The Wreck

I have a pretty good memory. I don’t forget many things nor do I lose [many] items. But there is one second in my life that is gone, a fluttering moment in time that my mind could not, until recently, recall. Let me try to capture it.

Beej and I are driving down a rural Cambodian road on a rented motorbike, wind whipping through my hair, sun shining bright above us, trees swaying in the wind, birds singing. Then – A lost, weightless moment like a skipped frame in an old 16mm film –  we are sideways on the ground, skidding at 30km per hour across rough gravel and dirt on the edge of the road.

Later I manage to piece together the fragments. A monstrous white Toyota F150 (250? 350? – the one with four wheels in back) passes us extremely close on the left, so close that my elbow almost grazes his cab. Then, thinking we are behind him now, he quickly cuts in.

His rear fender swings toward us. I’ve pulled over as far as the pavement goes. Any further right and the road’s edge turns to a jumble of serrated asphalt that our thin motorbike tires cannot hope to handle. To this two ton truck we are an annoyance–a tiny bug, buzzing in his path. And stlll he comes.

Everything slows down. Mere inches of air separate the truck’s back end and our front tire. I tap the brake handle and struggle to move over even further. Too far, it turns out.

The tire bobbles on the road’s jagged edge for only a moment. I see Beej’s sandals scraping across the dirt as though he is trying to stop our forward momentum all by himself, like Fred Flintstone. Then we and the motorbike are skidding on our side.

My mind roars, full of the sound of my helmet scraping along the asphalt. Only a half inch of cheap plastic lies between my skull and a skin-flaying cheese grater of rocks and dirt clods. So my brain case is safe. But I know even while we are skidding that my leg, left knee and shoulders don’t enjoy the same protection.

We seem to slide forever. There is actually time to think. I realize I’m almost impatient for this moment to pass so I can get to the business of inspecting the damage to myself and the motorbike.

As soon as we stop, Beej jumps up off the back, grabs the motorbike and hauls it up. I get up immediately to inspect myself. Large patches of my pants and shirt (Beej’s favorite blue seagull shirt) have been chewed off by the road. Beej is freaking out a little. He keeps asking if I’m alright, but I don’t have time to talk. (Later he tells me he freaked because he was expecting to see a bloody hole where the right side of my face had once been. From his perspective on top of the bike he couldn’t see the helmet; to him it appeared my face was being dragged across the jagged road edge the whole way.)

I can tell nothing is broken. But I can also tell by the pink, meaty scrapes all over my shoulder and arm, and by the odd sensation under my knee, that the pain will come later – once the adrenaline wears off.

People emerge curiously from the stilt houses just off the road. A man and a small child hang back staring while a woman approaches us. Her skin is darkened by long work in the sun and lines in her face put her age around 50. She wears the traditional Khmer farmer outfit: long pants, long-sleeved plaid shirt, handkerchief around her neck, wide-brimmed hat.

The woman is probably concerned, but the Khmer are not too showy about their feelings. She says a few things I can’t understand, then points to my leg. I dutifully lift up my pant leg, carefully trying to keep the fabric from touching any possible wound.  A portion of my knee has swelled to the point that it looks like someone shoved an orange underneath my skin.

She clucks her teeth, then says something to a younger woman who suddenly appears at her side. The young woman nods and runs back to a house hidden behind coconut trees. The older woman quickly inspects my arm with her eyes. Following her gaze, I’m surprised to see my elbow looks like it’s smuggling a golf ball. I raise my shirt’s ruined sleeve so she can see my shoulder. All I can see is blood.

I hear a clack, clack, clack of shoes on gravel. The younger woman reappears holding a glass jar of something white, opaque, and greasy. The older woman calmly opens up the jar and dabs a bit of the substance on her finger. I smell menthol. She gestures toward my shoulder. My mind struggles. On one hand, I don’t want to be rude. After all, these woman came over to help as soon as they heard the crash. On the other hand, I’m pretty sure this is tiger balm, and I believe the instructions caution not to apply it to broken skin.

In the end my gratitude wins out and I offer my arm to her care. I haven’t done much research into tiger balms, but I’m willing to bet that they don’t cause a lethal infection.

A sharp sting lances my shoulder as soon as the balm touches it. Before I can even gasp, the woman moves to the next patch of tattered skin. I instinctively pull away.

Despite my pain, I start to laugh. Now that I know what to expect from the balm, I can’t help but find my situation grimly humorous.

Apparently trusting that I’m in good hands with the woman, Beej tests the motorbike to see if its rideable back to town. There are long scrapes in the body and the turn signal is cracked – there is no way the rental guy could miss this damage – but the engine roars to life immediately.

I know I have to get my knee checked. I also know that there is a health clinic for foreigners on the main road into Battambang and I can lead us to it. I just don’t know if my possibly injured leg can withstand the bumpy ride on the back of a motorbike for 25 long kilometers back into town to reach it……

TO BE CONTINUED IN PART THREE!