Dear All,

It is times like these that I wish I could find a suitable metaphor to try and explain how I'm feeling. Emotionally exhausted is probably the best adjective I'm going to come up with; and if we're going to adopt the language of 'Buddhism Explained', then I'm acutely aware of dukkha in the world at the moment, but without sufficient understanding to be able to deal with it.

Beggars, disfigurement, pregnant young children on the street, hey lady, madam!, horrific injuries, genocide, poverty, you buy, open sewers, killing fields, land mines, S21, playing naughts and crosses with desperately poor children who have given up trying to flog me knock of Lonely Planet guides, cheap cheap, everybody wanting money from me, tuk tuk, moto, you buy, you buy.

It sickens me that much of this is a product of the Western capitalist world. I am so sorry to be a part of the cause of this hell. I feel partly guilty for being here, parading around my wealth by my mere skin colour, partly justified in bringing money here - or is that just appeasement? Something inside me tells that western tourism is slightly sick, slightly voyeuristic - they call Cambodia the Wild East, because anything goes. So hoardes of sick tourists come and shoot of AK 47s and other hugely powerful weapons of war at firing ranges, smoke a hell of a lot of weed and other drugs, do all sorts of things their own countries won't let them - including the heinous crimes associated with sex tourism. A peverse playground for rich Westeners. I'm sorry.

After I blogged yesterday, I didn't go to the Royal Palace, but walked along the riverfront to Wat Phnom. The slightly upmarket shops selling beautiful silk goods usually for worthy causes or as part of wonderful schemes helping disabled people or orphans make a living, the breeze of the Mekong, the absence of garbage spewing onto the streets, provided some respite. I paid my foreigner fee, and started the climb up the only hill in Phnom Penh to the temple. As I reached the top of a flight of stairs, three beggars, each with horrible disfigurements - burns, amputated limbs, all painfully thin, thrust their caps in my path, reaching out to me, pleading with me.

A better person than me might have known what to do. I hadn't a clue. Struggling to stop myself openly bursting into tears I stumbled past, into a crowd of Japanese youth taking photos of each other in front of the aesthetically graceful stupa of Wat Phnom. I couldn't really take anything in. I was looking for a way down to the waiting snake pit of tuk tuk and moto drivers that would avoid similar encounters; is that wrong? I couldn't, and still can't really, work out for the life of me what to do or how to react.

Tying my kroma round my nose and mouth to try and block out the stench, I braved the Phnom Penh traffic in the back of a tuk tuk to get back to my guesthouse. Heart in my mouth, as ever, as we veered round scooters and trucks until we got caught in traffic - accident. Nobody stops - oh no, they veer round, between, all craning their necks to get a good look at the mangled tuk tuk and the scooter that have collided. As we brush past not a few metres from the Khmer brewing anger, I am glad to note there are no injuries. On arriving back at my guesthouse, I had barely sat down in the garden area outside when I witnessed another accident.

As I sat reading last night, various children selling photocopies books came in, sat down next to me, drank my Coke, tried to sell me things. One girl, May, who told me she was 15, said she had a very bad day - nobody had bought books and her Mum was pregnant. I put my shoes on we went to the nearest foodstall - I'd read not to give them money, which she was asking for, so food seemed the next best alternative. I attempted to buy a bag of rolls - I was willing to pay far over the odds for them, but the lady insisted that she would not sell me them without filling. A couple more children appeared - three baguettes filled with omlette later, some were fed.

Bad move - or was it? I don't know anymore. I went back and sat down, more children came. Distressingly, one girl was pregnant. I know that children and women look a lot younger than they actually are out here, but she cannot have been of age. She was hungry. I didn't know whether to go and buy more; in the end I didn't - I guess I didn't know where it was going to end. The lovely women who run my guesthouse and the lady at the food stall were looking at me, amused.

Talk about flashpacking - I chartered a tuk tuk today. Taa, the driver, is employed by my guesthouse and speaks pretty good English. I went to S21 and the Killing Fields, and to the Russian Market for some respite. I don't really have words for the first two.

As I got to S21, a man thrust his cap into me as I dismounted the tuk tuk. One of his eyes was just creamy white, his skin and face horribly disfigured by burns. He only had one arm. As I got to the ticket booth, another man with a crutch in place of a leg pleaded with me for money. I keep a supply of one dollar bills folded up in the front portion of my bag now. I gave to both of them as I left, but it plays heavy on my mind that it's giving out of guilt. I don't know what to do.

Just now, on returning to my guesthouse, some more of the book selling children took up residence next to me. They weren't as pushy about the books as the girls - some things are the same the world over!! We sat for a while, I let them read me their English alphabets and corrected the odd bits and bobs. They had exercise books but no pens, so I fetched the few pencils and biros I had in my pack. I taught them naughts and crosses, we drew a few animals, I wrote out a couple of nursery rhymes in their book and got them to read them to me.

It's precious little good, really.

All the time I am acutely aware that this a world perhaps more real than the bubble I inhabit. I feel guilty for seeking refuge in watching CNN to remind me off that bubble. I don't know how to react, I don't know what to do with the over riding guilt at my own revulsion and aversion at this city. This is life, I suppose, I should be able to handle it.

Sorry for the tone of the blog, readers. Needed to get it off my chest!

P