crash.

It was a hot Saturday night when I headed out on my motorbike to pick up Ming, the pretty Australian volunteer who’d just arrived. I had a distinct thought that I had become quite able and confident driving in the chaos of Phnom Penh as we crossed the busy road out of her guest house, and I felt proud to show my skill to the new arrival.

We drove into the slum to Aziza Schoolhouse, and I felt cool to be taking her somewhere so strange and exciting as the slum at night. It was the first Saturday night karaoke and movie night, and Ming was thrown to the front of the room to sing. She loved it and the kids were having a great time. Then the movie started; a Korean movie dubbed in Khmer with English subtitles. Kind of a love story, but apparently had a message about communication and the leading lady was often upset about the man’s inability to understand her feelings (sigh). I was reading the subtitles, but then went off in my own head and started to dream. I was so happy that the Saturday night ‘safe space for teens’ was a hit, and there was a good turn out. There were a lot of really pretty teenage girls, and I was glad they had someplace to be on the most sinful night of the week.

I started to think about my blog, and how I could describe the Schoolhouse. How could I convey what it is, in the simplest terms? “The greatest place on earth,” I thought. It may sound corny, but it was such a great moment, and I couldn’t imagine anyplace I’d rather be. Next I started to think about which direction I should drive when I left. The slum is a crazy place, particularly at night, and especially Saturday night. A local who lived there had told me not to go around there at night since a lot people smoke yama; their methamphetamine. He was specifically referring to the area about 150 meters from the school if you exit to the left. But by exiting to the right I’d have to go through a big red light district; a busy intersection with lots of bad stuff happening, but well lit. I went back and forth on which way to go, for several minutes. Eventually I decided I would go right.

We quietly exited, and drove through the red light district unbothered. Neither of us wore helmets; I had yet to buy one in my 6 months in Cambodia. We drove down a main road which was quiet at this time of night, and I was showing Ming the construction of the massive new government building beside us, as I began to make a left turn. A motorbike appeared suddenly, so I began to go back to my lane. The next few seconds were a blur, as the other bike swiped the side ours, sending us to the ground while the other bike flew into a high speed wreck with its 3 passengers. The men were laid out on the ground 40 feet away from us. One man was lying face down, and not moving. Ming was standing and she said she was fine when I asked her. I asked her again, and got the same answer. I was fine.

As I ran over to the strewn bodies, I was in a calm panic, knowing I needed to keep it together, yet thinking how I might have live life with the emotional scars of having killed or disabled a man. He was in a precarious position and obviously out cold. I quickly thought through how even if it was my fault, here in Cambodia I would only have to pay if he had died, and wouldn’t face any criminal consequences. In the few seconds before I reached them I was able to decide that I would get through it, and that a life of knowing I killed a man, accidentally, was still well worth living. I was so grateful that Ming was OK. Ming going home permanently disabled would be tough to get through.

I stepped into a pool of oil that I thought was blood, but I couldn’t tell. I helped move the motorbike off the unconscious man, and then began yelling at the locals who were trying to revive him and turn him over. They did turn him over when I turned away, and I could hear him breathing. I checked his pulse. Relief! He is alive!

“You pay for ambulance?” a cop who had arrived on the scene was asking me. “Yes. Good hospital” I responded. That question was repeated several times over the next 10 minutes, and I wasn’t sure if the ambulance was coming. The crowd grew, over 50 people were watching and I was at the center of attention. “Is the ambulance coming?” “Don’t touch him.” “Yes, I’ll pay.” “Are you OK Ming?” I was trying to do many things at once, and the unconscious man came to after 3 or 4 minutes, which seemed like an eternity. Eventually the ambulance arrived, and practically threw the recently revived man in the back. Next, the other passenger who was injured began to fight with the ambulance staff because he didn’t want to go. Eventually he got in, but they didn’t want to leave without me. I couldn’t leave my motorbike, so I sent Ming with them. Ming held up really well under some unbelievable circumstances just hours after her arrival.

At the hospital my emotional state was fragile. I cried when I went into the room where the 2 men were being treated, and the one man conveyed forgiveness. The other man seemed a bit angry. They had stitches in their knees, feet, broken toes, missing teeth, scraped faces, and I would assume a concussion. The cop left as soon as we arrived, collecting his payment for delivering a paying customer ($5 or $10) and told me that it was more my fault, but they were drunk, so I should pay for their medical bills and negotiate with the families any additional pay that was needed. Phew! Throughout it all, no one knew my name or had any way to get in touch with me.

The families and friends of the men arrived as they were put into a room for the night. The one guy’s wife had just had a baby a week before, and wore the traditional karma around her head as new mothers here do (some now wear a ski hat, through all of the sweltering heat). I paid the $210 medical bill, and offered $100 to get their moto fixed. I felt they should take some responsibility since they were drinking and driving fast. They asked for $150, and I agreed. Then they asked for $160. I refused. Negotiations ensued between my translator, Chin, and the rest of them. In retrospect, I should have just handed over the extra $10, rather than my stubborn escape on my motorbike through the crowd of skinny men. Only one man attempted to stop me, holding my handlebar as I drove off the sidewalk onto the street, trying to make me crash. The last of my depleted adrenaline pumped as I gunned the throttle and shook him off as he ran down the street after me. Chin made it out as well, and caught up to me down the street as we made our getaway. We took extra caution to be sure we weren’t followed to my house.

At 3AM I sat in my living room alone and exhausted, trying to comprehend how I was able to walk away without being injured. For weeks afterward, I would look at my foot and have intense emotions as I thought about how fortunate I was that it didn’t get mutilated in the crash. My solid metal footpeg was bent straight back, and I credit my mountain biking experience for reacting quickly. Chin, who’s grandfather is the head monk at the wat (temple) where he lives, attributed my not getting hurt to good karma from helping children.

The next morning I had to be at the school early, and was surprised to find that a volunteer was making a documentary about the projects. I was still in shock as I spoke to the camera.