Vlady Fresh

While driving home from Phnom Penh yesterday, one of my biggest fears came to pass. I left the city around 4 pm, which would just barely get me home before dark. This is important because I decided a long time ago that I never want to drive in between towns in Cambodia at night.

After 40 minutes of driving, I found myself 20 miles outside of Phnom Penh and decades away from the neon lights and traffic of the city. As I drove past mile upon mile of rice paddies, palm trees, and grazing cattle, my thoughts drifted from wondering about the life of Cambodian farmers to why Indian food is so divine. Suddenly, a dog darted in front of the car and snapped me out of my daydreams. I tried to beep the horn but it was barely audible. “That’s strange,” I thought to myself, and began trying to diagnose the problem. “Are horns mechanical or are the electronic? If they’re mechanical then, …. but if they’re electronic, then maybe …”

I decided to experiment. I beeped the horn a few more times and found that it became fainter and fainter with each blast. With each beep the car seemed to lose more and more power. To keep the car from dipping below 30 mph, I had to keep the accelerator almost floored. I glanced up at the clock and the radio and noticed the lights were off. Putting these symptoms together, I figured the alternator was failing. I shut off everything that uses electricity, called Anita and said, “I think the car is going to die. Please pray that I make it to Kampong Cham.”

Now, I have to admit, I don’t really understand how a car engine works. I get the gist but there are some key gaps in my understanding. I figured that the sparkplugs were necessary to ignite the gasoline that was injected into the cylinders. If I was right, I would be in big trouble because the sparkplugs would need electricity (I think) and I was running short in a big way. So my plan was to completely floor it, with the hope that the higher heat and pressure from an engine under strain might cause the gasoline to combust without need for sparkplug. Much to my surprise and joy, it seemed to work. As the car gradually gained speed, it seemed to have more and more power until, at around 50 mph, it seemed somewhat normal. Of course, I was praying like a madman during this time to so it’s hard to know how much was due to prayer and how much was due to spontaneous combustion. (Any of you that have a clue about engines out there, please set me straight.)

So, all went well for nearly 10 miles until I came up behind the Sweet Pickles bus, which was overloaded with passengers, motos, fruit and countless sacks of rice. The poor thing was belching smoke and seemed to be struggling even more than my car was just a few minutes ago. I decided to pass it so I wouldn’t dip below 50 mph. Unfortunately, I saw oncoming traffic and knew immediately that the game was over. I had to slow down so as not to crash into the back of the bus. As I did the car became more and more lifeless. Its final gasp was a pitiable sputter that would make even the most stoic man teary eyed.

When I came to a complete stop, I surveyed my surrounding. 4 meter drop off to my right, bottoming out in rice fields that lead straight up to a mountain (a hill in American terminology). To my left, across the street, was a rickety wood house with two hammocks out in front. On one of the hammocks was a friendly looking guy just staring off into the distance, seemingly oblivious to the fact that I broke down in front of his house. I let out a grunt of frustration, called Anita to let her know I would be late, and set out to ask the man on the hammock for help.

The outhouse I used at Pume Phnom Dahl

“Hi, big brother. I have a big problem and want to know if you might be able to help me. My car just stopped working and I really need to get to Kampong Cham today. Do you know if there is a mechanic nearby who can look at the car? If not, do you know someone with a big truck? Maybe we could tie a rope from the truck to my car and pull the car to Kampong Cham?” After inquiring about my nationality, and establishing that I hadn’t run out of gas, he sent his nephew to get the mechanic who lives down the road.

The mechanic showed up a few minutes later and asked me a series of questions, none of which I understood. I felt like an idiot. I’d been in Cambodia 3 years already, why couldn’t I understand him? The hammock man came to the rescue after 30 times of saying, “Sorry, could you say that again?” and “Please speak more slowly.” His job became to translate what the mechanic was saying so I could understand it. In essence, the hammock man was translating “country Khmer” into “urban Khmer”. In a country where people think traveling 5-10 miles is a big deal, highly differentiated dialects flourish. In this case the local dialect almost sounded like a completely different language to me.

Rather quickly, we came to an agreement that alternator had given up the ghost. Thankfully he had a replacement at his shop just a few hundred meters down the road. So, after jump starting the car, we drove straight to his shop. By the time I got out of the car, at least 5 young men had already stuck their heads under the hood. After a few minutes it became obvious that only one of them had a clue what he was doing. I couldn’t figure out if the others were trying to learn by observing or were just plain bored.

Within 10 minutes the old alternator was out and they set on the ground next to the replacement. The group began discussing the similarities and dissimilarities between the old and the new with the goal of figuring out if it would work. In the end the decided that, with a few well placed whacks of a sledge hammer (to adjust the bracket) it would work just fine. Thankfully they were right. Little more than an hour after rolling to a stop, the car was fixed and I was ready to leave Pume Phnom Duhl (Duhl Mountain Village) behind.

About 15 minutes after leaving the shop, the sun began to set. On a normal day I would be nervous about driving at night but I figured the odds of breaking down twice in one day were pretty low. I decided to relax and enjoy the scenery until it was dark.

Driving at night was a fascinating experience. The view through the windshield, while plowing through swarms of gnats and moths at 45 mph, was reminiscent of driving through a light snow fall. In addition, with the Sun out of the picture, the car’s AC was able to make me down right chilly. It was an experience of unexpected beauty. I had to constantly remind myself that I was in Cambodia and not home in New England.

This experience taught me some significant lessons about Cambodia and life in general. First, people can be surprisingly decent. Since I’m used to getting ripped off everyday by everyone, it was a pleasant surprise to fine the hammock man genuinely interested in helping me and the mechanic exercising restraint in his extortion. Second, I realized that I don’t really speak Khmer. If I want to eventually be able to converse about anything with anyone, I will have to invest many more years in Cambodia. Third, and most importantly, I realized that the fear of an experience can actually be worse than the experience itself.