Road kill OR “The dramatic tale of surviving being T-boned by a moto”

 There I was, sitting in the office at the Cambodian Center for Human Rights when I get an emergency phone call from someone who needed my assistance, but it’s noon and I’m hungry. Stacey and Sana head off to Russian Market, where we’d planned a nice scrumptious lunch of no Khmer/Thai (i.e. what we eat everyday) and I had my heart set on salad. Then there was the phone call and I had to change my plans. I decided I’d grab a moto and head to Russian market; pick up something to eat/head back to my apartment for money, and head over to assist this person. 

When I got to Russian market I sprang off the moto and looked for my co-workers. As I crossed the road— in the slow, snakelike pattern in which one can only cross the road in Cambodia, I saw her but only too late. Or maybe she saw me first.... The point is she collided right into me and I looked down and felt the push of the motorcycle right up against my right thigh. Let me tell you, GOOD thing I was wearing pants. As I flew sideways and crash-landed on my butt, my brain tried to catch-up with what had just happened…

[Thought process]

Did a moto just hit me?
Uuuhh OMG what if I broke my tailbone! I can’t get up... I’m going to die!!!!
Why is everybody staring at me and nobody is helping me up? Cambodian’s are brutal man, they leave road kill to fend for itself.

Looking up, I felt my palms burning on the black asphalt but simply stared straight at a foreigner I had seen right before I crossed. I think he sensed that all I wanted was for someone to help me up, and this forty-something family man left his kids to come rescue me from the middle of the road.

“Just put your arms around my neck honey.” 

I think that’s when I started to tear. As I crossed over to the shaded corner, a little Cambodian couple offered me the tiniest little plastic chair to sit in, and I really started to stifle back those tears then.

“Do you have everything, your purse?  The girl is gone, they just get scared,”  The man explained.  Was he apologizing for her?  I’ve been here long enough to not expect anything back. Luckily when I was hit, I had miraculously managed to clutch my little wallet the entire time. Usually road kill lose their precious goods- backpacks, laptops, purses, limbs, the works.

Anyways.

The man disappeared and the little Cambodian couple noticing my state of shock pulled out a little red container of Tiger Balm and the woman began holding my hand and spreading it over my bare arms. Note:  I had no scratches on my arms, just incredible butt pain.  Tears started streaming out. Ugh.

Usually I never cry so clearly I’m in shock. I process this and try to decide what to do—food? I want to throw up. Help that person I was supposed to be helping? I need help.  I began to tear again and then the American guy showed up on his motorcycle, after dropping off his kids. He offered to take me to his shop where I could sit. “Actually, do you mind taking me to my flat?” I wanted to go cry somewhere. Plus, I couldn’t stop shaking. “No problem, honey.” Awe, Americans are so nice.

When he dropped me off, I ran up the stairs and started bawling my eyes out. You know when you just need a good cry (or your mom)? This was the moment. I cried as I made tea, I cried as I made spaghetti. I even cried while slicing carrots and then into my bowl of noodles. I swear I broke the record on senseless crying.  Between sobs, and incredible pain, which I tried to sedate with Celebrex, I got a phone call from Bijan:

“Wheeeere are you?”  “Um, I’m fine (sniff), I’m home actually (sniff).”  “Are you okay? You sound ill.”

“I got hit by a moto- but (sniff) I’M FINE. I’ll be in the office in an hour.”  “Fucking hell, are you alright?” I love the British. Great respectable accents in moments of crisis. Naturally, I laughed and this made me feel 100% better. Minus the pain in my “arse”.  

After washing myself, checking that no major damage was done— just nice purple bruising on my thigh to add to my collection of Cambodian-acquired beauty marks— I headed out the door to run my errand. Ah life. Sometimes you don’t see things coming and even if you do, it’s too late. BAM. Just get up again. Now if anyone knows where I can get the Girl Scout patch for getting hit by a moto and surviving, let me know…

Cambodia Wedding 2.0.

 I have a new job. Yes. A third one.  Somehow I’m managing my time right, though my gut tells me this can’t go on for too long. But for now things are good again. Tuesday through Thursday I spend my time at the Cambodian Human Rights Center, where I intern. You see, I’m trying to figure out what I should study in my post-graduate, and it could Human Rights. So three days I try to figure out if investigating rights violations is my calling. Actually I just research, work on several projects that have more to do with technology, and thoroughly revel in the joy of having international colleagues (as opposed to CNN when I was working from home).Then, last weekend I was invited to a Cambodian wedding for a colleague I had just met at my new internship at the CCHR. Yay! A field trip sponsored trip to the province and food is included! Yuppie!  Plus, I thought… It’ll be a GREAT bonding experience with my new co-workers, or at least for some language immersion. ENGLISH language immersion, that is. You see, the thing is, my new coworkers are well, yes Cambodian, but the other ones, they’re from New Zealand, Ireland, and the U.K. This makes for very interesting English translations. As the only American, I try to shed light on what it’s like to be a Yank, learn about rugby, closed-circuit televisions in London, studying in Europe, and how to greet the Queen of England. Seriously. Then we have less serious conversations. Like the other day at lunch:

Tom from New Zealand to the Waiter: 

“No, can we get the GREEN Fanta instead of the Orange Fanta?” 

Nod from the waiter. The can arrives, and Stacey (from the UK), Bijan (Iranian-English) and I stare at Dave (Team New Zealand) and Tom.

“What does it taste like?” Stacey asks. We all get a sip.

“Do you know what jolly-ranchers are? That’s what it tastes like,” I say.

Well, this just opened up a whole new discussion on candy, lollies, gummies, and I now know for a fact that jolly ranchers, which I described as hard-ass fruit gummies don’t exist in the UK or New Zealand. I only had North Americans Celine Dion and Kenny G to back me up, and they were really only backing up the restaurant’s music. The words “arse”, “bloody”, “rugby”, “root-boy” and a whole series of other terms make for truly engaging lunch and work conversations, which always leave me speaking my words a bit more carefully and feeling like I've joined the Harry Potter club. 

Anyways, back to the Wedding. So 8am Saturday morning we all show up, groggy, sleepy, and not ready for a day of sweating in dresses and dress shirts and pants.  Turns out the scheduled 1 hour drive (really 2 hours) takes us into some unknown area of Cambodia—well, unknown to me— so that we are thick into the jungle, rumbling along those dirt-roads that make walking around Cambodian villages so magically story-like. Six Barangs (foreigners) clamber out of the bus with our fellow Cambodian colleagues, and we are paraded into a colorful tent for the wedding ceremony. We even take part in the hair-cutting/perfume spraying bit for good-luck.

After groom/bride dress changes (Cambodians usually change around 6 times during a wedding)… a meal that made me want to become a vegetarian…. And naptime or gambling time (chose your own activity according to gender) at the neighbor’s… 

A musician offers Tom a try at his fiddle-thing in exchange for a Marlboro Light.  Note:  Tom couldn’t even get a squeak from the strings.

 We also listened to some sweet band. Kidding. I have to admit, the silver dress on one of the singers was kind of cute. The boys certainly enjoyed it.

After sweating off probably close to 20 pounds, our colleagues declared enough was enough, and we climbed back into our field-trip bus, wishing the bride and the groom lots of luck before heading back to the Phnom Penh.