Duncan wrote:

Digg3r wrote:I'm not reading anymore of Francis's posts unless he embeds cat pictures

Same here, but I want pictures of a dog.

I'll have to go through the archive to find pictures of the ex...

the job descriptions resonate

CHAPTER 4: TNGO SOLVES ITS FUNDING CRISIS

No,” said the FORGOVAID Phnom Penh Funding
Officer. “Absolutely not.”
“But Fred…” said Harvey S. Murtch, Ph.D., TNGO’s Resident Director.
“Not another dime, Harvey.” “But—” said Dr. Murtch.
“I warned you, Harvey,” said the FORGOVAID man. “TNGO had the worst track record for project completion in Cambodia last year. Do you know how many projects TNGO completed last year? Zero. Zero as in zilch, none, nada, not a single one. Now FORGOVAID Headquarters is on my back to make an example out of someone in Phnom Penh before the end of June, and it looks like TNGO is it.”
“I won’t stand for this, Fred,” Dr. Murtch warned. The FORGOVAID disbursement officer laughed.
“What are you going to do, Harvey?” he asked. “Hold up a bank?”

“No,” said Brad Erskine, TNGO’s Senior Program Officer. “Absolutely not.” He stood up from his seat in front of Dr. Murtch’s desk and moved toward the door.
“But Brad,” Dr. Murtch said. “I’ve tried every argument I
know with FORGOVAID, and they just won’t—”
“No,” said Erskine. “You gave me a funding commitment in writing last month. Anyway, I’ve already spent it all, every dime.”
“All of it?” Dr. Murtch asked. “But it’s only halfway through the fiscal year.”
“Well, spent it or planned to spend it,” said Erskine.
“Anyway, I’m not turning back a single dollar.”
“But this could put TNGO out of existence,” Dr. Murtch said. Erskine gave a short, unpleasant laugh. He slammed the door of Dr. Murtch’s office behind him.

“ N o,” sai d L i ll it h - M a ri e Benni ng t o n - Sm i t h , TNGO’s Senior Pro g r a m Anal y s t. “ Absolutely not. ”
“But—” said Dr. Murtch.
“I’m tired of the women’s programs always being the last to be funded and the first to be cut. The same thing happened when I was in Somalia, and....”
Dr. Murtch wearily closed his eyes. Ms. Bennington-Smith was incapable of speaking for less than half an hour about her experiences in Somalia. Trying to cut her off only made it worse. There was nothing to do but ride it out, like a small dinghy adrift in a Force 9 gale.

When Ms. Bennington-Smith stormed out of his office thirty minutes later, Mun Sopheap, the manager of TNGO’s Cambodian staff, who had been listening outside the door, came in quietly, without knocking. He was carrying an iced glass of Coke on a small silver tray. He set the glass on the corner of Dr. Murtch’s desk.
Dr. Murtch remained seated; his feet propped up on his large mahogany desk, staring at the blank wall to his left. He said nothing.
Mun Sopheap gently cleared his throat.
Dr. Murtch glanced up at him.
“I was just thinking,” Mun Sopheap said. “I couldn’t help overhearing what the FORGOVAID man said, and Mr. Brad and Ms. Lillith-Marie.”
“Yes?” said Dr. Murtch.
“And I was thinking....” said Mun Sopheap. His voice drifted off.
“Well, what?” said Dr. Murtch. “Speak up, Mr. Mun.”
“Well,” said Mun Sopheap. “I have a brother-in-law up in Kompong Cham, and I was talking with him just the other day, and....”

