When you’re living in a foreign country and working with an NGO Monday through Friday, weekends have the potential to be pretty doggone boring. Fortunately, due in part to my own ingenuity, and also because of good people letting me tag along on their adventures, weekends have thus far been quite pleasant and not very dull at all.

Last Saturday I went fishing with Joke’s family, with her six or seven Cambodian-turned-Dutch children, all more or less trilingual. Theoretically the van Opstals speak English at school, Dutch at home, and Khmer everywhere else, though they sometimes get sloppy and switch it up. Truth be told, sometimes when I am around I have a hard time figuring out when they are speaking Khmer and when it is Dutch. Anyway, we went fishing along the highway about an hour outside of town and as soon as we got there I realized what a complete idiot I was because I had left my camera in my backpack at their house. We fished for a few hours, and among all of us we had four fish to show for it. Four small fish. I teamed up with six year old Elisa, and we had the makings of a stellar duo but somehow we came up dry. Maybe it is because she insisted on changing the bait every thirty seconds, but hey, at least I didn’t have to get my hands dirty putting dead shrimp and bugs on the hook.

Keeping the weekend outdoors streak alive, Geof Bowman invited me to join him and some of his family today on a hiking expedition to a waterfall. A week or two ago he had attempted to hike up to the waterfall but was unable to hack his way through the jungle.

This time, therefore, we hired a local woman to lead us there, armed with a wicked machete, which proved necessary for cutting through vines and branches and what not.

The hike started out on flat ground on a trail surrounded by high grass and the occasional brightly colored exotic flower, but it was not long before we got into the thick of things, pushing into the jungle, doing our best to avoid the nasty vines God designed specifically for the purpose of grabbing hikers in search of beautiful waterfalls in rural Cambodia.

We had to cross a few creeks (or one creek a few times), and fortunately I recalled some lessons learned in the wonderful parks of southern Lancaster County, including the one about how it is far better to just walk right through the water instead of trying to tip toe across slimy and mossy rocks. Normally I am the one managing to get myself soaked in six-inch deep water (just ask Matty or one of the Schrotts), but thankfully I remained upright the entire hike this time, which I should probably attribute to the fact that I was wearing my Bitterman Scale Company t-shirt.

Hacking your way up the side of a mountain in the jungle is an adventure fit for a Bitterman, so you might as well wear the t-shirt. That’s the way I see it anyway.

We did not hike all the way to the top of the waterfall, as this would involve some cliffhanging and we figured what we were doing was already adventure enough. We stopped at this great place where the water comes off huge boulders and into a little pool way up on the side of the mountain, surrounded by bamboo. In the serenity of this Eden-like place one of our explorers, who will remain unnamed, slipped on a slippery boulder and fell into the water. Then another went to help her, and managed to pull her out before falling in herself, in turn bringing her recent rescue back for more. It was rather comical in an I-hope-they’re-OK sort of way. While we sat there, taking a breather and soaking in the beauty of the place, I took the opportunity to snap off a few self-portraits. You never know when one will come in handy, you know.

I got grief for doing so, however, from a certain fellow adventurer who will go unnamed, though I will say he is Australian and his name starts with G.

When I am hiking, I should tell you that I am picky about a few things. One of these is that people should keep moving and not clog up the trail. I especially get irritated when people ahead of me stop when we’re crossing makeshift bridges or other particularly tricky areas where balance is an issue and life and limb are at stake.

Or when people ahead of you stop, requiring that you also must stop, and unbeknownst to them you happen to be standing in fire ant central. This is neither pleasant nor acceptable. Also, I require ample space between the person in front and behind at all times. You don’t want branches and prickly vines swinging back and hitting you in the face. That is no one’s idea of a good time. Also, it is wise to do whatever possible to prevent human dominoes on the trail, in the unfortunate event that someone takes a spill, which is known to happen. Ideally I will be either first or last in the caravan, as either will allow me to set my own pace and create an ideal buffer zone.

With these factors in mind, and the peripheral fact that I had to relieve myself, I got a little head start on the hike back down. I was feeling pretty good about myself, scaling my way down the side of a mountain through a myriad vines, all the while aware of the ever-present possibility of a deadly poisonous snake attack (which I really just say to stir tingly feelings in you, the reader, and to make the story more dramatic).

The trail, as you’ll recall, had just been created for us an hour or so before, so it was not easily distinguishable. All the same I was feeling pretty confident that I was going the right way. That is, until I found myself at a creek crossing which I didn’t recognize. A foot or so in front of me was a big green hanging fruit and it was swarming with fire ants.

