Scooter Stories 1

It's not that I'm sixteen again; it's that I'm going on thirty and deliberately shirking the responsible decision making and foresight with which I was desperate to be identified when I was sixteen.

To call me a stranger in a strange land would be a criminal overstatement, but here, on what passes for an open road, I understand how things work. I am on an unlicensed, unregistered, unpaid-for Honda Wave with one CC for every pound it's hauling, and it's mine by a handshake and the promise of a girlfriend's help sorting out the title.

I have been weaving through traffic, dodging around food carts, garbage trucks, bicycles, vehicular operators from oblivious to maniacal, then to ag trucks, bicycles loaded with sugar cane, and eventually spike-horned cattle that look half waterbuffalo and live in barnyards shared with fighting cocks.

But now the road is as open as the throttle, and the speedo is bouncing on the peg. I would never drive this fast on this road in a car, but even as my helmet builds enough lift to tug at my chinstrap, despite the gritty smog of an atmosphere that's stuck in my teeth, I'm wearing the biggest shiteating grin anyone's worn since Patton met artillery.

I weave through incoming cars and carts with a veni, vidi, vici, suckas!

I am no longer Teacher Russell, greeted at the start of class by students prostrating themselves as they would for a religious icon. I am no longer the new guy who came knowing nothing about the location, people, or language. I am no longer the crazy farang upstairs who wakes up too early and keeps such an odd lifestyle.

I am the one on the new Honda, bombing the hell down the road, and this road is the only place I've seen—and I bet that roads like it are the only ones that exist in the entire country, where oncoming traffic has right of way.

Not that the other stuff doesn't count. It's just that right now, I'm coming through and we both know that it's in our mutual best interest if you stay the hell out of the way.

Last night, my boss, whose Thai girlfriend of a decade and a child is sorting out the paperwork, said, “Spend some time in the muban getting comfortable, then follow Mao on his bike. If you follow me in my truck, you'll be driving like a truck and liable to get hit. Just drive like a Thai and you should be safe.”

With that I became the proud owner of a 2009 Honda Wave 110, a little kick-start scooter that will be my lifeline to the mountains, waterfalls, and cheap housing.

And driving like a Thai is surprisingly easy:

Rule 1A: Don't hit anything or anyone.

Rule 1B: decelerating is okay, but braking should be reserved for an all-wheel lockup.

Rule 2: If you're imperviously large, ignore rule 1 entirely.

Rule 3: Give way only if it's blatantly obvious to all parties that not doing so would force someone to break Rule 1; if there's a stopsign, bob and weave; if there are pedestrians, flow around them; if there are three cars crammed into a car-and-a-half lane, or if it's a one-way divided street, just hop into the opposite lane for a while--they're minding Rule 1, too.

So now, as I scream along pushing redline—the speedo gives out at 160, and that was at least 1500 RPM back—I force Rule 1 onto others, because it's patently obvious that we'll all have problems if they get in my way.

And now I'm on a bridge. Well, to be technical, I'm above a bridge, flying toward a landing on the other side. Something's really wrong as “Peter Gunn” starts playing in my head at the same time I think, did that sign back there mean slow down, jump ahead? But it takes a moment to place what's wrong—the bike has good balance with pressure on the front end, I'm in a good place for a smooth landing, but, but...

THERE IS AN ELEPHANT IN THE ROAD.

THERE IS AN ELEPHANT WALKING TOWARD ME IN THE LANE THAT WOULD BE MINE WERE MY WHEELS ATTACHED TO THE GROUND.

THIS IS A LIVE ELEPHANT.

IT IS IN THE ROAD.

bad news

It's an Indian elephant, not more than six or seven feet at the shoulder, but it's an elephant. In my lane. It's carrying sugarcane and munching on something.

And as I land, standing on the brakes, and fishtail around a huge golden-brown eye almost as wide and scared as mine, I snap back to my reality: the farang in Thailand who probably mans well but just doesn't get it, and probably never will.