Moto Blues

On Friday I woke up with a sore throat. I got myself out of bed and started the drive to Korsang. At the corner of Norodom and Mao Tse Tung Blvds., I saw the police in their blue and orange uniforms and looking so cold and sad. I checked my signals and avoided eye contact. They directed me to pull over. They are mean as hell. No one in Phnom Penh has mirrors on their motorbikes, but it was time for them to demand fines. I paid off a dollar to the pocket of a policeman, for my freedom, and for their New Years Celebrations.

When I first started driving the moto I did so with a frightening degree of excitement. Abandonment. I learned how to navigate the streets like the Cambodians- against traffic, on the sidewalks, in and around and infront and between all cars and cyclos and motorbikes, and to the point of barely dodging the most obscure obstacles that were only avoided by astute attention to the peripherals. I prided myself in my steering, in my fearlessness.

But gradually it wore me out. The excitement exited out of my body as I laid in bed each night feeling happy to be alive.

After my run-in with the cops, I resumed my seriousness on the moto, carefully crossing each intersection where a game of chicken ensued. I crossed two streets, asserting to everyone in question that I did not fear them nearly side-swiping me, and that in fact, I was on the main road and they must slow, for their own damn well-being.

Two intersections were crossed in such manner.

Then I got hit by a van. It mustn't have seen me, for it slowed a minute, indicating I should continue on at normal speed. But then it sped up and we collided with just enough force to send my moto to the ground, and me just barely with it. Mostly, I avoided contact with the pavement. Fear and adrenaline forbid my rememberance of the moment. Only my hands hit. I picked up my bike quickly, looked at my body with profound disbelief and pride at its ability to endure. Two men jumped out of the van and much to my surprise, they apologized. I said it was okay and drove off as quickly as possible in order to avoid a scene. Immediately I reached an intersection and saw the much feared police, so naturaly I turned sharply against traffic and continued along the side, careful to avoid head-on collisions.

Being Scared

Every story is more complex than we ever hope for it to be. Eve was murdered two weeks ago. And that is devastating. In dealing with a person's death I think its natural to try and create images for every moment that could have passed during that last night. This was especially the case for me, hearing about it on vacation in Thailand, away from fast computers, good news sources and friends. I received a text the night after Eve's death from Erin in Phnom Penh telling me I should check my email: sad news from UNC.

I ran to an internet cafe. It was 10pm and the place was about to close. When I saw Eve's picture on the opening page of UNC's website, it didn't register that she had died. I was used to seeing her picture everywhere.

I imagined my last conversation with her. How rushed I had been! Standing in the Weaver Street parking lot- my backpack was on! I was decked out in my hiking pants. I was leaving that moment for this trip. Kristen drove up, ready to take me to the airport. Eve was also rushed, she always had a million things on her mind and in her hands. But she was so excited to see me. We hadn't seen each other since graduation. I think her excitement was less about seeing me, but more about seeing someone on the other side--the other side of graduation. She wanted to hear about my trip. She was thinking about traveling herself when she finished school. She just wanted to see the world- to see, do, touch all that she could. And she was so excited to talk about what was next.

I didn't have a chance to find out many details about her death that night. Most people knew very little about the circumstances of her death in the beginning anyway. Even now, after learning more, I still try to imagine every second that lead up to it. As I'm pouring a draft at Talking to a Stranger or cleaning an infected cut for a kid in Boeung Trabek, I suddenly stop and can't keep my mind from imagining. It's salsa night at the bar and I see a girl dancing by herself, long hair, laughing with her friends and I imagine Eve in Cuba with Margaret and I'm so sad for her, for Margaret, for everyone.

I imagine the possibilities for Eve that night- did she almost decide to go on to sleep, did she almost get away, did she run, did she try to convince them not to shoot her, where exactly was she shot, what were her last words, and who was she thinking about? Mostly though, I imagine just how deeply sad she was to let go of it all.

I don't know whether to be terrified. Am I supposed to be constantly conscious of every danger, every where? She was killed a block from where I had lived my senior year at Chapel Hill.

This summer when Ginger and I drove to San Francisco together and camped outside in the Grand Canyon, she woke me up, "EB, are you scared?" I said, "No, don't think about it and it'll be fine. I think there are too many people around us for bears anyway." But she wasn't scared of bears. She was scared of a man. So we locked ourselves in her car for the night.