I began to wonder what it would be like to get lost in a jungle like this, separated from humanity, so desperate that eating big green hanging fruits swarming with fire ants was a necessity just to stay alive. My thoughts, fortunately, were soon interrupted by the sound of my no longer estranged fellow adventurers passing about ten feet from me. It was like the movies where someone gets shipwrecked and is wasting away on the beach of a tropical island when all of a sudden, he or she opens his or her eyes ever so slightly, revealing that a ship has appeared on the horizon and is coming to the rescue, thus ensuring a happy ever after. At this point the music starts soaring to new heights, giving viewers everywhere goosebumps and, in the case of female viewers, perhaps a knot in the throat and a tear in the eye if this means he or she will be reunited with the one he or she loves. Actually, in this case, it wasn’t nearly as dramatic as a movie. They didn’t see me at first, and judging by their conversation, hadn’t even noticed I was unaccounted for, so I said hello and added, somewhat hypothetically, “Oh, is that where the trail is?”

On the drive home I was given an array of flower petals by the youngest of the Bowman’s children, and I pretended to be eating them, which she found rather amusing. She hadn’t made a sound all day, and I wanted to make sure she knew how to laugh, which, it turns out, she does. After maybe fifteen minutes of being given flower petals in exchange for funny faces and taps on her head with my water bottle, I decided to read St. Augustine’s Confessions. At this she fell asleep, and I don’t blame her. Honestly, you can’t really expect a three year old Cambodian girl to be interested in a saint who lived in Africa in the fourth and fifth centuries.

The past week has been an intense one, spiritually speaking, involving lots of soul-searching, lots of praying, lots of reading the Psalms and praying them back to God with the same sort of desperation that bleeds so evidently throughout the entire book and reveals how those words come out of the everyday stuff of life in a mysteriously inspired sort of way. I am staring down a fork in the road these days. I weigh the pros and cons, I consider the what ifs, and I do it all over again and again, one day after another. I turn to His word, I pray, and I turn to those I trust especially now because life these days, rather than feeling like a great exhilarating adventure, begins to feel a lot more like a royal pain in the neck.

So it is in these days when songs I have known for a long time begin to come alive, because in the case of good music, songs are written from the heart and out of desperation and not just because they make for good songs.

For more than a yeear now, my favorite song has been “Breathing Air Again” by the Robbie Seay Band. Never before has a song continued to rattle around in my heart and head quite the way this one has, but it has just now taken on new meaning.

“Take the time to start anew, maybe it’s in front of you. Take the time to walk down the street, heaven knows who you might meet. Take the time to be OK, laugh a bit along the way… And we could breathe again. Step outside our front door and gaze upon the stars and know we’re not alone. So run into the field and scream louder than you can. It’s good to be alive and breathing air again… Take the time to stop and stare, heaven’s beauty everywhere. Take the time to think about someone else besides yourself. Take the time to be OK, laugh a bit along the way…”

Another RSB song contains these lyrics: “Wherever you are, breathe out and breathe again, and know that life is hard but it’s worth the breathing.” And I guess this odd theme of breathing really resonates with me for whatever reason. Switchfoot, before Mandy Moore discovered them and all the teenie-boppers started singing along, had a song where they sang, to God: “I’m learning to breathe. I’m learning to crawl. I’m finding that You and You alone can break my fall. I’m living again, awake and alive. I’m dying to breathe in these abundant skies.”

And these songs about breathing - the most basic thing human beings can do - are great reminders to me about the goodness of God and how, though you may be in Lancaster where the air is turning crisp and cool, and I may be in Cambodia where the air is still hot and muggy, none of us need to be choking or gasping for air. There is plenty of air for all of us, and though we are breathing air on opposite sides of the world right now, you and I, we are both breathing from the same abundant skies, and this is a gift from God. And let me tell you, it is good to be alive and breathing air again.

So breathe, take a step. Breathe again, another step. Repeat.

“Delight yourself in the LORD
and he will give you the desires of your heart.”
- Psalms 37:4

This weekend I made my second trip to visit the Christian Response to HIV/AIDS (CRHA) program in Svay Rieng, in the southeast corner of Cambodia known as the “parrot’s beak” for the way it juts out into Vietnam. Tearfund, an evangelical development organization similar in many ways to World Relief, partners in the CRHA program. On this occasion, Tearfund reps Sophie and Leu were visiting from the UK, so the trip was for them. All the same, I did manage to get some photos out of the deal.

I never tire of views like this out the window.

Five dollars a night. Seatless toilet, no hot water, but a fan, a bed, and CNN.

There are shades of green in Cambodia you have never seen before.

Before you know it, teenagers will start putting ropes through their noses. Just wait.

A demonstration of how to bandage a wound of someone with AIDS.