“No!” said Dr. Murtch. “Absolutely not.” “But—” said Mun Sopheap.
“Not another word,” said Dr. Murtch. “I don’t want to hear any more. I’m shocked—shocked—that you could think that TNGO would even consider such a thing.”
“I was only trying to help,” Mun Sopheap said.
Dr. Murtch stood up and walked over to his window. The bougainvillaea tree in the TNGO villa’s courtyard was in full bloom. It was the nicest view Dr. Murtch had ever had. It was the nicest office Dr. Murtch had ever had. TNGO’s security gate could use a new coat of paint, but otherwise the view from his window was quite spectacular.
Dr. Murtch sighed. He did not turn to face Mun Sopheap when he spoke, but kept looking out the window at the blossoms of the bougainvillaea tree.
“Besides,” he said, “think of the scandal if we got caught.”
“We wouldn’t get caught,” said Mun Sopheap. “And even if we did, the CPP will blame FUNCINPEC, FUNCINPEC will blame the CPP, and no one will ever figure it out.”
“What if CPP and FUNCINPEC cooperate?” asked Dr. Murtch.
“Then they’ll blame it all on Sam Rainsy,” said Mun Sopheap. “They always do. Anyway, how could they catch us? No one in Phnom Penh knows my brother-in-law from Kompong Cham. He would hire all the men, rent the motorcycles, take care of everything.”
“And he wants…?” Dr. Murtch said.
“Only twenty percent,” said Mun Sopheap.
Dr. Murtch picked up the end of the venetian blind cord. He wrapped it tightly around his fingers and then unwound it. He wrapped and unwrapped the cord around his fingers several more times.
He sighed again.
“Do you think he would take fifteen?” he said at last. Mun Sopheap smiled.

PHNOM PENH (Cambo Press Service)—In the latest of a shocking series of robberies of foreigners, six expatriate NGO and FORGOVAID
workers were held up at gunpoint last night by robbers on motorcycles. Police in this tense capital city have begun to suspect that the robberies, which have increased dramatically in recent weeks, are the work of a single, organised gang....

Early in December Dr. Murtch had a garment factory on the outskirts of Phnom Penh run up a special order for him out of black and white cloth. Dr. Murtch brought it to work with him on Christmas Day. As he turned TNGO ’s bra n d - new Toyota Land Cruiser into the courtyard of TNGO’s villa, he saw the workmen busy covering the security gate with a fresh coat of paint.
Mun Sopheap unwrapped Dr. Murtch’s package. He stared at the black flag, the
white skull dressed in a tricorn hat and eyepatch, the white bones crossed in an X underneath.
“It’s a pirate flag,” Dr. Murtch said. “It means—”
“I know,” said Mun Sopheap. “We have the same idea in Cambodia.”
They smiled at each other.
“Just don’t hang it up in your office,” said Dr. Murtch. “We wouldn’t want anyone from FORGOVAID to see it, would we?”
“No,” said Mun Sopheap. “Absolutely not.”
To be continued ...

Might be 8 years back or so. People who have been here for a while remember that story of course, but most of the posters here I guess are relatively new to this country. Fact is....nothing, absolutely nothing has changed inside the NGO world......actually it became worse......so I thought it's time to republish.

Francis, I agree with many of your views, but to blame NGOs for all the problems is a bit of a joke.

Khmers are super friendly, warm, cool people.

They're also the people most intent on destroying their country through selfishness and greed.

The national religion is Benjamin Franklinism.

