Shock

Shock - culture shock.  Walk to work?  Why not?  

Little did I realize how much I would see on a simple walk.  The well-off people in their air-conditioned cars, those struggling to sell snails out of their makeshift carts, and everything in between.

Back home people will attend car seat safety classes to ensure their child is as safe as can be in their oversized SUVs.  Here, what is a car seat?  Just pile the kids on the moto bike, and have the little one hold on best it can.  No problem.

Helmets?  If you want.

Seatbelts?  Pssh.

Stop lights?  Barely.

Traffic Lanes?  Whichever direction you please.

Last week in New York I saw an old man shlepping his groceries.  I kept an eye on him to make sure he crossed okay.  He was almost to the other side as the walking light turned into the blinking red hand warning him it would soon be the vehicles turn to go.  

Yesterday in Phnom Penh I saw an old woman shuffling across the dirt road.  Barely picking up her feet as she crept more and more into busy traffic.  Not so much traffic that it was at a stop or maybe a slow crawl.  This was bustling moto bikes and tuks tuks weaving in and out of each other galore.  This woman kept her eyes straight, did not look to either side even once, and just proceeded one slow step at a time.  

My heart stopped when I saw her in the middle of the road.  But the drivers just wove around this obstacle and kept on going.  This woman reminded me of a stone.  The stone you toss into a river and watch the water flow right around it.  Not stopping, just rushing rushing rushing on by.

So It Begins

Walking under the blazing sun and coming up to the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum was not something I anticipated as I woke up this morning.  Maybe because I wasn't mentally nor emotionally prepared to take on such a chilling visit, maybe it was the heat and dehydration, or maybe just the simple fact that this was a lot to take in.

It is my third day in this country.  My third day walking down moto-packed streets, communicating through smiles and hand gestures, taking in every site and scent that comes my way (voluntarily or not).  And it was on my third day I was struck with the this country's past right in front of me.

The cells, shackles, and skulls all stood before me.  I saw hundreds of prisoner portraits who were meticulously numbered, seated, and photographed all the same.

A high school became a prison.  Exercise equipment became torture devices.  And to think all of this happened only a few decades ago.