On the outside looking in.

Cute little son of a gun…

… and he wouldn’t stay away from the camera.

Christians at a CRHA training session, taking time to sing and worship God.

This woman has AIDS but you wouldn’t know it by her radiant smile.

You should have seen the progression: in the first photo I took they look half confused, half scared, half angry, and by the end they’re smiling and sticking their tongues out for Pete’s sake.

Engchy sitting in the restaurant. I have never in all my days met someone who enjoys English idioms quite as much as he does. When you come here you’ll find out what I mean.

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.

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.

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.

This weekend was spent in the beach town formerly known as Kampong Som, though it has now been renamed Sihanoukville in honor of the former King. Back at Barnes & Noble in Lancaster in August, I looked through Lonely Planet’s Cambodia guide and among other things I learned that Sihanouk, in addition to being the King, was also quite the filmmaker in his day. In fact, twice he hosted the Phnom Penh International Film Festival, and strangely enough, both times movies he directed and starred in won the grand prize. You gotta love the reckless egotism, and you wonder if renaming the beach town might also have been his idea.

I was at the beach this weekend to get a feel for the place and to make some contacts, since I’ll be the logistical point person when we have the leadership retreat there next month with about 90 people. But (who am I kidding?) I was also at the beach this weekend to relax and soak up some rays. I mean, it is mid-October after all, and a guy’s gotta get a tan, right?

I stayed in a bungalow just off the beach, at a place called Coaster’s, operated by a couple of Irish dudes who also run a bar and diving company. If you ever happen to be in town, be sure you check it out. The place is just around the bend from the big, sandy and popular beach by the name of Occheateal, on the smaller, rockier and quieter Serendipity. I spent much time reading under a thatched roof, drinking cold water or sipping on a banana milk shake, in addition to some time in the water. Vendors are not lacking in Sihanoukville and many of them coerce you into making pinky promises. I promised a girl vendor that if I decided to buy a bracelet, she would be who I got it from. Then three or four others said “Then me!” so I had to promise three or four others, in order, that they would be next if I bought two or three or four or five.

A Chinese masseuse named Shirly out on Occheateal talked with me for a long time, about how she applied for a visa to the USA and paid $100 but was denied. That’s just not right, I told her. After a plethora of questions from her and answers from me, she then made me promise, though I didn’t want a massage and I didn’t want treatment for arthritis, that if I referred anybody to a massage place it would be hers. She had herself a deal, I said..

I had two occasions to eat dinner out on the beach under the sunset, admiring the gold that God had hung over a rose and purple sea, as George MacDonald once poetically put it. As I ate dinner the first night, a beggar came up and I said no as I normally do. Right away I felt like a selfish jerk. I wondered why I always say no. Sure, they might all be druggies and my money might be feeding their habit, but just as likely, they might be Jesus in disguise, like in the story of the sheep and the goats. I don’t want to mistake Jesus for “just some drug addict.” So when the next beggar who came up, a guy without legs and only one hand, I had made up my mind. As I reached for my money clip, I asked his name. He then held up his stump of an arm, as if to validate his request. I shook my head, put my hand on my chest, said my name and asked his again. This time he understood and he told me his name but I normally forget people’s names the first few times I meet them and he was unfortunately no exception. When I gave him a dollar, his face lit up, he bowed his head and shook my hand with both hands - or, with the hand and the stump, I guess. As he shuffled down the beach with his no legs and one hand, I thought to myself that I ought to care about people more often, and that I should have given him the rest of my pizza as well.

During this month and a half in Cambodia, the land of a million motos, I have become increasingly convinced that driving a moto would be a good time. It is kind of like being in Atlanta and leaving convinced that the southern accent is awesome, or coming back from Europe wanting to wear capris and big sunglasses. But at any rate, I rented a moto yesterday and proceeded to teach myself how to operate it. Only once before had I operated a motorbike. That was in Texas when I was 10 or 12 and I hit the gas too hard, spun around, and fell off and onto the ground. This time I fared much better, and though there may have been moments when I looked less than smooth, I took several loops around the peninsula and made it back in one piece. And unlike the southern accent and the capris, I am more convinced than ever that having a moto would be a real good thing, if it weren’t for the blasted snow and ice in Pennsylvania.

Oh, and I should also mention that yesterday there was a full rainbow around the sun.

This sign would make sense right away if you have been to South East Asia and it would strike you as funny and photo-worthy. Apparently there is a bar in Bangkok called “Same Same, But Different.” Everywhere you go, they sell the shirts. There is even a knock-off restaurant and guest house in Sihanoukville by the same name. So this other place scored cool points in my book.

