The sun and the wind cut the air with a dash of dust.
Dried balls of grass swept across the streets while mopeds and cars crossed in a noisy and surprisingly fluid disorder.

Smells of garbage greeted the stroller whose eyes were caught by the stalls of fruit and vegetable vendors, and products of all kinds.
Violence and kindness existed side by side in the narrow streets made bumpy by tropical rainfall.
Children were playing ball, barefoot on the pavements. You could rub shoulders with the perversity of the dollar, and also those who loved the country.

Something is hidden deep in the eyes of the inhabitants, a terrible thing, to be forgotten, and yet it is part of their History. A lost generation has given way to a generation of orphans. Life that vibrates and explodes to build its future.
In the distance, the immense plain of the land of the Khmers unfolds the green and yellow hues of its rice fields lined with coconut palm trees and dotted here and there with the black spot of a buffalo.

The sky veiled in tropical mist hides its blue nakedness without attenuating the ardour of the large sun.
All around, a few steep mountains with rounded summits resemble another Halong Bay, but such a long way from the sea.
And when the mauve hues of evening set in, a feeling of peaceful eternity enters the hearts of those who pass by.