Little Boy

by Virginia Taylor (United States of America)

Making a local connection Cambodia

The small metal ball rockets through the air, bouncing off the styrofoam cooler with surprising force. The thrower of the ball, a young boy with a lanky build and baggy cargo shorts, quickly examines the damage to the plastic, measuring its distance from a carefully drawn bullseye before letting out a cheer. His cries echo over the rattling motorcycles and staticky moans of a nearby radio—he has won. I am a witness to this victory from a dusty street only meters away. One of the balls bounces near my ankles, and the boy hoists up his shorts with one hand as he waves to me. “What your name?” he shouts in a thick Khmer accent. “Ginna,” I tell him. He giggles, repeating my name to his friends. They echo my name like a flock of birds--Ginna, Ginna, Ginna! Returning to their game, my name mixes with the sound of metal on plastic. The road is lined with small houses constructed of scrap metal and plywood. Outside of each hangs rows of laundry—threadbare pants and polyester shirts printed with superheroes. Among the rows sits a small, dark-haired woman, furiously scrubbing away at a pair of Hulk-printed pajamas. She meets my eyes as I pass, holding them for a second before returning to her work. “I used to live here.” My guide Sreymey is small and birdlike, with high cheekbones and dark, poignant eyes. She is a few years my junior, but as I look at the squat rows of houses that surround us, I am acutely aware that age is irrelevant to experience. “I’m one of the lucky ones. Learning English is sometimes the only way out.” Sreymey motions for me to help her unload and we quickly begin piling bags of rice from the nearby tuk tuk in a large stack. Our actions attract a crowd, and children squeal with glee as Sreymey next reveals a plastic bin filled with clothing. Before long, each child is dressed in Spiderman tops and shorts printed with Frozen characters. All but one. Standing off to the side is a little boy, no more than three years old. He wears no clothing except for a small strand of beads around his neck, his round belly covered with crumbs from the bag of crackers he clutches in his hand. As I watch, a sly monkey drops from a nearby tree, snatches the bag, and is gone in a flash. It takes a moment for the little boy to register what has happened. When he does, his face crumples and his mouth falls open, emitting the kind of wail that keeps mothers up at night. He desperately looks around for someone to comfort him, and seeing Sreymey nearby, rushes through the crowd to crawl into her lap. His sobs leave a wet spot on her shirt. I grab a Spiderman outfit from the bin, and soon Little Boy is smiling, proudly tugging the waistband over his belly. Dressed in his new outfit, he crawls into my lap and stretches out his arms. I lift him from the ground and he places his head against my chest, exhaling the kind of deep sigh that only comes after a heavy cry. With his head against my heart, Little Boy stays with us until the other children have dispersed. When it is time to take him home, we stumble over the uneven ground to the one-room building where Little Boy lives with his parents and eight siblings. Outside, the oldest daughter squats beside her mother, sorting through rubbish on the ground, setting aside items to sell. I place Little Boy on the stoop. He blows a raspberry, keeping his dark eyes locked on mine. “Even the slums aren’t free,” Sreymey turns to look at me as we wind through the crowded city streets on the ride home. “You pay rent to live on a dump.” Her voice is tinged with anger, her eyes weighted with a heavy sadness. We are speeding through Phnom Penh, far from the sight we have just seen. The slums grow smaller in the distance, disappearing behind throngs of tuk tuks and street vendors as we leave them far behind.