The crowd begins to thin out. By the time the last fight concludes, Joe, Ana and myself are but a handful of faithful spectators who’ve remained. We exit the venue through the side, behind the bleachers and make our way toward our trusty vehicle. Dirty little boys scurry from beneath the bleachers as we walk past them, laughing and staring at us and whispering to each other. The dealer is there, waiting at the bike to greet us, which befuddles me for some reason. He smiles big and asks in a thick accent “You like da boxing?”

“Yeah it was great” I reply, the narcotic causing an enormous smile to spread out across my face. 

I hop on the back of the dealer’s bike and Joe gets on Ana’s. Off through the streets we fly. It is really a beautiful day. Not a cloud in the sky. The air is permeated with dust that has been kicked up from bikes and motorcycles and cars and people. It gives everything a brownish hue. Most of Phnom Penh’s buildings are no more than three or four stories high, each with a similar, but slightly differing façade. Most buildings have balconies on the second or third floors, from which hang clothes and potted plants, and sometimes people can be seen relaxing upon the balconies, perhaps with a cigarette in hand, just staring out over the streets,  watching the goings on.

We stop at one of Phnom Penh’s seemingly few traffic lights. I look over my right shoulder and there is woman with a woven basket slung across her shoulder. It’s filled with eggs. On the perpendicular street, a scooter zips by with about twenty chickens hanging off the side, all tied upside down from their feet. They are alive but motionless, and in the fleeting moment that I see them it looks as if they know death is imminent. Another motorcycle pulls up beside us. Two women are on it. The one on the back is gorgeous and she looks at me and smiles and then laughs. I must have inebriation written all over my face. I am not accustomed to staring at people, but she is really beautiful and doesn’t seem to mind my stares, so I continue -- as does she. We both nod at each other and continue smiling. She flutters her eyelashes and her big, black eyes and they put me further into a hypnotic state. Then the light changes and we zip off; she turns in the opposite direction. We make sure to turn our heads as far as we can to catch a last glimpse of each other before we become vague memories. I wave goodbye and she waves back. 

There is so much dust in the air that when one is riding on a motorcycle you can’t help but get a few shades darker. I wipe my head with a napkin I’ve had in my pocket all day, and it turns brown. I wipe my nose and my cheeks and the color pours off.

We paid a visit to Svay Pa the night before the boxing event. Ana drove us down the half paved road leading to it. It was twilight when we departed and all the factories along the road were letting out for the day. All the workers would pile on to the backs of these fifteen-or-so foot-long flat beds, which were pulled by tractors. Dozens upon dozens of people, mostly women, were crammed on to these flat beds. They were like giant hay-rides, without the hay. Hordes of people, all wearing pajama-like garb, some with handkerchiefs covering their mouths to keep themselves from inhaling dust. We’d pass them and some of the women would smile and wave. Others would glare at us, as if we were the source of all their problems. 

We must have passed about a half dozen huts with signs displaying the word, FUNCINPEK, which is an acronym for the political party of which Sihanouk is nominal head -- The National United Front of Cambodia (the acronym comes from the French translation).

At the eleventh kilometer Ana made a left and then another, followed by a quick right. There we were -- Svay Pa. The neon lights, hanging above the entrances of the establishments, were an indication of purchasable sex. As were the scantily clad women that sat out front, chatting with each other and smoking cigarettes as they waited for commerce. They all waved as we passed. I waved back. So did Joe. 

Joe had made a contact at Svay Pa on previous trips, whom he told me about in Bangkok before we departed. Chang, I believe was his name. This guy, according to Joe, had just lost his father and brother within a week of each other the last time Joe was there and he had been on an amphetamine binge – supposedly not sleeping for over a week. He had attempted to extort money from Joe. But Joe was convinced that he was “alright” and “a trustworthy guy, just down on his luck.” I had my suspicions, which manifested themselves in uncontrollable fits of nervous shaking and chattering teeth.

We sat down at a table that was set up in front of a little store. A man emerged from the store and made his way over to us. He greeted Joe without cracking so much as smile. This was Chang. Joe introduced him to me. He extended a hand, which I shook and then he bought all of us a round of beers. Angkor beer; it goes for 50 cents a can. Ana sat there next to me, and Joe and Chang sat across on the opposite side. I suppose my nervousness was visible. I sat shifting my eyes from one thing to another, looking behind me to see the layout of the street, to the TV that was set up in the store showing a Chinese martial arts movie. Chang was an even shadier character than I had imagined. He looked like a battle-hardened Vietcong cadre from a 1980’s war movie. His hair was longish, and parted down the middle. He was very thin and lean looking and his face was broad and highlighted by chiseled cheekbones and itty-bitty eyes which gleamed pink in the neon light. He sat with his feet up on the table, munching on sunflower seeds. He gave me a handful, which I found quite useful. The process of cracking them open and extracting the chewy innards gave me something to focus on during this awkward and slightly unnerving period. I sat in silence the entire time. Ana took hold of my wrist to examine my watch, which he found quite attractive. “It’s real, isn’t it?” he asked. I replied “yes” and took it off so that he could examine it more closely and try it on. 

