Cambodia has truly been through hell and back again. You wouldn't really know it as you walk down the waterfront, past the sleek bars and restaurants with full wine lists, to the sparkling Royal Palace and carefully tended park in front of it. Then a man with one leg tries to sell you photocopied books. A small girl wheels her father and his twisted body up to you on a wooden cart. Groups of dark, dusty kids jostle for the prize of your leftover snack or empty water bottle. A man with a horrifically burned face holds out his hat for whatever you'll give him. It's hard to justify the argument that giving to these people encourages their dependency when they're looking you in the face.
It's not all gloom and doom, fortunately. Many of those swanky coffee shops offer vocational training for such kids, and the profits go towards shelters or other programs. There are handicraft workshops for people with disabilities and I even received a wonderful massage from a blind woman. When she got to the knots in my neck she giggled and exclaimed "So much stress!", and I laughed because of all the people around I really have the least to worry about. It must be all that bike riding and bus sitting and email writing. My life is so hard.
In one such coffee shop I got up to pay for my drink and ended up deep in conversation with the gal behind the cash register, who had excellent English. She got out the guest book so I could write a comment, and while I was drawing her a map of where I'm from (thank goodness the states out west are big and relatively square) we were joined by a couple little kids with large crates of books slung over their shoulders. They claimed the pen and proceeded to sketch out the four of us, labeled with names and everything. There was much giggling at the size of my head or the height of the figures relative to one another. Despite the calluses on their feet and the holes in their clothes, kids are still kids.
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