Friday Morning with the Police Chief

I am sitting in the Sihanoukville police station. It's 8AM on a friday morning, and I have a rotten hangover. The police chief is wearing polyester business slacks, a dark button-down shirt, and big black baseball hat that says "police." He's making tea and smoking intently.

He offers me a cigarette.

What am I doing here?

Last night, a small child stole my blackberry. I was sitting on the beach drinking Angkor with some fascinating journalist friends and a child came by to try to sell me some bracelets.

I initially ignored him until I finally replied: "tej, tej, tej" (no, no, no).

A minute later, I reached for it and realized what had happened.

Back in the police station, I fill out the "complaint form." The police chief studies it, like a high school english teacher reading an essay. I almost expect him to correct my punctuation.

Then, he asks for $5 for "the photocopy." This sort of thing is quite common in Cambodia.

I deftly reply that I have no money. He seems annoyed but amused, and pats me on the knee.

The tea has boiled, and he pours himself a cup. He doesn't offer me any.

He spend 20 minutes photocopying the form and my passport, and then comes back. We sit, looking at each other for a while.

I expect a speech, or something.

"Cambodia very poor," he says.

'Trau" (Right/correct) I reply.

As I'm leaving, he laughs and says one more word, wistfully

"Americans."

I get back on my moto bike, and we drive away in the morning haze.