After a few more beers I had settled down and could think properly. The jitters had dissipated and I was now able to observe my surroundings. The street was all dirt, no concrete whatsoever. All the buildings were two stories high, most with girls sitting out front.

Svay Pa is a Vietnamese community. All the activity there revolves around prostitution. It emerged because the Vietnamese government has highly stringent policies regarding the trade, and Cambodia lets it all go on behind blind eyes.

The building to the right of us was a brothel. As I sat I noticed a cop ride up on a motorcycle and stop in front of it. There was a brief dialogue between the cop and a middle-aged women. Then the women went inside and reemerged a moment later, handing the cop a thick envelope. He drove across the street to another brothel where a similar transaction took place, and so-on and so-forth until he had stopped at all the brothels on the street to collect his dues. Then he sped away. The entire event had taken place right out in the open, with little regard for onlookers such as myself. It was a telling sign of how things are done in Cambodia, or at least Svay Pa. 

As I sat and pondered the sight I had just bore witness to, a little boy of three or four moseyed up to me and smiled, saying something in Vietnamese. “Hey buddy” I said, “what are you doing around here?” The little boy, not understanding a word I said, extended a hand and gave me piece of an orange. I thanked him and patted him on the head. He started laughing wildly and flailing his arms. I laughed too. In his outburst he dropped a piece of his orange on the ground. Then he stopped and looked at the fallen piece, then back at me and continued laughing -- this time even harder. As a grand finally, he lifted his foot and brought it down on the piece of fallen orange and smeared it across the dirt. He then proceeded to raise his foot, examine the mess, look at me again – an expression of playful guilt on his face, then erupted in laughter before running off to join a little girl who was squatting in front of a brothel across the street. There were young children all over. So many children, in fact, that somebody got the idea to erect a small merry-go-round at the entrance to one of the side streets.

Many of the children were playing with sticks and their sandals. While travelling around Southeast Asia, I had taken notice of a game that many children play using only their flip-flops. One kid will remove a flip-flop and throw it as far as he or she can. Then another kid will do the same, trying to get it as close as possible to the first kids. After which they dart after them and start anew. A creative way of having fun with what little they have. I’ve seen it done using sticks as well.

It took a good half-hour for us to finish the beers and sunflower seeds that Chang had so graciously given us. There was little conversation. Nothing more than an awkward silence, with occasional eye contact between Joe and I. I couldn’t bring myself to say anything to Chang or even look at him. He looked like the type of guy that would slit your throat at the drop of a hat. Ana could attest to that as well, I’m pretty sure. Whatever his dilemma was -- poverty, drug abuse, depression, disease – he gave off an aura of malice. It was as if he could see his own corpse spread out on the side of the road. He was just waiting for the real thing to come. What did he care if he ripped somebody off in the interim?

Finally we picked up from the table and commenced with the evening’s endeavors. It was brothel inspection time. This would normally entail going in and looking over the girls of each parlor, but we merely wandered around, looking at the girls sitting out front. As we passed each establishment we were greeted by them. Some were extremely persistent, going so far as to grab you by the arm and then attempt to haul you inside. Others would get up and fling their arms around you and say “I love you.” About half way down the street this happened to me. A girl of no more than 16, wearing a belly top and short-shorts ran at me from my blind side and put me in a bear hug. “I love you,” she said, gazing into my eyes and pouting like it was a true romance. I freed myself from her embrace and continued on.

A few brothels down we found one that fit our tastes. Why exactly that is, I’ll never know but Joe seemed to like it and I was following him. After all, he was the experienced one in those parts. I was just going along for the ride and whatever kicks I could get out of it for myself. 

We entered the joint and were soon encircled by a handful of women. Neon lights cast a pinkish hue on the walls of the place. The girls escorted us upstairs to the receiving room, which contained two black leather couches with a glass top table in between. The walls were adorned with cheap plastic paintings depicting Chinese landscapes of mountains and rivers, with white mist panning across. The same type of paintings you see in Chinese restaurants the world over. Joe sat across from me. We looked at each other and smiled. I wanted so badly to laugh. I felt so strange.

We were given the VIP treatment. About 7 girls entered and stood by the door, waiting to be selected. The one on the far left displayed her affection for me by shyly blushing and covering her grin producing mouth with her hands. She was very pretty; fairly tall and slender, with ample breasts and shoulder length hair. I couldn’t help but smile back at her. I patted my hand on the sofa, indicating that I wanted her to come sit beside me. She sat to my left and we examined each other more closely, smiling and teasing each other. She was really sweet and rather humble.

