Leong's bike ground to a halt, kicking
up a cloud of red Cambodian dust. He points to the dried rice fields
on his left. My eyes are drawn to a massive crowd of people standing
in the middle of the field.
With a smile that seems to cover his whole face, he says words not usually put together:
“Wanna see a cow race?”
On the rare occasion a man is asked
whether or not he wants to see a cow race (or, for that matter, a
racing cow) there is only one answer he can possibly give.
So we doubled back, and began to cut
across the field towards the mass of villagers gathered.
Pulling up next to the cart selling
iced sugar cane juice, (which I usually hate, but three days of
eating trailbike-thrown dust made it taste incredible) it
was immediately clear that whatever the focus of the day had been
before we had arrived, it had now changed. We were swamped.
Small children dared each other to
approach, pushing one another forward before chickening out and
retreating behind the nearest adult. I fished around in my bag for
half a packet of jubes and a few packs of peanuts, and eventually managed to give them away by
kneeling down, head bowed, before the intended recipient snatched it
from my hand and darted back to safety.
We smiled and shook hands with the
gathered friendly locals and immediately regretted not knowing any
khmer (Cambodia's native language) whatsoever. A much older Khmer man
in a weathered camouflage jacket (apparently oblivious to the
thirty-something degree heat) approached me humbly, bowing his head
as he clasped my hand with both of his, and if his beaming toothless
grin was anything to go by gave me the warmest of greetings possible,
seemingly honoured to have simply made my acquaintance. Knowing full
well Cambodia's history, and (to put it bluntly) the rarity of
someone his age, I suddenly felt very small, and then
incredibly inadequate of doing this occasion due justice. A man like
him would have some stories to tell.
Our guide Leong worked his way through the crowd.
We're on the final leg of a three day
trailbike trip through southern Cambodia, and making our way back to
Phnom Penh. My oldest friend was getting married, and as best man I
thought the buck's party would be better spent in south east Asia
than on a pub crawl through Melbourne. So, with him having never left
Australia (but for a short trip to England, which absolutely doesn't
count) I dragged Neil out into the middle of nowhere to celebrate the
closing of the longest chapter of his life. Fortunately, we found a
cow race, and the trip was a great success.
Leong calls us over. The locals have
directed us as to where the best place to capture the race is. They
factored in wind direction, so we wouldn't be covered in dust. I'm
fairly sure they didn't understand what we'd been up to in the
previous days. They pushed us well back from the track, signalling
that they really couldn't be too sure as to where the cows would run
though.
The wind changed, and they hurried
us to the other side of the field. And then I saw the racers.
Two bulls strapped to a cart. A
muscular Khmer atop of the cart, wearing nothing but a loin cloth and
sporting some of the finest mutton chops I've seen since the last
time I went to the Drysdale RSL. Wielding a stick that is
probably best described as a goad, they cut an imposing figure.
The bulls ambled their way to the opposite
side of the field where their opponent was waiting, and the anticipation grew.
I was assuming all this time that the
bulls would run side by side, drag racing style. I was fairly
confused when this didn't happen, and the bulls and carts tore past
one after the other, the pair behind almost pushing into the cart in
front. They crossed the finish line, the crowd erupted into cheers,
and then were promptly chocked out with more red dust.
Neil, Luke (our fellow groomsman) and I
looked at each other and shrugged our shoulders. We had just
witnessed the craziest race any of us had ever seen, and had no idea
who'd won.
Leong came to the rescue.
Should, by chance you have met
Leong, you would understand why I haven't tried to quote him directly in what
he said. He's got a strong twangy Cambodian accent at the best of
times, and when he talks quickly sounds almost exactly like Jar Jar
Binks. Except that Jar Jar is slightly more comprehendible, and
everyone wants to kill him. Leong, on the other hand, is a top bloke.
Leong explained that when the bulls
race they tie a piece of bamboo between the two carts. Should the
bamboo fall, the cart in front is declared the winner. Should it stay
up, as was the case here, the cart behind is crowned victorious.
The crowd gathered around the cart. I
walked past the bookie, dealing out big handfuls of rial. A man
walked past me, big grin on his face, fanning himself with a massive
wad of cash, like some sort of a Cambodian TAB commercial. I see a
kid I've previously given a small packet of peanuts to, following me
around like a pup, unopened packet still in his hand. If I was his
age, I don't think I would have saved it to take back to the family.
I feel pretty small again.
After another 20 minutes of smiles,
shaking hands, and shy children, it's time to go.
Whenever we're cutting through a
village on the big dirt bikes, kids run out to the front fences to
wave, and the younger adults usually give us the universal 'do a
wheelie' charade act, waving their arms in the air. Leong obliged,
Neil took off with him, and Luke tried to do the same. Immediately
Luke was choked out in the dust, and his bike ground to a halt. I was fifty meters away filming, and he couldn't
hear what I could hear over the noise of the other bikes.
We're in the middle of nowhere. I can't even see the village from where these people must have travelled from. We've got 100 or so northbound clicks to ride to get to Phnom Penh before dark, through fields, goat tracks, railway lines and through villages.
There's five hundred or more Cambodian villages in field for a cow race.
And right now, every one of them is laughing at Luke stall his bike in the dust.
