I reached into my pocket and it wasn't there. Fuck. That little piece of paper I needed to reclaim my motorbike. That along with 1500 riel ($0.37) and I'd be on my merry way. Why did I put the fucking thing in my left pocket? I never did that. I usually stuffed it into my left rear pocket, my wallet or into a shirt pocket. It wasn't there. I checked all my pockets, twice, three times—just in case that thin piece of paper had already morphed itself into pocket lint. Nope. I hadn't even reached in that pocket, I couldn't figure out how it had gone missing.
It was 3:30am and I was tired. The fucker told me I could take my bike if I paid him five dollars. So much for parking security. Find or steal someone's keys, bribe the parking attendant and off you go. Come on, man. I'd seen my friend pay three dollars just the night before so I knew it was negotiable. And besides, surely that little fucker over there, that scrawny prepubescent piece of shit, surely he recognizes me and my bike. I rumble in here a few times a week. My bike sounds vaguely like a sick lawnmower. Easy to identify. I said, That guy knows me, come on. He came over and said I dunno, I dunno. Oh, you little prick.
I mouthed a fuck you here and a fuck you there, here a fuck, there a fuck, everywhere a fuck fuck. You have to be careful with that word in this country. You might end up with a knife in your back. But in that very moment, I just didn't give a fuck. Obviously. I asked how I could get my motorbike back and he said to come back tomorrow with my passport and my motorbike identification card. Are you serious? Fine. I grabbed my helmet and walked away angrily—vowing never to park my bike there again while looking back and waving my arms around like a madman.
Retrospectively, I know they were just doing their job, but in the moment I find it hard to control my rage. Fight or flight kicked in. I contemplated sticking the key into the ignition and trying to blast through them, but I didn't want to accidentally run someone over or have a mob following me because they thought I was on a stolen bike. I feel like it would have worked, but since the consequences could have been deadly and I would have likely seen those dudes again, I decided to just rant & rave and "lose face" instead. At least that way I could air my frustrations without dying in the process.
I walked down 172 to Norodom ignoring all the motodop and tuk tuk drivers who were hoping for one more fare that evening. Fuck all of you, too, I thought, bringing back to mind an altercation I had a couple months ago when a tuk tuk driver took a swing at me and tried to kickbox me while I backed away blocking and dodging and only responding with verbal jabs since we had been quickly surrounded by locals and I knew this could easily escalate to ten against one. This was not the way I wanted to go out despite the urge to land one square on his nose. Nobody wins in a fight, I could hear my Dad saying over and over in my head. Do it, don't do it, do it, don't do it. Fuck it.
I turned right at Norodom and walked to 256 where I turned left, past the military police who have been sitting at practically every street corner day in and day out for the last two months since the disputed national election. I made a right on 19 and another left on 264 and finally arrived at my front gate. Home at last. When I woke up this morning I noticed my helmet on my couch. Shit. I momentarily forgot that I was without my motorbike. I put the essentials together—my passport and motorbike identification card—and proceeded to walk back to Golden Sorya Mall, where my bike was parked.
Yes, it would have been easier to pay one dollar and hop on the back of a moto, but I waved the guy off who was yelling from a distance as I exited the front gate. I didn't want to end up spending more money than it would have otherwise cost me to bribe the guy last night. I'd already lost my face and considerable time. I'm fucking walking, I told myself. I retraced my steps from the previous evening and turned left onto 172 nearing my destination. It smelled like the entire neighborhood—bellies full of durian and barbecued pork—had just defecated on the corner. The stench of dereliction was in the air and I held my breath as I stepped through it.
I got to the the parking area and anticipated having flat tires or siphoned gas. I then proceed to tell the fat fucker my story. I took out my passport and identification card and showed him my bike. Ok, can I go now? I could see this wasn't going to be as easy as I thought. You motherfuckers. He said they'd keep my passport and ID and to come back to pick up my bike tomorrow. Tomorrow? You dirty lying swine. Nobody keeps my passport. I'll photocopy this shit and you can do what you need to do, but you will not hold onto my passport. Meanwhile, I contemplate hopping onto my motorbike and running over these people again.
