Phnom Penh, A Memoir in Meals

On a busy day, our meals are buoys and the days just sail around them. They are our only chance to take a break--to stop navigating.

Frozen Yogurt (literally, a frozen cup of strawberry yogurt):
The firt semi-solid food I've had in over 48 hours. It cools my mouth and I haven't loved artificial strawberry flavor so much since I was ten. Betsy and I sit on our balcony in Phnom Penh and watch the motor bikes zoom by. A flood of bikes. Zoom. Zoom. Zoom. One is a portable restaurant. A family of five packed on another. A 12-year-old driver. Zoom. "It never ends," I whisper. "I know," she says. "It's crazy."

Dinner, Restaurant, Tamarind:
Comfy chairs. These chairs are everywhere in Cambodia and I love them--big straw chairs with cushions you can sink right into. A bottle of white wine. Cooked vegetables over cous cous. I eat and eat as I have never eaten. "My god I'm starving!" Betsy laughs. "You must be! You haven't eaten in three days.... It's so great to have you back."

It is good to be back. All I did this day was walk around the block. I saw an small old woman pushing a huge cart carrying a man missing the bottom parts of his legs. Betsy had mentioned seeing a lot of this. People disabled from landmines. I ducked into a place for a $7 massage.

Breakfast, Bougonvieller Hotel:
Our last morning at the fancy hotel. The dining room is white and pristine. A mini-croissant and yogurt. Tea. We plan our day. First we will go to the Killing Fields. "Betsy, thank you for waiting to do all this with me. Really." The fields are where the prisoners at S-21 (prison described below) were taken to be executed.

Snack, mystery fruit shake near the central market:
We are covered in all kinds of dirt and grime from the 14 km tuk tuk ride to and from the fields. Riding the tuk tuk is an adventure in itself. We pass slums. We pass palaces. We pass Buddhist monks in their bright orange robes.
As cars pass motor bikes, and motor bikes pass slower trucks, all on 2 lane roads, each lane just sort of gives a little, to allow for this passing to happen in both directions. To someone not so used to this system, it appears simply that we're veering into oncoming traffic. It's kind of scary. Kind of fun.

Immediately upon entering The Killing Fields, is a beautiful monument--within it are almost 9,000 human skulls. Our guide lead us around in the oppresive heat and pointed out the mass graves, and bones visible in the ground.
"This is where most of the prisoners held at S-21 were brought to be executed," he explained. "There heads were bashed in with bamaboo or farm tools. Or their throats were slit. Babies were held at their feet and their heads swung against the trees."

The little I know of the history is this: in the late 70s, Pol Pot came to lead Khmer Rouge regime and set out to begin Cambodia anew--beginning as a completely agrarian society. In order to do this, he set out to execute anyone deemed educated or against the regime.

The thought I could not get out of my mind: One day, these peoples' lives were normal. The next day they were not.

We are exhausted. We savor the shake. And head into the market.

Late late lunch, Boddhi Tree Restaurant:
We melt into the big cushion chairs. And order lassis and salads. We're starved.

We shopped. There are two places I love to shop. Haight Street and abroad. We hit the market for cheap kitsch. And then Betsy led me to these stores--which teach disabled people and women crafts. They make the most beautiful things. We go nuts. Presents. Mom. Dad. Maddy. Charlie. [other people] There is nothing better than finding perfect gifts! We are jubilant with fat purple shopping bags. We cram our asses and our bags on the back of a motorbike of a smiling Cambodian. "When in Rome!" Betsy says.

And then we decide at the last minute to go to the genocide museum. The late afternoon heat gripped us as we wandered through headshots of the prisoners. Some stare at the camera with fear. Some with defiance. Pride. A half-smile. The sadness here is as heavy as the heat.

The salads come and we stuff ourselves. There is goat cheese on my salad--Goat cheese! And artichoke hearts. My goodness, I'm happy. But full. Too too full. The clouds are getting dark and pregnant so we pay, race for the hotel. And life happens all around us. Badmitton in the streets and everyone cooking and eating and yelling at us: "Tuk tuk, lady? Motor bike ride, lady?" We laugh and scurry and tell our bellies to digest faster and the clouds to hold their rain just a little longer. They do and we collapse into our beds, tired but dry.

Drinks, Foreign Correspondence Club:
We sink into big brown leather chairs. This place is beautiful, on the second floor, with high ceilings, overlooking the city. Little white lizards run around the white walls, like they do everywhere. I always like to try and count them. A cafe of chardonnay--it's terrible, but we couldn't care less. And as we sip, an older man, with a little white hair, dorky glasses and a belly hanging over his pants, perches himself on a high stool in the front of the restaurant, with a young Cambodian girl on his arm. She can't be more than 19. Betsy and I look at each other. We try to understand her life. We can't. Can't imagine having to choose what she has chosen. He leans into her and runs his old hands up and down her too thin arms. My skin crawls. I close my eyes and wish it away. Open. They are still there. And he won't stop leaning into her like he geniunely wants to get to know her. It feels like the restaurant is holding it's breath and staring at them. We know what's going on. Why the show? All of our eyes seem to sing. Then he goes to kiss her. Their mouths touch. It's the strangest kiss I've ever seen. Forced and lifeless. "Do you want to turn around?" I ask Betsy. We do, and a minute later, we watch their backs descend the staircase. "Thank god!" we say outloud.
The couple next to us asks, "How do you really feel about that?" And then, "Have you seen the old men with the young boys?"

We order one last beer. We love this city. In spite of its pain, in spite of its devastating history, it is alive. It makes us feel alive.