CHAPTER 5: TNGO BEATS THE ODDS

Brad Erskine, TNGO’s Senior Program Officer, yawned. It was 2:30 p.m. on a hot, slow Tuesday afternoon. Outside his office, the streets of Phnom Penh were hushed and empty. He leaned back in his chair and propped his feet up on his large mahogany desk.
Brad was thinking about his conversation that morning with Dr. Harvey Murtch, TNGO’s Resident Director. Dr. Murtch had refused to give him even a small raise although Brad had gone two years in Cambodia without one. Then Dr. Murtch had cajoled him into taking on the extra responsibilities of serving as TNGO’s Political Science Expert, flattering Brad that he was more knowledgeable than anyone else at TNGO about the local political situation.
Brad picked up the latest issue of the Cambodia Daily and looked at the headline on the first page.
“Huh,” he said.
“What?” said Lillith-Marie Bennington-Smith, TNGO’s Senior Program Analyst.
“Did you know there was an election here last year?” Brad asked.
Before she could answer, the telephone rang. Brad picked it up.
“Listen carefully,” the voice on the other end told him. “We have kidnapped Dr. Smurtch. If you want to see him alive again, the ransom is $600,000, payable by three o’clock.”
“Never heard of him,” said Brad. He hung up. “ W h o w a s t h a t ? ” s a i d Lillith-Marie.
“Wrong number or something,” said Brad. He thought for a moment.
“What’s Harvey Murtch’s middle initial?” he asked. “‘S,’ I think,” said Lillith-Marie. “Why?”
“Just wondering,” said Brad. “Do you know where he is?”
“He said something about taking next month’s payroll and doing some research on an investment that could double our funding.”
The telephone rang again.
“Dr. Smurtch is now begging for his life,” said the voice. In the background, Brad heard a fainter voice saying “Not ‘Smurtch’! ‘Murtch’! ‘Murtch’ with an ‘M’!” “Who is this?” said Brad.
“Just a minute,” said the voice. The sounds grew muffled, as if a hand had been clamped over the mouthpiece.
The voice returned. “Khmer Rouge,” it said.
“Yeah, right,” said Brad. “Who is this really? Is that you, Francis?”
“Listen carefully,” the voice said. “If you don’t pay at least
$300,000 before three o’clock, Dr. Smurtch will be tortured. To death.”
“Jeff? This is Jeff, isn’t it?”
“I told you, we are the Khmer Rouge. We have kidnapped Dr. Smurtch and—”
“Never heard of him,” said Brad. He hung up. Lillith-Marie looked at him quizzically.
“Prank call,” he said. He picked up the Cambodia Daily again. The telephone rang.
“All right,” said the voice. “We are reducing our demand to $100,000, but you must act immediately.”
“Listen,” said Brad, “if you really are the Khmer Rouge, prove it. Who’s your leader?”

