Motorcycles in Cambodia

After the second hour, however, my increasingly sore lower body demanded a stretch, and I needed a drink, having lost my water bottle miles ago when it flew off my bag. I yelled into Peter’s ear, and both bikes soon pulled in front of a tiny bamboo-thatched shack where a few men sat chatting and, evidently, selling drinks. I had noticed a few kids splashing around in a neighboring rice paddy, and as we gulped our water, they caught sight of us and scrambled over for a better look. Within minutes, more than fifteen children had slinked out of the shadows of the surrounding coconut palms to gather in front of us, staring.

To their amusement, we called out suor s’dei (“hello”) and grabbed our cameras, arousing their curiosity further. The children smiled shyly at us, unsure of what to do, but the ice was broken with the help of my partner’s digital camera. Before long, they were hamming it up in front of both cameras, posing coolly with their pals before rushing forward amid squeals of delight to glimpse themselves on the tiny LCD screen. Somewhere in the confusion, one of the little girls of the group had latched onto my side, and when she playfully grabbed my hand and smiled up at me, I decided there are few better things when traveling through a foreign land than to be the recipient of such immediate trust and acceptance. Did we really have to leave this place?

Unfortunately, a roll of film and thirty minutes later, our drivers reminded us of the distance we had yet to go. I reluctantly mounted the bike, but it wasn’t long before we stopped again to repair a loose chain. While waiting, we lunched on fried rice and noodles at a nearby restaurant, where the delightful owner took an immediate liking to us. As she stood smiling next to our table, staring in what appeared to be fascination, she tried, via translation from Martin, to convince us to move into the house she shared with her daughter. She wouldn’t even let us pay for our four meals, so we covertly slipped the cash into her daughter’s hand. Before we climbed back on our bikes, she informed us that Kampot, our destination for the night, was only 30km away. “Not bad at all,” I thought, encouraged.

Hours later, however, it seemed our restaurant friend was either drastically mistaken or the bikes moved much slower than they appeared to. It became increasingly painful to remain on the bikes, and not just because our butts were sore. I felt an alarming new pain in my knees, legs and back, probably because I had become paranoid about my now-lopsided bag tumbling off and had been assuming various twisting positions in an effort to keep it secure. Even better, in a typical display of the country’s rainy season, the brilliantly sunny day turned stormy by mid-afternoon, and both our bodies and bags were soon mud-splashed and soaked. Each time we stopped to stretch, take photos or adjust our belongings, Martin and Peter assured us, as if they actually had a clue, that we would arrive in Kampot within an hour. Yet, two hours later, we still weren’t there. I briefly wondered if the overcrowded bus would have been both faster and more comfortable.  

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