They come out at night.
Not exclusively, no, but you can usually find them prowling the streets when the sun goes down, searching through the city's garbage, manhandling the refuse, hunting for utility.
Last night I walked down Sihanouk, fumbling around in my pocket, searching for my keys. The air was cool and the night was dark and I felt very far from home, liking and disliking that familiar feeling.
I heard a voice.
"Sir! Sir"
I turned behind me to see a young boy, how young impossible to tell, pointing at the ground. (All Cambodian kids look younger than they are, mostly due to stunted growth.) He was a typical street kid -- dirty and scruffy and smiling wide. A makeshift cart full of, well, junk sat on the street, waiting for him. He was one of those kids who help their parents (or themselves) out by patiently, expertly strolling the streets, looking for the gunk we throw away -- cans, food, bottles. Whatever.
I looked to where he was pointing. A five hundred riel note, crumpled and red, was on the ground. I must have dropped it.
He could have picked it up. I was a good little ways ahead of him; I'd have never known the difference. And it's only the equivalent of twelve cents -- I certainly wouldn't have missed it.
And yet this kid, who was scrounging for, well, for his life, didn't take the money and run. He could have used it. His family could have used it. But he chose to call out. To give it back.
We all form our own personal theories about the places we live in and the people who live there. We cling to them. Then somebody comes along and shows us why theories are just that, theoretical, and usually unanchored in anything solid or real.
I picked up the money. He smiled. I smiled.
Then I gave him a dollar, and I gave the wretched looking lady who was rummaging through the trash splayed on the sidewalk next to him a dollar, and while they smiled their thanks I turned away.
I went home to rest, feeling guilty and good, condescending and smug, while the boy behind me went back to his cart and back to work.