A friend of hers joined the occasion to my right. This one was a bit more frisky than the former. She caressed my unmentionables and placed my hand on her breast. Very large, indeed! The conversation was limited due to the lack of language ability, but this did little to hinder our ability to communicate in other ways -- in primordial ways. The methods which were first employed by man, unconsciously, to pass ideas from one to another. The same methods which continue to be used in the animal world. And which humans, being the most sophisticated of all animals, can use in the most sophisticated of ways, if so inclined or adept. So much weight is placed on the ability to hold a coherent conversation these days that the essence of communication is almost lost.

Yes, this young beauty and I communicated. We spoke a common language – namely sex and money. We both yearned for it. She straddled me as I sat and the other whispered into my ear, indicating as best she could that I could have two for the price of one, if I so desired. ‘A mighty fine proposition’ I thought, pondering the likelihood of such a deal ever coming about in any other situation. 

Being the novice that I was, I followed Joe out of the place. He wasn’t inspired by his pint-sized potentials and wanted to look elsewhere. I passed up my opportunity at two for one. The beach is packed today. It is the final week of Chinese New Years celebrations and all the shop-keepers throughout Cambodia have ventured down to the coastal towns to swim in the seas and soak up some sun. There are only a few other White people on the beach. We are spectacles. We turn heads as we make our way to a nice spot to sit down. My shoes are water logged. I feel disgusting. Since crossing the border it took us a four hour boat ride to get here – Kompong Som. 

The beach is pretty much how I expected it to be. It’s about one hundred feet wide, with whitish-brown sand. The water is a dark green. After a few minutes of walking we are waylayed by the beach girls. They run up and hug Joe, and look me over to make sure I’m “OK”. Joe introduces them one by one. Sara, Gangster Girl, Suk, Srey Mom and few others whose names elude me. Immidiately they start hawking their goods. All they have is junk food; potato chips, banana chips, peanut brittle. They are extremely persistent. Once you buy from one the others feel that it is your duty to buy from them as well. I bought a bag of banana chips from Sara for 50 cents and then the others started making me promise to buy from them later. They get bitter if you deny them a sale. It’s quite annoying, but the system they have is great. Their intention is to make you guilt ridden if you haven’t contributed to each of them. I have had enough of their haggling. I want to cool down in the water.

The moment I step into the water I have a following of curious children at my side. As I walk deeper into the water they move back, eyeing me like I’m a strange animal. I fall back into the ocean and submerge myself completely. When I arise I see that they have drawn nearer, and they scatter when I get back on my feet. I let out a laugh and flop down again in the water. They find this hysterical. When they see that I am harmless they all come splashing over to me and try to pull me down. I grab one of the little boys and throw him over my head. All the other children laugh. Now they all want to be thrown, so they line up for their turn. Tossing little Khmer children into the ocean is fun. They love it and keep coming back over and over again. An older kid approaches me. He introduces himself and tries to speak English to me. 

“Excuse me sir, but where you come from” he says rather timidly.

“America” I reply.

“Oh, American very big country” says he, “why you come to Cambodia?”

“Just sightseeing. I have been in Thailand for a while.”

“Oh, Thailand very good. Much better than Cambodia. Here have many Thai people come for vacation.” 

The young man is very enthusiastic about telling me why Thailand is better than Cambodia. He seems quite enamored with the fact that Thailand is so rich, and Cambodia so poor, yet they have many things in common. 

Khmers are very socially conscious people. They seem to take a great interest in the politics of their country. Their turbulent past has opened their eyes to what’s going on within the governmental bureaucracy of Phnom Penh. Even the poorest of Khmer has more than an inkling of knowledge about the current administration, and who its competition is. They’re quite inquisitive about what goes on in other parts of the world as well. Not bad for a people who’s per-capita income is barely over 200 hundred dollars a year. Or perhaps that’s why.

After emerging form my dip in the ocean, I head back to the beach girls who have been keeping an eye on our clothes. They talk me up and continue with their sales pitch. It’s very difficult for me to say no to these teenagers, so I dole out all my money. I had six bucks. One to each of the girls. They insist on giving me bags of junk even though I tell them I don’t want any. I just want them to stop pestering me. Finally they stop and we all sit down at a plastic table on plastic chairs. Two little boys run up to me and try to sell me some of their crap. The girls shoo them away, making it known that I am their territory, and any money that I’m going to give away will be to them and them only. The boys walk away with pouting faces. 

It is amazing how well these kids speak English. None of them is over 16 and they all speak like they’ve had years of schooling in the English language. Of course, their most well pronounced sentence is “You want to buy some food?” I order a sugar cane drink from the stand to my right and sip it down. There’s nothing like cold sugar-water on a hot Cambodian afternoon. The girls all sit across from me, watching my every move. I don’t know what to make of it.  When Joe returns Sara invites us to a party at her house tonight. Sounds interesting. Joe and I agree that we’re going. The only stipulation is that each of us pay two dollars to cover the costs of food and drink. Not a problem at all.

