By HANNAH POCOCK-- Driving without dying in the mayhem of Phnom Penh seems to involve a series of precise mental calculations, or else sheer force of will and an optimistic determination that verges dangerously on lunacy. Stop signs are scarce and studiously ignored. Motorbikes dart around Land Rovers and pick-ups, kneecaps nearly scraping against polished doors and heavily laden truck beds. At an intersection, traffic flows simultaneously in eight directions, without the aid of lights or any apparent laws. Vehicles weave around each other seamlessly, and my tuk-tuk slides through the fray like a shuttle through a loom.
As we putter to a halt at a rare stoplight, a little boy sidles up to the tuk-tuk, a baby tied to his front with a grungy red-checked krama.
"Madame," he mumbles. He does not look at me. His voice is not pleading, but softly matter-of-fact, even disinterested. He places his hand, palm up, on the seat beside me. I look at the baby's fingers curled around the threadbare scarf, then down at my own: pale, ringed, holding two baguettes I've just bought for lunch. My mind is firing out NGO phrases like cycle of poverty and fueling dependency. The bread is fresh and warm in my hands.
"Madame," he says again, and I hand him a baguette, trying unsuccessfully to meet his eyes. He takes it in his small, dark hands and disappears into the throng without a word.
"Thank you?" I mutter, then hate myself for it. Expecting gratitude from a child whose eyes are beyond hope. A lesson in the challenge of true selflessness. The light turns green and we lurch away.
This is so good.
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