Crash

Two things that do not exist in (rural) Cambodia: stretchers and police tape.

A few evenings ago, I was headed to exercise in the rice fields, as usual, when I came upon a even larger traffic jam of students than is usually the case at the 5 o’clock hour. As I got closer, I realized everyone was stopped in their tracks and gaping at something. Then I spotted a downed motorbike in the road, then another.

Moto accidents are very, very common in Cambodia. It is fairly normal to see three, four, even five people on the back of a moto, most often without helmets. My little nephew at my training host family was in a wreck during my first month here that scraped up the side of his face pretty well. Just last week, the big piece of gossip in town was a moto crash in the next town over that killed a brand new, just-out-of-college teacher. This was my first time seeing one up close.

My host mom motioned me over to the side of the road to stand and watch with everyone else. There were two groups on opposite sides of the street surrounding two accident victims (although I was told later there were actually four people involved) who had been laid in the dirt. I would guess the crowd of onlookers grew to about 200 in all, although traffic was still slowly moving through the scene, the cars weaving between the two motos that were left sprawling in the street. After we had watched for five minutes or so, a group of men helping one of the victims hoisted him up by his arms and legs, the man screaming in pain as they did. There was no attempt to stabilize his neck and back. There was no waiting for a stretcher, or even a doctor (like my host dad, who was at my house about 200 yards away). And where did they take him? Of course, to another moto. They plopped the man down, and he flopped against the moto driver. They had to pick up his legs to stop his feet from dragging on the ground.

Soon my host mom motioned for us to go, and as we left, I saw the police arrive and start drawing chalk outlines of the two bikes. That one still has me puzzled. We headed out to our jog. At the time, the accident didn’t look so serious, since both of the victims I saw were conscious and responsive, if uncomfortable. While eating our nightly post-exercise dessert, my host mom got a phone call and reported that one of the men had a broken leg (the word for which, eerily, I had just learned in a Khmer lesson two hours before). Later that evening, my mom gave me another update. Two people were seriously injured and were taken to the hospital in Phnom Penh. One had broken something in the ribcage area. My host mom said, “Mun tohan slap howie.” He’s not dead yet. I felt like a 7-year-old as I asked ... “Is he going to die?” ... “We don’t know yet. Maybe.” I had no idea.

K4s, be careful out there!