Being an investigative journalists in Southeast Asia is like the person walking point into a jungle filled with booby-traps, snipers and ambushes. It takes a very special person to volunteer for walking point.

Bopha Phorn is such a journalist.

She is a reporter for the Cambodian Daily. She is also a very brave journalist. Recognition of that bravery came this week with the announcement by the International Women’s Media Foundation of 2013 Courage in Journalism Awards. Three awards were given for courage to three women from around the world. Bopha Porn was one of the three. She is the first woman in Cambodia to receive this award.

The citation that comes with the award reads:

“In [April] 2012, Phorn narrowly escaped with her life when the vehicle in which she was traveling came under heavy fire. Phorn was investigating claims of illegal logging in a protected area of the Cambodian jungle with another journalist and an environmental activist when gunmen with AK-47s sprayed the car with shots. The activist, Chut Wutty, was killed. Phorn’s reporting on land and environmental issues, as well as her stories about criminal activity and human rights abuses, have made her the target of other life-threatening attacks.”

I had an appointment with Bopha in Phnom Penh in April 2012. I arrived a day after Chut Wutty had been killed. I didn’t know at that time the circumstances of his death or that Bopha had been next to Chut Wutty when he was killed. We were meeting to go over final edits of her short story, Dark Truths, for the anthology Phnom Penh Noir.

When I rang her, Bopha said she couldn’t make the meeting. She wasn’t in Phnom Penh. She asked if I could meet her where she was staying. I asked where she was, and she replied, “Near the Vietnamese border.” Then she told me the entire story and how she was concerned that returning to Phnom Penh might be risky as she’d witnessed the killing of Chut Wutty, who was attempting to expose illegal logging.

In this part of the world, where illegal logging is often linked to government officials, witnesses to the murder of environmentalists, human rights activists, and others seeking to expose official wrongdoing are danger. Bopha was absolutely right to find a temporary shelter away from officials who might seek to clean up the loose ends.

We talked several times that day. Twenty-four hours later, she was back in Phnom Penh. She couldn’t stay away from her job at The Cambodian Daily. Hiding out wasn’t in her nature. The news of Chut Wutty’s murder had gone out on the wires. It was international news.

Following an extrajudicial killing, officials in this part of the world don’t normally issue an order to kill a journalist who witnessed the murder once the eyes of an international audience are watching. If that possibility isn’t open, they arrange for the death of the soldier responsible.

In this case, the military police officer, Rattana, age 32, who killed Chut Wutty, and in that split second after pulling the trigger, was persuaded not to kill Bopha and another companion, Canadian Oesia Plohii. A day later Rattana was found dead. The military police officer conveniently committed suicide. The press questioned how Rattana could have shot himself first in the stomach and then in the chest.

Bopha Phorn has continued her investigative reporting from her base at the Cambodian Daily in Phnom Penh. Her courage makes her a role model for journalists throughout Southeast Asia. Reporters find themselves in situations where powerful vested interest with impunity from the law intimidate, bribe, or threaten the most brave of them. No one is ever paid enough money as a journalist to take a bullet for justice, freedom and fairness.

For someone like Bopha Phorn, it has never been about the money. It has been about exposing those who have accumulated wealth at the expense of their nation, murdered others to increase that wealth, and destroy the natural resources along the way. Asia needs heroes in this struggle.

I can’t think of a better one than Bopha Phorn.

Unseen is the seventh novel (there’s also a novella) of a series featuring Georgia Investigations Bureau special agent Will Trent — though I didn’t find not having read the other books an obstacle to enjoying this one. Well, maybe ‘enjoying’ is not the right word.

With a name like Savage I’d be the last to suggest reading too much into surnames, but Slaughter does fit hers well. She doesn’t shy away from writing about the viscera of violence. Blood bubbles, brain matter spatters, vomit roils, bowels loosen. People get get killed with guns, knives, axes, hammers, and others probably wished they’d been killed. Children get hurt, too, though mercifully, readers witness only the aftermath, not the act.

‘There’s a lot of graphic sex and violence, so you won’t be disappointed,’ says Slaughter of her novel Skin Privilege in a video clip on her website. She could say the same of Unseen.

