More about Phnom Penh

On those garbled airplane announcements, Phnom Penh was pronounced sometimes as "fa-nom pen," sometimes as "pa-nom pen, and sometimes as "nom pen." I was puzzled until one of the bartenders at Three Rivers resolved the matter by telling me the correct pronunciation is . . . . "P [very very short, just sort of slid over] nom PIN"!! There you have it.
It's quite a city. To these American eyes of mine, it appeared very chaotic and dirty, and to my ever-so-fastidious American nose it smelled--well, very smelly. Mostly diesel fumes together with a hint of yesterday's food.                                                       

I feel pretty stupid about my earlier comment that the tour of the city was depressing. As they say, "Well, DUH!!!!!"



A country in which 1/4 of the population was slaughtered by its own government less than 40 years ago can be forgiven for being depressing. And I must say, they sure don't try to sweep it under a rug. Look at this: DIRECTIONS to the genocide center!



 


 



And what a museum it is. I've never been to, say, Auschwitz, but the impression would have to be similar--that miserably heavy sensation at the bottom of your stomach that reminds you that you are a member of a species that has committed the most unthinkable acts this world has known. I realize it MUST be remembered, but I choose to be Pollyanna and leave it at this one photograph of the temple the Cambodians have constructed to honor some of those killed at the Killing Fields.








 

I was so thrilled to see a living breathing cow I asked my puzzled tuk-tuk driver to stop so I could take a photo. And here it is. Living AND breathing!
 









My driver cheerfully chauffeured me around to other sights of the city, but by then I was so disheartened I was frantic to get out of there.
It was reassuringly funny when I mis-heard an exchange between my driver and a motorcyclist. You've heard about my American eyes and nose; well, this time it's my American ears. The motorcyclist cut my guy off in traffic, and my driver yelled what surely sounded to me like "F--- you!" Very understandable, I thought. The guy yelled back [I thought] "A--hole!" Also very understandable, I thought.
But then we stopped at a stoplight, and the two started chatting amicably, and I realized they were simply friends who happened to cross paths on a busy street. No American hostilities, just a cheerful exchange of greetings. So, you see, I even HEAR like an American!