And I truly don’t know when I’ll be back again. The past three weeks have been an amazing professional experience, in addition to an incredible opportunity to explore a part of the world hence unknown to me. As I finished up meetings in the office and said goodbyes, sadness overcame me. I’ve grown fond of our Cambodian staff and will miss the crazy misinterpretations and long discussions over simple topics. Lia suhn hao-y, Kampuchea. Until next time.

I entered the spa, welcomed by dim lights, bamboo walls, and a gently trickling fountain. I asked for a Thai massage and was whisked into a back room, attended by a woman (?)/girl (?) half my size. She pounded me, she stretched me, she pushed and pulled me for over an hour. At the end she merely stood up and announced, “Finish,” and left the room. I got dressed and returned to the peaceful lobby, my body a walking blob. As a I was paying, I noticed the masseuses were watching a flat screen tv that I had not seen upon my entrance. They were enrapt. I followed their eyes to the screen. World Wrestling Federation. Nice.

We drove past the National Museum, past the Royal Palace. The wide, paved road turned into a narrower asphalt road. That road then turned into a well kept dirt road which turned into a rutty, utterly impassible path that violently jostled us as we neared Choeung Ek, The Killing Fields. A few tuk tuk drivers waited for their passengers in the hot afternoon sun. We approached the ticket booth, a simple wooden structure in which sat a solitary employee. Not quite sure what to expect, we entered the makeshift gate, walking towards the Choeung Ek Memorial. We placed our shoes on the rack provided and I took off my hat, as was requested by the signage. We lit incense sticks to pray for those who suffered under the regime of Pol Pot. As I knelt, I realized the tower before me housed shelves and shelves of skulls disinterred from the mass graves which once surrounded us. I thought of all the Cambodians I currently work with and all those I don’t, I won’t. I realized tears were streaming down my face and I closed my eyes. How was Pol Pot able to convince children to kill their parents, neighbors to turn against one another? As it was happening, did the world view it as barbaric as we judge it in hindsight? Did we know a genocide was occurring? I think about the atrocities that are presently taking place. Will future generations wonder the same about us?

It is our first free day in many. We agree to sleep in, yet we all wake up at 6, thinking we need to be somewhere. Over brunch we declare a moratorium on work talk for the day. It isn’t long before one of us slips, and mentions a project, a person, a site we’re working on. We do our best to hold each other accountable for enjoying this weekend day, this first day of no meetings, no appointments, no planning, in weeks.

We wander through Phsar Toul Tom Poung – the Russian Market – and are overwhelmed by the multitude of the same. Stall after stall after stall selling silk purses, silk wraps, silk cloth. Buddhas peek out from stalls, laughing, studying, instructing. Children with wide eyes and thin arms follow us around, attempting to sell us postcards (“Ten for one dollar, miss. Special price, just for you. Good price. Good price. No buy right now? Maybe later? Later, you come back, you buy from me. Okay? Okay?”), books, or simply beg for money. We are content to wander, to slowly meander through the maze of dark stalls, for once in a rush to go nowhere. We amass small bags of souvenirs for friends and loved ones back home then enter into the brightness of midday.

The tuk tuk drivers spot us right away. “Lady!” “Lady!” We choose one and make our way to Wat Phnom, the temple around which Phnom Penh was founded. Millions of Buddhas greet us inside the temple. A giant one smiles down on us, resplendently shining in gold. Many smaller ones, carefully guarding offerings of riel that the devoted have purposely placed in their arms, look serenely over the temple. The scent of burning candles fills the air; lotus blossoms are abundant. We’re not sure of the protocol beyond taking off our shoes. Can we take pictures? Is it okay to walk behind the Buddha? Should we light the incense? We compromise on all – taking pictures, but without a flash; walking on the side of the Buddha, but not behind; and making a donation, but not lighting the incense or disturbing the many faithful on their knees, praying to Buddhas.

