When I was in high school, I had
this purse. It was big and round like a
log, with pink and white patterns and short straps that made it hang right
underneath the armpit. I put it in my
locker one morning sophomore year to find it missing at the end of the day – it
had been stolen in my little 600 student, uniform-clad school. Now, I didn’t have any money in it, that I
remember, because I didn’t have any money.
What I did have were those dance photos that high school girls exchange
like trading cards, keeping their friends and their dates’ faces for eternity
forever, wallet-sized. Yep, I had spent
days collecting my friends photos and handing out my own, and they were all in
that purse that was taken. That’s what I
was upset about. After that it was a
couple of years before I even started using purses again, and even then never
big ones, and never cluttered with things I didn’t think I would need.
Then in
college, fall of my junior year, I studied abroad. One trip to Rome with my roommate, I had
Euros lifted off of me – right out of my pocket, and since then I all but
stopped carrying things in my pockets. I
was back to purses.
I
thought I had solved the problem of big purses and pickpockets by the time I
came to the ‘Bode. I had been using a
small bright purple purse, no bigger than my hand that zipped closed and hung
from one shoulder to the other hip.
Close to me, easy to reach, right behind my hand when I was walking and
sitting on top of my lap when I was seated.
But it has happened again.
I was
walking on the streets of Phnom Penh one Friday afternoon just before the
workday ended. It was a bright and hot
day, with PCVs Laura and Amy at my side, not 100 yards from my guesthouse, my
purple purse sitting comfortably on my right hip underneath my hand when all of
the sudden I stopped short. I felt
something on me, felt a tug of the strap of my purse, the swift snap as it
broke off of my body and heard a scream in the air. I watched as a flash of purple rode ahead of
me in the hand of a man with a black hat, fast, on a moto, deaf to the screams
behind him. It wasn’t until I saw a man
come out of his shop to the left to see what the fuss was about, and I felt
Amy’s arms around me that I realized the screams were coming from me. Dazed, I let Laura and Amy lead me the minute
more to the guesthouse where we found a group of PCVs sitting in the lounge and
I remember thinking, “Don’t they know the world has been turned upside down?”
Amy told them what happened and they turned shocked faces toward me and I
grabbed her phone and went to the elevator.
I called the Peace Corps Safety and Security Officer (as I’m supposed to
when stuff like this happens) and as I heard myself tell him what happened, my
voice trembling as I confirmed what my brain didn’t want to, I began to
cry.
I wasn’t the first PCV to be robbed on the streets of Phnom Penh. I wasn’t even the first to be robbed that week. I had heard stories and been warned, taken precautions when I was in the city, and seen it happen. But I didn’t expect to be so shocked, freaked out, or scared. Scared. That’s how I felt More scared than anything. The attack felt personal, it made me feel vulnerable, and unsafe. It was broad daylight. This guy was on a moto. I couldn’t breathe.
I recounted the story for the SSO and he advised me to call the Cambodian bank to cancel the debit card I had, and the AO of Peace Corps (the money lady). While talking to him I entered the room to Hayley and Amber, who had just returned from a visit to America. They took one look at my face and grew silent. I continued with my story. It’s good to get instructions when something like this happens. All of the money I had was in that purse, along with the ability to access any more money. I was literally left with nothing.
He gave
me the number to cancel my card and I called the line. A Khmer man answered and I explained what had
happened. “Do you have the card number?”
he asked me, an absurd question to my mind because, as I had just told him, it
had been taken. When I said no, he went
with “What do you have?” I told him I
had my name and he asked for it and then how to spell it. Three times.
On the third try he finally said that he couldn’t find my account. This poor man. He was only doing his job and in a foreign
language no less, me sitting in my guesthouse room on a borrowed phone feeling
out of sorts to deal with. I was doing
my best not to get upset with him, but I was already upset with what had
happened. We tried to locate my account
with my birthdate and couldn’t. Finally,
he said my full name and I felt a click in my head – I hadn’t told him my
middle name. “Yes,” I responded, and the
card was cancelled. One down, one to go.
The
other Peace Corps staff member dialed, sitting on a bed with Amy beside me, I
couldn’t handle it anymore. I couldn’t
stop crying and didn’t want to continue crying into the phone so I handed the
phone to Amy, asking her to do the talking.
She obliged but was asked to hand the phone back to me. I took it and explained again what had
transpired. As with the SSO, mounds of
support came to me from the other end. “What
do you need from me?” “How can I help?” She
offered to meet with me later that night or the next morning. Peace Corps could lend me some money to get
back to site and live until I could get back to the bank and sort out this
mess. It is good to be surrounded by
good people.
