Koy hag lot jak kong koy

There is a gentle slope outside the gate of my house.  The road has a fairly loose covering and when I try to kick-start my motorcycle, I inevitably roll backwards and end up going through a strange, shuffling charade until I finally get the right balance of choke, brake and brute force to get going. 



Official Yamaha motorcycle boots

Since I’ve been living by myself, the whole operation for leaving the house has become more of a fag.  Previously, on a normal day, I used to leave the house first and was thus only responsible for opening the gate.  I could then start the bike on level ground in the garden and zoom off through the gate with nary a backward glance.  Now, I’m responsible for locking the door, opening the gate, moving my bike outside, going back to lock the gate and then hopefully puttering off without stalling and blocking the road. 

A week or two ago, in something of an early morning fug, I wheeled my bike to the slope and turned back to lock the gate.  Unfortunately, a rogue piece of masonry had nudged the side stand and the bike fell over, snapping the end of my clutch lever.  ‘Bugger’, that’s the fourth clutch lever in 18 months and the episode got me to thinking about the various ‘adventures’ I’ve had on my bike in that time. 

The bike has been loaned to me by my organisation, for which I am extremely grateful but it did arrive in a fairly shocking condition.  The first trip we went on together was wheeling across the road from the bus station to the nearest mechanic.  Incidentally, I would like to propose Laos as the country with the highest ratio of mechanics to population, which is just as well.

Anyway, I’ve spent a lot of time with Lottie¹ since we first met and as I approach the end of my placement in Laos, I thought I’d pen a farewell letter.  

Dear Charlotte,

My second home

You look different now from when we first met but luckily for you, time has been kind and the iridescent green twinkle of your new mirrors lends you a puckish air as you scoot through the traffic on your exquisitely rutted new tyres.  The thrum of your engine has softened in note with the addition of your soft and pillowy, new air filter and the liberal application of the smooth and unctuous two-stroke oil you enjoy so much.  The easy shift in gears and gentle rumble of your new chain and sprocket reminds me of unhappier times, pushing you up hills and out of ditches but that’s all behind us now.  Let’s not dwell on the past of broken clutch and brake levers and your delicate, waif like constitution when it comes to facing the toils of everyday life.  You’re more robust now and better able to face life’s challenges, whether they are greasy, slick roads or ever changing and unpredictable traffic conditions.

Of course, I have some regrets.  I should have spent more time washing you but surely a thin layer of red dust has held you together and bound you more closely to your environment?  I shouldn’t have taken you on such inhospitable terrains and forced you to carry such improbable loads but didn’t that expand both our horizons and allow you to really recharge your batteries?

I hope you can look back on our time together with kindness and joy.  The only reminder of your previous life is your crumbling, moulting grips, giving away your age like the hands of a facelift denier.  Still, you have new memories now, a dent in your fuel tank where you were shunted off a boat and all of your many, many new parts.

Let’s go on one last trip together, a final odyssey to see new places and discover new things about Laos.  After that, who knows, perhaps an exciting life awaits you with someone else or it could be back to the slow decline into component fatigue that you experienced before.  Either way, I will think of you often and thank you always for the service you’ve given, sometimes grudgingly but always finally succumbing.

Goodbye Lottie and good luck,

Susan

On a mission

I’ve written about my motorbike before and may yet write about it again but it’s been so much part of my time in Laos that I think it’s fitting to finally write to my motorbike.  From the most entertaining rides, miserable rides, downright terrifying rides and of course all the many hours spent sitting patiently at roadside mechanic stops, my motorcycle has been there.  My introduction to the great Lao fuel redistribution swindle (mechanics siphoning petrol), my expanding technical vocabulary in Lao (foam air filter, washer, chain etc) and the added kudos I immediately get for riding a ‘big’ bike (175cc but importantly it has a clutch and a lot of Lao wouldn’t be able to touch the ground if they tried to ride it) have all been made possible by having my bike.

I can’t imagine I’ll want to ride when I get back home and I’d certainly never buy a Yamaha DT but it’s been an experience.

Foot notes:

1 The name is a pun on the Lao word for motorbike.