In the opening chapter, Jared Long, a motorcycle cop with the Macon police, gets shot in the house he shares with wife Lena Adams, also of the Macon PD (and a character from Slaughter’s  Grant County series). Lena, who with the aid of a hammer narrowly avoids being killed herself, believes the attack is related to a raid she led a week earlier on an isolated shooting gallery. The account of the raid, told in flashbacks, was aimed at arresting a local drug dealer and exposing a brutal criminal mastermind known as Big Whitey.

To complicate matters, Jared is the son of Lena’s former partner, Jeffrey Tolliver, the Grant County Police chief killed in the line of duty. And Tolliver’s widow is Dr Sara Linton (though Jared is not her son), the paediatrician and part-time coroner who is now dating special agent Will Trent. Sara has always blamed Lena for her husband’s death and assumes the attack on Jared is Lena’s fault, too.

Meanwhile, Trent is working undercover on a case that puts him on a collision course with Lena’s investigation and the attempt on Jared’s life, desperately hoping that Sara doesn’t discover the connection.

Perhaps not surprisingly, it takes over 400 pages to unravel these complexities, but Slaughter brings all the loose ends together. And while I didn’t buy the denouement (which I can’t describe without massive spoilers), thrillers like this work best if you suspend disbelief. This is action-packed escapism, complete with an ensemble cast of characters both appealing and evil.

I read Unseen to review it for Radio National Books and Arts. I can’t say whether I’d read another Karin Slaughter novel in a hurry, although I note that her ‘The Unremarkable Heart’ (in Vengeance) has just taken home this year’s Edgar for the best short story. I might read that, seeing as how I loved the 2013 Edgar Awards winner for best novel, Dennis Lehane’s Live By Night.

But for now I’ve got some Bon Jovi to listen to.

Unseen by Karin Slaughter (2013) is published by Random House in Australia.

The Golden Egg is the twenty-second instalment in Donna Leon‘s Commissario Brunetti series set in Venice. As someone just finishing the third book in a crime fiction series, I find it astonishing that anyone could write twenty-two (and counting). Equally impressive is the author’s ongoing ability to engage, entertain and surprise in this deceptively simple, ultimately harrowing story.

Brunetti is given the official task in The Golden Egg of making enquiries into a possible bribery case that might embarrass the mayor, a scenario the sartorially splendid Vice-Questore Patta is keen to avoid.

Unofficially, at the behest of his wife Paola, he looks into the death of a deaf-mute man, who worked at the dry cleaners in the Brunettis’ own neighbourhood. The man died from an overdose of sleeping pills, though whether intentionally or by accident is unclear.

What is puzzling about the man-child, identified as Davide Cavanella, is how little is known about him. While Patta’s secretary, the indomitable Signorina Elettra, attends seminars on the newest techniques for combating identity theft and computer hacking, Brunetti tries to fathom how a man in his forties in highly bureaucratic Venice could leave so little trace.

Davide’s mother seems angry and defensive when questioned about his death, which sets Brunetti off on a hunt for the truth, not only about the man’s death but about his life.

The Golden Egg contains all the elements that make Leon’s books a pleasure to read: familiar characters in Brunetti’s family and colleagues, evocative descriptions of Venice, ruminations on Italian politics and society, both passionate and philosophical.

But this is no writing by numbers. Being such an established author with a loyal fan base allows Leon to deviate from the conventions of the genre. Rather than a dead body in the opening chapter, we get a glimpse into Brunetti’s family life:

If the Brunettis had a religion, aside from a formal adherence to some of the outward decorative manifestations of Christianity, it was language. Puns and jokes, crossword puzzles and teasers were to their what communion and confirmation were to Catholics.

A dead body doesn’t appear until Chapter 4, by which stage Brunetti has been given his official assignment.

It’s only in retrospect that I realise how cleverly the story was crafted — how the dynamics outlined in the first few chapters contribute to the impact of the ending. It was only at the end, too, that I realised the significance of the book’s title.

The Golden Egg is the work of a master, entertaining, surprising and moving. Highly recommended.

