Caleb, my three-year-old son, pulled frantically at my pant leg, but I was in sensory overload.

People were yelling across the market to each other with noises the human tongue was never meant to make (at least not to my way of thinking). Others scurried past along the narrow walkways with wares they were hastily preparing to sell. One of my eyes scanned the ground in front of me to prevent any wrong step that might land in something I would regret while my other protectively bounced between Hannah, Caleb, and Molly. All this as my mind was attempting some pretty advanced mathematics trying to get a grasp on the fair market value of the beans before me—or were they peas? Again, I felt a tug, and then I heard the words all protective parents dread to hear from their three-year-old boys in the middle of the central market of Phnom Penh: “Can I eat this, Daddy?”

In a flash, all of my nervous attention focused like a laser beam on this little blonde boy peering up at me with questioning eyes and an unknown substance in his hand. It didn’t take me long to assess the situation. Some well-meaning person in the market had expressed their affection to our children by offering them a treat. To make matters worse, several women had joined in on the fun and were coaxing our children to eat.

“Okay, think!” I thought to myself as I scooped the object out of my son’s hands. “What would be the most logical thing to do right now? First, I should examine the item and figure out whether it is animal or vegetable. Second, I should make a judgment about the hygiene of the specimen. Well, I think it’s . . . hmm. It looks like some kind of white thing. Maybe some kind of pastry, or could it be potato? But isn’t octopus meat white, too?”

As I puzzled, Caleb took it out of my hands and gave it a lick. “It’s sweet, Dad!”

“Can’t be too bad then,” I thought. Finally, I settled on my most scientific approach yet. I looked over to my wife who was on our cell phone getting some market tips from Johanna Pewitt. “Molly, what do we do?” I pleaded.

Seeing our apprehension, one of the market ladies pointed to where the mystery substance had come from: a bag of white flour and green legumes. Whew! All was well. I’m sure Caleb was wondering what all the fuss was about.

The other day, Molly went to the market with Saavy, the wife of our tuk tuk driver. (A tuk tuk is a small three-wheeled motorcycle taxi.) She thought it would be good to take a native to get fair prices and teach her how to bargain. It proved harder than expected. Saavy knows only a few words in English, so Molly had to resort to sign language. Wanting an iron, Molly crumpled up her skirt and then made an ironing motion over the wrinkled spot. Saavy got all excited and confidently linked arms with Molly and took her to where the scrub brushes were. She beamed with joy that she’d been able to help. Not having the heart to disappoint Saavy, Molly added a scrub brush to our meager list of assets. As you can see, communication in a foreign country like Cambodia can be a challenge!

It would be impossible to fully describe this place and all of the differences between Cambodian culture and ours. But here is a brief snapshot of what you might see if you came along with us on a tuk tuk.

As you step out onto the street, you are smothered by a wave of moist heat laden with diesel fumes. As the tuk tuk takes off, you hold your breath as the driver eases his way straight into oncoming traffic! He slowly makes his way over to his lane, dodging and being dodged. Small motorcycles are everywhere, often carrying as many as five people. You hold your breath again as your driver makes a turn at an intersection. No one stops! That is, unless they are cut off by another driver.

As the tuk tuk weaves its way through traffic, you look to the edge of the street where you notice shop after shop crammed with goods spilling out onto the sidewalk. The sidewalks are so cluttered with goods ranging from mattresses to motorcycles, not to mention the cars and motorcycles of shoppers, that maneuvering over them can be as tricky as driving on the roads.

Next, you notice people streaming out of side streets and milling around a large building. Most people do their shopping in the markets, which are comprised of stalls along roads and indoors. Standard practice is to bargain to an agreed price, which is often 20 to 25 percent lower than the asking price.

Traffic is slow as your driver maneuvers around vendors pulling their goods on little carts. Women with brightly checkered cloth wrapped around their heads balance baskets of produce on their heads. Buddhist monks garbed in orange make their rounds to receive alms from devotees.

As you look into the faces of the people, you see many smiles and friendly gestures. Curious eyes follow your every move as people laugh and point. You feel, well, different. As your ride comes to an end, you realize that this truly is a different world.

The differences we are experiencing here in Cambodia seem huge to us, but they are nothing compared to the differences Jesus faced when coming to this world. Imagine! The Creator became part of creation and further condescended to become a bondservant who would lay down His life for His creation (Phil. 2:7, 8). Imagine the Son of God, the express image of His Father’s brightness, moving to a world dark with sin to become sin for each one of us so that “we might become the righteousness of God in Him” (2 Cor. 5:21)! Why? It is too much for me to comprehend. All I can do is cry out, “Thank You!” and try, in some small way, to do the same. For the next six to nine months, this will mean learning the Khmer language here in Phnom Penh.

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