People were stopped -- they were staring.

Whenever I finish teaching at Pek Vanna Foreign Language School, whenever a break occurs between 5:00-6:00 classes and 6:00-7:00 classes, there is a traffic jam. A mob of motorbikes, bicycles, and feet. In the madness my eyes lie to me. Flashes of color appear as hundreds when maybe there is only a hundred. Silky black ponytails swish through the air as young girls chat with each other from motorbikes. Young boys lead bicycles out of the gravel lot organized for their transportation alone and mount the pedals with a walking start. Everywhere there are faces, legs, arms, and book bags. Sky blue school uniforms from the preceding high school hours, and the latest imitation fashions for those who had time to change with the change of schools. I believe that every one of these students is passionate about learning, but the passion of freedom is overpowering, and chaos is birthed. This is the story every evening, but tonight was different.

People were stopped -- they were staring.

Usually I follow routine and catch a ride back to the pagoda where I eat dinner by 8:00. But tonight, I wanted to send an e-mail. Without having to ask, I was offered a ride by Mr. Narin; a short man with inquisitive eyes and a demeanor which gave him the appearance of always being deep in thought. He dropped me at a crossroad near the internet cafe, and I thanked and assured him I could walk the remaining distance.

"See you tomorrow," I told him.

So I began. First, I strolled into the mini mart on the corner, buying two ice cream cones, merely to satiate my craving, but also hoping to see a beautiful face; a beautiful Khmer girl behind the counter. Our relationship has been formed on lingering conversation that builds each time I push through the glass doors. Day one: I am a teacher at PVA and you are a cashier. Day two: my name is Seth and your name is Dalise; and so it continues. I stalled at the ice chest and looked down the aisles -- she was not to be seen. I closed the freezer door and walked to the counter with two cones; one chocolate, one vanilla. This would be a much shorter trip.

My heart beat faster. What was I about to see?

As I neared the internet shop, I noticed the light wasn't on. The street appeared even more dark now with this expected familiarity locked and quiet. Oh well, I thought or maybe mumbled. It wasn't urgent, and remember, I'm learning to roll with things. I returned pace to my stride and walked on, now to find a motorbike taxi to the pagoda. At the usual spot I saw several parked, across from the roundabout. So as not to play with a wad of cash in his eyes, I turned to a dark wall and presorted my fare for a now familiar route. Finished I faced the street again and while still halfway across, I made eye contact in the dim light, waved my hand once with palm to the ground, and continued across the road while my driver started his bike.

A grim sound registered in my ears.
*ticka-ticka-ticka*

He had a floppy hat with a camo print pulled down close to his ears, and the chinstrap fashioned against his jaw.

"Wat Nokorbachey," I told him. "Bei pawn."

He held up three fingers just to confirm the amount, 3,000 Riel, and I sat down while nodding in agreement.

I like this part of travel. I know where I to go; I don't need a map. I know what to say; I only know a little Khmer, but I know enough. I am a regular; sometimes I have the same motorbike who remembering me repeats my destination before it leaves my mouth. For the most part, I know these streets. I know where to eat, where to buy bread, where to buy newspaper, where to find cheap food and cheap beer, where to develop photos, and where to make local phone calls.

On the back of the bike, in comfortable familiarity, I opened one of my ice cream cones and took a bite of the chocolate flakes which had begun to melt on top. Though immediately I wondered if I should have opened it at all. Before we could really begin, we slow to a halt. There is a traffic jam. Again my eyes deceive me, but this one is different.

Motorbikes clotted the side of the road. People were stopped -- they were staring. My driver made an exclamation in Khmer. I didn't understand. On the left side, a few of the curious had moved, but they were stopped from pushing any further. Police had control of the scene. My heart beat faster. What was I about to see?

Focused on getting me to my destination, my driver began to creep through the gawking throngs. Over everyone's heads, I then looked, and a street scene began to move like a well-planned slide show; piece by engaging piece.

A large cargo truck was stopped; at a complete standstill.

Fragments and chips were scattered beneath its front.

A grim sound registered in my ears.

*pshh*
*pshhh*

Glass was everywhere.

Weaving about, I caught a view.

A man held a can of white spray paint and shook it, up and down.

*ticka-ticka-ticka*

He continues his task.

*pshh*
*pshhh*

He was outlining marks where a limp body had just laid on the pavement, most likely minutes before.

I wanted to look away, but I keep looking.

There were flashing lights, and whoever was laying on the asphalt moments ago had just been dragged away.

Glass was everywhere. Everyone was staring. It appeared a motorbike was involved, and with this thought, I doubted there were survivors.

I was glad we did not stall. My driver raced on up the road. I actually pushed the rest of my ice cream cone into my mouth. I surprised myself, though I know the world is becoming less shocking to me. But this moment of awareness, this slide show on the street, brought me face to face with my own mortality. I won't stop riding motorbikes, but I was reminded, life is fragile.

A tear welled on my lower eyelid. I smelled the night air around me. It was cool on my skin. I was alive, but someone was not.