I think I could write an entire novel about my week in Cambodia, but each time I sit down to begin I find myself at a loss for words.
Where do I begin? Do I begin from when I started crying in the tuk-tuk as we went deeper into the city and the poverty hit me? Or when E and I were driven around by a policeman (who had carried an AK-47) in his motorbike sans helmet to locate a police station to report my stolen camera? Or when we had to sit in a dingy "tourist bureau" for more than an hour and bribe the officer to write us a report? Or when we took a private cruise down the Mekong River after sunset? Or when we chanced upon an orphanage and spent an afternoon there with the kids? Or when we were chased around the Old Market by a landmine amputee hobbling on his good foot begging us for another dollar?
Or when I had diarrhoea in the middle of nowhere in the Angkor park and had to poop in the bushes, not once but twice? Or when E and I had our first big fight and spent half a day in silence? Or when we kept going back to the same hut-bar for our $3 cocktails? Or when we met our dear friend Sothea and he invited us to his new home for a homecooked feast by his wife? Where do I begin?
I'll let these pictures from Cambodia do the talking.