A barang arrives

I left New York for Phnom Penh, via Buffalo and San Francisco, in mid-September. My reincarnation from New York law reporter to international journalist began. After arriving at the airport, I sat on my suitcase, eating almonds, reading, and breathing in the dusty afternoon air, and waited for my ride. I chatted with the guy at Duty Free and the taxi drivers, who taught me my first bits of Khmer. I shared my almonds with one of them. The other raced over with their hands out.

Like New York, Phnom Penh more tasty-sounding restaurants than I can possibly try. Like New York, the people are smart and confident. And like New York, it's full of contradictions. The streets of Phnom Penh show it best. About three-fourths of the automobiles on the roads are motos or bicycles. The others--Lexus SUVs with giant "Lexus" decals affixed to the sides (in case their was any confusion about its pricetag). Children run alongside tuk tuks begging for change and mothers pick through garbage on the street curbs with their infants loosely tied to their backs in front of pristine, imposing government buildings and car dealerships. Like most developing countries, the chasm between rich and poor is vast. The "emerging middle class" people discuss is bit of a myth.

It seems Western journalists, tourists, and NGO workers fill that void. Go to any mid-range restaurant or hotel, and find a prominence of white people. The familiarity is comforting and gives me more chances to make new friends, though I must admit that everyone travels to get away from their kind, not to encounter loads more of them.

The next after arriving, we traveled to the Cardamom Mountains to stay at The Rainbow Lodge along the Kep River. A woman named Janet runs the place. Last year, she says, she quit her job as a barrister in Birmingham, England to start an eco lodge in the jungles of Cambodia. We were the only guests. Her attention to detail was meticulous and a bit overbearing. We ate meals with her and learned every detail of her life story. We think she opened the lodge just for the company.

We kayaked up the river to a small waterfall, climbed around, swam, and paddled back. We gorged on Janet and her helper Saran's dishes of fresh, local foods. The next day we foolishly decided to take a trek to the more impressive TaiTai falls with Janet's helper, Mr. Lei, a former park ranger. We should've known what we were in for when her mangy rottweiller, Sunny, turned back from the hike.

It started with a 15-minute vertical climb. We grabbed at roots, some unattached, and I dug my toes into any nook I could find to keep from sliding to my death (or at least to a painful broken limb). That was the easiest part. Once at the top, they struck. Janet had warned us--"You will get leeches." Having already agreed to the trek and hanging out with my "don't be a wimp" boyfriend, I refrained from saying "WHAT?! Nevermind then." Plus, I had long pants and sneakers on and figured I would be relatively safe and I figured she meant we'd spot one or two of them. Wrong.

First, they hit Stephen, who, in his constant quest to be a minimalist, only brought shorts and sandals. Leeches on his feet, ankles, between his toes. Little black worms raised their fat bodies skyward from the wet ground, reaching out for human flesh as soon as they felt the warmth of our bodies approaching. When Stephen stopped to flick them off, more inched over. We had to keep moving. Then they found me. I lifted a pant leg, just to check, and spotted four or five, on each ankle, climbing down my pants and up my socks to their feast. I screamed. I felt violated. Disgusted. Terrified. Stephen flicked and yanked at them. The little buggers are tough to get off.

For two hours, I moved as quickly as I could through the uncleared path, climbing under brush less than a foot above the ground, trying to keep my bare hands from touching the hungry earth. We ran through stagnant puddles of water and soggy patches of rotting foliage. We saw no wildlife (though there are elephants, tigers, and gibbons in the forest), only leeches, beetles, dense brush, and mud. In my haste, I hit my head three times and was poked in the eye with a stick. Rain poured the entire time, making the habitat under my clothing all the more hospitable to the life forms making their homes there.

Finally, after two grueling hours, Mr. Lei, machete in hand, cleared a path to the waterfall. It was beautiful. I didn't care. I was grateful for the smooth patch of rock where I could strip off my clothes and rid myself of the worms. Two more on the backs of my legs. One more on my inner thigh, that jerk, about to really ruin my day. Stephen pulled out a long sliver stuck in my forehead. Refusing to return to the jungle, we decided to swim downstream, despite the frothy water and strong current leading away from the waterfall. Drowning was preferable to going back in.

Beside whacking my legs on a couple rocks, it worked out fine. A boy from the lodge met us in a boat at the foot of the falls with a packed lunch. Our reward. We ate sandwiches, popcorn, fruit, and drank soda water and Angkor beer. I felt like I'd been through a war, or at least a grueling episode of Survivor that people watch so they can think "Thank God that's not me" from their living room couches.

The next day we returned to Phnom Penh. We began our apartment search, which is a nice break from New York prices ($280 for a large porch, two bedrooms, living room, kitchen, all furnishings), but haven't yet found the perfect place in the right location. Last night, I had dinner with a girl, Erica, who left her job at a giant law firm for an internship at a local paper here. Her move makes me feel less gutsy. We met up with my boyfriend Stephen and his friend Adam, played a few rounds of pool and went to a bar called Heart of Darkness. Armed guards at the door frisked entrants for weapons. It turned out to be tamer than expected, just a few small Cambodian men dancing closely in one of the few places where they can release their repressed feelings.