[1] on the Mekong [2] Bayon temple [3] starface Ker San Sotha
[4] Wat Phnom elephant [5] coconuts sale [6] from top of Sorya
[7] fruit stand [8] motodopes [9] grilled octopus on a stick

January 12

the difference between here and there
Here is an (often overlooked) question in any foreign culture: what behavior is safe and appropriate? I’m not talking about religion, dress, or even taboos, but more about things you do or don’t regarding safety. For example, women and children in Cambodia don’t go out past dark, especially not alone. And why is this? As a 19 year old American (from a small beach town) with reoccurring good luck and security, I had comfortable delusions that I was invincible. But if anywhere and anything will shake you to fear and paranoia, it’s living alone and naïve, and female, in Phnom Penh, Cambodia. A couple of weeks ago, I was running late to a couple of errands, so late in fact, it was after dark on a Saturday night. I wanted to quickly check an e-mail I was supposed to receive from my father. I had just gotten back from a NGO woman’s club Christmas program at the Intercontinental Hotel and was wearing my best black dress. I rode my bike through the quiet unlit streets of my neighborhood, my green purse slung over the left handlebar. The shop by Anrok Davy that I usually go was closed, so I rode farther into Toul Kork (but still within a few blocks of home) and arrived upon the first shop with the light on. Outside middle age men sat shirtless with their cigarettes, slouched and smirking, shady and horny. They blew smoke in my direction, raising their eyebrows, as I ran into the shop, only filled with more men. It then hit me, the incongruous way I fit into this culture. I threw a couple hundred riel at the man at the desk and ran out. The streets were deserted and dark and ominous. I was just one turn from home, less than 100 yards from the gate of the mission, and the sound of a moto revved behind me. Its lights were dim, but I could hear it coming, and like a scared fool, I peddled as fast as my legs could carry me. The man slowed down to where I was, he did not want my money, it was all to easy to grab my purse, but instead he reached right past that, putting his right hand below the black satin ribbon on the waist of my dress, grabbing me between my legs. I continued peddling, aiming my wheels to the right, in attempts to break free from his grasp. I then hit the dust and the dirt where the pavement ended. The roads in Cambodia are cracked and unfinished and dusty, filled with trash, shattered glass bottles, rocks, and bricks, and it was there, that I fell. The moto fortunately sped off in the dark, the only thing I could see was the back of his shirt blowing in the wind, and I, petrified, got right back up on my bike, and sped home. I slipped past the guard, blood dripping down my legs, rocks imbedded in my kneecaps. I ran into the bathroom, knowing my roommate would only reprimand me (and sure enough, she called me stupid, several times, including many euphemisms expressing only the same redundant idea), cuts on my arms, legs, and even in my armpits. I slipped off my dress and took a shower, until my other (nicer) roommate Liz helped me clean the wounds, rubbed antiseptic on them and helped me bandage them up. Unlike America, scars and cuts don’t prove your tough, instead they’re something ugly and meant to be hidden. And after being told numerous times that I was no longer beautiful, I wore my longest skirts day after day, in best attempts to hide the damage.