And all the good things, too.

Since my last entry on Sihanoukville was discouraging, let me share the best things about this seaside village. Otres Beach, for starters, is much more inviting for someone like me. The beach on which most tourists end up is called Ochheuteal, and not only am I unable to pronounce it, but I really would rather not be on it. In contrast to the overcrowded and overworked sands of Ochheauteal, Otres beach greets visitors with a manageable number of seaside restaurant/accommodations, fewer (and more mature) beachgoers, and delightful views of distant islands. In addition, I think certain members of my family would delight in the fishing boat rentals!

Although I sought out this beach to avoid the harassment of the manicure/pedicure ladies and bracelet sellers, I had no more than stepped into the sands of Otres when a pack swarmed me. Having nothing else to do, I was soon being painted, scrubbed and de-haired (they used a string to pull out my leg hair, which they insisted was “so many”). Thirty minutes later, my bedazzled finger and toenails shone brightly as I handed over the money, satisfied that I had just had the most unsanitary mani/pedi ever. Oh, this is the good things blog...skip ahead to lunch. I was drawn in by a cute sign on Cantina del Mar, a quaint shack that seemed more Cancun than Cambodia. The fish tacos seemed an obvious choice, and since the pirate guy (head scarf and all) sitting at the next table ordered them, I thought I'd give it a try. My instincts proved spot-on. The most delicious fish tacos ever eaten by anyone, anywhere. Sorry OSO Burrito—Put your restaurant on a tropical beach and we will have a rematch.

On a side note, although riding motos is exhilarating and great for getting a view, the potential danger and the horrors of descending steep, unpaved sections of road to Otres is best left to taxi or tuk tuk. I should know. It's an absolute miracle that I made it in one piece. Indeed, the Cambodians seem to have no standards for road maintenance, an unfortunate choice for a country of motorcycles and dumb tourists who think they should save a buck to ride one.

The ensuing sunburn after my fine day on Otres made today challenging. Wanting to avoid direct sunlight and walking on my burnt feet, I decided to be a responsible tourist and head into town to visit Rajana and the Starfish Bakery, two NGO's working to give sustainable employment skills to people who would otherwise be on the street. Rajana is a little Cambodian-made handicrafts boutique with branches in a few Cambodian cities, but the Starfish bakery (hello, big slice of carrot cake) is located only in Sihanoukville. It was hog heaven for me as baked goods have been lost from my diet for almost two weeks now. The big peanut butter cookie called to me, so I adopted it and a pot of tea for my little garden table. This place is even better than Barista's (blasphemy!) because it supports NGO work and it's in a garden with chaise lounges. The only thing to improve the place is to have servers as attractive as those in Barista's Daily Grind, Kearney, Nebraska, USA (I miss you!).

Bored with my first book, I found another Barista's-rivaling place for book-swapping. The little garden terrace and a new novel written by a controversial Chinese author entertained me for the next several hours. These garden terrace things are the way to go. Talk about functional, beautiful and environmentally friendly, this type of shelter shades customers from the sun, creates fabulous atmosphere, and emits oxygen. I dig it.

I took my last opportunity to gaze at the ocean for a late lunch. Oily spring rolls, coconut drink, and a good book helped me appreciate the breathtaking views. There is certainly something magical about the sea. Even for a girl who grew up landlocked in the middle of the Great Plains, the ocean is something special. With the ocean, being able to see as far as the curvature of the Earth allows can be intimidating: How small I am (but how stellar my vision)! Similar to the Big Sky effect of the plains, the sea gives a certain feeling of absolute freedom and possibility. The clichés about the ocean breezes, lamping waves and healing powerful of walking barefoot in the sand are all true and applicable here. As the embroidery of my towel reads, “Sand, Sea, Sihanoukville.”

Dinner Disaster

Eating alone is one thing. Eating alone in the middle of converging social problems, that's another. Choosing among the endless mediocre beachfront Bar and Grills for dinner, I finally slumped into the cushy beach seat under a sign saying “Khmer and Italian Food.” I ordered a pizza (the waiter told me that it would be a few minutes before the electricity came back...um, don't forget: it's Cambodia.) and a bottle of soda. I opened my Bill Bryson text and returned to my linguistic-nerd bliss. The Khmer waiters took turns disturbing my reading. I almost never turn down a chat with a foreigner, but when the extent of the conversation is, “We not want customer sit alone. You very beautiful...” I'd prefer to just keep to my book.

I can handle awkward waiter convo, but once my food came, the trouble started. Pathetic amputee beggars came to my table, “Madame, Madame.” I did as everyone else does, nothing. Beggars with no legs scoot up and down the beach all day, so tourists become adapt at ignoring. You try not to look, but it's sad and awful. Speaking of awful, every few minutes a disgusting, older western man strolls by with a young Khmer woman. Some sit in reclining chairs, grinding perversely, ignorant of the surrounding public. Stomach-turning, really. My greasy pizza wasn't going down so well. A little Khmer boy, probably 5 years old, with a plastic bag full of aluminum can and bottles on his arm strode up right next to me, pointing at my half-full bottle. First I smiled and said no, but he didn't leave, so I tried to show him that I was still drinking. He stood there, dirty-faced, eyes fixated on mine. He stabbed my soul with his jaded little eyes. I focused on my pizza as he stood, staring at me, hating me. I thought, yep, I don't wanna be here anymore.

