Perched precariously on a cushion-sized seat by Mr Jon (the
tuktuk driver) I grip the steel bar behind me with a sweaty hand. We weave
through a frenzy of bikes laden with baskets of leafy vegetables, dusty wagons
& peddlers in Phnom Penh. The sun hides behind a smoky sky. Pressed into
the seats behind me, delirious at this dizzying new world, are nine more
flushed teenagers from New Zealand.
We brake noisily by a brick house with rickety wooden
shutters. A soapy aroma fills our nostrils, easing the odour of hot rubbish.
Shoes lie jumbled by the front door. Clad in graphic tees, patterned shorts
& floral dresses, the orphans wander into the yard. We merge, each group
laughing with each other in their own lingo. Small, soft brown hands with dirty
fingernails hang onto our skirts. Their faces turn upwards exposing little
teeth in warm smiles.
A little boy is shying away from the crowd. His head bowed,
his hands buried in the pockets of his blue cotton shorts. Josh. At the
orphanage since birth, he was born to a mother perishing of AIDS. His
uncertainty thaws as we probe the colourful, airy rooms. He gabbles nonstop. I
nod knowingly. Relaxed in our new alliance he shoves my glasses onto his face,
fingers splayed over the lenses. He lets out a gurgle, eyes turning inwards.
Four hours later Josh wraps his arms around my leg, his brow
crumpled & rosebud lips pouty. Being whisked away in the tuktuk I see him
behind the gate, glaring dejectedly at our backs. I blow kisses to him &
wave. He stays there, clinging the bars that keep him safe.
Back in the hubbub there is the buzz of a hundred engines,
punctuated by the occasional burst of tinny music from roadside kiosks, tooting
horns & the persistent call of hawkers. We pass vendors balancing a rainbow
of ‘Sting’ soda on their bikes, aloof Buddhist monks swathed in orange &
families of five piled onto a swaying motorcycles. I watch it all through misty
eyes, Josh’s face clouding my vision.