When I found out that Eve had been shot, my immediate thought was that she had been killed by a man. And now I hear all of this uproar about race. A white man may say, "Whats wrong with the black youth of today?" Or, "I suspected that the guy was in a gang." Or, "Of course he was from Durham." And the white men, again, as they have forever in America, fear for their beautiful white daughters.

Does this not get at the root of racial problems between white and blackmen in America- a black guy taking (violently or in matrimony) a white woman.

So we spend our lives protecting our white women from black men. And we punish, consistently, black men for it.

Eve wouldn't want this. She wouldn't want racial tensions to flare as a result of her death. More and more she becomes less of an individual. She is lost to the cause. Is this how it should be? Does she become a martyr for stricter gun laws? For tighter gang regulation? Who can we blame, how can we honor her?

The problem with the black youth in America is a societal problem. And I blame all of us. Who does a black youth turn to when he can't get a job or education or any direction? Some turn to gangs. Everyone wants family, for someone to support them and for someone whom they can support. Its hard to blame someone for joining a gang when they have nothing- no country, no home.

In some ways, this is a race issue. But I think its unfair to call it a problem with African Americans. I think white America has to own up to it. We cannot ignore the way that we've marginalized non-whites since the founding of our country.

Maybe Eve's murder should be the impetus for a different conversation. Instead of asking, "Whats wrong with the black youth?" we could ask, "Whats wrong with patriarchy? Whats wrong with American men? Why is no one surprised that another act of violence was committed by a man?" I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I wish it weren't so, but I am scared of men.

Another place

If you cross your eyes and pinch your nose, the yellow, blue and faded red plastic trash bags in the Phnom Penh slums make me think of springtime in Chapel Hill.

I went on outreach again this morning. The tuk tuk carried me and 5 guys wearing blue and red Korsang shirts that declared the mission of risk reduction in Khmer. We set out toward Boeung Trabek, an area I've been many times, about 5 minutes from the drop-in center. Most of the drug users who use Korsang's space live in the streets here. Bony was driving and cranking up the music, for everyone, a mix of Khmer love ballads, American hip-hop and the occasional Eric Clapton "Lady in Red."

Crossing the street, a woman with a korma scarf wrapped around her head and with ankles caked in black dirt, waved at the tuk tuk. JB explained that he'd helped deliver her baby 2 months ago. The next day she sold the child for $200.

We turn down one dirt path, just one or two streets off Monivong, the biggest street in Phnom Penh. Teenagers, men and women carve wood doors in the streets. Around every building, drug users congregate. Injection drug users shoot in groups, or at least with partners. Its safer that way, as long as they aren't sharing needles. JB and I start doctoring a knife wound on one of the user's hands. It had gotten infected and was swollen. The teenager showed us at least 5 other stabbing scars on his arms.

As we worked on his wound a mother came up to the group holding a barefoot 2 year-old boy wearing an old t-shirt. A 5-year old tugged at her leg. In the mother's hands were a package of clean needles we had given to her. She began to shoot up. For a second I felt nauseated, like I was feeding her habit, providing her with the means to continue the cycle. But I wonder what will happen to her when she dies of AIDS. Maybe those clean needles will keep her safer longer? Its true, her children might be safer without her. But where would they go? I think they'd die. The children walked towards me. Most young children in Cambodia, I have found, are pretty shy with white people, or so scared that they run. These kids let me hold them and throw them around. The youngest had infections all around his ear. I asked what had happened. Another drug user said the mother puts all kinds of things in the boy's ear when she gets too high.

We drove a little further down the road and stopped to look into a field. The big brother of the community was high, alone. He had recently overdosed but survived. We waved hello and asked if he had seen Aveay. Aveay has been missing for 3 days. So we looked in the bushes for him. JB pointed to the place in the field where he found a young woman who had been gang rapped by 10 men. We then continued on our way.

Several of the drug-users recognize me now. I was nervous they would be scared of me, but they've really welcomed me. One of the younger guys, he must be 18, had a needle in his hand and came up and gave me his firmest handshake and a little smile, saying "Hello Madame!"

At another stop, we cleaned up a guy with an infected finger and scabs all over his legs. As we were working, a drug user I've met at the clinic called me over. She had a needle hanging from her thigh, but she was still conscious. She wanted to practice her English.