A group of the bracelet sellers approached the table next to mine. The children who sell bracelets are endearing, have good English, and are strategic salespeople. However, my sociology background (and some common sense) tells me not to support child labor. These kids should be in school or at home being kids--not hawking friendship bracelets to tourists like me. At the same time, if they can't sell anything, will they be in trouble at home? Do they have money for food? Too many unknowns. The table next to me was as rude as I had been all day, but the girls came to my table, without talking to me, hooked their bracelet string to the lamp in front of me and started knotting the strings, hoping to make a sale. The oldest one, probably fourteen, sat down next to me and started asking about my boyfriend. I declined her many bracelet offers, and she gave up, enjoying the comfy chair. Her younger counterparts braided away, chatting in Khmer. Catching a glimpse of the underbelly of Cambodia's tourist industry, I shuttered to think that this was only the public side of affairs. What's happening in my hotel that prompted the sign above my pillow reading: you are forbidden to take advantage of children sexually, all forms of child prostitution is forbidden and illegal in our guesthouse.? That's ugly.

The little boy wanting my bottle left, perturbed. Just then, a beach cat with half a tail, probably infested with who-knows-what, jumped onto my lap mid-bite. I love cats, but not this one.

The yucko cat did me in. I was beyond panic. I felt hot and dizzy and angry and upset with the world for putting me here on this beautiful beach by myself in the middle of something so awful. Without a second thought, I pushed the cat off, downed the rest of my soda, grabbed my purse and hurried to the bar. I threw some dollars at the Italian guy, offered, “Grazi!” and wished I could could just discretely teleport out of Sihanoukville, out of damn Cambodia. Alone, panicked and on display for the rest of the diners, I'm not sure how discrete I was. My hotel was at the other end of the beach and I couldn't get there fast enough. My flip flops struggled against the wet sand, and my long skirt impeded my legs from running. I wanted to scream as a stray dog started chasing me, barking. I turned around to face it, and luckily it cowered away (I might have actually barked, too, I don't know).

Conquering the rough stone sidewalk off the beach, I rushed into the hotel, grabbed my key and locked the door behind me. What the hell was that!?

Safely in my room, door double-bolted, I reflect on the Sihanoukville experience. The daytime was wonderful. Even though it rained, I had a lovely day, and I even composed a nice blog about how Sihanoukville is a descent place to vacation. Perhaps it is nice, but I won't be going to dinner alone again.

Many tourists seem to find an escape from the maddening parts of Sihanoukville by smoking dope or binge drinking (or indulging in the prostitution scene). Obviously, those are not choices I will make, so I'll have to figure out how to survive the next two days. Mid-dinner panic is too unpredictable and it is a waste of food.

For now, I'm gonna pop another piece of Iranian Dental Association Approved gum. Yum-o! Tastes like Iran! A few Korean music videos and I'll be ready to go to sleep. Tomorrow, I'm hoping for sun.

Getting to Sihanoukville

Give me a desk and computer, and I will write!

Today, I made the four-hour trek to Sihanoukville. The bus ride was a reminder of the country I was a little apprehensive to visit. My eyes were glued to the impoverished roadside villages. From the burnt orange earth rose ramshackle homes atop spindly posts. Tiny children scurried about in school uniform. Old women swept dust from the porches. Errant cows and motorcycles grazed side-by-side in worn-down fields. Posters for dish soap, cell phones and shampoo decorated the outsides of buildings, and the constant aromas of rotting fruit came through the bus's intake. Cars, Buses, and motos on the highway challenged Cambodian traffic rules and the laws of physics by using the two-lane highway as a four lane interstate, sounding the horn and passing like Formula 1 drivers. After the first two hours of watching, horrified, out the windshield, I grew accustomed to nearly flattening motos and playing chicken with cement trucks.

Sihanoukville, at first glance, was like a woman with a bad reputation. Beautiful, but sleazy. Getting off the bus and into the major crowd of tuk tuks was horrible. I didn't really care how much they charged as long as I could get out. My guest house, the GST 3, was a bumpy 10 minutes ride closer to the beach. Flustered, I found my room, and immediately set off for lunch. I followed my nose to the ocean, about twenty yards from the hotel, and I was greeted by my choice of several beach side (literally, on the sand) restaurants. The Tom Yum Goon soup was to die for! I had a fruity smoothie to rinse, and a refreshing view of overcast sky and clear ocean. Eating alone can be profoundly depressing. Then again, it's Cambodia, you're never really alone. Children and young women came by my table every few minutes to offer me pedicures, bracelets and newspapers. Annoying? Yes.

Mid-beachwalk, when the gray skies finally dumped, I found myself chatting with an Aussie over chocolate milkshakes. It seems that Australians are very comfortable vacationing Cambodia. It's like the US and Mexico—kinda.

Speaking of comfortable with Cambodia, this place could be anywhere. Everyone speaks English, the food is multinational, and there seems to be a foreigner for every one or two Khmer. The odd part is that it's all so foreign to me. I'm not used to traveling alone. Making decisions is difficult. I don't think I'm particularly extroverted, but I do like company. I like to have someone to experience things with, or someone to say, “hey, remember that time we were on the bus to Sihanoukville....?”

Okay, in past study abroad experiences, I've learned about the U-shaped emotional status. The initial euphoria of arriving in a new place and the adrenaline of all things new eventually gives way to feeling out of place, alone and homesick. After the bottom-out blues, once you start to acclimatize, get a routine, and find your feet in the new place, the emotional status rises, forming the other side of the U. Unfortunately, when you get to the other side, it's time to go home. So that's the general feeling (it may be a load of crap), but day-to-day can be as rocky as the road to my guest house in Sihanoukville. Hold on to your tuk tuk!!