Along the Terracotta Highway

by Nicole Romer (Netherlands)

I didn't expect to find Cambodia

I smile at the lunch lady, greeting her with “suostei.” My left hand mimics the shape of a bowl; the right brings imaginary chopsticks to my mouth. Her sarong is a deep burgundy; the fabric a design of flowers – or are they tiny stars? She nods happily, pointing at a table. I point at a plastic cooler: “Coca Cola?” It is a bad habit I’ve picked up, but in this Cambodian heat I crave it deeply. She raises the neon-orange lid and scoops a bottle out of the ice. I thank her – “arkoun” – and sit down on a blue plastic stool. She smiles, wiping her now-wet hands on her sarong. Thoroughly exhausted, I am mentally lamenting the lack of hammocks when he pulls up and steps out of his car. The car is black; sleek and shiny. My soda stands before me, dripping beads of sweat as it acclimates to the 32 degrees that is life outside the cooler. I rub my hands down the bottle, using its perspiration to cleanse my own. Fingers “clean,” I poke my right index finger into the corners of my eyes, digging out the dirt that collects there when I ride. He approaches, staring at me with furrowed brows. Grabbing a stool, he sits, tiny clouds of ochre dust rising where the legs touch the earth. His stare is unsettling and I break eye contact, looking out towards the road. What a highway, I think wryly. One lane in each direction and riddled with potholes. I gaze at Jackie, the sight of her coaxing a smile out of me. It always does. A simple and unassuming motorbike, she’s not very large nor particularly fast. Her engine is loud, as is her sporadic backfire. I have big love for her. My bowl of food arrives and I peer into it, attempting to identify ingredients. I recognize nothing, but as the tentacles of aroma unfurl, I learn all I need to know. Smells delicious. I slurp up a few mouthfuls, noting that he’s still staring. Annoyance flickers across my mind. It has been a long trip – Hanoi to Saigon and across the border into Cambodia. It’s my biggest adventure to date; adrenaline-ridden highs counterbalanced by low lows. With traveler exhaustion kicking in, staring eyes have begun to contribute to these lows. Though I understand that my presence in rural areas renders me an object of curiosity, the term “object” now feels operative. I am processing my feelings when he points at me. He then angles both palms to the sky and raises his shoulders up. He’s asking me what I’m doing here. It’s a valid question, really. I am a foreigner alone on the highway somewhere between Sihanoukville and Phnom Penh. I ask myself the same question sometimes. I turn my body and point at Jackie. I pat my daypack and point at the matching backpack strapped onto the rear rack. My chopsticks gesture towards the road and I say: “Phnom Penh.” His eyes widen and his mouth opens ever so slightly. “Phnom Penh?” he asks gruffly. “Phnom Penh,” I repeat, pointing at Jackie again. Big love. He looks at the lunch lady, then back at me, concentrating as he pronounces his next question. “Boyfriend?” “No. Just me.” I say, shaking my head and patting my heart. His mouth pulls into a smile. “Phnom Penh!” He points at Jackie, then at me. His grin grows. “Phnom Penh!” He is laughing, singing the words now. His chuckle has a shape and a bounce to it. Soon all three of us are laughing, the lunch lady ladling warmth into a bowl, my own chopsticks abandoned for the glee of being completely wrong in my assumptions. I am not being judged here; I am joined in celebration. A support of youth and adventure. I am a young woman riding solo through rural Cambodia. A strong-willed curiosity. I am riding ups and downs; riding green fields and terracotta highways. I am riding through my biggest dream, and in this moment, right here, I am celebrating it with none other than the lunch lady and the man with the furrowed brows.