Our journey to Sihanoukville was a tiresome one. After six hours by bus and van to the border, another hour waiting for the border crossing to open, we were hustled onto a ferry that cruised down the Cambodian coast. This part of the journey took another four hours and was spent crammed in little seats with barely enough room for our knees.  We were fortunate enough to get seats. A good portion of the passengers were standing in the aisles or sitting on the bow of the boat, with the hot sun beating down on them. I played my pocket yahtzee game for half the trip. The other half was spent reading. As tired as I was, I couldn’t fall asleep. Joe managed to get an hour or so of sleep during the ride. Lucky him. 

When finally we reached the port we were driven, by motorcycle, to the center of town and then made a left, following the coast to a grouping of small hotels. The one Joe was accustomed to staying at was at capacity. It was Chinese New Years and the seaside resorts were quite busy. We walked a ways down the strip to the last hotel. It was a decent place, with bungalows adjacent to the main building and a pool table in the lobby. The charge was eight dollars a night, which considering the time of year wasn’t bad. Normally hotel rooms like this would go for 5 bucks a night. We threw our bags down and headed straight for the beach, where Joe was anticipating meeting his friends, known to me only as “the beach girls.”

The beach girls were all there. They haggled us to buy some of their chips and other junk. All their junk was laid out on a circular wicker trays that they balanced on their heads. It made them appear as if they were wearing huge, multicolored sombreros. It was an interesting experience, dealing with these girls. None of them was older than 16, yet they were as smart as whips. They all spoke English amazingly well, at that. 

Before we departed they invited us to go to a party that one was having at their house. It was to begin at sundown. Joe and I agreed, and they said they’d pick us up by motorcycle in three hours. In the meantime, a nap was definitely in order.

I was bit nervous on the ride into the slums where the party was being held. I suppose it’s a natural defense mechanism that kicks in when the thought of pending danger enters ones mind. It is one thing to ride down the main thoroughfares, passing by the slums a thousand times, but it is entirely something else to enter, let alone stay in them for an extended period of time. But like most things in this world, the anticipation is far more stressful than the actual occurrence. In fact, it was exactly the opposite of how I imagined a Cambodian slum to be. Perhaps it wasn’t even a slum, so to speak, but just a typical urban neighborhood. Either way it defied my imagination. The expected roving gangs, ready to pounce on seemingly wealthy foreigners like Joe and myself was quickly replaced by the groups of impecunious children, merrily scurrying about and chasing after our motorbike. The bike kicked up dirt from the unpaved road as we drove the length of the alley. We reached a dead end stopped, and there we were, at the party. A good dozen children sporting paper party hats excitedly greeted us. Sara and the rest of the beach girls ushered us into the little patio where two round tables had been arranged to accommodate all the guests. There were two other foreigners there, to my surprise. One of them was a man of about 60 who had moved from Allentown, Pennsylvania to be with his young Khmer bride, whose birthday we were celebrating. The man's name eludes me, but I believe it was Lee. Yes, it was, I remember now because the other foreigner was also named Lee. The first Lee was tall and lanky, and had the withered look of somebody who had labored his entire life. The second was a young man in his early 20’s from Australia. The younger Lee was rather clean cut looking, and very courteous. Not the type you’d expect to meet at a birthday party deep in the slums of Sihanoukville, Cambodia. He seemed just as elated to be at the celebration as Joe and I were.

After introducing ourselves to the two Lees, I asked the younger one how he had been invited to the party. Turns out that the older Lee had befriended him earlier in the day, and out of politeness invited him. The wife, as it was explained to me, was Sara’s elder sister. 

Before we could get into any further conversation, the youngsters seized us and were intent on making us entertain them. Somebody brought out a little boom-box and tuned to a local radio station that played club music. The young ones danced up a frenzy, showing off their best moves as if we were talent agents. One boy was particularly interested in getting my attention. If I turned my head to look at somebody else he’d grab my arm, indicating that he wanted me to watch what he was doing. 

The dance session went on for about a half hour. In the midst of it all I had started to take notice of the parents and grandparents on the perimeter of the patio, watching the happenings with bashful grins. The beach girls were busy trying to set the tables for the cake and drinks, but they too would join in the dancing from time to time. I quickly learned not to touch them while dancing, not even a friendly pat on the arm. At one point I patted Srey Mom on the shoulder and smiled hoping that she would dance with me. She did, but told me not to touch her again on account of the presence of her parents and grandparents. “A boy cannot touch a girl unless they are going to get married,” she explained. I very suddenly became conscious of my actions and made it a point not to come to close to any of the girls, or even look at them for an extended period of times, for fear of rousing suspicions.