Phnom Penh

Every morning, my friend the tuk-tuk driver arrives at my doorstep at 7:45 am, eager and ready to take me to work. I sit on the plush beige seat of this Cambodian rickshaw while he adjusts his helmet and climbs onto the attached motorcycle. The rusted red rim separating us is adorned with faded photographs of Phnom Penh's most famous destinations - the Royal Palace, the Silver Pagoda, the rifle range.

The next thing I know, I'm bouncing over potholes as we fly down the street at nearly 20 miles per hour. In moments, we leave my residential enclave of housewives and gated homes and meet the hustle of city center. Hundreds of gallons of exhaust pumped into the city each day by unregulated vehicles have dulled the streets, giving it the illusion of a 1950s discolored photograph. Dozens of tuk-tuks and motorcycles and Lexus SUVs challenge each other for space on the aged road, making tight turns to any space that may open. There are no lanes; it is a dance of worker bees returning from an expedition to the fields. Droves of motorcycles lead the pack since they have the clear advantage. In addition to their space saving capacity and ability to squirm through the smallest of openings, the patrolling policeman turns a blind eye as they shift onto the wrong side of the street. (It's more efficient, after all.) The rare pedestrian must summon a blind faith in God to cross the street unharmed.

On either side of me, Phnom Penh awakes as children walk to school in their immaculate plaid uniforms an shop owners reset their window displays. Each store is specialized and random - wooden doors, hubcaps, and silverware. "Lucky" seems to be the most popular descriptor here. I pass Lucky Supermarket, Lucky Burger, and Lucky Dental Clinic, to name a few. I see a family selling clams by the bushel beside a fruit vendor marking the ripest of spiky jackfruits with a spray painted red X.

Beside me, a family of four atop a motorcycle pulls up and peers in. "Hello!" the young daughter shrieks, eager to practice the English she learns all day in school. Though she can't be older than seven, she sits in front with her hands calmly gripping the steering wheel. Her father sits behind her, his hands flanking hers as he controls the bike. He wears the sole helmet and a nonchalant expression. His son, a few years older than his sister, simply stares at me, gaping, as if he must absorb every intricate feature in the twelve seconds we are stopped by traffic. His back leans into his mother who wears a full set of brightly colored pajama pants that look like a Lucky Charms advertisement or the scrubs you would find in the waiting room of a vet clinic. Next they zoom off to gather with the other motorcycles ahead. I notice older man on a pink and silver scooter with a fifteen pound bag of rice between his knees. Beside him, three college age boys are so desperate to be cool in their Genuwyne Ralph Lauren polo shirts. Impatient, they drive onto the sidewalk approximation to circumvent the out-of-place Range Rover.

To reach the office, we must drive to the "suburbs" of Phnom Penh, where suddenly the air becomes clean and the streets become colorful. As we cross the abandoned railroad tracks, I notice a young mother washing her son in a bucket of water and soap while her laundry drips in the breeze. Another five minutes down the dusty dirt road, over the creek, and around the puddles from yesterday's rain, and we reach the office. May another day begin.