On every trip I go on, there is always one thing which crops up without fail: the travel nause.
I had never heard the word 'nause' until a couple of years ago, its use being explained to me by a former England international rugby player, who used it to describe opponents who played a little dirtily and with plenty of niggle. Further inquiry revealed that it is also used to describe "annoying or cringeworthy people".
So it was that my Cambodian travel nause appeared in Stung Treng. Sitting outside my guesthouse while sipping a cold Angkor, an older man with weathered, tanned skin and a white beard approached the table.
"Looks like you've got a nice bike. I'll get a beer and join you."
Before I could reply, the man had grabbed a beer and was indeed joining me. My opinion in the matter was of no importance: the nause wanted company and, of course, I had no reason to wish for solitude.
The man introduced himself as George, a Canadian who had left Canada some years before,lived on a boat in Malaysia and had ridden up for a few weeks. I found out plenty about him, that he lived by himself, travelled a lot, rode a motorbike and knew quite a lot about engines. I listened for around twenty-five minutes to all of this, before George showed any interest in me. The nause isn't really interested in you.
I revealed that I am an Englishman living in Australia. George computed this, before saying, "Ah, yes, you Australians like to get around a bit," and, "Yes, you Australians have the boat repair gig sewn up in Phuket." I smiled and politely stated that I merely lived in Australia, but he continued asserting that I was an Australian. I didn't really get much else in, for George wanted to tell me about his bike, how easy it is to ride dirt bikes and his trip thus far. The nause doesn't listen to you.
After George's stories of his travels, which usually involved women (from exotic countries known for attractive females) whom he had allowed to slip through his fingers, he noticed my sunburn. "That looks nasty," he said. "You should do something about that." I hadn't thought of that of course, despite having been at the pharmacy and experienced Cambodian service (foreigners wait while locals are served first, even if they come in after you). The nause states the obvious.
George asked me if I had any future travel plans. I became excited and told him of my dream of motorcycling around the world on a BMW X-Challenge. He'd never heard of the bike, but still rubbished it as probably unreliable and told me that I should take a Honda instead. I pointed out that the Rotax engine was virtually indestructible, which calmed him a little but my idea was still given short shrift. Maybe he worked for Honda... The nause knows best.
By now, I was tiring of this and made my excuses, saying that I was going round the corner for some dinner. George indicated that he would stay there with a beer, so I bade him goodnight. I reached the restaurant and made my order before a hand clasped my shoulder from behind. I turned around and there was George. "I decided to come join you and I brought someone." Turning to his new friend, he said, about me, "This guy is an Australian." A young Belgian man emerged from behind George and sat down opposite. My food arrived, George lit a cigarette and smoked it at the table while continuing to regale us with his tales. I found out little about the Belgian chap. The nause stays close.
The next morning, I was packing up when George came outside. "How are you?" he asked. "Fine," I replied. "I'm just packing before breakfast; do you know anywhere good?" George then recommended the market, asking if I had ever even eaten street food before (I'd described my previous travels the previous day) and recommending that I try it despite me telling him that I had eaten it very often. Sitting down at the market, I tucked into my breakfast of pork and rice, while George told me of the various bowel bacteria he had acquired from street food (giardia being prominent and frequent), the various stool samples he had given to doctors and the treatments received. All while I was eating. Nice. The nause shares everything, even when completely inappropriate.
Returning to my bike, George began to find fault:
"The chain looks dry." "I oiled it yesterday."
"The chain looks loose." "I tightened it yesterday."
"Do you know what this does?" "It's for the engine oil."
This continued for some time, with George insisting on oiling my chain, telling me that it wasn't too late: I could change my mind and ride in the opposite direction to that which I had planned with him. I sensed that his questions were intended to check that I would be okay and knew what I was doing, but it was also extremely patronising given that I wasn't a complete novice and had told him this. He clearly thought that I was hapless and destined for disaster, despite no evidence suggestive of this. I thanked him for his help before he rode off. The nause is patronising.
All in all, I'm sure that he meant well, but George was definitely my Cambodian nause. Had I been too polite? Was I uncharitable to a well-meaning chap? I asked myself those questions as I headed towards Siem Pang, with my ultimate target being Ban Lung. George told me that it would be easy. We would see.
