Where the streets have no name…

Hello, Moto?
Motodups are the easiest and most common way to travel around Phnom Penh. Twenty five to fifty cents (1000 or 2000 riel) can get you anywhere. Almost any man can be a moto driver (I’ve not seen any women). There are no regulations: no uniforms, no signs. You do not have to find a moto; they will find you. Walking on the road (especially if you are barang – i.e. a foreigner), you will inevitably be hailed with a chorus of men raising their index finger in the air and shouting (like a mobile phone advertisement) “Hello, Moto?!” Exiting any popular barang pub or restaurant along the Riverside, you will be assaulted by a mob of moto and tuk tuk drivers, vying for your attention like a horde of stoke brokers. I was amused by an episode where, one day, I walk through the twists and turns of my laneway, pass chess games, steaming cooking pots and toothless grandmas. As I turned a corner, I saw a dad and his approximately 8 year old boy at the end of the lane, on the junction with the main road. Dad stood with a moto and the little boy with a small push bike, complete with training wheels. He spotted me first and, quick as a flash, hopped on his bike. His arm goes up with an extended finger and he squeaks: “Hello, moto?!” I have to smile and nod…

However, unlike London cabbies who know every establishment and every lane in their city, almost all moto drivers in the Penh will be able to count the number of streets that they know on one hand. Phnom Penh’s streets are numbered or named. A “general” rule for numbered streets is that the even numbers go vertically (north to south) and odd numbers go vertically (east to west). All rules, however, are meant to be broken, especially in Cambodia. Yesterday, I searched in vain for the French Cultural Centre, which is showing the European Film Festival. I rode around precariously for half an hour in pelting, solid rain (it is wet season now). Yet no matter how many times we circled Street 208 kept being followed by St 228; my destination - Street 218 - had “disappeared”. Like the Cambodian population, one fifth of Phnom Penh’s streets seem to have become victims of genocide. Okay sorry, that’s bad taste.

Anyway, house numbers are even more chaotic. On any given street (eg Street 218), there can be a sequences of houses such as: 5, 5A, 5B, 5D (note: missing 5C), 8, 20 (note: missing 8-20), 21, 22, 5 (note: another 5 again), 30, 5 (note: and another 5) etc. None of this really matters because no moto driver knows numbered streets anyway.

There are a only a handful of streets which have names: Sihanouk, Monivong, Norodom, Mao Tse Tung, Russian Boulevard, Sisowath, Sothearos are a few. Most moto drivers know Sihanouk (the famous Independence Monument is on it). Monivong, Norodom and MaoTse Tung are popular but even they are sometimes not known by drivers, especially those who come from the provinces into the city to try and make a living.

Thus, I carry a map in my pocket wherever I go. However, drivers are mostly illiterate and do not know how to read maps or even some of the basic concepts such as north and south and blue means water. Whether to not lose face or in order to nab a fare, most will say that they understand and know where you want to go, even if they have no idea. They will start driving and may even do a few turns here and there before you realize that you have ended up on the opposite side of town from where you want to be. At which point you simply need to navigate or get yourself back to the Independence Monument and start again. At least it’s a good way of seeing more of the city.

I have a few regular drivers. I use three or four who hang around my lane. Mr Wong is Chinese Khmer and possibly the slowest driver in the country. Still, sometimes slow can be safe and to arrive safe though late at work is better than not arriving at work at all but arriving at a hospital.

There is an amazing artform to moto driving – a lot of weaving between traffic, changing of gears, putting their feet down and walking the bike. There appears to be only one road rule – watch the space 50 cm in front of you. What happens to the side or behind doesn’t really matter. A quarter of my journey from home to work will consist of driving on the “opposite” side of the road. It is madness but there is a certain method to the madness.

Moto drivers have such good balancing skills too. We have seen a record 6 people on a bike – 4 adults and two kids. Sadly, it is not infrequent to see infants perched on handlebars or standing on seats, clutching their mothers heads.

Though some of my housemates have invested in their own motorbikes I still like catching motos – it’s a chance to practice my poor quality Khmer. Also, I don’t know if I would trust myself handling a moto in Phnom Penh’s traffic. Almost every day there is an accident. I have seen a few where blood seeps from the prone victim’s head, staining the streets. Most expats here, including AYADS, are a bit lax with wearing helmets. Some do, but only sometimes. I, on the other hand, hold a firm policy, preached to all like a raving evangelist who has seen the light – “No helmet, no ride”. I have become a true believer, especially since my accident.

Accident
Siem Reap, just after the Water Festival, October last year. We had visited the temples at Angkor Wat and surrounds but had planned on heading to the temple of Banteay Srei – a few hours outside Siem Reap, a small temple but well preserved with lots of details intact. Before getting on the bus to Siem Reap from Phnom Penh, I had had my helmet in my hands but then said “bugger it, I can’t be bothered lugging it around” and thus had left it on my bed. Thus, I got on the moto to Banteay Srei helmet less and we were away, zipping through the streets on Siem Reap. I was engaged in a pleasant conversation with my driver in Khmer about where he was from and his family. We had only got two blocks and discussing his older brother when suddenly I head a loud crack and the whole world turned sideways. I found out later that another moto had sped out too fast from a side street without looking and had slammed into our back wheel. My driver must have jumped clear, but I stayed on, gripping the seat whilst the bike fell on top of my legs and we slid together over the grotty road. I felt my head bounce on the road, once, twice, thrice, four times…”hmm not good” my brain said and tried to get my hands up for protection and turn my skull so at least the bumps would be evenly distributed.

