A writer on tourism and the perils of addiction in Cambodia, as contrasted against her own daily routine in Phnom Penh:
“‘I’ve been robbed seventeen times this year,’ he’d say, eyes trained down in a sallow fury. ‘They take my phone, my money, even my shoes.’
“I didn’t go out much at night but seventeen seemed an excessive number.
”You know he doesn’t actually get robbed,’ Sammy whispered one day.
“‘What do you mean?’
“‘George told me,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘He was coming home one night and saw Paul, outta his mind on ice and God knows what else. Hollering and screaming and carrying on. And get this,’ Sammy pressed his fingertip into the plastic tabletop and leaned in. ‘He was pulling shit outta his pockets. And just throwing it’ — Sammy flicked his thick hands open — ‘everywhere. The security guards were all laughing. And then, then he took off his shoes and chucked those too.’
“Sammy threw his hands up then let them flop back down in his lap.”
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