what would a holiday in Cambodia be without a knife-wielding madman?

Phnom Penh, from the books I'd read and pictures I'd seen, was exactly as I imagined it. Aesthetically, there really isn't anything sexy about the city (parts of downtown reminded me of Havana: dirty, crumbling buildings, but from an architectural standpoint, not even close to being as beautiful as the ones in Cuba's capital); there aren't any skyscrapers and it's a lot more filthy than clean. Traffic lanes and dividing medians are suggestions in Phnom Penh.

On Monivang Blvd, one of the city's main arteries, it is not uncommon, at all, to see a car, truck, tuk-tuk, or motorbike drive along the far curb of opposite traffic (unlike Thailand, they drive, American-style, as in not like the Brits), or to simply drive into the opposing direction of traffic to, say, make a turn ahead. With the absence of signals at most intersections, this is actually the wisest way to go.

So the six-lane boulevard, three lanes each way, resembles more of a road with four different lanes of traffic direction: the two in the middle with traffic going the "right" way, respectively, and the far two a mixture of poor pedestrians (like me), bicyclists, and vehicles, slowly weaving through each other in a mixture of "wrong" and "right" traffic. Motorbikes dominate the city, so from the sidewalk (if there is one; it's usually just a patch of dirt and trash, which isn't the best surface to walk with flip-flops on but that never stopped me!), the street looks like four endless swarms of motorbikes and vehicles, honking, humming, and weaving, in and out of each other's way. Crossing the street is truly like real-life Frogger. Crosswalks ("crosswalks!?" the Khmers ask) don't really exist, and there are few traffic signals, which is why traffic, especially on the street, does truly seem endless. It is not uncommon to wait on the sidewalk a few minutes for a healthy lull in one way of traffic. Skipping, more like running across in one bound, rather then being deserted on the thin yellow median line for another lull (the line, I reiterate, is merely a "suggestion", because everyone will drive into opposing traffic if it means getting in front of a slower vehicle), is rare, but I pulled it off once. Some cities, like Bangkok, are nice and cute and thoughtful by having pedestrian bridges, to ascend and safely cross over traffic, but I saw none in Phnom Penh. For Cambodians, bless them, I think such an idea would take too much fun out of simply crossing a street.

The average age that adults make it to in Cambodia, by the way, according to my guidebook, is a stunning 58 years of age.

So my first morning there, I went out to the Central Market (a symphony of tiny shacks, huddled together to sell their goods), bought some gifts, then hired a tuk-tuk to take me to the shooting range. The man warned me that it was far away, past the airport, and would take about 30-45 minutes to get there. It took nearly an hour because I had this uncanny knack for procuring the services of the slowest fucking tuk-tuks in Cambodia (my last day there, I was going to the airport, just me and my backpack, and a tuk-tuk carrying at least nine people in the cart, passed us; one of the guys playfully nodded "What's up!?" to me, as they passed, and I returned the favor, laughing at the visual hilariousness of that moment).

The ride there was horrible. After an hour of riding in the open air with all this dust, heavy car exhaust, I was getting irate. I felt terrible for my driver, who wore a helmet to protect his head and cover his mouth and nose from the dust (many motorbicyclists and bicyclists ride around with a mask or handkerchief, tied around their nose and mouth) in the glaring sun. When we rode up to the range, I got scared, afraid of being startled by the sound of a gun, let alone shooting one. But I'd come too far so I went in.

This well-built, relatively young guy welcomed me to the shooting range once my tuk-tuk came to a stop. He gestured to follow him and we sat down at this table. Like a menu, he put down a piece of sheet protected paper that listed the guns I could shoot and their cost. I already knew I was going for the AK-47, especially after I spoke to a barkeep the night before and was told that the firing a rocket now costs $300, so I decided quickly. I had 30 bullets, which was about $1 per bullet, figuring the gun rental is $10.

He handed me a pair of heavy ear muffs (I don't know what to call them) and he led me to this dark, narrow but long brick structure, right by the reception area. The AK was lying atop this concrete table, with some bricks stacked on both sides to make a pristine opening for shooting. At my feet were shitloads of bullets. About 40-50 feet away, at the end of the dark, brick corridor was a mound of dirt, a pool of bright sunlight, and my paper target.