I got
off of the phone with her and ordered myself to stop crying. I couldn’t.
I was also very aware of the three silent people sitting close to me in
our little room. My friends, who wanted
to help and just didn’t know how to do it.
They were extremely gentle: I have
money you can borrow. Do you want to go
out tonight? Do you want to stay in? Are you hungry? Are you tired? Each
asking in her own way, What can I do to
help you? How do I make this better? Their
kindness made me cry harder, and then harder still for feeling ridiculous for
crying. It was only a robbery after all,
and I was so freaked out.
I went
through the what-ifs – What if I had been carrying the purse on my other
shoulder? What if we had stopped for water or taken just ten minutes more at
the office? What if I had left my purse at the guesthouse that morning? It seemed like I had cashed in all of my good
luck that afternoon, in the broad bright daylight of Phnom Penh.
But
then there are the other what-ifs – what if the strap hadn’t been a cheap
little thing and hadn’t broken? What if
the thief had dragged me into oncoming traffic, refusing to let go of my
foreigner purse I’m sure he thought was full of gold? What if he had a knife? What if it had been a two man job? In reality, it seemed like I was pretty lucky
after all. What I was most upset about
losing was my sweet pocketknife had been
in that purse along with jewelry my sister had given me. That stuff was not as easy to replace as the
money. As is easy to believe growing up
in the Land of Milk and Honey, the best thing about money is that you can
always make more – in America, that is.
And that’s not all. By some odd
stroke of luck, I was actually carrying my passport in my other hand when this all happened. What if
I had put that in my purse before I started walking?! Maybe I did have a
Khmer guardian angel and they had done what they could for me.
And now
that the whole mess is over I still find that the paranoia is with me. That feeling of vulnerability and being
unsafe that I felt as soon as it happened has not left. I find that I don’t want to go walking around
Phnom Penh anymore, I don’t want to be on the streets, don’t want to
explore. I don’t want to make
conversation with people manning the stands selling little noms, or joke with
tuktuk and especially moto drivers. This
thief took my stuff, and that was inconvenient, but he also colored my
perception of this country I live in. He
took away my sense of security and for that above all else, I find it hard to
forgive him – this nameless, faceless thief.
When I
got back to site my family was all a-flutter.
They asked me how much money I had been carrying and what else had been
in my purse, how sorry they were that this happened, and that there are a lot
of thieves in Phnom Penh. Sokchea said
to me, “Bong, Knyom keung jao” (I am
angry at the thief) and Man Kheang mimed
what he would have done with a knife.
The gathering needed a little light so I said to them, “Knyom jong jia Spiderman” (I want to be
Spiderman) and motioned like I was spitting a web at the moto riding away, then
pulling it back to me. The boys laughed
and for the following twenty minutes, we acted out what would have happened to
the thief if we had been various superheroes or if they had been with me.
Inevitably,
as will anything and everything involving me, my entire village and many
surrounding it heard about my hard luck.
Those first few days back I was asked constantly about the experience
and what I had lost. People gave me condolences
and advice, they laughed and they were sad.
My tutor even spun it into a lesson: “Braw-yaht,” he said to me, be careful. One particular instance that struck me was
with an older man who works at my health center. Usually a jokester, he is always teaching me
random Khmer words and asking about English.
He is never shy about popping open a beer immediately following the
health center closing for the day. So
when he slowed down his moto one day as I was ready to go on a run, and very
seriously and personally apologized for what had happened, I was for a moment
extremely sad and touched by his apology.
He had no connection to the thief, had heard about my misfortune
secondhand, and was not involved in it in any way yet still felt the need to
insist that not all Khmer people were thieves.
I was sad – that he felt the need to apologize, that he took it so
personally, and especially that he thought I had such little regard for Khmer
people that I considered them all the same.
I don’t think this is what he was thinking of at the time, more than
likely he just wanted me to know that he was sorry I was robbed. But if someone I know got robbed in America I
don’t think I would go to them apologizing for the American people. Some people are thieves. Most people are not. I am pretty glad I’m not one of them.
The
morning after this episode happened in Phnom Penh I was able to briefly Skype
with my dad. “It’s good to see you’re
still smiling” he said towards the end.
Yea Superdad, it feels good to keep smiling. Because it happened, but I am not going to let
it ruin the year that I have remaining. You’re
the one who taught me to not cry over spilled milk, Daddio. I cried a lot afterwards but I can’t cry
forever. Isn’t there some saying about “if
you don’t laugh, you cry”? I’m a practical girl, and I wear makeup – crying is
hard to clean up.
I’ve got the laugh
lines to prove it.
xo-Amanda
