Horse With No Name

It was optimistic. I’ll grant you that. The idea that one could take a city moto, more often used by teenage girls to ride around taking selfies, anywhere REAL was laughable.

This country is hard. The people are hard. Their faces are hard until they smile. Their roads…the hardest.

1,782k. That’s how far a city scooter will get you out into the boonies before giving up the ghost. At 1,781 we were golden. Living the dream. At 1,782 we were bust. Kick starting a pile of greasy bolts right into the mud.

I’ve written a lot about biking Asia. I honestly feel its the best way to truly experience this lifestyle. Freedom comes in many forms, but dollar for dollar, Riel for Riel, Kip for Kip, no cheaper form can be found than riding a scooter around Asia.

Hungry? Stop. That lady over there fanning a charcoal grill will probably hook you up (ask nice). You may not recognize the meat, and you may not be able to ask, but throw caution and your intestinal fortitude to the wind and you will more often than not be happily rewarded.

Tired? Stop. ‘Nha Nghi’ or Vietnamese guest houses dot the roads all over Nam. Cheap ($5-10). Clean. Might even have a TV to watch Thai soaps, or a bunch of hookers that show up exactly when the factory next door gets off. All good. Same goes for Cambodia and Laos, though not always to the same extent.

Safe? No. No it’s not. It’s minute for minute about as deadly as going bareback at Hedonism Resort, Nigeria. But hey, you could get killed walking your doggy. My girl wears the scars of an ill fated scooting expedition to Pai, Thailand. A set of stomach piercings were left buried in the Thai asphalt. A good English friend seems to have left most of his kneecaps spread over a half a click of highway in the Mekong Delta. These are real, everyday, in my face reasons to NOT do what I’m doing. So why do it?

Adventure. Pure and simple. The lure of the open road, and wind in my quickly thinning hair.

Having been a beach bum for an entire very fast year, I thought it might be time to dust off the cape and tempt fate some more.

Cassie, my companion in all Cambodian escapades, suggests a hitchhike. This being the way that she, as a non-continental European, had chosen to mooch around in her youth. The die hard American in me instantly rebels at the idea of thumbing it. Cash, grass, or ass, nobody rides for free. This is the mantra I’ve always heard, and none of the three sounded appealing, especially the later.

While the occasional lift might be asked for, I wanted to do things on our own steam, and not be beholden to anyone else’s directions or schedules. The only weapon in my arsenal – a ten year old, 125cc Suzuki Step.

They call it a Step because it sits so low to the ground, you simply step onto it and sit. Twist and go, no gears. The grocery getter of Asian motorscooters.  When I tell local Khmer friends my plan – Cassie and me, plus our stuff, on this bike, across the remote northern provinces of Cambodia and up into the Bolaven plateau of southern Laos…and back – the look on their faces says it all.

‘You have no fucking clue do you white boy?’

No. No I don’t. And I don’t necessarily want one.