It’s raining this morning, the rain enveloping the town like a grey cloth. Everything seems worn out when it rains, the dirt concentrating in the street as the drains overflow.
We head off for breakfast with the luxury of being able to pick a restaurant to eat at. Our first choice is closed, maybe a sign of the effect of weather on the city; closed.
Our second option was a more rustic, cheaper affair.

We turn around to see a young boy standing shoeless and wet in the street. It’s difficult to guess his age here in Cambodia, children look a lot older than their young frames suggest. He has a glazed stare, a face devoid of emotion, his body uncoordinated in his attempts to look around him. He places a small blue bag to his nose, taking deep breaths in, his coordination failing as he does so. It’s our first experience of ‘huffing’, something I can imagine is rampart amongst street children. Not long after, he is joined by a group of similar aged children, each with their own blue bag of petrol or diesel, each getting high as they wander directionless down the road.

We ordered breakfast, a number one and three plus some extra milk for my espresso. It comes in a few minutes, neither of us truely looking forward to our toast and scrambled eggs.

Another battalion of street children approach, one making a bee line for our table. Emily see’s him; I say ‘no’ in a way that makes ones heart sink. He persists, and only a wave of the hand as if shooing off a bird makes him run back to his group. It’s a situation repeated many times over the course of a serving of scrambled egg.

A few disabled people come past, each asking for money in their different way. Some stand there, lingering at a distance, almost willing you to see them. Some come right up to the table; hands out, big eyes and empty stomachs. Both situations are challenging.

It’s good to see that disabled people have access to wheel chairs, rudimentary by Western standards as a means to be ‘able’. Their efforts to get anywhere though still seem a world away from strolling down the street. They are relegated to the street level, never able to come up to the level of pedestrians who stand on flood-protected footpaths; perpetually disadvantaged. They roll up to the side walk, a small old laminated card explaining which charity they are from or school they are attempting to get a place at if we would sponsor them.

There seems the be a significant disconnect between tourists and the locals. The same meal we have tried to enjoy at the local street cafe across the road would cost less than a dollar, yet tourists are charged much more. Similarly the local bus we were soon to take, had two prices. It’s part of the national belief that tourists are inherently rich and therefore can afford anything. It’s true that we are inherently well off, simply to be here we are ‘rich’ and fortunate; but at times the dichotomy in prices and costs can infuriate even the most tolerable tourist. It does leave you with a sense of guilt to feel this way though.

It was a challenging breakfast. We were confronted by an aspect of the true poverty of the country in such a short period. We finished finally, although our appetites had long such left us, ironically lost over images of children who’s hunger at times would be unimaginable