Phnom Penh

My calf is burning. After leaning in to take a photo with our tuktuk driver this afternoon, I clumsily let the back of my calf brush by the motorbike. Now, I have a lovely blueish/black bruise on my left leg and I am sulking in an internet cafe.

The rest of my day in Phnom Penh, however, has been intense and amazing. I was an early riser this morning, taking advantage of the hot (yet not unbearably humid) temperatures, and started pounding the pavement at 6:30am. As I ran through a bit of the city, I saw the sun peeking over the imperial palace; a group of middle-aged Cambodians waving fans in a graceful dance; and monks in brightbright orange strolling the streets, gawking right back at me.

Then, within just a few hours, me and my travel friends went to the Killing Fields, toured a local orphange, and went to the genocide museum. Our tour guide (who lost his parents, sister, aunt and uncle in the genocide) explained the unthinkable destruction caused by the Pol Pot regime as we walked past mass graves which thousands of people were thrown into. It was a day of skulls and bones, lessons on the extremity of human cruelty.