“Just a moment,” said the voice. There was another muffled conversation. Then the line cleared up.“Our leader is Mr. Ah Ba’nya’ha?” The voice sounded doubtful.
“Wait a minute,” said Brad. He covered the mouthpiece of his telephone with his left hand and turned to Lillith-Marie. “Who’s the leader of the Khmer Rouge?” he said.
Lillith-Marie looked at him in disgust. “You’re the Political Science Expert at TNGO,” she said. “A position I was denied only because I’m a woman, I’m sure. You figure it out, Mr. Political Science Expert.”
“Come on, Lillith-Marie,” Brad said. “Please?” “What on earth is going on?” she asked.
“Here,” he said. He held out the telephone to her.
“Hello,” she said. “Yes. Yes. No, I don’t know how much the Thai company paid to ransom its lumber workers. No. No, it isn’t. I don’t know the combination to our safe, and we never have much money in it anyway. From who? Well, I’ll ask, but I don’t think it will do any good.” She hung up.
“They want us to ask FORGOVAID for $5,000 to ransom Dr. Murtch,” she said.
“They told me it was some guy named Smurtch,” said Brad.
“I don’t think you were listening carefully, Brad” she said. “Anyway, whoever it is, we’ve got to try to help. Go see if any of the drivers are around while I call FORGOVAID.”
W h e n B r a d c a m e b a c k Lillith-Marie was hanging up the phone. She picked up her large woven shoulder bag. “Let’s go,” she said. “I’ve got the delivery instructions for the ransom. We’ve got to get over to FORGOVAID right away and get the money,” she said.
“They’re giving us $5,000 to ransom Dr. Murtch?”
Lillith-Marie shrugged. “It’s too near the end of the month, and they said they had to keep some cash on hand for their electric bill,” she said. “But they thought they could raise about $80 or $90 if they took up a collection. Did you find a driver?” “Well, Brian’s here,” he said.
“Oh, God,” she said. “All right, come on.”
In the end the final total of FORGOVAID’s effort to pass the hat was only $30 and a few dirty, tattered 500 riel notes. Unfortunately many of the FORGOVAID staff members had already gone to Lucky Market for their weekly shopping during the lunch hour -or so they claimed once they learned who the ransom money was for. Lillith-Marie stuffed the money in her shoulder bag and raced back to TNGO’s Land Cruiser. Brad was sitting in the front seat, looking greenish and vaguely nauseated. “Jesus, Brian,” he was saying to the driver. “Where’d you learn to drive? Did you ever learn to drive?”
“Never mind that,” said Lillith-Marie. “Get in the back seat if you don’t feel well.”
“You got the money?” said Brad.
“All they could raise was $30,” she said. “Drive to the Naga, Brian. Quickly. It’s five minutes before three o’clock.”
When Brian rounded the corner on two wheels and pulled up beside the Naga Casino, Lillith-Marie thrust the car door open. She leaned out of the front seat and alternated cursing Brian’s driving skills with being copiously sick in the Naga’s parking lot. She thrust her shoulder bag at Brad. “Take it inside,” she said. “Table 8. Tell them you’re playing for ‘Dr. M,’ and then put all the money on red. Hurry.”
Upstairs Brad pushed through a phlegmatic crowd of Taiwanese gamblers and found table 8. “I’m playing for Dr. M,” he told the croupier.
“Dr. M?” said the croupier. “I thought it was for Dr. S.”
“Hsst,” said a voice to Brad’s left. “Hsst!” Brad glanced over. A chastened-looking Dr. Murtch was seated at the roulette table, closely flanked by two very large, very serious Chinese gentlemen in dark silk suits. The Chinese gentlemen’s faces had all the lively animation of slabs of frozen beef.
“Just put the money down!” Dr. Murtch whispered to Brad.
“Put it on red! Quickly, man. How much did you get.”
Brad opened Lillith-Marie’s shoulder bag and fished inside it.
“It looks like thir-er, twenty dollars,” he said.
“That’s all?” said Dr. Murtch. “That’s all? Twenty dollars my life?”
“Where are the Khmer Rouge?” Brad asked.
“Never mind about that,” said Dr. Murtch. “Put the money down on red, now!”
Brad withdrew $20 from Lillith-Marie’s shoulder bag and thrust it onto the gambling table.
The croupier spun the roulette wheel. Red won.
The croupier put another $20 down on the table next to the FORGOVAID cash.
“Double or nothing?” he said. “Sure,” said Dr. Murtch. “Why not?”
“Dr. Murtch -” said Brad.
“Not now, Brad,” said Dr. Murtch. “Not now.”
Brad watched in horrified fascination as the little ivory ball in the spinning roulette wheel clicked and tumbled and bounced. But every time the wheel spun, the little ball landed on red. Fourteen times in a row. Every time the money on the table doubled, and every time Dr. Murtch said “Let it ride.” In a short time there was $600,000 piled high in front of Dr. Murtch’s seat.
Dr. Murtch picked up the money and gave it all to the heavyset Chinese man on his left. The Chinese man grunted, counted the money and put it in his pocket. “All right,” he said to Dr. Murtch. “You go now. But next time, no credit.”
“Come on, Brad,” said Dr. Murtch.
Brad clutched Lillith-Marie’s shoulder bag against his side and surreptitiously fished the remaining $10 out of it. He slipped the money into his pocket as they pushed their way through the crowd of Taiwanese gamblers.
Brad said, “Those two guys in the suits were the Khmer Rouge? I thought they all lived out in the jungle near Anlong Veng and wore black peasant clothing.”
“Urban branch,” Dr. Murtch explained……”Urban branch…….the most dangerous kind. You should know that, Brad; you’re TNGO’s Political Science Expert.”
“Right, right,” said Brad. “Gosh, you won a lot, Dr. Murtch.”
“Well, I was due, Brad. God, was I due ! You wouldn’t believe the string of—well, never mind that. It’s just too bad we didn’t have more than $ 20 to bet; we could have cleaned up for ourselves…..I mean, for TNGO.”
“Uh,” said Brad. “Well, actually, in fact……..”
“Not a word about this to Lillith-Marie or anyone else, okay, Brad ? They might not understand the…….the political nuances of this situation as well as you do.”
Brad thought for a moment. “If my understanding of the political nuances were rewarded a little more generously…..” he said.
“You have my word on that as TNGO’s Resident Director,” said Dr. Murtch. “I mean, you have my word that we’ll talk about it, as soon as circumstances permit. If I can raise a few bucks, I’m coming back here Saturday night and – well, never mind about that. In the meantime, not a word to anyone else, right, Brad ? “
“You have my word on that as TNGO’s well-paid Political Science Expert,” said Brad.
Dr. Murch stopped walking. He turned to look at Brad. “You drive a hard bargain,” he said. “But all right. We understand each other, then ?”
“Sometimes we do,” said Brad.
They smiled skeptically at each other, then turned and walked together out of the casino and into the sunlight.

