"Yes, Yes"

Travel Story by Gregory McElwain

Phnom Penh, Cambodia

In Phnom Penh, taxis were scarce and reserved for luggage-laden rides to the airport or day trips to far-flung sites, making the ubiquitous moto, the local Frenchified slang for motorcycle, the vehicle of choice for short runs around the city. Upon seeing a bumbling foreigner on a street, anyone driving a moto could suddenly transform himself into a purveyor of public transport.

Competition for passengers was keen. The first time I walked out of my Phnom Penh hotel, I attracted a slew of moto drivers offering their services: "Where you go? Where you go?"

I picked one at random. "Kampuchea Airlines," I told him. "Do you know where Kampuchea Airlines is?"

"Yes, yes," he said.

"You know where it is?"

"Yes, yes," he repeated.

He took me straight to Cambodia Airlines.

"No," I said. "Kampuchea Airlines."

He looked puzzled.

I pulled out the Phnom Penh Post map, pointed to the office's location and repeated, "Kampuchea Airlines. It's different. On Norodom Boulevard. You know Norodom Boulevard?"

He took the map, turned it upside down and studied it. The puzzled look vanished.

"Yes, yes," he said.

"Yes, yes" turned out to be his entire English vocabulary, and I got a tour of Phnom Penh as I hung, helmetless, on the back of his motorcycle while he randomly zoomed up and down streets, slowing down to point at signs written in any language besides Khmer. "No," I'd say and shake my head, and we'd be off again.

We passed a well-dressed businessman walking to a car behind his chauffeur. Hoping he spoke English or French, I yelled "Stop!" at my driver. He did, and I jumped off and walked up to the businessman.

"Excuse me," I said. "Do you speak English?"

He did.

I explained my predicament, and he agreed to help. Both he and his driver spoke to my driver in Khmer.

Their conversation ended. I thanked the man and climbed back on the moto, but the driver got lost again. He stopped twice and asked people for directions. They'd huddle over my map, and the driver would return saying, "Yes, yes," but he still had no idea how to get to the airline office.

Amused and frustrated, I didn't know what to do. The major streets had only Khmer signs, and though I tried, I couldn't figure out exactly what part of Phnom Penh we were in. Then we passed a hotel.

"Stop!" I yelled. "Stop!"

He did."

"Wait, please," I said. "Don't go. Understand?"

"Yes, yes."

I ran to the hotel door, looked back to make sure he was waiting and ducked inside. I walked to the front desk.

"Can I help you?" the clerk asked.

"I'm trying to find Kampuchea Airlines."

He turned to the woman next to him and spoke in Khmer.

"Cambodia Airlines?"

"No. Kampuchea Airlines."

More Khmer discussion.

"On Norodom Boulevard."

"Yes, I know, but my moto driver doesn't know where Norodom Boulevard is." I pulled out my map. "Could you show me where this hotel is? I can figure out how to get there once I figure out where I am."

They looked at my map and consulted in Khmer.

"You want to go to Siem Reap? To see Angkor?"

"Yes."

"You want to buy a ticket?"

"Yes."

"Why do you want to go to Kampuchea Airlines? It's very difficult to buy tickets there. They are very slow. It takes a long time. Better that you go to Bopha Tours."

"No, I don't want a tour. I just want to find Kampuchea Airlines. Could you please just show me what part of Phnom Penh I'm in?"

They scrutinized the map again, but it was clear that they couldn't read it.

"That's OK," I said. "I'm sorry I bothered you. I'll find it somehow. But could you tell me the name of this street?"

"Name of the street?"

More Khmer discussion.

I gave up. "Don't worry about it. Thank you."

I walked out. The driver smiled.

"Yes, yes," he said.

"Let's go."

He drove; I gripped the map and continued to scan the streets for clues to our location. In the distance, I saw a big brown monument that looked like one of the map's symbols. I checked the map. The symbol was at the intersection of Preah Sihanouk and Norodom boulevards.

"This way," I said, pointing toward the monument, confident that, at last, we were heading in the right direction.

Just before we reached the intersection, he slowed down, glided to the curb and stopped to speak to two policemen standing there. One of them turned to me.

"Can I help you?"

"Is this Norodom Boulevard?"

"Yes."

"Kampuchea Airlines is straight ahead?"

"Yes, but motos aren't allowed up there."

The cops and my driver chatted in Khmer. Then he revved up the bike, turned around and drove so swiftly down little side streets that I was soon lost again.

"I hope you know where you're going," I said.

But I was afraid that he didn't, so when I saw a sign that said Phnom Penh Tourism, I yelled, "Stop! Stop!" He halted, and I ran inside the building. A smiling man greeted me.

"Kampuchea Airlines," I said, a little desperately. "Where is Kampuchea Airlines?"

"It's very close," he said, still smiling. Then he turned to my driver, who'd followed me inside, and they spoke in Khmer.

The driver walked back to the moto. The grinning man looked at me and said, "It's very close. No problem." He raised his hands as if he were blessing me. "No problem."

I trudged to the bike, plopped myself on the seat and sighed as the driver put it in gear and headed off again. But this time, he took me directly to Kampuchea Airlines. Relieved, I went inside to buy a ticket. I saw a Canadian man I'd met on the plane from Bangkok. "Been waiting long?" I asked.

"I told her"–he jerked his head toward a woman behind a counter–"when I wanted to go to Siem Reap half an hour ago. I've been waiting since then. They don't move too fast here."

But they did for me. A few minutes after I gave the woman my information, she handed me a receipt to take to the cashier's window. I walked out with my round-trip ticket about 15 minutes after I'd walked in.

I went outside, where my driver was waiting for me.

I waved the ticket at him and said, "Yes, yes."

Read more about the author of this story:
Gregory McElwain