea and Bunsong, it was clear that they didn’t fully understand the
cause of their dilemma. They knew that something was wrong, but not why. When a
family is struggling to keep above the poverty line, how can you explain that
their backyard is vanishing so that a new condo can go up in a country 1300 km
away.
To
board the ferry from Khpob Anteav to the nearby island of Peam Reang we slid
down a slick slope of red-brown mud with a distinct lack of grace that
delighted the locals who had gathered to watch. In a cruel twist of irony,
Bunthea told us that as his land was washed away, portions of it drifted across
the river and settled around the periphery of Peam Reang, creating a boon for
island residents in the form of new farming land where before there was only
water.
As
the ferry drew closer to the diamond-shaped island we were able to take in the
scope of the land transfer. A vast expanse of fine sand extended from the
coastline in a crescent that was at least 2km wide at its base. It might have
seemed like a natural beach had it not contrasted so glaringly with the
island’s existing jungle topography.
“I’ve
been farming here my whole life,” said Chheng Tre, a 59-year-old farmer we met
while exploring the sand flat, “and the land never changed. But in the last 3
years an extra 60 metres have been added.”
Vibrant
green watermelon patches blanketed the edges of the newly emerged ground
Not
without empathy, Tre admitted that while the increase in farmable land has been
a blessing to Peam Reang residents, it has come at the expense of those living
on the mainland. For an island on which every square metre of arable land had
been claimed for generations, the sudden availability of open ground must have
seemed like a miraculous gift - one that they were rapidly moving to exploit.
Vibrant green watermelon patches blanketed the edges of the newly emerged
ground, and young men were busy ploughing the remaining area, eager to make
sure they didn’t miss out on their share of the bonanza.
When
people interfere with the river, those who live downstream are at risk.
As
we made our way back towards Cambodia’s capital of Phnom Penh, what we had seen
reinforced a fact we already knew to be true after our time in Vietnam: when
people interfere with the river, those who live downstream are at risk. It is
impossible to know what will happen to the people of Khpob Ateav, but if more
consideration is not given to how the Mekong is treated, they are in peril of
being washed away.
Though
the people on Peam Reang hadn’t meant to steal the land from the families of
Khpob Anteav, the situation still seemed like an injustice of the highest
order. Powerful Cambodian oligarchs were reaping immense profits from selling
the Mekong’s sand to foreign countries with little, if any, concern for the
people who were being displaced. While it needs to be noted that a construction
crew was working to put up makeshift erosion barricades, the extent and rate of
the disappearance of the river banks made it doubtful that the repair efforts
would ever keep pace with the destruction.
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