Unfortunately, my gesticulations only make the kids break into a dead sprint in my direction. I realize that the kids think I am playing a game I invented yesterday, called "Karate Man."

The rules behind Karate Man are simple: I stand in one spot looking scary, and as many kids as possible run up and try to tackle me. If the kids can't budge me after a few seconds, I begin to peel them off my legs and toss them aside, bellowing (in my best cartoon villain voice) "I am Karate Man! Nobody can stop Karate Man!" Caught up in the exaggerated silliness of the game, the kids tumble and backpedal their way 20 or so feet across the dirt when I throw them off. Then they come back for more. It's a fun way to pass the time, and it's much less awkward than trying to talk to the adults.

At this moment, however, I'm in no mood to be surrounded by a field of exploding Cambodian children. "No!" I yell desperately. "No Karate Man!"

"Kanati-maan!" the kids shriek back, never breaking stride.

As the kids charge me, I clutch them to me one by one, and we sink to the ground in a heap. Convinced that they have just vanquished Karate Man, the children break into a cheer.

I stand them up, dust them off, then make them march me back the way they came. Thinking this is part of the game, the kids take the task very seriously. We walk in single file, the kids doing their best to mimic my sober demeanor. Nobody blows up. By the time the buildings of the village are in view, I begin to relax again.

Once I arrive back at Boon's house, one of the kids is immediately dispatched for a sarong. This, I have learned, is the signal that it's time for me to take a bath. I've already bathed once today, but my hosts seem to think it's time for me to bathe again. This could have something to do with the fact that I'm sweaty and dusty from the hike, but I suspect that my hosts just want an excuse to watch me take my clothes off.

Since there is no running water at Boon's house, all the bathing and washing is done by a small pond out back. The first time I was hustled out to take a bath, I didn't realize that it would be such a social undertaking. By the time I'd stripped down to my shorts, a crowd of about ten people had gathered to watch me. Since I'd never paid much attention to how country folks bathe in this part of the world, I wasn't quite sure what to do next. I figured it would be a bad idea to strip completely naked, so I waded into the pond in my shorts. A gleeful roar went up from the peanut gallery, and a couple of kids ran down to pull me out of the murky water.

In the time since then, I have learned that I am supposed to wrap a sarong around my waist for modesty, and bring buckets of water up from the pond to bathe. Since I have very white skin, my Cambodian friends watch this ritual with great curiosity. My most enthusiastic fan is a wrinkled old neighbor woman who is given to poking and prodding me with a sense of primatological fascination that would rival Jane Goodall. When Boon took me over to visit her house two mornings ago, she sat me down on her porch, yanked off my sandals, and pulled on my toes and stroked my legs for about five minutes. At first I thought she was some sort of massage therapist, until she showed up at my bath this morning and started pulling at the hair on my nipples.

This afternoon, Old Lady Goodall manages to outdo herself. As I am toweling off under a tree, she strides up and starts to run her fingers over my chest and shoulders, like I'm some sort of sacred statue from Angkor Wat. If this woman were 40 years younger and had a few more teeth, it might be a rather erotic experience; instead, it's just kind of strange. Without warning, Madame Goodall leans in and licks the soft white flesh above my hipbone. Comically, furrowing her brow, she turns and makes a wisecrack to Boon's mother, who erupts into laughter.

I can only assume this means I'm not quite as tasty as she'd expected.

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