I’ve recently registered for membership at a local gym—a rather swanky, incense scented local gym—so in order to get my card, I hate to have a portrait taken. No problem. I headed down to the local photosweatshop, a store that takes and airbrushes mostly wedding pictures on maybe twnety computers they keep humming in a dark room. The workers can use the magnetic lasso tool like true photo-editting cowboys.

So I get the picture taken. I look like I’m sulking par usual and I’m waiting for the prints, but they have to put it through the photoshopping process because this is what they do. Fine. They change the background color to a light blue and then change my eyes to match. I happen to have blue eyes—something they coo over a little—so this is a minor change. Then they highlight my skin area, reach into the color preferences section and, viola, I’m goth-white.

Now, I’ve been in Cambodia for almost two months now so many of you may have forgotten, but I am in fact a white person. Caucasian. Cracker. I actually know the rules of fucking croquet. I listen to the Decemberists. I don’t understand the appeal of Tyler Perry. In short: Soy Blanco.

The weirdest thing perhaps about Cambodian culture is how willing Khmer people are to display their fantasies. They dream of looking like pop-stars or American icons, but instead of suppressing that with gusto, they wear it on their neatly pressed sleeves. In a way, this is incredibly admirable. But it is the by-product of a culture with no history of individualism. I don’t want to pass a judgment (see, I even have white guilt) but their visual presentation makes Khmer people a little difficult to address. Try having a reasonable conversation with a woman that has pigtails, a school girl dress, pink socks and four years on you. It is very strange and completely unlikely to happen in the states unless you happen to be a Las Vegas conventioneer.

I bought a helmet with a mirrored-windscreen to wear on my moto because it keeps the police from pulling me over for being white (sometimes…) So when I’m driving I am faceless and raceless. Sometimes I keep the helmet on after I get off the bike—for the first five or so steps. No one seems to see me. Then I take it off and suddenly: “Sir you want dvd?”;”Tuk-tuk?”;”How you do today sir?” Sometimes I want to leave it on, but then I think: You are what you are. Which, in my case, is clearly white enough already.