I had never heard the word 'nause' until a couple of years ago, its use being explained to me by a former England international rugby player, who used it to describe opponents who played a little dirtily and with plenty of niggle. Further inquiry revealed that it is also used to describe "annoying or cringeworthy people".
So it was that my Cambodian travel nause appeared in Stung Treng. Sitting outside my guesthouse while sipping a cold Angkor, an older man with weathered, tanned skin and a white beard approached the table.
"Looks like you've got a nice bike. I'll get a beer and join you."
Before I could reply, the man had grabbed a beer and was indeed joining me. My opinion in the matter was of no importance: the nause wanted company and, of course, I had no reason to wish for solitude.
The man introduced himself as George, a Canadian who had left Canada some years before,lived on a boat in Malaysia and had ridden up for a few weeks. I found out plenty about him, that he lived by himself, travelled a lot, rode a motorbike and knew quite a lot about engines. I listened for around twenty-five minutes to all of this, before George showed any interest in me. The nause isn't really interested in you.
I revealed that I am an Englishman living in Australia. George computed this, before saying, "Ah, yes, you Australians like to get around a bit," and, "Yes, you Australians have the boat repair gig sewn up in Phuket." I smiled and politely stated that I merely lived in Australia, but he continued asserting that I was an Australian. I didn't really get much else in, for George wanted to tell me about his bike, how easy it is to ride dirt bikes and his trip thus far. The nause doesn't listen to you.
After George's stories of his travels, which usually involved women (from exotic countries known for attractive females) whom he had allowed to slip through his fingers, he noticed my sunburn. "That looks nasty," he said. "You should do something about that." I hadn't thought of that of course, despite having been at the pharmacy and experienced Cambodian service (foreigners wait while locals are served first, even if they come in after you). The nause states the obvious.
George asked me if I had any future travel plans. I became excited and told him of my dream of motorcycling around the world on a BMW X-Challenge. He'd never heard of the bike, but still rubbished it as probably unreliable and told me that I should take a Honda instead. I pointed out that the Rotax engine was virtually indestructible, which calmed him a little but my idea was still given short shrift. Maybe he worked for Honda... The nause knows best.
By now, I was tiring of this and made my excuses, saying that I was going round the corner for some dinner. George indicated that he would stay there with a beer, so I bade him goodnight. I reached the restaurant and made my order before a hand clasped my shoulder from behind. I turned around and there was George. "I decided to come join you and I brought someone." Turning to his new friend, he said, about me, "This guy is an Australian." A young Belgian man emerged from behind George and sat down opposite. My food arrived, George lit a cigarette and smoked it at the table while continuing to regale us with his tales. I found out little about the Belgian chap. The nause stays close.
The next morning, I was packing up when George came outside. "How are you?" he asked. "Fine," I replied. "I'm just packing before breakfast; do you know anywhere good?" George then recommended the market, asking if I had ever even eaten street food before (I'd described my previous travels the previous day) and recommending that I try it despite me telling him that I had eaten it very often. Sitting down at the market, I tucked into my breakfast of pork and rice, while George told me of the various bowel bacteria he had acquired from street food (giardia being prominent and frequent), the various stool samples he had given to doctors and the treatments received. All while I was eating. Nice. The nause shares everything, even when completely inappropriate.
Returning to my bike, George began to find fault:
"The chain looks dry." "I oiled it yesterday."
"The chain looks loose." "I tightened it yesterday."
"Do you know what this does?" "It's for the engine oil."
This continued for some time, with George insisting on oiling my chain, telling me that it wasn't too late: I could change my mind and ride in the opposite direction to that which I had planned with him. I sensed that his questions were intended to check that I would be okay and knew what I was doing, but it was also extremely patronising given that I wasn't a complete novice and had told him this. He clearly thought that I was hapless and destined for disaster, despite no evidence suggestive of this. I thanked him for his help before he rode off. The nause is patronising.
All in all, I'm sure that he meant well, but George was definitely my Cambodian nause. Had I been too polite? Was I uncharitable to a well-meaning chap? I asked myself those questions as I headed towards Siem Pang, with my ultimate target being Ban Lung. George told me that it would be easy. We would see.
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