Username Taken wrote:Read all this years ago Francis. Were you the original author?

Francis wrote:Might be 8 years back or so. People who have been here for a while remember that story of course, but most of the posters here I guess are relatively new to this country. Fact is....nothing, absolutely nothing has changed inside the NGO world......actually it became worse......so I thought it's time to republish.

So... no, then?

CHAPTER 7: TNGO IN TRANSLATION

The country road near the little village of Phum
Sohmbow ran right through the
middle of the ricefield where Say Sory and Dun Chheat Meas were stooped over, transplanting the rice seedlings. A large Toyota Land Cruiser appeared in the
distance and drove erratically down
the road toward the two Cambodian peasants. The brakes squealed
and it jerked abruptly to a halt.
Say Sory and Dun Chheat Meas looked up. The Land Cruiser
was a painted in a particularly
hideous combination of colors, sloppy swirls of paint combining the dark purple of a day-old
bruise with the dull green of stale pea soup.
The initials “T.N.G.O.” were painted on the front doors of the
Land Cruiser, once in English and once in Khmer.
Three of the four letters in the Khmer version were incorrect.
A Western woman got out of the
Land Cruiser. She wore a huge, billowing dress featuring color combinations which were even uglier than those painted on the Land Cruiser. Say Sory glanced at the dress, flinched, and quickly looked away.
The woman cupped her right hand over her eyes to protect them from the sun. “Yoo-hoo!” she shouted across the ricefield. She waved her left arm up and down at her side, bearing an uncanny resemblance to half a windmill.
“Keep your head down,” said Dun Chheat Meas. He bent over and picked up his hoe.
“Why has she come back?” said
Say Sory. “Why doesn’t she leave us alone?”
“Yoo-hoo,” the woman called again. She hiked her multicolored
dress up above her knees and clambered down the embankment.
She began advancing across the
ricefield toward them. With every

step she trampled four or five of the delicate seedlings down into the mud.
“She’s the one that designed that experimental literacy program, isn’t she?” said Dun Chheat Meas.
“The one that made all the children drop out of the school?”
said Say Sory. “Yes, that’s her. My niece still has nightmares about that textbook. Now she won’t go within 20 meters of the school building. And remember the birth control lecture?”
“The ones that caused the married women to riot and
burn down the maternity clinic?” said Dun Chheat Meas. “You mean the same NGO....?”
Say Sory nodded.
Dun Chheat Meas shifted his hoe slightly and ti g h t e n e d
his grip on it.

