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Mornings are quickly becoming my favourite time of day in Cambodia. The air is still fresh but you can feel the heat of the day on its way. Waking up in the wooden house on stilts, I love hearing the animals calling to each other, opening the shutters to look out over the small lake, and looking up to the distant hills that are clear in the morning light but will soon become hazy in the heat of the afternoon sun. Despite its natural beauty, this area of Cambodia is not a place to go exploring in nature. I came to Cambodia over a month ago to work on a research project. I’m staying in a village near the border with Thailand. Today my interpreter, Arun, is going to take me to visit Borey, a man he knows who lives close by. Setting off on his motorbike along the dusty road, I take in the surroundings that are starting to become so familiar to me; the village lined with similar tall wooden houses high up on stilts and below them dotted along the roadside, stalls selling boiled eggs and vegetables. As we head out of town the land opens up to fields of crops, people working in their wide brimmed hats, and skinny, angular bovine wandering around looking for somewhere to graze. This every-day life interrupted by sections of unused and overgrown wasteland, marked with skull and cross bone signs. Simple objects indicating the presence of deadly landmines. We meet Borey on the road outside his house. He is an older man with a welcoming face but deep-set lines across his forehead. He tells us he has something he wants to show us. We walk off the main road down a track. “Is this track safe?” I ask slightly nervously, distracted by voices echoing round my head, people telling me, “you’ll be fine as long as you stick to well-worn roads and paths”. “It’s ok, I take the cattle here and people go here to collect firewood,” replied Borey. We turn off the track on to what can only be described as brush; stepping over roots and branches as we walk. “Erm, is this safe?” I ask, feeling responsible for Arun as well as myself. “There’s no problem,” replied Borey as he presses on. We come to a stop and Borey starts to explain something to Arun. He begins to look uncomfortable, he tells me to stay still, then continues to listen to Borey. The colour drains from Arun’s face. He turns to me and points down at the ground, I notice a dull metal shape half buried in the soil. He says, “This is a powerful mine, when it detonates it jumps up in the air and then it explodes like a spread net. It can harm 15 people at a time, the majority will be injured and at least 4 or 5 people will die. It is very strong”. I feel suddenly fixed to the ground I’m standing on. I don’t want to move. I look at Borey. This is where he has to walk to graze his cattle. This is the land his children grew up on. This is the place his neighbours come to get firewood so they can cook. You can hear hints of worry and anger in his words, but at the same time a level of resignation that his life is surrounded by landmines. His coping mechanism, simply to take note of where they are. Arun and Borey start discussing a dried-up fruit on the ground that looks like a grenade and I laugh nervously at the joke. We head back to the track carefully retracing the path we took. I’m acutely aware of the life changing potential of each step. Arriving back at the house, Borey and his wife Bopha insist on serving some tea and fruit. We sit and chat on the porch and the discussion turns away from landmines to other areas of life. I find myself marvelling, not for the first time since being in Cambodia, at the resilience of its people. I think back to my morning and reflect on the peace that now seems so fragile.