The Golden Egg by Donna Leon (2013) is published by William Heinemann.

But there will always be something special about receiving a card in the mail.

Several years ago, my mother was diagnosed with a nasty form of cancer. As we stared down the barrel of a severely shortened lifespan, I asked her if she had any regrets.

‘I want to live long enough to read the sequel to [Hilary Mantel's] Wolf Hall,’ she said.

‘Write and tell her to get a move on,’ I suggested.

Mum did write, and the Man Booker winning author wrote back in person. It seems even winners of the English-speaking world’s top literary prizes appreciate fan mail.

(Two years later, the sequel my mother was so keen to live for won Mantel a second Booker Prize; Mum now awaits the final instalment in the Thomas Cromwell Trilogy).

For my own part, I was so inspired by Anna Funder’s 2011 novel All That I Am that I tracked the author down on Facebook to congratulate her.

What about you? Have you ever sent fan mail to an author?

For the other authors out there, have you  received fan mail that is particularly special to you?

Reblogged from Confessions of a Mystery Novelist...:

It’s not easy to write a novel. Any writer will tell you that creating characters, developing the plot, providing closure and all of the other elements of storytelling can be challenging. And that’s not to mention things like editing and revising. But don’t let any writer (including this one) fool you into thinking there’s no enjoyment in it. There are some scenes, characters and events that are fun, or at least enjoyable to write.

Read more… 1,100 more words

Bored, lonely, horny and pissed off,  Roket has dropped out of school and is largely left to fend for himself by his messed up mother. He subsists on Maccas and whatever he can manage to scrape together at home.  ’Getting up’ — creating graffiti — with his crew is the only thing that gives structure to his days. And even the cops Roket encounters grudgingly admit he’s got talent. But when a battle between two graf crews turns deadly, the fall out could make or break him.

The target audience might be young adults, but there is much for not-so-young adults to enjoy. As well as a good yarn, getting Up offers insight into Melbourne’s social history in the late-1980, specifically its graffiti history.

Melbourne through Roket’s eyes is a landscape of tags, burners, throwups and pieces (check the glossary for definitions). The action often takes place in the city’s hidden parts: laneways, billboard sidings, train carriage roofs, abandoned abattoirs.

Keith Haring’s visit to Collingwood Tech in 1984 gets a mention, as does the ‘wicked’ graf he created. ‘Old school, but cool,’ as Roket puts it.

There are references to the ‘real old school’ political graffiti of the 1960s and early 1970s, when ’graffiti used to say something’, as one of the older characters laments.

And in the background of the story, the Berlin Wall is coming down, news reports noting that parts of the wall with good graffiti are in hot demand.

A couple of minor niggles notwithstanding (e.g. reference to Centrelink eight years before it was established), getting Up ticks all the boxes as a highly entertaining read that places credible, sympathetic characters in a fascinating context.

I’d hazard that even readers who view graffiti as visual pollution rather than art will come away from reading getting Up with new insight into what motivates this form of self-expression — be it boredom, passion, bravado or the desire to belong.

getting Up is published by Momentum Books in electronic format. Available here.

A number of people left comments on my post saying I was being too harsh. “At least the foreigners have philanthropic motives, not looking to make a profit,” said one. “I can’t understand how you can be so offended by people wanting to help the Cambodian people to overcome the trauma they have suffered. Helping them to love again is part of that process,” said another.

I write this follow up post in response to those comments and a new piece by Lindsay Murdoch in today’s paper, Stealing a generation: Cambodia’s unfolding tragedy.

I don’t deny that Cambodia is a country deeply traumatised by years of genocide, civil war, AIDS, poverty and corruption. But as Sebastien Marot from Friends-International — an organisation spearheading the campaign to end ‘voluntourism’ in orphanages — Cambodia is particularly vulnerable “because it is suffering from the victim syndrome where everyone thinks the country is still coming out of war…[and] all the children are in miserable and horrible situations, which is not the case anymore.”

While not denying the good work done by some foreign-run orphanages in Cambodia, I do not believe it follows that “non Cambodians need to show Cambodians how to love their children”.

In fact, the allegations of shocking abuse of children in orphanages in Cambodia bear a striking resemblance to what happened last century in Australia.