The little commotion in the parking area has now attracted more attention and a few other conniving sons of bitches come into the fray. I flag down this aging hooker who should have hung up her heels years ago. I seem to run into her everywhere. She does her best to translate, but it seems the only bullshit option is to give them my passport. No way. No fucking way. Just give them your passport, man, she says. I refuse to give my passport to these motherfuckers. I make sure to enunciate every last profanity. I don't know these dudes and definitely don't trust them. I spit on the ground for emphasis and realize I am literally foaming at the mouth.
A policeman drives by and I foolishly think he might be of some benefit. Police! Police! They laugh knowing all too well this fat fucker isn't going to help. There was definitely the Khmer equivalent of a donut shop in near vicinity. He at least stops so I have the chance to tell him what's going on. Give them your passport, fill out the paperwork, blah blah blah. Fucking rules. I'm pissed off because these people, in my mind, are being unreasonable. They told me to bring my passport and ID and I did. Now they're telling me to wait another day. I come to the conclusion it is best to avoid playing by the rules whenever possible in this country. If there is an opportunity to bribe it is probably best to bite your tongue and take it.
Eventually, I realize this is going nowhere. They bring out a chain to lock up my bike. I assume by now they can see my intentions. I want to punch all of these fuckers in their fat faces. There are at least five of them now. Even the old lady deserved some knuckles in her wrinkly jaw. And the hooker too, she wasn't helping me. I didn't like any of them. They're all out to get me These people! I am brought back to those times in Vietnam when I got incredibly frustrated with the locals. An exchange that went wrong because of some cultural misunderstanding. It was all their fault! That was usually when I realized I needed a vacation.
I tell the hooker I don't give a shit anymore. I'll just come back tonight when different staff are on duty, pay them the bribe and get my motorbike then. What I should have done the previous evening. Fuck these people. She proceeds to start telling them what I'm going to do. No, no, no, no! Shut up. Don't tell them. Apparently she said just enough. She proceeds to tell me I can pay them five dollars and take my motorbike now. Why didn't you just say so?! I guess they thought it'd be better for them to get the money instead of those poor bastards working the night shift. All of that nonsense, all of that riling up for nothing.
Holding my breath, I handed over the money. While waiting for my change I jabbered away how these guys were dicks and motioned like I was secretly stuffing money into my pocket. Made me feel good even though I was losing more face. You thieving bastards. It's so hard to just let things go. Let it go. I got onto my motorbike—finally—and refrained from revving the engine and speeding off into the sunset. I pulled out slowly avoiding all eye contact and refused to say thanks—for nothing—and drove off to the coffee shop where I am now so I could make everything right with a hot cup of joe and some baked deliciousness. I do feel better now.
It was 3:30am and I was tired. The fucker told me I could take my bike if I paid him five dollars. So much for parking security. Find or steal someone's keys, bribe the parking attendant and off you go. Come on, man. I'd seen my friend pay three dollars just the night before so I knew it was negotiable. And besides, surely that little fucker over there, that scrawny prepubescent piece of shit, surely he recognizes me and my bike. I rumble in here a few times a week. My bike sounds vaguely like a sick lawnmower. Easy to identify. I said, That guy knows me, come on. He came over and said I dunno, I dunno. Oh, you little prick.
I mouthed a fuck you here and a fuck you there, here a fuck, there a fuck, everywhere a fuck fuck. You have to be careful with that word in this country. You might end up with a knife in your back. But in that very moment, I just didn't give a fuck. Obviously. I asked how I could get my motorbike back and he said to come back tomorrow with my passport and my motorbike identification card. Are you serious? Fine. I grabbed my helmet and walked away angrily—vowing never to park my bike there again while looking back and waving my arms around like a madman.
Retrospectively, I know they were just doing their job, but in the moment I find it hard to control my rage. Fight or flight kicked in. I contemplated sticking the key into the ignition and trying to blast through them, but I didn't want to accidentally run someone over or have a mob following me because they thought I was on a stolen bike. I feel like it would have worked, but since the consequences could have been deadly and I would have likely seen those dudes again, I decided to just rant & rave and "lose face" instead. At least that way I could air my frustrations without dying in the process.
I walked down 172 to Norodom ignoring all the motodop and tuk tuk drivers who were hoping for one more fare that evening. Fuck all of you, too, I thought, bringing back to mind an altercation I had a couple months ago when a tuk tuk driver took a swing at me and tried to kickbox me while I backed away blocking and dodging and only responding with verbal jabs since we had been quickly surrounded by locals and I knew this could easily escalate to ten against one. This was not the way I wanted to go out despite the urge to land one square on his nose. Nobody wins in a fight, I could hear my Dad saying over and over in my head. Do it, don't do it, do it, don't do it. Fuck it.
