By Emily Birks
A couple of years ago I looked in my roommate’s closet and asked her where she got so many beautiful dresses — the kind you imagine wearing in places where the over-complicated reality of modern life has not quite taken over. She smiled and said “Cambodia”, and I knew immediately I wanted to go. I soon learned that their thrifting scene is quite affordable and full of similar dresses, alongside many other trinkets. Having spent her adolescent years in Phnom Penh under missionary parents, we often entertained the idea of stomping around her old high school together, eating her favorite street food for breakfast, and of course my bringing a nearly empty suitcase to take home packed with clothes. Thus to erase the hypothetical, I finally gave my soul to Korean Air in the hopes that they would transport me safely to the final destination of the country’s capital and into the arms of my dear friend.
It took me a solid 22 hours, airport time unincluded, to shove my clunky suitcase and weary body into the frigid 80 degree air, a nice cool evening in February. Thankfully the 13 hour time difference and jet lag were cast aside by my excitement and curiosity in visiting the city, as well as reuniting with a familiar face. I can’t say that the trip home went as smoothly.
If there’s one thing you must know about Phnom Penh, it’s that the motos run the streets. Not necessarily their drivers, but the bikes themselves, swerving through congested traffic and bumping down gravel roads. Clustered in varying numbers outside of businesses and homes, they sit in the sun and wait for their driver to return, or for the parking attendant to slip one out from the middle of a growing pile, which is an underrated art. When rolling, they can carry whole families, mattresses, food carts, dogs, rolling boutiques, groceries, or an entire pig, freshly bought at dawn, its massive body bouncing with the vitality it may have had during its past life. If you are ever uncertain about if something is going to fit on the back of a bike, never fear; in Phnom Penh it almost always will.
The second best way to ride through the city is by tuk tuk, a slightly larger, more triangular experience than riding on the back of a moto. You can still bypass cars and bumble down unpaved alleyways, but with relatively less ease and a bit more structural security. Tuk tuks also give you an opportunity to catch a breeze from the simmering Cambodian air, which starts rising by mid morning. They come in all different colors, each with their own characteristics and rhythms. I loved watching the world go by at a generous speed, efficient but slow enough to see the city and all its movement; women sweeping water off porches, children running after stray dogs, and young men pounding out some metal in front of a moto repair shop.
The people of Phnom Penh have struck an easy balance between action and stillness. Mornings are bustling with activity, businesses opening in the grayish light of dawn, food stands satisfyingly piling their carts with products, two or three yards over from the next stand, lining up along each side of the street. There is no licensure needed to sell food and drink, so many of these family stands sit right outside their homes; short, narrow buildings with flat facades. They don’t seem to mind that the neighbor across the street may also be advertising a wide range of smoothies and coffee, or large butchered meat, drying in the heat. The food is accessible and popular — on one walk we bypassed numerous customers eating their street lunches on the street itself, cross-legged under the shade of a tree.
In the mid afternoon anything is allowed to define itself as a chair — sole bricks and indeterminable objects included. They sit, drinking ambiguous colorful beverages, pondering or maybe thinking about nothing at all. In some ways this seems to allow them to prepare for the most enchanting time of day, when the sun begins to set, shedding diffused light over everything, emulating an aura of orangeish glow. It creates this mystic sensation of returning to an old memory, as if you are already looking at a moment of the past from some distant dreamscape. The intense rush hour seems more bearable this way.
When night falls they gather together around plastic tables and dine from steaming pots, laughing and talking and drinking beer in the streetlight. The air is still and the sky is darker than one would think for a city of over 2 million. Riding a tuk tuk home allows for a light breeze, the sweetest thing after a long day in the sun.
I was continuously impressed by the hospitality and humility of the community — we went back to one of my friend’s first homes and her old neighbors were still there, overjoyed to see her and her family, offering us a place to sit for a moment before visiting the old landlord at the end of the block, who was equally joyous and welcoming. She gifted us some mangoes from her majestic tree, carefully brought down with a handmade tool at the end of a long pole. They were easily the best mangoes I have ever had, despite being ahead of season. We lingered awhile while the families caught up, trading information in Khmer and reminiscing together. There are some people in this life who do not need to know every detail about you, but can still feel as familiar as coming home — relationships maintain memories that some places cannot.
It wouldn’t have been a successful trip without stopping in for some thrifting opportunities – I soon discovered that there was a chain of Japan Recycle shops dotting the city, filled with clothes and dishware. We piled our arms high with items, walking out much less empty handed than before. While none of my purchases were the dresses of my dreams, I treasured the opportunity of being able to shop together, laughing at ridiculous mugs and running our fingertips over different fabrics. The best part of thrifting is using your imagination to picture versions of yourself that don’t exist quite yet, but with the right item they could. I considered my heavy shopping bag to be testament to this, carrying future versions of me in a nice neat pile.
Saturday morning snuck up on us and I realized my week in Phnom Penh was screeching to a halt. Unfortunately the constrictions of time only allowed me to see a fraction of what life would be like living there. In some way, I think I would like to sit on a brick and peer at cats with yellow eyes. I could stroll through the river markets and watch kids play ball under the expressway bypass. Start a coffee stand outside my apartment or test a variety of items to balance on the back of a moto. It’s a mesmerizing city; constant movement and controlled chaos, nothing deemed too impossible or tacky. Temporary solutions to long-term problems are not frowned upon, but rather encouraged. If you love to improvise and live a little care-free, this just might be the place.
As with many trips, going home always seems to be the hardest part, even when you are starting to question if it is really February or suddenly July. This goodbye for me was bittersweet; the gratitude of being able to walk a few moons with my friend, to see a whole part of her identity that I never really knew. But also the sadness that comes with the end of an era, one where we lived together and used to laugh at stupid things or share big dreams on our little couch. We will most likely spend many years of our friendship thousands of miles apart, and sometimes that is just difficult to fully comprehend. Yet in my mind, I can look across the room and see her judging me terribly for procrastinating on some pointless essay, though grinning when I decide to make a fool of myself instead. I know when I see her again it will be as if time has waited patiently for us, and we will pick up right where we left off.