When I finally came to a stop, for half a second with the world upside down, I wondered if this was it. The second passed and I was still around. “Okay”, thought I, “this is not too bad. But why can I not feel my legs?” Then the clouds in the sky were replaced with Alastair’s face looking down at me. A friend of my flatmate, also traveling in Siem Reap, he had been following on another moto behind me. In fact, not having seen what had hit me, I had initially assumed that his bike had crashed into mine. My memory of events is fuzzy but I believe I might have asked him “Are you alright?”
“Mate,” he said. “Are you alright?!”

He pulled the bike off, lifted me up and we limped to the side of the road. I had heard about lots of people having accidents in Cambodia and people simply coming out to spectate but not help. However, pleasantly, surprisingly, a crowd gathered and did assist. A chair was taken out and I sat and within moments a tuk tuk had arrived and off I went to the local international clinic.

I had come off reasonably okay though still banged up pretty bad. A deep gash in my right leg with lots of flesh taken off the knee cap. Cuts and grazes up the other leg, my right shoulder, forehead and nose.

The clinic was fine for patching me up but certainly not fantastic medical service. They pulled chunks of gravel out of a bullet sized crevice in my knee. Though not pleasant, I was a bit surprised that the adrenaline in my body dulled most of the pain. I sat up and watched the mess that my leg was and waved flies away from the blood. The nurse called an orderly in and as she stung me with disinfectant he stood guard swiping flies with an electric wand. I think I may have managed a smile on reflecting about how comical the scene was. Then I was insisting that the doctor wear gloves as she stitched me up.

Afterwards, they wheeled me in to have an x-ray on my head. The technician moved me around for ages over and over again before he took his shot. On my return to Phnom Penh, the International SOS doctor viewed the sheets and discovered that they were entirely useless – you could not tell it was a skull. Development liquid was dripping all over the film. He said that the subsequent xray he did on my knee told him more about my head than Siem Reap’s xray did.

When I was ensconced back at the hotel, the police came to talk and get a statement. I did not wish to get compensation from the other driver but requested that he make a donation to one of the local hospitals. There are so many victims in this country of war and landmines and the Khmer Rouge wiped out so many of the country’s educated doctors. Being on crutches for about a month or more afterwards, I got mere glimpse into the life of the disabled in Cambodia. With their makeshift crutches and wheelchairs many are forced to beg simply because it is almost impossible for them to obtain jobs.

I was blessed to have survived with only concussion, torn ligaments and nice looking scars with a story to tell. In many respects, it was a good accident. I know it will sound clichéd but it helped me to put perspective on life, to be humbled and to appreciate the kindness of others….

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Finally – a brief run down on other forms of transport in Phnom Penh:
Harley Davidson or Dirt Bike
Entirely impractical and unnecessary in Phnom Penh and usually ridden by expats, many of whom exude a leering, “look at me, everyone”, self satisfied sexpat vibe.

Cyclos
Poor arse Khmer guys on bikes pulling people (and sometimes white goods) in a seat.

Tuk tuks
Tuk tuks are motobikes with carriages on the back. They come in an array of colours. Good for groups or for getting around town when you have two pieces of metal sticking out of your armpits.

Cars
Almost all cars in Phnom Penh have been “pimped” – i.e. flashing lights, shiny hubcaps and petrol tanks. Big arse black Lexus landcruisers that drive wherever they want. Most are owned by rich kids who have their bodyguards as chaffeurs. Doubtless many contain a handgun in the glove compartment.

Cambodians make the most out of transportation. Almost anything can be transported on anything. Fridges and mattresses have been carried on motos. Cambodians also have a special knack for cramming an inordinate number of passengers on any vehicle. Normal sedan cars can hold at least 13, sometimes including two in the drivers’ seat and one sitting on the gear shift. For Khmer New Year we took a bunch of orphans out to see some dancing on the streets. I had, mistakenly thought that the streets would be in Phnom Penh. Instead we drove for six to seven hours into the provinces. Twenty six of us in a van. With a two centimeter square surface area of bum space, one loses all sensation in your feet by the time the van pulls over for a pit-stop. It’s the only way to travel!

Elephant
Sambo is the local tourist attraction at Wat Phnom (a mirror of Angkor Wat in Phnom Penh). A congenial elephant with a permanent “smile” on his face, he has been giving rides around the temple for years. At dusk, he saunters down the main road in front of my house on his way home, cars and motos weaving around him. Lexus’ may rule over motos on the road, but they still make room for Old Sambo.