Born to be mild

Tomorrow we leave Cambodia, and with it great memories. We enjoyed the relaxed pace of Phnom Penh, and marveled at the Temples of Angkor Wat near Siem Reap. But we were most sad to leave Sihanoukville and Castaways – it was a great stay made only greater by our host, Mr. Ox.

The day before we left Sihanoukville, I came to the realization (confirmed by Mr. Ox) that Castaways likely does not take Diners Club or American Express, and that I better check our cash supply. Quick math predicted we were going to be a little short, and I would need to get to the nearest ATM in town at a place called Serendipity Beach. The issue was how to get there from our beach.

Since it was just going to be me with no bags, I determined the cheapest way to do this would be hitching a ride on a “moto.” A moto is basically a guy on a motorbike that gives you a ride like a taxi. Coming to the beach Amy and I needed to take a “tuk-tuk” because of our number and bags (see photo below). It would have been about three bucks for a tuk-tuk ride to town, but a moto could take me for maybe a buck or two.

I approached Mr. Ox and let him know in my best broken English: “Ox – can I get moto for Serendipity? Just me, no Amy.” Ox nodded in his quiet, untroubled manner, and we headed toward the road. But he stopped just short of the road and pulled me over to what I can best describe as a shed. In this shed was Ox’s own Honda motorcycle. I thought, “oh, man, Ox is going to take me himself, he’s so nice.” Then it hit me – he was letting me use his bike. His real, honest-to-God motorcycle. And then I had the flashbacks…

When I was about 13 years old, we were visiting a family friend’s house, and they had a moped. I thought that was awesome, and they let me take it out for a spin. I was zipping around the neighborhood, and then I got to the end of a sidewalk and a patch of dirt. Time to turn around. I gunned the engine to get over a 2-3 inch lip where the sidewalk met the dirt, and then it happened – the moped wiped out, right on top of my right leg. I immediately knew something was wrong. I picked up the moped to find my calf torn open deeply and bleeding a deep red with – sorry – some kind of white fluid as well. It had caught on the engine housing. 40 stitches, and now 30 years later, I have a big six-inch scar that reminds me daily that motorized bikes and I are not compatible.

I looked at Ox and just shook my head – “Ox – I…motorcycle…can’t drive!” He looked at me and nodded knowingly. This paunchy, desk-job New Yorker has no idea how to drive a motorcycle. He led me to another outbuilding, and here was a scooter. He called to Mrs. Ox. They exchanged a few words, and then I realized what was happening: I was offered Mrs. Ox’s scooter. With my pride already low, and the continued kindness extended by the Ox family, there was no way I was turning this offer down.

I got on the scooter. Ox motioned to the ignition, and gestured at how to start the machine. Then he asked me to get a liter of petrol, the price of my using the scooter. No problem. And then the moment of truth. I started the scooter. Ox watched as I turned the key, hit the throttle…and stalled out. I tried it again…and stalled out. Ox grabbed the key, got it started, and held the throttle, revving the engine until I grabbed the throttle from him and prepared to head off into the sunset. Ox gave me a solemn look, reached out, and handed me his wife’s dainty orange helmet. I put it on my head – it fit poorly – and nodded back to him. We both knew: I might never make it back alive.

I slowly opened up the throttle and hit the open road; in this case, a rutty stretch of dirt that extended about 500 yards until the first right-hand turn. I was certain that very soon I would either A) be walking the scooter back completely stalled out, or B) get a matching scar on my left leg, and be the proud owner of a totally demolished scooter. Luckily, I made the turn, covered another 200 yards of dirt road, and got to main paved road. Things were looking up. That’s when I noticed the gas tank was almost empty. I had to find some fuel, fast.

Once I hit the main road, I gained a slight bit of confidence. I was on a flat surface, and there was little traffic around, except for the occasional tuk-tuk in the opposite direction. I hugged the shoulder and opened up the throttle a bit more, getting to a speed that was slightly faster than a bicycle. Every patch of loose gravel required a reduction in speed. I needed fuel, but was taking no risks. Is that dark spot an oil slick or just asphalt? Who cares, slow down. Is that a stick in the road? A rock? Everything I saw was an obstacle thrown at me like something from a video game. It was just before noon. I only had about 5 kilometers to go. At this speed, I should get there by nightfall, if I make it at all.

