Pad Si Ew And Me

I remember the exact moment that I fell in love with Cambodia. It was in the city of Phnom Penh. Despite devouring countless books and documentaries, nothing could have prepared me for my time there. Walking down Sisowath Quay at night, I would dodge families sleeping on sheets of cardboard under the awnings of closing restaurants. Mothers holding clammy, snotty nosed children would stare up at me and silently beg using only their eyes near the Psar Thmei. Girls younger than me stood outside every, selling sex for as much as the cost of a meal in an Australian McDonalds. I would hear stories of bag snatchers and the like– but in such a damaged city, a city where universities and hospitals had been burned down only thirty years beforehand and the blood-stained streets turned to rubble, a city rife with desperation and poverty- I found nothing but safety, and felt nothing but hope. I can honestly say that out of my time in South East Asia, this is the only city I could see myself living in.
The day in particular was by far the hardest of my whole trip. I had decided to hire a motorbike and ride out to the Choeng Uk Genocide Memorial Centre, better known as The Killing Fields. On the drive home, I could barely see due to the blood red dust spewing up behind cars and trucks, and as I had cried so much at the centre my vision was shot. My mind kept playing the eerie sound of children’s laughter from the school next door to the silent lake where hundreds of bodies were suspected to still lay untouched. I felt exhausted, my faith in humanity lost. Once back at the hostel, I took to the streets to find some Lok-Lak and clarify my thoughts. It would have been on Street 240 that I tripped, over a pile of broken cement and glass. I was in shock with my right shin raw and rapidly swelling, until a mother and child rushed over to see if I was okay. The child stayed, his huge brown eyes apprehensive and bewildered, as the mother disappeared only to come back with a tiny red box full of antiseptic wipes and bandaids. I tried to refuse her hospitality, knowing that such a kit wouldn’t have been cheap. The average wage in Cambodia is far less than $1 a day. Thinking of this woman’s kindness despite living in overwhelming poverty, and her willingness to help me even though it was costing her the potential to treat the wounds of her child sent shivers down my spine. It was at this moment that I knew Cambodia had my heart, and wouldn’t be losing it any time soon.