Yesterday I visited rural villages in the Bovel District, a two hour drive from Battambang, Cambodia's second largest city behind Phnom Phen. This region is extremely poor and many communities here survive on subsistence agriculture and wood gathering.

The climate this time of year is baking hot with temperatures hovering around 37ºC. March is the end of Cambodia's dry season and much of the countryside is a dusty brown, though the humidity is pervasive.

After a grueling two-hour ride on bumpy and dusty dirt roads, I arrived at my destination, a trade school focused on teaching landmine victims and their relatives about engine mechanics. The ten-month program is offered free to a hand selected ground of 20 individuals who attend class 7 hours a day, 5 days a week, and live in a simple bamboo structure attached to the school house. When the students complete their training, they will be able to return home and starting their own businesses.

From the school, I headed deeper into the countryside on a scooter. Somehow, the roads were even worse than before. Accompanying me was my hired translator and a gentleman who oversees the trade school. He was acting as guide as he is familiar with the local communities. The mission was to understand the impact of living with the constant fear of stepping on a landmine.

As it turned out, finding those directly affected was sadly all to easy. Our first stop was the village of Beung Popoul. It is literally kilometers from anything: no modern conveniences, no market, no services. The roads are ghastly during the dry season and barely walkable the rest of the year when they transform into a viscous bog. These people are completely on their own.

Here I met Sek Yeurm, a 56-year-old man who was the patriarch of an extended family living in two bamboo structures raised a few feet off the ground in the usual style of the region. Both his legs were blown off above the knee by a landmine in 1984. Since then, he has relied almost exclusively on himself and family members to survive.

In the same village, I was also introduced to Vom Pheap. About fourteen years ago, he and four others tripped a landmine while farming. The others died. He lost his right kneecap and added a few pieces of metal to his body. One piece is embedded in his jaw and he asked me to feel it. The wounds have left him in chronic pain and with fainting spells. At 45, he has a wife and child to care for.

Another landmine victim was Vorn Tok, the village's elected representative. He spoke with me about the lack of government and NGO support. The primary source of assistance is the community itself. Neighbors pool what little the have to help a family newly affected to a landmine death or injury.

Leaving Beung Popoul village, we bumped our way to Beung Arak where I met Eour Em. In front of her house is a mound of dirt about 10 feet high. Near it's apex she pointed out six small olive green metal cylinders. These were landmine and they were literally less than 20 feet from where she sleeps, eats, lives.

Relaxing on hammocks in the shade beneath Em's neighbor's house, several young children remained glued to my every move. Not many westerners make it out this way.

These children don't attend school, or at least not often. The community doesn't have the resources. Despite their shyness, when I began talking with them, their single syllabic responses to my questions are quite telling.