He brought two cartridges of bullets, claimed that one were "real" AK-47 bullets and the other magazine were replicas. The real ones cost a bit more, $50, and once he said they were heavier, thus more damaging, I thought, fuck it, if I'm going to shoot an AK-47, I'm going to do it right.

So he loaded it and he put my hands where I should hold the rifle. I carefully lined my gun's barrel (I don't know what to call it) on the paper advisory (looks like a vato loco, with pimp shades and all) that was my target. I hesitated until the guy said, "Fire". I turned to him and said, "Is this thing (pointing at the rifle) going to snap back on me!?" He said no, so I lined up my target again and pulled the trigger.

It was exhilirating! Even with those ear muffs, it was so fucking loud, and the shot was so powerful. It didn't snap back on me, but I felt like I'd shot a tiny rocket because the mound of dirt, behind my paper target, was sifting in the sunlight from the bullet I shot into it.

I laughed, lined up my target, hesitated again to shoot but did. I shot off about five that way when he said, "Now try automatic." Inside, I was wetting my pants, ready to go to town with this baby. Man, I still laugh, just thinking about it.

My clip of 30 bullets quickly flew. All in all, I was in and out in less then two minutes. I've easily spent more time in 7-11s, both at home or here in Thailand. What a moneymaker for these lads (the shooting range is located on former military training grounds)! Even the guys in Vegas would have been impressed.

I finished, shared some grins and giggles with this British guy and mid-aged Asian woman (I think she was American) who had already had their dance. He was posing with his paper target; he did much better than mine. He put on his aviator glasses and held a huge M-16 with a grenade launcher, while she snapped pictures of him. He asked if he could point it at the camera and the guys at the range were shaking their heads, "No, no, no!!" The guy who showed me how to shoot the gun gladly snapped four pictures of me (I expected only one, but he wanted to party!) with the M-16. It was, easily, the most ridiculous photo shoot I have ever participated in. I was mugging terribly for the camera! I think guns, especially a grenade launcher, have a way of affecting people in that way. Violence has totally been glorified and I naturally ran with it (well, I am a product of my culture).

From there, my sweet tuk-tuk driver took me to Tuol Sleng, what used to be a high school just out of Phnom Penh but was converted by the Khmer Rouge into the country's largest prison and place of torture. I'd read that on most days 100 people were taken from there, piled into trucks, to be slaughtered in the nearby Killing Fields. It was chilling to behold and walk from room to room, knowing that so much blood, agony, and screams had filled them. Most rooms had these grainy pictures of charred (at least some looked like that), bloodied corpses, from that very same room. It was awful. They had a gallery which had hundreds of B&W pictures of young men (Cambodia's present day population is estimated to be 70% female, because of the casualities from their wars from the late 1960s through the 1980s, coupled with the Khmer Rouge genocide), women, and lots of children, posing for the camera. It was chilling to stare at them. Most had these sorrowful or blank stares because they must have known, even the children (and there were so many of them), that they were going to die. But some had these almost radiant, almost hopeful faces. It was as if they knew they were going to die, that this photo was going to probably be the last recognizable one of them while on this earth, and they weren't going to let this misfortune destroy the good, the beauty, of their spirit. Those were, for me, the hardest to look at, harder than the ones of severely starved and dead Khmers, or even the one that had half of his face shot off.

From there, I went to the Royal Palace then took a long walk "home", along one of the lakes here. At night, I went out and had some drinks at this pub that was playing loads of Jimi Hendrix (and I was there, giddily singing along or mimicking his solos), shot down all offers for weed, opium, and women (you just walk down the street in this tourist ghetto and young men on motorbikes, or just standing there will just say, "Hey. Smoke? Opium? Some women? Want some boom-boom?).

Later, around midnight, I was at the Drunken Frog Bar, were I had hung out with some British ex-pats the previous night. They were there, again, and we were smoking our cigarettes, chit chatting and draining beer after beer when we heard a commotion down on the street (the pub was atop a rooftop, where you could easily look down the streets). I was by the edge and clearly saw this buffed, stocky, bald young Caucasian male, in the middle of the street. He had just lost control of his motorbike but wasn't seriously hurt from the spill. But he immediately started shouting and pushing all the Khmers and people in the businesses next to where he had had his accident. He was downright pissed off, probably tripping badly on something (so we all suspected), and now going out on a violent rampage through the streets. People were in a frenzy, not sure what was going on, and some were already ducking inside their homes or businesses, while he stomped off, shouting into the night.

