Stepping onto the tarmac after a grueling 24-hour journey from Chicago, my new acquaintance John and I were to meet our colleagues for lunch at one of the numerous open-air cafes on Phnom Penh’s breezy riverside. Barely able to spit out a coherent a sentence, I still felt exhilarated by my first few moments in Asia.
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John had a devilish grin on his face.
“Let’s throw you on a moto,” he said. “Think you can handle it?”
This was my crash course in the “moto” culture of Southeast Asia. A moto is kind of like a motor scooter but it has a longer, wider seat so that its driver is able to host a paying customer or two, a family member, sometimes even a small child.
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Despite the appearance of the occasional driving school in Phnom Penh, after three-plus weeks as a moto passenger I’m convinced there are no “rules of the road” in Cambodia. Sometimes a single moto will stop for a red traffic light, but more often a swarm of 15 of them will continue pouring through the intersection long after the light has changed.
Even scarier is when your moto driver wants to turn left into the far lane but, because it’s jammed with traffic, simply heads right into the oncoming traffic and honks like hell so as not to get hit. Then, when it’s clear to get in the far lane you just “seamlessly” drift over. This isn’t some anomaly ”” and it’s frightening as hell at first ”” but you get used to it after a while. Still, Cambodia’s moto drivers are forgiving; most come to a stop if it means avoiding an accident. Most.
Zipping down the main thoroughfares of Phnom Penh on a moto removes a layer of separation between you and the locals: students, business execs, monks, even peasants sandwiched between bushel baskets of leafy green vegetables, are all buzzing around you in a swarming moto mass. An occasional young hotshot may scream by on a sleek, new Suzuki, while demure Cambodian women, precariously riding side-saddle in flowing skirts, drift by at a slower pace.
Of course your fellow moto drivers and passengers aren’t the only thing you notice in a vibrant, post-colonial city like Phnom Penh. Despite the swift nature of moto travel, the lovely scents of sautéed garlic and ginger entice your olfactory senses. But, admittedly, oftentimes it’s some sort of rotting matter that crawls up your nasal passages.
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At night, you race past flickering fluorescent lights over makeshift street cafes, with plastic tables and chairs, offering anything from roasted chicken to fresh fruit shakes.
Nearby, the humming moto hoard flows around the colorfully lit “Liberation statue,” erected by the Vietnamese after they relegated the Khmer Rouge to Cambodia’s jungle in 1979.
One would think that Cambodia with its genocidal heritage during the reign of the Khmer Rouge would feel heavy – a place overshadowed by its history. But its predominantly youthful population, coupled with the enthusiastic, entrepreneurial spirit of Cambodians””especially the moto drivers””give the country a light-hearted feel.
And a jaunt around the city on a moto after a long, hot day fills one with a sense of freedom, especially when zooming over a bridge straddling the Tonle Sap. It also fills me with a calming sense of tranquility to see traditional wooden houses resting atop stilts off in distant rice paddies.
Life is not always this serene for a tourist in Cambodia. God forbid, for example, you walk anywhere in Phnom Penh, at least according to the city’s moto drivers. Every few feet, one of them calls: “Sir”¦Sir!?” or “You want me to take you to Killing Fields, sir?” They’ll almost slow their bikes down to a stop if they see you walking, even if you try to ignore them.
Many times I showed the persistent moto drivers that I wished to walk by making a walking sign with my two fingers so I wouldn’t have to say anything.
“You walk, sir??!!” they’d deride me.
Admittedly, with its garbage-strewn, oftentimes broken up sidewalks, Phnom Penh is not the most pedestrian-friendly city.
In their eagerness to attract customers, moto drivers have cultivated English language skills of varying degree. Seeking daily fees, they also try to adopt every new fare as a regular customer. It’s this part of moto culture that makes it a personal experience.
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My moto driver (pardon my sounding like a patronizing colonial power!) was named “Veesna”. Over the course of several days, he was incredibly dependable, picking me up and dropping me off any time, day or night.
Veesna’s vocabulary pretty much consisted of: “You go?”, followed by a confused moan.
Despite this, I stuck with Veesna because I liked his black Mao cap, long-sleeved paisley shirt and goofy enthusiasm.
We never talked that much, but one day as we sped down a dusty side street, he turned his head for a spontaneous rant about his services. Apparently, Veesna was more than just a moto driver:
“You need restaurant?” he queried. “I know!” he answered emphatically. “You need girl”¦? I know!”
One night, I thought I’d lost my loony moto driver. I’d taken a long walk along the riverside after a lovely, inexpensive meal only to find that Veesna had disappeared. The last I saw him, he and others were watching carefully made-up little girls perform traditional Cambodian dance at an adjacent open-air café.
After I returned from my walk, Veesna was gone.
“That’s not like him,” I thought to myself as I wandered around both corner restaurants in search of him.
“Moto, sir? You need ride?” asked a potential replacement.
“No,” I said, “I’m looking for my moto driver.”
“Maybe your moto driver go home, sir?” he theorized.
“No, he wouldn’t do that,” I dismissed with a momentary tinge of betrayal.
I retraced my steps around the restaurants, believing that faithful Veesna was probably just hidden behind a parked car or a palm tree. Still, no Veesna.
“No ride for you sir?”
I ignored the guy, at first. But after he started following me around the corner, I blew my cool, walking back to confront him.
“Hey,” I started. “I want to tell you something. When I say ”˜no,’ I mean it. Tourists don’t like when you’re pushy!” I made a shoving motion with my hands.
He smiled. “Maybe understand, sir.”
And then it struck me how foolish I’d been, because the same thing had happened to me a week earlier: There was a similar corner just down the street with nearly identical-looking restaurants. I high-tailed it down there to find Veesna grinning astride his Honda steed, waiting to whisk me back to the hotel.