Hints of a colonial past peep out at me from behind the faded and slightly tatty canopy; it is emblazoned with a famous drinks logo, evidence of more recent corporate colonialism. We stopped in this corner cafe for a light lunch and to watch the world go by.
Mopeds, like almost angry bees, go phut phut past us carrying 1,2,3,5 people and a dog, plus shopping. At one point one goes past and the passenger is balancing between him and the driver a huge sheet of glass, it's dangerous, daring and mildly fascinating.
Few people wear helmets and like most of these junctions, in the vaguely grid iron pattern of the streets, there is no traffic control. No roundabout or traffic lights. Cars, bikes, mopeds, tuc tucs and trucks all race towards the centre of the junction, to suddenly slow and then proceed to weave in and out of each other. The rule of thumb is might is right, the biggest vehicles get priority (but not all the time). This road pecking order translates into society with the super wealthy owning increasingly large 4x4s, as in most places the super wealthy are the high ranking government officials, land owners and people working for corporations and the banking industry.
As I sit and ponder this inequality and how the extremes I've seen abroad are becoming a fact of life for some people in the UK, a slightly comical yet tragic scene plays out before my eyes.
A cyclo or pedicab goes past and then stops under the shade of a tree. The driver or cyclist is a small skinny Cambodian man, he wears tatty shorts and a fading t-shirt, he's probably in his 40's. His passenger is a massive white man, his bulk oozes over the seat and he is paying absolutely no attention to his surroundings. Instead he has headphones on and his face is perhaps 6 inches from a held up tablet. I can't see what he is watching but he certainly isn't making best use of the type of ride famous for giving you a great view of the city. The drivers body language shows he is tired and hot. He motions to the fat man and points at the cafe, making a drinking motion, I guess he's asking the fat man if he wants a drink or something. With barely an acknowledgement the fat man nods no and goes back to his technology. The shoulders of the pedicab driver sink with disappointment. He then trys to cycle off again but can't get the bike moving. At one point he is balanced with both feet on one peddle and its still not budging. He jumps up and down and I feel inappropriate laughter growing. In the end he has to get off and push the bike to get some momentum, he disappears out of sight so I'm not sure what happened. It was a snapshot of inequality...the overfed, unappreciative, unaware, disconnected rich, being carried along and helped by the poor and less well off, and totally oblivious to this fact and others suffering and plight.
I'm summoned from my pondering by the waiter bringing us a complimentary pot of jasmine tea and some quartered limes to squeeze into it. It's not long after mid day and we are in the double heat time, where the roasting overhead sun has now warmed the concrete to the point that it is radiating heat as well, it's about 37 degrees.
I sip on the tea and watch a motorcycle struggling to pull a long narrow trailer loaded high with coconuts. They are balanced precariously and someone is perched on the top. They stop at the cafe opposite and sell some to the owner.
Large orange chest freezer sized boxes are often used as dividers between shops or mark the edge of a cafe boundary. These get filled with blocks of ice and I've watched as the ice seller cuts through the larger blocks with a big toothed saw. By late afternoon the ice has usually melted and purchased cold drinks don't feel as cold anymore.
My attention is drawn to the smell of fried onions, mixed with some unknown sweetness. With every welcome breeze the banquet of smells moves on. Like an all you can eat buffet that you don't have any control over. Acrid sooty diesel mixes with dusty road and 2-stroke oil, a subtle shift to fish and overwarm dustbin. The waiter brings my fruit juice and for a moment I am aware of pineapple but that is over powered by burning charcoal, most likely from one of the clay cooking pots we've seen used by Street vendors or in the doorways of local homes. Drains, Damp disgusting fetid drains assault my nose and I try not to think how close to shit that smell must have been to carry that aroma. Back to essence of car and then my food arrives, fried mushrooms and veg with some delicate kmer spices....
That's enough pondering and nose entertainment, time to do some appreciative eating and tasting.