We pedaled our singlespeed bikes for three days, roughly 50 kilometers each day, from the Thai-Cambodian border. We were traveling on National Highway 6. Some highway; it’s like a bloody Cal-Trans orgy, only they forgot the asphalt and somebody stole a fleet of Toyota Camrys which cannot be driven slower than 95 mph, kicking up cyclones of pure, demonic, red dust that gets so far down the crack of my biking shorts I think I’m working for Mr. Slate. But it’s a dandy way to see the country. Every Cambodian school kid knows the words “hay-lo” and “bye-bye” but not always in that order. Sometimes they throw a curve ball, and ask, “Where you go?” Well, to paraphrase Picasso, if you know exactly where you’re going, what’s the point? The smiles are endless and genuine, and a great juxtaposition to the endless dust—or if the roads are “paved” then potholes that, if the world were a just place, would be swallowing those damn Camrys. I’m not kidding. Nearly every car is a Toyota Camry, driven by madmen at top speed. They don’t slow down, but their horns work. The pigs don’t seem to mind, and I don’t mean the cops. See, the pigs are being held against their will, upside down, usually three abreast in makeshift cages that look like they were rigged from snow fencing. These “cages” are strapped to the back of moto-bikes, and sometimes rip past us in squadrons of three, for a total of nine pigs. In the morning, we stopped for Coca-Colas and Marlboro (oh, yeah—this is Marlboro country) and I positioned myself so that the local police station sign was in the foreground as these swine merchants rode past. It was pure delight. Well, I laughed anyway.
As I write this, we’re enjoying 75-cent Angkor beer, (in cans, no less, with old fashioned pull-tabs! Can you imagine?) at an air-conditioned Internet brothel. On the way into Siem Reap, we rode with some young Cambodian kids who spoke excellent English. They ride about 10K to school each day, and I gave one of them my last copy of Bike magazine. He was geeked, and then they invited us to their home for coconut water. The kid just shimmied up the tree about 25 feet above the ground, knocked a few ’nuts down, and we had refreshing coconut water, through a straw naturally, as all drinks in these parts are served. We met his whole family, and got to ride through some true backroad Cambodian villages.
Now it’s four days later. We made it from Phnom Penh (and completed our trek across Cambodia) to Saigon. We crossed the Cambodian-Vietnamese border at Bavat/Moc Bai with no problems. Cambodia: What an incredible adventure. Just too bizarre, and yet extremely beautiful, and poignant in its own way. Very desolate, very poor, yet the people so proud, so genuine and friendly. They comport themselves with such grace. Truly humbling, and somehow, sandwiched between the gritty fast-paced world of Thailand, and then the barren landscape gives way to the lush, green irrigation of Vietnam.
At the border, we were immediately thankful for the paved, mostly smooth roads. Aside from that, the mad 71K dash into Saigon was nothing short of a mindblower, traffic coming at us from all directions, in every conceivable and unbelievable vessel. The usual Camry brigade firing past at Mach 666 speeds. Yesterday, we regaled in joy at a broken down Camry on the side of the road. I swerved into the other lane to take a photo, which Mac thought a bit “in-your-face,” as the poor chap had his hood up and was cranking an obvious beat-down starter. Screw ’em. As just one of the legions of Camrys who terrorized us for the past 17 days, I have no sympathy.
The heat continues to beat down on us. We’re riding most mornings by 6:30 a.m. My face is a beautiful shade of crimson, even with the SPF 50 I’ve been lathering on. The exhaust fumes are black clouds of distortion that you could chew on. We feebly defend our lungs with bandanas pulled over our faces like some modern-day Jesse James. As we neared Saigon, the traffic just increased and it was a full-on assault to stay focused and upright, fighting through the maddening throngs of silk-suited school girls, tuk-tuk taxis, moto drivers, and cyclos hauling sheets of stainless steel, or maybe a woman would roll past with a 12-foot piece of PVC tubing casually draped over her shoulder, held at a deathly-close-to-our-heads angle. Pick a lane, any lane, just don’t make any sudden moves and you’re golden.—Hurl Everstone
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