They are Survivors

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They are Survivors

I CLIMBED back on the cyclo, and Sot sat behind me taking off into the frenetic rush hour traffic. All the business people and public servants were driving their Ford Pajeros in the intense traffic in almost total darkness in amongst a sea of tuk tuks and motorbikes. I was in the only cyclo in the cacophony.

The air was filled with the intense dissonance of out of tune vehicle engines and horns. Of course the loudest horn I heard was Sot’s “parp parp parp” which he liberally used. He was such a dag. I could hardly contain myself from laughing. It was so ridiculously funny. Although I couldn’t see him, he must have been quite a sight riding the oldest vehicle in the city with no lights in amongst the worst traffic imaginable. Perhaps this was going to be the end of my life. Now I could see why my travel agent had to take out extra insurance for me to cover cyclo rides. Strangely enough the thought that this was my end didn’t matter to me. If I was going to die tonight, at least I was going to go out on a high note doing what I loved doing.

The traffic was too heavy and dangerous for Sot to change lanes in time for us to turn into the street that passed the hotel, so we took the long way back going around the block containing the palace and national museum.

I have no idea how we survived in one piece, but we actually made it back to the dark alley outside the front of my hotel. A little shaken, I climbed out of the cyclo and thanked Sot for today. I paid up, along with a generous tip. He had been so good to me and had left me a lasting impression of what Cambodians are – very happy people who have the strength to have risen out of the hopeless despair to make the most of what they have. Sure Sot’s life was incredibly challenging and there was no way that I would desire to swap his life with mine, but he had single-handedly shown me what life on the other side was like.

I would have looked him up on Facebook or at least taken his phone number or e-mail address upon our departure, but he had never used a computer before and he was too poor to own a telephone. Feeding his large family and paying the rent on his dilapidated room was the limit of his financial capacity. The bits of wire and spare bolts used to hold the cyclo together were further evidence that he was so poor that he struggled to maintain his livelihood. He was living an incredibly bare existence. Even though he never asked me for any more money than the original ridiculously cheap fare, I had generously tipped him. I’m sure it was very insignificant by Western standards, but it would have been enough to keep him and his family going for one or maybe two weeks.

Sot and his cyclo

Sot said he was getting cold now. The temperature had dropped to thirty degrees Celsius. It was still very hot and humid by my standards, but his wrinkly dark skin showed that he had spent his life outside in the blazing hot sun, so this would be quite cold for him. I could understand him though, since moving to Australia I have always found it hard convincing the New Zealanders that twenty degrees is very cold for me.

Once more I shook his hand, and he took off in his cyclo riding through the insanity of traffic back to his hungry family who had not seen him since before sunrise.

I returned to the hotel reception and upstairs to my room with only ten minutes to spare before we were all due to meet for dinner. I returned downstairs and the rest of our group were all there apart from Eric the tour leader. The girls had returned from their boat having walked back. Much to my surprise they had walked back in less time than it had taken me travelling on Sot’s cyclo, even though they had landed about three hundred metres further downstream from me. In addition, they had seen me on the way back but I was so caught up on the traffic I had not seen them. They told me that they had managed to barter their boat ride down from five dollars to three dollars each. Good for them.

Eric appeared and we set off out of the hotel, walking through the dark alley, then along the road away from the river to the next main street. By now I could hear the peels of thunder from some of the large clouds that I had seen from the boat. They were obviously a lot closer now. We crossed over the street and entered a restaurant. This was a restaurant run by disabled people to raise funds to help other disabled people.

The inside of the restaurant had a colonial French style, with high ceilings and large windows. The walls were curiously painted a pastel sky blue on two of the walls, and pastel yellow on the others. Each wall was covered in large framed pictures of drawings and paintings most likely done by the disabled people who worked here. The dining area covered two rooms, separated by a wide doorway with a double bright blue curtain hung back in cottage style.

We had a very nice meal in the restaurant and were served very well by the staff. The thunderstorm I had heard earlier came right over us creating bedlam outside as loud thunder peeled outside and torrential rain fell.

We were all exhausted, and had decided that once the storm abates we will all return to the hotel about two blocks away to turn in for an early night. However I will make a final stop at the massage parlour two doors short. My room-mate Andrew had been there last night and had recommended it.

For now though, it was insane outside so we waited for the tempest to subside. I was thankful that we were safe and warm inside the restaurant whilst the staff hurriedly closed the windows to keep the driving rain out. I thought of Sot, hoping he had arrived home. It would be awful to be caught out in this weather in his rickety cyclo.

He was mentally strong though, so I was sure he was fine. After all the Cambodians are a strong people who are loyal and enduring to the end.

They are survivors.

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