“I’ve always wanted to try riding a motorbike.”
I remember saying this to Ollie, but I’m not sure why I said it. Because I really haven’t. I mean look at me; I don’t have the suave style of a continental Vespa driver, nor do I have the rugged badger-beard with matching tattoos to embrace a Harley Davison. I also don’t have the desperate need to sound like I’m riding a wasp on one of those mopeds favoured by the British chav. It’s just not me. I don’t dislike them, or oppose them in anyway, it’s just that the leather-wearing, death-defying life doesn’t compare to the tea-drinking, board game- playing life that I espouse.
But there was something about watching people pootling around Si Phan Don, helmet-free and care-free (actually carelessly helmet-less would probably be more accurate), that appealed to me so much and warped my memory into saying this.
We had spent much of the morning exploring. In fairness to the islands, away from the houses, it was really quite pleasant. The humidity was pleasant, embracing rather than suffocating. Their was a serene silence in places, interrupted only by the gentle hum or chirrup on insects, or the sluggish hush of waterfalls. An aroma of fresh-earth hung in the air, not too dissimilar to the rainforest that we had stayed in only a few days before. There were fields to walk through, gentle buffalo watching us with curiosity as we shuttered through. There were perches on the waterways, places to simply sit and watch. Away from the bars and away from the drugs, there really was tranquility here.
And what better way to ruin tranquility than to get on a motorbike?
As you may have gathered, the law, if there was one, was not stringently adhered to in Is Phan Don.I would go so far as to say that the strong arm of the law either wasn’t quite long enough to reach what was essentially the Cambodian border, or it had visited once and thought “never again.” The result was that pretty much anything goes. That included motorbike hire.
“Hello, we would like to hire some motorbikes please.”
We had stopped outside a shed that had “motobike” (sic), painted onto a piece of cardboard. I mean, what was there not to trust?
The lady greeted us with the same warmth and affection as we had found to be the norm here in Laos, something akin to complete disinterest or borderline resentment.
I thought I’d try again.
“Motorbike?”
She nodded slowly, her eyes distant.
“20000 kip.” That is approximately £1.78.
Some people say you must always haggle in South East Asia. This may be very middle class but I just couldn’t be bothered. I mean, sometimes I drop 20p in the UK and dread bending down to get it so much that I leave it for somebody else. Or a magpie. The poor lady looked unwell; pale and with a worrying sheen covering the face, Ollie agreed with me that there was really no point in haggling.
“You ride bike?” She asked nonchalantly. This seemed a very unusual question considering the circumstances.
“Yes please,” I said.
“Good.” She said and turned around to return to the shelter of her home.
It was only now that I realised that she had asked whether I know how to ride a motorbike and she had retreated safe in the knowledge that I did. Apart from I didn’t. I don’t know about you though, but I feel like it can be really embarrassing to admit that you didn’t understand a question. It would have been fine to ask for instruction three seconds ago, but now she thought that I was a motorbike expert, it felt very shameful to surrender the truth.
“Excuse me,” I called, putting on my expert voice. She gave me a withering look and staggered back to me, clearly unimpressed.
“This motorbike is different, please show me how to use it?” It really is quite staggering what rubbish can come out of a persons mouth. I was fooling no-one.
The lady waddled over and with ill-concealed irritation shooed me away. Perhaps she was annoyed at having to help an idiotic tourist who had thought riding a motorbike was easy, perhaps she was just irritated at being alive that day, I don’t know. But the tutorial that she gave me was so quick that when I happened to blink, I missed about two-thirds of it. With one hand, she revved the engine, with the other she squeezed the brake, and like a furious bull about to gore his matador she savagely kicked some sort of foot-pedal.
“Ok,” she said, and relinquished the handlebars back to me.
“Ok,” I said and smiled. Satisfied, the lady once more returned to her house, happy in the knowledge that she wouldn’t have to waste words on me until the end of the day.
I also turned to face Ollie. I was smiling with my mouth, you know how it works, big and wide and toothy. I was not smiling with my eyes, they were wide and quite probably filling with tears.
“Are you sure about this?” Ollie looked at me quizzically. He is a wise man; rather than tell me I was stupid, he was letting me realise it for myself. Unfortunately, he hadn’t banked on the fact that deep down I am the same stupid, arrogant, proud, foolish, ignorant, overly-confident and very much uninvincible man as every other out there.
Why do we do it? Why do we think we are invincible? Why do we think that bad things only happen to other people?
I mounted the bike. So far so good.
Feeling around with my hands, I got my bearings. I gave the brake a squeeze. That was familiar, not too different from a bicycle. I began to relax a bit, this was going to be fine.
I gave the throttle a little squeeze, there was a rumble, a deep throaty roar, accompanied by a satisfying vibration that walked up my spine and made my head tingle.
Here we go…
I squeezed the throttle harder, bringing my legs up. Nothing happened. There was noice and there was wobble, but there was no forward motion and I quickly had to bring my legs down again to stay balanced.
Looking around I witnessed Ollie mounting his steed. I had another go: same result. I tried to maintain my aura of calm but something about my demeanour must have given the game away. Maybe it was the louder growl from the engine, maybe it was the fact I kept bringing my legs up and bracing, maybe it was the fact that I hadn’t moved an inch in a couple of minutes.
I looked around desperately, hoping to catch Ollie’s eye. Instead I caught the attention of the lady who, in true Laos style, was sitting down watching me struggle. She started pawing the dust with her foot. Of course! I nodded my thanks.
Bracing once more, I turned the throttle, and brutally kicked down with my left foot…
Next five seconds were a blur. Harnessing the full force of a freight train, the motorbike decided now to launch forward like an olympic sprinter escaping from a performance-enhancing drug test. My legs came up, and then in complete panic, came down again, deciding not to fully commit to this crazed machine. Without any understanding of what was actually happening, my wrist seemed to decide that what would really help the situation, was more throttle.
I wonder what it would have looked like to an innocent onlooker who had just turned the corner to witness the scene. On the one side, was a giant of a man, straddling a very little bike, watching on in horror. To the side of him, was an ill-looking lady, casually watching one of her prize-possessions being handled by a complete maniac. And in the middle of the street, was a RedBull infused motorbike, dragging a small Caucasian man around with it as if he had caught me flirting with his other-half.
With a final roar, my idiotic determination to hold on to the bike, was overridden by the laws of physics as the bike leapt out from underneath me, depositing me rudely on my back in the hard, rest dust.
I lay there for a few seconds stunned. From here the sky was dazzlingly blue, and the sun mercilessly intense. As the seconds ticked by, I noticed a dull ache in my lower back and a raw burning from my right calf. As Ollie ran over (well, ambled), I acknowledged that I was ok. My back and my bum were sore, and I had a nasty cast down the back of my leg, but miraculously I was relieved to find that nothing was broken.
That was until I managed to sit up. In front of me lay the bike, now lifeless. Also lifeless, and in complete tatters, was the neighbours fence. Very much alive, and very much in front of me, was the very angry owner of said fence. I don’t think I ever saw a Laotian display so much emotion.
So, I have ridden a motorbike. But only for five seconds. And fortunately, by the grace of God, my pride did not cost me my life. Nevertheless, it was a costly 5 seconds. Not only did I not get my £1.78 back, but I was also charged 5000 kip (£0.45), to fix the fence. My leg healed, the fence (I assume) was fixed. My ego, on the other hand, was not. But that is a good thing: I will never arrogantly think I’m an expert at anything ever again.
We explored Si Phan Don on foot…
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