Veasna.

When I got back from the beach on Sunday afternoon, the bus stopped outside a big guesthouse and travel hub where all the backpackers congregate, so needless to say, moto taxi drivers were out in full force. Even before we came to a stop, a whole slew of them came running up alongside the bus so as to be first to the door when it opened and we began to file out. I was towards the front of the bus, behind about ten Cambodians, and I watched as the moto drivers excitedly offered their services. The windows of the bus were tinted, so I could see them without being seen, and I smiled, knowing the excitement would escalate as soon as they saw me, the first barang (foreigner) to get off the bus. Sure enough, as soon as I appeared in the doorway it was like something out of the movies when some controversial figure steps into a frenzied crowd of reporters. It was pure madness.

Of course, I was in need of a moto to take me home, but how does one go about picking one out of a group of 20? Here is how. You put your head down. You do not smile. You act like you know where you are going. You don't give the moto drivers the time of day. You push through the swarm and around to the front of the bus, thus diminishing the potential drivers down to about four or five. And then you lift up your head just enough to see their shoulders, and you put your hands on the shoulders closest to you. This driver is of course ecstatic, and the other drivers tell you not to go with him, that he cannot be trusted, and that he is no good. You stick with your choice. You follow him across the street. And you ride off.

So this is what I did, and what seemed to be a pretty haphazard moto driver choice turned out to be the first one I have encountered in this city, despite all my many many moto rides, who speaks perfect English. Add to this the fact that I had been planning on hiring a moto driver to take me to work and back every day as soon as I moved across town, but I hadn't given any thought to how I would negotiate this sort of a deal without any language in common. But before I could even suggest the idea of hiring him, he asks if I am interested in doing so.

And this is how I came to hire Veasna, my moto driver. I'll pay him weekly, providing me with a consistent ride and someone who can take me anywhere I want to go without wondering if he will get me lost, while providing him with some regular income, as he wants to go to school in the future.

I found out that he was born in 1978, during the final year of the Khmer Rouge regime. He lives with his family near Choueng Ek, the infamous killing fields just outside Phnom Penh. His sister has recently been widowed, and now she and her children are dying of AIDS. Veasna knows they will die someday, but he says the family cares for them and wants to allow them to live lives of dignity until they go.

Yesterday, Veasna was asking about my NGO (non-governmental organization) and he said to me, "There are many Cambodians working in your NGO." I said he was right and that there were only a few of us foreigners. He then added, "And there are many Christians." I don't know how he knew this, but we chatted a little bit, him saying how everyone in America is a Christian, and me saying that many don't actually live that way. He told me he has a friend who invited him to church and now he goes every weekend. They sing songs, he says, and they have a party. I asked if his family was Buddhist, and he said they were.

I was actually pretty surprised to hear him talk about going to church. Working with World Relief, I have a lot of contact with Cambodian Christians and we go to visit those in the churches now and then. I also know that the church here has grown something like 250% over the past five years, but still, Christians make up less than one percent of the population. I am not used to meeting a random person on the street who goes to church.

Many good conversations will follow I'm sure, as we make our twice-daily trek across the city, and I have already begun to look into getting Veasna a Bible in Khmer.

Street 55.

My first night with the new family was a success, I would say. At the dinner table I learned many Khmer words, though I have also since forgotten most of them. I never did figure out how to pronounce ch'ngun, or delicious, though they got quite a kick out of hearing me try. But then they had to try saying Pennsylvania, which leveled the playing field quite a bit.

After dinner I tried to help the middle son, Phirun, to install the Alien vs. Predator II game on his computer, but it didn't work. So we ended up listening to Cambodian pop music and watching hip hop music videos from Eminem and Bow Wow. Phirun, a sophomore in high school, enjoys watching sci-fi movies and romantic comedies. And like many young people in Cambodia, he is also a huge fan of WWE. We can watch this Saturday morning, he says.

This is the bed in my new bedroom. Don't let the bars on the window fool you - it is not a prison cell. And yes, the orange on the bed is pseudo-velvet.

This is the other side of the bedroom.

Here is the street down below, as seen from the fourth floor balcony. On the street corner is a restaurant where all the moto-taxi drivers go for dinner.

Apparently it rained overnight. This morning I did a conference call with the good folks from C4 back home. I made the call from the lobby at the Sunway Hotel, and on the way there, the moto I was on got bogged down in the water and stopped. Therefore...

... I walked the rest of the way.

Compare.

Last night was my final night at the Amstutz residence. This afternoon I packed up all my stuff and headed across town to the new place. It is a new beginning after a great month and a half. I have come to think quite highly of Tim and Kathy and their family, and it was bittersweet to relinquish my plastic yellow cup and my seat at the dinner table. But new adventures lie ahead.

The day I arrived here in Cambodia, I posted a picture of the guest room at the Amstutz house, where I was to be staying. After I had taken the photo and I looked at it, something told me I had seen this photo before. It was weird. But then a week later or so I found a photo I had taken when I was here in January, at Tuol Sleng, the genocide museum. I should mention that my stay with the Amstutz family has been quite pleasant, and the laptop and backpack on my bed are not to be confused with the instruments of torture on the other one. Anyway, have a look at the similarities for yourself.