on Sunday with Sovy and Sreymom and we three plus a woman from Poipet and one Khmer staff member were the only ones wearing. None of the Westerners wore them. It’s that Western expat invincibility complex. The sensation comes – I’m waiting for it to find and kill me. I take my temperature every morning … and wait. Feeling doesn’t last for long but is sick scary. 6Z sounds busier this morning. Usually I walk to work but for these past 17 days I’ve taken a tuk-tuk because construction has ripped up the sidewalk. And now, I avoid workers, street vendors, drinks sellers and other walkers. I’m reducing contact, wearing a mask all the time, and listening closely to my body – breathing, coughing, sneezing, headache, temperature, achy joints – for anything weird. My lungs are poor, nothing gravely serious – no meds – but if this serpent bites, it’ll be touch-and-go. I don’t want to get sick in a developing world medical system I neither know nor trust. Vanessa and I are sitting in the urban flora outside Brown Coffee. “We should be looking at an exit plan sooner rather than later. This is getting bad,” I say. “If it’s last-in, first-out at the uni, that’s not good news for me. You’re safe.” “I’m staying … I think.” “I’ve about 15 minutes to make a decision to get out of this country and if I don’t, I’m stuck. And what do I do for money?” “Vanessa, you’ve gotta move if you’re gonna move.” “Has anyone told you anything about me? Will they keep me or not?” “We’re barang … always an afterthought … last to know.” “So … what should I do?” “Your decision. You know what’s best for you.” “You’re no help.” “Sorry.” “I dunno what to do. Will I get a class or not?” “Dunno … sorry.”
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