by John Parsons

There I was in the Slaughterhouse Slum, a small community on the Mekong flood plain on the outskirts of the mega-city of Phnom Penh, Cambodia, engaged in what was to become one of life’s most mind-blowing experiences.
I see it now as I saw it on that sweltering afternoon in January, 2012. It was the longest ten minutes of my life, standing in burning sunshine, dripping with sweat. The powerful stench of the nearby abattoir filled my nostrils.
In front of our small team of humanitarian volunteers stood five toddlers, heads lathered in head-lice shampoo, bare feet stirring the dust. Their wide eyes stared up expectantly, waiting for the solution to do its work.
All around, in the shade of their stilted hovels, were sitting aged weather-worn crones, their inscrutable eyes fixed on the team. Finally I glanced at my watch. Ten minutes had passed. The lotion had done its work. Time to rinse the children’s hair and comb out the insect life.
At the end of the session a mother knelt at my feet for the same treatment. That was my most iconic overseas experience, and also my most humbling.