I turned right at Norodom and walked to 256 where I turned left, past the military police who have been sitting at practically every street corner day in and day out for the last two months since the disputed national election. I made a right on 19 and another left on 264 and finally arrived at my front gate. Home at last. When I woke up this morning I noticed my helmet on my couch. Shit. I momentarily forgot that I was without my motorbike. I put the essentials together—my passport and motorbike identification card—and proceeded to walk back to Golden Sorya Mall, where my bike was parked.
Yes, it would have been easier to pay one dollar and hop on the back of a moto, but I waved the guy off who was yelling from a distance as I exited the front gate. I didn't want to end up spending more money than it would have otherwise cost me to bribe the guy last night. I'd already lost my face and considerable time. I'm fucking walking, I told myself. I retraced my steps from the previous evening and turned left onto 172 nearing my destination. It smelled like the entire neighborhood—bellies full of durian and barbecued pork—had just defecated on the corner. The stench of dereliction was in the air and I held my breath as I stepped through it.
I got to the the parking area and anticipated having flat tires or siphoned gas. I then proceed to tell the fat fucker my story. I took out my passport and identification card and showed him my bike. Ok, can I go now? I could see this wasn't going to be as easy as I thought. You motherfuckers. He said they'd keep my passport and ID and to come back to pick up my bike tomorrow. Tomorrow? You dirty lying swine. Nobody keeps my passport. I'll photocopy this shit and you can do what you need to do, but you will not hold onto my passport. Meanwhile, I contemplate hopping onto my motorbike and running over these people again.
The little commotion in the parking area has now attracted more attention and a few other conniving sons of bitches come into the fray. I flag down this aging hooker who should have hung up her heels years ago. I seem to run into her everywhere. She does her best to translate, but it seems the only bullshit option is to give them my passport. No way. No fucking way. Just give them your passport, man, she says. I refuse to give my passport to these motherfuckers. I make sure to enunciate every last profanity. I don't know these dudes and definitely don't trust them. I spit on the ground for emphasis and realize I am literally foaming at the mouth.
A policeman drives by and I foolishly think he might be of some benefit. Police! Police! They laugh knowing all too well this fat fucker isn't going to help. There was definitely the Khmer equivalent of a donut shop in near vicinity. He at least stops so I have the chance to tell him what's going on. Give them your passport, fill out the paperwork, blah blah blah. Fucking rules. I'm pissed off because these people, in my mind, are being unreasonable. They told me to bring my passport and ID and I did. Now they're telling me to wait another day. I come to the conclusion it is best to avoid playing by the rules whenever possible in this country. If there is an opportunity to bribe it is probably best to bite your tongue and take it.
Eventually, I realize this is going nowhere. They bring out a chain to lock up my bike. I assume by now they can see my intentions. I want to punch all of these fuckers in their fat faces. There are at least five of them now. Even the old lady deserved some knuckles in her wrinkly jaw. And the hooker too, she wasn't helping me. I didn't like any of them. They're all out to get me These people! I am brought back to those times in Vietnam when I got incredibly frustrated with the locals. An exchange that went wrong because of some cultural misunderstanding. It was all their fault! That was usually when I realized I needed a vacation.
I tell the hooker I don't give a shit anymore. I'll just come back tonight when different staff are on duty, pay them the bribe and get my motorbike then. What I should have done the previous evening. Fuck these people. She proceeds to start telling them what I'm going to do. No, no, no, no! Shut up. Don't tell them. Apparently she said just enough. She proceeds to tell me I can pay them five dollars and take my motorbike now. Why didn't you just say so?! I guess they thought it'd be better for them to get the money instead of those poor bastards working the night shift. All of that nonsense, all of that riling up for nothing.
Holding my breath, I handed over the money. While waiting for my change I jabbered away how these guys were dicks and motioned like I was secretly stuffing money into my pocket. Made me feel good even though I was losing more face. You thieving bastards. It's so hard to just let things go. Let it go. I got onto my motorbike—finally—and refrained from revving the engine and speeding off into the sunset. I pulled out slowly avoiding all eye contact and refused to say thanks—for nothing—and drove off to the coffee shop where I am now so I could make everything right with a hot cup of joe and some baked deliciousness. I do feel better now.
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