The case of the disappearing produce

 The answer was obvious - why was she denying it?

I was already frazzled. I was suddenly cooking dinner for six people, hoping to drop off some of the food before biking with a friend at 5. I dragged myself out in the mid-afternoon heat to buy groceries. My first stop, for meat at the grocery store, was quick. My third stop, for fruit at the open-air market, was quick. But the middle one, for vegetables, took longer. For one thing, I was buying a lot more veggies than usual. For another thing, "Auntie" was extra chatty that day. 

As her moy or loyal customer, I've been buying from Auntie for over three years. She knows I always prefer my fabric bags to her plastic ones, she gives me fair prices, and she smiles at me good-naturedly, even when I make dumb mistakes in Khmer. But she's less of a talker than I initially expected. I've never felt the closeness with her that I did with my pre-2015 seller, Little Sister, who patiently conversed with me in Khmer and still remembered specifics about me when I visited years later. Still, if Auntie's not too busy, we’ll exchange a friendly comment.

Saying goodbye to Little Sister

On Saturday, Auntie sighed that customers were down due to Covid. I told her I was buying extra to cook for a crowd, but it was my new bag that got her attention: bright blue canvas from a nearby supermarket, sturdier and bigger than my usual bags. 

"This is from Thai Huot?" 

"Yes, have you been there before?"

"I live near it. How much did it cost?"

"Ninety cents, but I can use it a long time." She was silent. I knew that must sound like a lot to her for something that just holds food. Unlike supermarkets which charge 10 cents, traditional markets can still give away free plastic bags, though they're pretty thin and flimsy. Full of imported goods, Thai Huot probably wasn't in her price range. 

"Do you live with your daughter?" I tried to continue the conversation. Her daughter sometimes helps sell.

"Yes, with all five of my kids."

"Everyone still lives at home? Isn't your daughter married?" 

"Yes, but she still lives with me. And my husband. He lost his arm in a moto crash and had to stop working as a carpenter. Our lives are hard. How much money do you make?"

A typical question here for foreigners, and not my favorite, but I gave an approximate answer anyway to show her that I valued our relationship. She packed up my bright-blue bag and accepted my $5 payment, much higher than most of her customers would spend at once.

Our conversation continued another minute or two before I reluctantly pulled away. Wow, maybe after three years, I was finally getting to know her! 

After grabbing a dragonfruit from the fruit seller, I continued home, only to realize my veggies were missing. Silly me, they must still be with Auntie! Come to think of it, I couldn't remember loading the bag onto my moto. I sheepishly drove back, knowing she'd laugh at me. 

Auntie was busy out front, so I went to the scale where she’d weighed and loaded up my veggies. She stared at me in confusion. "Do you need something else?" 

Hadn't she noticed? "I forgot to take my veggies with me. Did you see them?" 

"No, you took them with you."

I looked around her stall in disbelief. Nothing blue in sight. Now other customers were staring at me too. 

My mind raced. Maybe I'd left the bag by the stairs up to my apartment. Maybe on the shoe rack outside my apartment. Maybe... 

Maybe I was already late cooking dinner, and I needed those veggies NOW.

I drove off in a frenzy to check at my building. Definitely no veggies. They had to be with Auntie! Why would she steal them? How short-sighted, to steal a bag of veggies and forever lose a moy. Two Khmer friends were there, and I explained the situation. They looked at me skeptically. "We don't think your moy would do that to you." But where else could the vegetables be? I even checked with the fruit seller, knowing I'd only dismounted my moto for a second to take money out of the seat. How could anyone have stolen this bright, heavy bag from the hook beneath my handlebars? 

I returned half a block to Auntie.

"You're back! You couldn't find them?" 

"No, Auntie. Could you please look again one more time? Maybe you just didn't see them." I pleaded with her, convinced I hadn't taken them with me. Her denial made me think she'd intentionally taken them and distracted me, hoping I'd carelessly drive off without them. I knew that directly accusing her wouldn't end well - she'd never admit wrongdoing, and I might even make others around us suspect her, which would fill her with shame and anger. My only hope was to offer her a way to save face and restore the situation. 

"They're not here. You took them. I already told you. Do you need to buy everything again?" I loaded up the plastic basket again, angrily picturing her inwardly mocking me. "Sure, whatever," I muttered flusteredly. "I'm already late making dinner. My guests are coming." I hope you're happy, making $10 on me in one day. You'll never have my business again. I bet your husband never lost his arm. And if you have five kids at home, why is only one ever at your stall? I raced home with the veggies, missing the bike ride but calming down in time to enjoy the evening's visitors.

I'd love to clear her name, but I can't see another plausible explanation. I don't know if she planned from the beginning to be extra-chatty in hopes that I'd forget, or if she just saw me distracted and went with the flow. She probably hoped that she was the first of five stops so I wouldn't be sure where I lost the veggies. 

Most crimes in Phnom Penh are crimes of opportunity: picking someone's pocket on a crowded street, stealing a moto from an open gate during a noisy monsoon rain, running an errand for the boss and giving back too little change. Petty thieves have taken my purse, camera, and helmet. If it seems low-risk, some Cambodians will place loyalty to family and close connections ("this can help us pay the bills or get ahead") above honesty with a more distant connection. Auntie's snatch from a moy was unusual, but part of a broader pattern of corruption here that many of my friends decry as unfortunate but inevitable. Few would feel guilty about dodging taxes or sneaking through a red light. Paying bribes is often essential for getting things done. Playing the system is much easier than fixing it. 

I've forgiven her, but I haven't gone back. Two Khmer friends recommended that I not return to her, confirming my instinct. One said that though I could buy from her occasionally, the moy relationship can't be restored, and lots of other vendors could use my business. The traditional Khmer way is not to pursue truth and apologies: it's to pretend everything's OK until you can't, and then sever ties, usually permanently. I've felt awkward shopping at other stalls near hers - I'm sure she sees me sometimes, so I just try to go to the farthest one and avoid looking in her direction. 

I feel for Auntie, though. As she well knows, five dollars means so much more to her than to me. The difference between our lives weighs on me. Writing this post made me imagine her life. She's old enough to remember the late 1970s Khmer Rouge era, where betrayal was rampant and deceit was key to survival. Children were brainwashed to rat on resisting relatives. Doctors trying to avoid execution tried to pass for illiterate farmers. Parents and older siblings risked death to pocket food from the fields for starving toddlers. I've heard several Cambodians bemoan this period's devastation of community trust to this day. What did that time teach a young Auntie? How many of these lessons got her through the '80s and '90s, in a nation crushed by economic collapse and guerilla warfare? How is she passing them on to her children in this latest widespread crisis?

I'm pretty sure telling people "Just have integrity" won't do much. So what could I do? Obviously, I can promote external accountability by checking that I have my purchases before I leave and avoiding repeat business with those who rip me off. But heart change is slower and harder. I can do my best to model integrity. I can try casting vision, pleading with teachers and parents to teach the next generation differently than they were taught. I can pray for the Holy Spirit to give people new hearts that want to love and imitate the God of grace and truth. And I can help disciple Cambodian believers to bring their whole lives under His authority, trusting that He will provide all their needs as they live uprightly. It's not easy for Cambodian Christians to be honest here in a sea of deceit, but it sure stands out when they do.