(where the slums got so much soul)

She's right there at the border; wearing something that resembles summer pajamas. She's following you wherever you go, with a curious look on her face. You try smiling at her, but she doesn't respond, just treads a few steps behind you. When you leave the outdoor squat toilet, she's right outside, staring at you. You pull out 1000 Vietnamese Dong (which is equivalent to less than 10 cents) and hand it to her. She's overjoyed as she takes the money; thanks you profusely.

She's there again, in Phnom Penh, where many creepy white men live in boarding houses. There are posters in the city, posted by some NGO, that say 'If you hurt a child in this country, you will go to jail in yours.'� The creepy white men take them for what they are, mostly empty threats. She's a little older now, or maybe just prettier. All the pretty girls come to Phnom Penh. She looks about fourteen and works in a bar. Every bar here is a brothel and every brothel has a sign at the front that says 'leave all firearms at the door.'� There is a shower in the bathroom and pornographic posters on the walls. Between clients, she and another girl sit down to play a game of chess. They don't talk. She won't even look at you, although she must know that you're staring at her.

One night, when you're dining on Happy Pizza (most meals can be made 'happy'� here. All it takes is a sprinkle of some ganja; nutty, like oregano. You get a free beer with your 'happy meal'�), she's among a group of young boys, who hang out near tourist spots. A charming boy seduces you into purchasing a Xerox copy of a Pol Pot biography. You hand him the money; he leans over, smells you and kisses your cheek. She's looking very unhappy. She has earrings on and has a tray with books around her neck. She looks timid and miserable. You don't want to buy anything more, but she saw you buying from the boy, so she stands near you and although everyone else can ignore her, you can't. You end up buying something you never even wanted in the first place.

Among the Angkor ruins, she's about five or six, barefoot and her face is dirty. She has an intense, unyielding look in her eyes, as she tugs at you and squeaks: 'Lady, you buy. Lady, you buy.'� She has a stack of faded postcards and some beaded bracelets. 'Lady, you buy.'� You want her to just go away. She's little and squeaky and you wish you could just take her home with you and give her a bath and buy her shoes, and serve her a proper meal. And send her to school, some place where she may never end up going, if she stays here. When she sees you won't budge, she turns into a little girl again and her gaze softens. 'Bon, bon,'� she says and puts her fingers to her mouth. 'Bon, bon.'� You figure she's asking for candy, but you have no candy. You have pens, though. You take out a pen and notice that there is also a boy and an older girl, just standing there, staring, and you search your bag for more pens. You ask the boy if his favorite color is black and he nods yes. So you hand him a black pen. You ask the older girl if her favorite color is blue, and she nods yes. You give her a blue pen. You ask the little one if her favorite color is purple, and she also nods yes. You give her a purple pen. You may as well have handed them the best toys a child could ever ask for. They stand there, so amazed, gaping, holding cheap Uni-Balls, and you ask them if they can write. All three nod yes. So you tell them to be sure and use these pens. 'Promise me you all will write your life stories some day,'� you say. They vigorously nod yes.

At the market, which smells of raw pork and where giant rats don't even bother to hide, she's a grown woman. She comes up to you, amazed at seeing a white woman strolling through here. She grabs your hand and compares the color on your arms to hers and then she looks at your hands and is mortified at seeing that you bite your nails. Your hands are abysmal. The Khamer women are very proud to have pretty hands. She scolds you and tells you to stop. Seven thousand miles from home and, just like your mother, someone tells you to stop biting your nails.

You never see her as an old woman. Old people don't seem to exist in Cambodia. They've all been killed by the children in the year zero. The international community didn't bother to intervene, until the Vietnamese came and stumbled upon millions of corpses. When you see the people who are a little older, who could have participated in the killings, and you see the gentle look in their eyes and the graciousness with which they shower you, you can't help but wonder: what could possibly have made the children behave so badly?

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