The latest development in my housing situation is indicative of Cambodia, where - as cliche as it sounds - the truth really is stranger than fiction.

Two days ago, Sidara tells me that the woman from the house where Jon was staying had called the office to see if I was still interested in moving in with them. They were not moving until January, she told me, and when they do move, the new place will be bigger. This was pretty much opposite from what Jon had told me, but I decided that the native Khmer-speaker telling me this in good English probably knew what she was talking about more than the English speaker who had done his own translation of whatever it is the woman had told him.

Yesterday afternoon Sidara and I went over to visit the place so I could meet the family and have a look around. We sat down in the car port as Sidara and Visal, the mother, chatted. I could tell they were talking about me, because they would look over and laugh and go on talking for five minutes or so at a time. When I got the translation, it was about one sentence in length and certainly nothing that would warrant all the laughter. It was right out of the movie Lost in Translation.

Apparently they were also talking quite a bit about Jon. Through the translation, I learned that Jon was really interested in learning the language and being sensitive to Khmer culture and that he was easy to please. The family has a framed picture of him in a shrine of sorts, with candles and other things. Kind of weird. Visal says she felt pity on him since he was far away from his family and that she acted like a mother to him. But I sat there, smiling, sipping on a glass of water, wondering if I could ever stack up to the near-diety status my over-acheiving predecessor had clearly achieved.

So I will be moving in with the family early next week. They are upper-middle class, I would guess. The house has five rather narrow floors with a couple of rooms on each level. My room is up on the fourth floor. I have a bed, a fan, a bathroom, and somewhere to hang some clothes. My room doesn’t actually have any windows allowing direct sunlight, but has a window that gives me a great view of an unused family room kind of thing, which then has windows to the outside. Through the unused family room I have access to a balcony that overlooks the busy street below. Across the street is a restaurant that spills out onto the sidewalk with hungry locals and a few doors down, on the corner, sits the former American embassy, which will serve as my landmark when giving moto drivers directions.

The family, according to my notes, consists of Visal (the mother), her kids Phrith (oldest, a son), Phirun (middle, a son), and Srey Pic (youngest, a daughter), and then last but not least Ven (the house keeper, who will make sure I am fed and that I have clean clothes).

With this move I will begin the second half of my time in Cambodia, which leads me to believe the greatest adventures are yet to come. It would be easier in many ways to stay on with the Amstutz family, not having to learn the language or eat snails for dinner, but living with Cambodians, I trust, will allow for an even richer experience when it’s all said and done. And rich experiences, in my opinion, tend to be worth the inconvenience.

Photos from this weekend’s excursion are at the end of this post if you are one who prefers picture books to the real ones.

Our two-day galavant up to Poipet and back amounted to a lot of time on the road and what I hope to be some valuable footage of the casinos in no-man’s-land between Cambodia and Thailand, and of some of the seemingly endless number of street kids around the town.

On the drive up, we stopped at a temple that Geof knew would provide some good photo opportunies. At every wat in Cambodia, as I understand it, the statues of Buddha all face the same direction, except for this particular place, where they all face the opposite way for some reason. Also, there was a confusing (disturbing?) array of statues here, including a progression of four, which depicted first a healthy monk in his saffron robe, then as a shirtless man walking hunched over with a cane, then as one sitting on the ground dying, and finally as a dead one lying flat on his back while the birds eat away at his intestines. What they are trying to communicate about the life of a monk, I am not sure, especially considering that elderly monks are highly respected in this culture.

Geof had some business to take care of for a friend in the town of Sisophon, so I went walking through some temple grounds, past a cow, and out to the river where pop music was being pumped really loudly and a couple of kids were flipping over their bicycles into the water while others sat by watching and singing along in English with songs they did not understand. While walking through the temple courtyard, I had a nice chat with a monk who introduced himself as Sohka. I told him I knew someone in Phnom Penh with that name. Conversation, you know. Monks, in my experience, are quite friendly and eager to practice their English whenever they can. They normally start things off by asking where you are from. Then they ask how long you are in Cambodia, which allows for some discussion about what you are doing and all. Then, if they sense a lull in the conversation they might ask, “How are you?” This kind of question is supposed to happen at the beginning, but I try to cut them some slack. I asked Sohka some things as well, about the name of the temple and if he lives in that big house out back with all the orange robes draped over the balcony, and then, trying to get a feel for the life of a monk, I asked what he was doing today. “Praying in temple,” he said. I guess that pretty much sums up the life of a monk.