Afterwards we walk along the riverfront, marveling at how many Cambodians fit on the back of a motorbike. The most we saw was six (truly), however, three and four were common. We passed a spa. We glanced at each other guiltily. Shouldn’t we be sightseeing? Shouldn’t we do the things we can’t do in the United States? Spending an afternoon at an upscale spa for only $20 was not something we could do in the US, so our dilemma was solved. Head massages, foot massages, and facials later, we felt like new women, ready to take on the hotness and humidity of Phnom Penh once again.

… is a lovely city. Unlike Siem Reap, a rural village suddenly descended upon by more than a million visitors per year, Phnom Penh has matured at a sustainable rate. We have dinner on a veranda overlooking the Tonle Sap. A ceiling fan swirls gently above us, a warm breeze gracefully brushes our shoulders. Multitudes lounge along the waterfront, sitting and talking, strolling, sipping drinks. My initial impression of a hectic and abrasive city has dissipated. I’m very happy.

We’re sitting on the verandah of our office, enjoying the damp hotness of monsoon season in Phnom Penh. Winds blow, shutters slam, the sky darkens. I love the ferocity of a summer storm, even more so surrounded by palm trees swaying and moto horns beeping.

The Office Helper in our Phnom Penh office offers me a cup of coffee. I gratefully accept, feeling slightly tired. I take a sip. The sweetness startles me. I am drinking the equivalent of warm coffee ice cream.

I showed the driver the business card of my hotel which had a map on the back. We negotiated the price. I jumped on the back of the moto, muttering a quick prayer that nothing would happen on the short ride home. I know I shouldn’t ride without a helmet. I know that. Yet here I was, doing it again.

I grasped the handle on the back and we were off. I wasn’t paying much attention to where we were going; he said he knew where the hotel was. I suddenly realized we had been driving for a while. Oh, no. He didn’t look like a serial killer. I noticed we were along the river way, not the part of town where my hotel was. I tapped him on the shoulder. “Tee. Tee,” and pointed the opposite direction from where we were. He turned around and I realized this could be problematic. I knew my hotel was within walking distance of the Independence Monument, which was in the middle of a traffic circle.

We got to the monument and drove around it once. Then twice. Then three times. I couldn’t recognize any of the side streets. Which one went to my hotel? He stopped at a sidewalk café to ask for directions. They pointed in a direction that seemed like it could be where my hotel was. We passed many abandoned construction sites. Was he lost, too? Or was this part of his plan? I realized I put a lot of trust in random people. I was on the back of a motor bike with someone who didn’t speak English and didn’t know where my hotel was, riding around Phnom Penh. Nice.

We drove back to the monument. Once. Twice. Three times. And down another side street. We stopped in front of a hotel. The guard there looked at the business card and pointed us in another direction. We were off. Hello, monument.

When we arrived at my hotel I started clapping. “Akun! Akun!” I exclaimed, laughing. I offered him twice the rate we had agreed on, in appreciation for him not killing me, either intentionally or via Phnom Penh traffic. He argued with me, wanting more, motioning with wild arm movements to indicate he had gotten lost. I stood there, perplexed. He said he knew where my hotel was. Yes, we drove around, but partly because he didn’t know where he was going. I didn’t either, but I’m not a moto driver. Should I have to pay for him to be lost? I tried to give him the money; he wouldn’t accept it. I started to walk away; he lunged after me. I offered him more money, he shook his head. I was utterly confused. Was he asking for more money? Was he offended by the amount I was offering? Was he refusing payment because he drove me around for 20 minutes, lost in Phnom Penh? After several more of his adamant refusals, I began to walk towards the hotel. He ran up behind me, grabbed the money from my hands, and sped off. I guess he was holding out for more money.

The wall of my tiny room in Phnom Penh borders a karaoke club/disco. Not a lot of sound-proofing materials used here in Cambodia. My bed shakes when the bass is turned up.