“Wait until the village chief gets his hands on her,” he said. “Don’t do anything until she gets closer. Then I’ll trip her with the hoe and you tie her up.”
Lillith-Marie Bennington-Smith, TNGO’s Senior Program Analyst, panted toward them like a Technicolor water buffalo. She was almost on top of them when they raised their heads and she saw the look in their eyes.
She had no chance against the two of them. All she could do was back away from them through the rice field, punch TNGO’s number into her mobile phone and utter into it a quick cry for help before they were on her.
At the TNGO villa in Phnom Penh, Brad Erskine, TNGO’s Senior Project Officer, was halfway through his daily Khmer language lesson.
“P’khaa,” said Mun Sopheap, TNGO’s Manager of Cambodian Staff and Brad Erskine’s Khmer tutor. “P’khaa. Means ‘flower’. Very pretty word. Now you say it.”
“P’tchorbk,” said Erskine. “P’nkroph?” Mun Sopheap shuddered.
“I still didn’t get it right, did I?” said Brad Erskine. “What did I say?”
Mun Sopheap shook his head.
“Come on, Mr. Mun, tell me,” Brad said. “What did it sound like?”
“Something about either you hate your mother’s youngest uncle, or you have to vomit,” said Mun Sopheap.
Brad sighed. “The more I study Khmer, the worse I get,” he said.
Brad Erskine was notorious for having the worst language
ability of any member of the TNGO staff. Despite nearly two years of Khmer instruction, he had yet to produce a single intelligible sentence. When he tried to practice his lessons with Cambodians on the streets of Phnom Penh they edged uneasily away from him, as if in the presence of lunacy. One day, while lunching with a visiting Associate Deputy Assistant Undersecretary of State for Women’s Rights at the Cambodiana, a usually demure waitress had slapped Brad’s face, screamed, and run sobbing from the dining room when he tried to phrase a simple request for more ice water. The Associate Deputy Assistant Undersecretary for Women’s Rights had looked at him skeptically during the rest of her visit and refused to accept any of Brad’s feeble attempts to explain. She had flown back to Washington several days ahead of schedule and eviscerated TNGO’s funding.
“Try again,” said Mun Sopheap. “Ph’khrowl?” said Brad. “P’knarrl?”
Dr. Harvey S. Murtch, Ph. D., TNGO’s Resident Director, burst into the room. “Let’s go, Brad,” he said. “Lillith-Marie
is in trouble up in Phum Sohmbow.”
“What kind of trouble?” said Brad.
“I don’t know,” said Dr. Murtch. “Sergeant Rockhurst took the call, and all he said was that she needed help, right away.”
“Let me come too,” said Mun Sopheap. He was secretly in love with Lillith-Marie Bennington-Smith, and his heart raced at the
news that she was in peril. “You’ll need an interpreter.”
They ran down the stairs and into the courtyard of TNGO’s villa. Master Sergeant Rockhurst (USMC, Ret.), TNGO’s Head of Security, had the house guards lined up in two rows, with the cook and the maid positioned at the end of each row. The maid was holding her broom stiffly in front of her at waist level, pointing it uncertainly at Sergeant Rockhurst. The house guards in the second row were giggling.
“No, no, no!” Sergeant Rockhurst was saying. “The first platoon comes around in the flanking movement; the second platoon is the reaction force! Let’s try the drill again.”
“What are you doing, Sergeant Rockhurst?” asked Dr. Murtch. “Sir,” said Sergeant Rockhurst, pivoting about to face Dr.
Murtch. He stifled an old, instinctive impulse to salute. “Sir, preparing a strike force to rescue Ms. Bennington-Smith, sir.”
Dr. Murtch patted him gently on the shoulder. “There might not be time to finish their training,” he said softly. “Why don’t you
stay here with them and make sure our base camp stays secure?” “Aye, aye, sir!” said Sergeant Rockhurst. He stifled another
salute as Dr. Murtch, Brad Erskine and Mun Sopheap jumped into
TNGO’s second Land Cruiser and sped away.
What will happen next?
—To be continued ...