Poipet, as I mentioned earlier, is not thought very highly of. The armpit of Cambodia, many say. Kind of like what West Virginia is to America, or on a smaller scale, what Erie is to Pennsylvania. With gambling illegal in Thailand, many wealthy Thais come to Poipet to part with large quantities of money, so the town is trying to reinvent itself as a sort of Asian Vegas. The casino area in no-man’s-land between the borders seems entirely out of place, with its many huge buildings of glimmering neon and perfectly manicured gardens, especially considering the surrounding area. The Lonely Planet guidebook advises against staying in the town, suggesting that doing so would be “masochistic.” Sure, the town is dirty and depressing, but our hotel was great, and for the most part our stay was not overly painful. What I don’t understand, though, is why the road to Poipet, a major border crossing with Cambodia’s biggest trade partner, is one of the worst “paved” roads ever. We probably averaged 15-20 kph for the hour and a half stretch between Poipet and Sisophon (you’ll have to do the math, as I don’t think in miles any more). You’d think a major trade route would be a highway worth maintaining a little bit better than this.

Geof’s daughter had lived in Poipet for five years or so, technically living with her uncle, but effectively watching her own back on the streets and crossing the border to beg from foreigners. As we walked around she said she used to know all the kids in the town, but now, three years later, she didn’t recognize anyone. It was good to visit, she said, but very good to leave.

OK, the photo version.

Temple with the crazy statues.

Boy with sleeping Buddha.

First three in the four-part progression.

Fourth statue in the morbid series.

Saying his prayers.

Temple reflection with lily pads.

Some of Sohka’s fellow monks.

Hours of enjoyment. Literally.

Afternoon siesta time.

Rusty sign at covered bridge.

Some boys fishing with home-made reels.

This kid helped me pretend, for a moment, that I worked for National Geographic.

Driving into the setting sun.

Casino sign.

What consolation: everyone you know may hate you, but not this beer!

Good food.

Forboding skies.

Not the worst view in the world, if you ask me.

Here is the latest recipient of the Coolest Kid of the Week award, which I award periodically when photographing children in third world countries. He was quite the camera hog yesterday, but I don’t blame him. I would do the same if I were in his shoes (or lack thereof). The sores all over his skin do nothing to darken his smile, nor are they enough to make him at all self-conscious when asking me to take his photo over and over and over again, and then calling his buds to join him. You wonder about his life, though, and what sort of a future, if any, he will have.

* * * * *

For those unaware, I had been planning on moving in with a Cambodian family this week, until they were kind enough to decide last week that it wouldn’t work because they were moving to a smaller house.

I heard about a flat with some young foreigners in the area of the Russian Market across town, so I went to check it out on Saturday. The part of town where I am now staying is almost completely residential, and many of these are homes of government officials, so there are not many things to do nearby. The Russian Market area, however, Toul Tom Poung as they call it, is bustling with shops, restaurants, cafes, and well, the market. So anything I could ever need or want would be right outside my doorstep. The vacant room in the flat is on the third floor, and then up another flight of stairs, through the neighbor’s flat, is a rooftop terrace - a veranda, one might say - complete with plants, chairs, hammocks, a breeze, and a fourth-floor view of the city. The place was perfect. Except for one small detail: the other three in the flat are French women. We would have each had our own separate space, so it wouldn’t have been a problem, but I know it could appear shady, so I find myself back at the drawing board.

* * * * *

Tomorrow I head up to a town on the Thai border to get footage and photos of street kids. Geof and his wife have adopted many Cambodian kids and one of these grew up as a street kid in this border town. In March, Geof will be speaking at Lake Avenue in Pasadena, CA and Calvary Church in Lancaster (woot woot!), so this footage will accompany his presentation on the very grim and important issue of human trafficking. I am crossing my fingers that our filming will take us into Thailand, adding one more stamp to my passport. At any rate, it should make for some stellar photos and footage. Wikitravel.org, incidentally, has this to say about the town: “Poipet more or less rhymes with toilet, and this caustic observation is, sadly, true. Poipet is a miserable huddle of touts, beggars, thieves and dodgy casinos for daytripping Thais, and spending any more time than absolutely necessary is not recommended.”

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My mom has asked about my health a few times, and I’m sure all of you are dying to know but just don’t feel comfortable asking because you are not my mother. So here it is: I am pleased to tell you I have had fairly remarkable intestinal fortitude thus far. Most times, number twos are more like one and a halfs, but the stomach feels normal, so no complaints. I did throw up a few weeks ago for the first time in years but this was due to taking my malaria pill first thing in the morning on an empty stomach. I have since made sure to take the pill following my breakfast of bread and Starbucks coffee (courtesy of a never-used French press coffee maker in the Amstutz residence and a bag of coffee given some months ago by some well-meaning Americans to a family of tea drinkers).