In twentieth century Australia, some orphanages were run by the state, most by faith-based organisations. The reasons Australian children were sent into institutional care  bear a striking resemblance to the reasons most children are sent into institutional care in Cambodia today (where 72% of children have at least one parent living):

• Poverty
• Death of a parent/s
• Effects of war
• Lack of support for families
• Parental mental health
• Alcoholism
• Domestic Violence
• Children exposed to moral danger and having no fixed abode
• Single parent families

(Source: Care Leavers Australia Network, CLAN, Submission to the United Nations Committee on the Rights of the Child, 2012)

Over half a million Australian children experienced institutional care. Tragically, many were subject to physical, psychological and sexual abuse, neglect and humiliation, and forced to do unpaid menial labour. These former wards, together with former Child Migrants, have become known as The Forgotten Australians. The injustices they suffered in Australian orphanages were formally acknowledged by the Australian government in November 2009 with a national apology delivered by the Prime Minister. The text of the National Apology to the Forgotten Australians makes for chilling reading.

The abuses were enabled by weak government controls on what was largely a charitable-run industry in Australia.

According to the Murdoch article, “Australia has a greater involvement in Cambodia’s orphanages than any other national through Australians running them directly, volunteering or donating.”

Yes, I bristled at the hubris of Love In Action’s mission statement. But my real problem is with the unregulated nature of the orphanage industry in Cambodia. Love In Action was an unregistered facility, “unlawful and not approved by any authority”. It was raided by Cambodian police with the support of Australian-registered human rights and anti-trafficking organisation SISHA (see their joint press release) using the due process of law.

I wholeheartedly welcome application of the due process of law to the Cambodian orphanage industry. I would like to see much tighter and consistent controls on the licensing and regulation of the orphanage industry. Particularly given Cambodia’s traumatic past, I would hate to see the estimated 10,000 children in the country’s orphanages today suffer a new form of trauma as survivors of institutional care the way the Forgotten Australians have.

My struggle — and here’s where I do agree with the detractors on my previous post — is how to share SISHA’s confidence in the due process of law in light of Cambodia’s endemic corruption.

As one of my detractors noted, “talk is cheap” and on the subject of how to address corruption in Cambodia, I can only salute the courage of ordinary Cambodians I know who are working on this issue. As a non-Cambodian I have nothing to teach them and everything to learn.

In preparation, the fabulous team at Text Publishing are re-packaging the digital editions of the previous two Jayne Keeney novels, Behind the Night Bazaar and The Half-Child, and releasing them with The Dying Beach as a trilogy and specially priced package. More details to follow closer to release date.

In the meantime, I want to share the spectacular covers designed by über-talented Chong Weng Ho exclusively for the e-book editions of all three novels.

I’ve always felt fortunate to have Chong’s artistic sensibilities brought to bear on the design of my book covers and these images show why. Each cover is stunning in its own right, plus there’s an aesthetic cohesiveness to the trilogy, thanks in part to the recurring palm frond motifs (broad leafed one could even be the Monstera deliciosa featured in Issue 2 of Mongrel by Bernard Caleo).

I’m dead curious to see how that scary snake rearing up against a red background sets the tone for the cover of the paperback version of The Dying Beach.

No pun intended.

*Taking my lead from Margot Kinberg, this blog post shares its title with a Bruce Springsteen song. Not only is The Boss one of my favourite singer songwriters, he’s the man responsible for my BEST CONCERT EVER, Melbourne, 26 March 2013.

Beautiful and brilliant Tori Swyft is the central character and hero of  The Trusted. A world junior surf champion at 13, at age 20 her PhD dissertation made nuclear power plants safer and more productive. Tori still surfs one day per year on the anniversary of her father’s death.

On the seventh anniversary, a stranger arrives on Narabeen beach, via helicopter, to offer Tori a job with an international advisory company. We fast forward to the luxury yachy owned by multi billionaire and new boss Soti Skylakakis. Here a plan is concoted to buy a debt strangled European country and establish a “corpocracy” with Soti as president.