I got to a three-way intersection. There were cars on the road now. Not just tuk-tuks and motos. This was the big time. I slowed down, and spread my feet wide as I navigated the turn. Made it safely, and here I gladly encountered four roadside stands selling one-liter glass liquor bottles filled with gasoline.

I checked out my options. First was a guy about 30 years old. Then a young woman, followed by an older woman with three naked children, and lastly an unattended stand. I went back to the first guy.

Here’s my reasoning: as far as the scooter was concerned, I was an idiot. I needed someone who could give me their undivided attention, show me how to open the gas tank, and very likely get this thing started for me after stalling out three times. The lady with the naked babies would have no time for me, and the young girl, well…my pride was already damaged enough without that emasculation. I pulled up to the dude.

He was a great help. I told him I needed a liter of petrol. He grabbed a bottle and waited as I monkeyed with the keys and the seat, trying to gain access to the gas tank. He opened it for me and poured in the gas. I paid him the $1.50 for the fuel, locked up the tank, and put on Mrs. Ox’s helmet. And then I tried to start the engine. As predicted, no dice. The gas man came over, and slowly and deliberately showed me how to start her up – pull this button over, hold the brake, turn the key. Genius. I put my shades on and grabbed the throttle. And then the gas man stepped back, quickly eyed all his other bottles of fuel, and threw out his hands – “SLOW!! SLOW!!!” I slowly pulled out, looked back, and waved goodbye before turning around in time to avoid an on-coming minivan.

With half a tank and spirits high, I inched towards Serendipity. I closely followed a local on his bike for about a kilometer, until the point where he quickly veered into the opposite lane and nearly ran into a tuk-tuk. Then I saw why: “COWS!!” There were two cows standing in the road about 20 feet in front of me. I veered off, slowed down and caught my breath. Only about 2 kilometers to go. I avoided feral dogs. I was honked at by a delivery truck. I was briefly scared by the shadow of a tree blowing in the wind. I negotiated a traffic circle. And soon enough, I rolled past a bevy of backpackers into Serendipity and parked the scooter in front of an ATM. I turned the key, put down the kickstand, and took off Mrs. Ox’s orange helmet. Tranquility Base…the Eagle has landed.

After I got cash from the ATM, I walked back to the bike. I gave the eye to the surrounding tuk-tuk drivers, super cool, as if I’d been doing this for years. That is, driving a lady-scooter with a tight-fitting helmet. I fooled them. I’d only been driving a lady-scooter for a good forty minutes. Suckers. I got back on the scooter. I thought back to what the gas guy taught me: button to the right, pull the brake, turn the key…SUCCESS! Growing confident, I backed out of my spot, put on Mrs. Ox’s orange helmet, and hit the throttle.

Feeling more comfortable, I followed my tracks back to Castaways. I went around the traffic circle, and noticed the massive golden lion statues in the middle. I saw a huge hotel being built with workers laying bricks on the 4th floor with zero safety precautions. There was a group of primary school kids goofing around in their school uniforms. Roadside stands sold a wealth of mystery foods and beverages. And there were cows, and ducks, and pigs – and water buffaloes – all over the place. I looked at the passing motos, and tuk-tuks, and cars, and grinned back at a few smiling faces. There was the Gulf of Thailand on the right, rice patties on the left, and sunshine overhead. And then it hit me: I wasn’t watching the road anymore, or white-knuckling the throttle. I was enjoying myself and watching the world go by. Like James Dean, Marlon Brando, and Peter Fonda before me, I had heard the call of the open road. On a lady-scooter.

Then I got cocky. I rolled up on a tuk-tuk which was going slower than I liked. I peered into the opposite lane and gunned it. Adios, tourists! The wind whipped past me and the road hummed beneath the wheels. I had no idea how fast I was going, so I did something I hadn’t needed to before: I checked the speedometer. It read zero. The speedometer was broken. I tapped it a few times. Nothing. I took the scooter up to zero for a few more minutes, and eventually got back to the dirt road, and Castaways.

I pulled in and parked the scooter where Ox had originally left me. Feeling good about myself, I took the helmet off, dropped it in the front basket, and stood over my trusty steed for a few seconds, marveling at my accomplishment. Realizing nobody cared, I walked into Castaways, where I found Ox and Amy. I turned to Ox: “I’m alive!” Ox looked at me, paused, and in his unassuming manner simply said, “Yes.” He smiled, and went back to work. But he knew as well as I did. I was alive.

The author and his ride