All seven or eight of us were perched attentively on the bar, looking down to see what was happening. He had walked off, down the dark main street, out of our view. A few minutes later, he came back, with people fleeing down the streets. His forehead was all bloodied up and about three Khmer men were flanking his arms, trying to control him. He cursed and got on his motorbike and sped off, with everyone watching.

Every one in the bar, on the streets, were anxiously looking down the dark street, awaiting what would happen. By then, most people were just trying to stay away from him and give him space to cool down, so we were hopeful that he would.

But he didn't.

From the bar, we clearly saw that he was stomping down the street, holding a long knife. It was nearly two foot long blade as it glistened from the streetlights. People were running away from him, hurriedly stepping into their homes or businesses and locking it up. We were unsure what he was so mad about (one of the guys I talked to said he shouted, "Fucking Khmers", right after his accident; the rumor was that someone had hit him on the forehead with something, as he drove down the street, which is why he lost control), which made it all the scarier.

After drunkenly shouting some things and walking back to his guesthome, which was on the way to mine, I curiously left the bar to get some street-level action (when all this broke out, I was about ready to head home to go to sleep, but he was stalking around on the one narrow street to my guesthouse, so until the situation settled down, I was stuck). People were still anxiously huddled out in the open, looking down the shadowy street, when he came stomping again with knife in hand. Everyone promptly fled back inside; these two cute Khmer girls, one that still had her facial cream on, took me into their salon once they locked it up. We stepped out, a minute or so later, and were told that he had gone back to his guesthouse.

I waited out there, talking to people, nervously looking down at the shadows for him. I saw that a group of four men were standing guard, down the street, presumably by the guesthouse he and his Khmer girlfriend were living at (they had a child together; everyone around there knew him, which made it all the sadder and confounding when people reported that he had shouted "Fucking Khmers."). It had been several minutes since any outburst came from him so I walked down the street. I could hear some of the Khmer women who I was hanging around gasp when I marched down the street.

I stood and waited outside the gates of the guesthouse with four Khmer men. They were neighbors and were watching over their community. One of the guys spoke decent English, so I conversed with him about what I'd seen and heard. Off in the distance, I could periodically hear the guy howl and drunkenly shout something; I even saw him, from time to time, pop his head from the corner of his guesthouse. I was a little frightened to be there but I had already concocted an escape route, in case I needed to run. I knew I could outrun him so I wasn't scared.

For better or worse, I was determined to stay with the men until the situation was truly over. It must have been 1 AM at the time and I had to wake up early to catch my flight, but I didn't want to leave them. I didn't know if the guy (the knife-wielding one, that is) was in a state to reason, but I was afraid that he might come out again and try and start something with these men, who were calmly just looking out for their families, their neighborhood. From my conversations with the people at the Drunken Frog, I know the bloke was British, so I thought that I should be there, in case he came out again, so I could try and reason with him, since my English would be up to par with his, whereas that wouldn't be the case with one of the neighborhood men.

Long story short, the authorities eventually came. A crowd of locals followed them, past the front gate, into the guesthouse. I stood and watched from the gate because I didn't think it was wise to crowd the man with so many people. It felt like an invasion. Thankfully, no violent outbursts occurred, and I walked home, doused myself in mosquito repellent, and passed out.

The entire time, I was holding my journal. One of my favorite moments of the entire day was when I was trying to converse with one of the Khmer men. He was in his late thirties, soft-spoken, laid-back (I could really sense that he, along with the other men, were there not to bust heads, but to do their part to keep the peace for their tiny community) and for a Khmer (or Asian, for that matter), kind of a big guy. He saw my journal and held out his hand to see it. I gave it to him and he flicked through some pages. He asked me, "Are you a writer?" I said yes and he gave the slightest chuckle, smiled, and approvingly ribbed me on the side.

It is that kind of warm, playful affection I miss the most about Cambodia. It's a shame I was only there for four days but I sincerely hope I'll be fortunate enough again to come back, someday, hopefully with a little more Khmer under my belt.

And that wraps it up from Bangkok! I'm off for some final street vendor phat thai and some beers. I'm very excited to go back home but I've had a mostly wonderful, definitely memorable time here. I've seen so much beauty here.