Prior to this Tori had studied at Sydney Uni under the charismatic Professor Mellor. He convinces a group of his stellar students, known as 9S, to be trusted and valued superiors in their speciality fields, and sends them out to work their way into influential positions in industry and government. At a given signal they were to betray all trust by destroying the world’s oil production, banking, power and safety systems. Perversely, they are instructed to destroy the planet in order to save it. The race is on to discover the perpetrators and their deadly plans.

At this stage the book could have lapsed into fantasy. But sharp and exhilirating writing and impeccable attention to detail makes the improbable possible, and the pace accelerates to a convincing conclusion.

This page turner is a compulsory companion on a long flight or relaxing holiday.

The Trusted by John M Green is published by Pantera Press (2013).

For me, what sets Lee Marvin apart is his authenticity. He didn’t just play tough guys, he was one, serving in the US Marine Corps during WW II, surviving the Battle of Saipan, segueing into an acting career after working as a plumber in a community theatre.

A successful Hollywood actor, he was the roughest of diamonds in an industry that prides itself on polish. He struggled with inner demons both on- and off-screen, his career uneven, his life messy. He died, old before his time, at age 63.

The breadth and depth of Marvin’s appeal is demonstrated by the calibre of writers who answered the call when Crime Factory Publications went soliciting for short fiction inspired by his life. The result is LEE, a collection of 17 stories set between 1944 and 1987, which like the actor himself, stagger from the serious to satirical, the honourable to the hard-core. The smell of sweat, smoke and booze wafts from every page. And while themes of violence, addiction and abjection dominate, the collection also contains moments of hilarity and genuine pathos.

As with previous Crime Factory anthologies (and yes, I had a short story in one once, so sue me), the quality of the offerings is impressive.

‘The Man Who Shot The Duke’ by Heath Lowrance describes a fantastical melding of Marvin the actor with Marvin the Marine when violence erupts on the set of The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance in 1961. A terrific story — but spoiler alert if you haven’t seen the film.

‘A Sort of Intellectual’ by Jenna Bass is for me the most poignant in the collection, one that inspires me to see the film it references, Ship of Fools, directed by Stanley Kramer and released in 1965 (the story is set in 1964).

‘Just Swell’ by Cameron Ashley, set in 1966 the night Marvin won the Best Actor Oscar (for Cat Ballou) is one of several stories that made me laugh out loud.

‘The Gun Hunter’ by Eric Beetner is a debauched tale of props, cocks and guns, loosely linked to the set of 1967′s Point Blank, and featuring killer lines like: ‘He leads me into an alley I’d never be caught dead in, but I’m pretty sure several dozen other people had.’

‘Gone Fishing’ by Andrew Nette imagines one of Marvin’s regular visits to Cairns to fish for marlin, with a denouement that acts as a perfect metaphor for Lee’s disappointment at the reception of Hell in the Pacific, a film ‘he’d poured his heart and soul into’.

‘Down Mexico Way’ by Luke Preston depicts Marvin knocking back a role on ‘monster movie’ pitched to him by a kid called Joey. ‘It’s a piece of shit, kid. trust me, I know what they look like, we’re shooting one now.’ The movie Marvin is shooting is Pocket Money (1972). The one he passes up on is Jaws. True story, cleverly told.

‘The Wild Coast’ by Roger Smith imagines Marvin’s discomfort on the set of Shout At The Devil in 1976, filming in a ‘bullshit puppet country…run by a tin pot dictator’. Marvin, a liberal Democrat, who ‘even spoke out in support of gay rights in Playboy magazine for Chrissakes’, channels his loathing towards ‘limey pantywaist’ co-star Roger Moore and the ‘Boer bruiser’ appointed as his stunt double. Revenge never tasted so good.

I’ve kept my comments to seven out of 17 stories. I could say good things about all 17, but then I’d sound like one of those parents at a kids’ party who insists every kid wins a prize. The sort of behaviour guaranteed to earn me the scorn of someone like Lee Marvin.

So what if I live with one of the editors at Crime Factory? — I offer you my opinions on a take it or leave it basis.

And in my opinion, this anthology rocks hard.

LEE is available as an ebook and in hard copy.