Bicycle mishaps, cat mishaps

No, really -- I'm fine.  The bike is fine, and the cats are fine.  Mostly.

The Phenomenal Penguin has phenomenal potholes.  Given the torrential rains and paltry funds to maintain infrastructure, I suppose it's unsurprising.  Last week I was reading a copy of the Cambodia Daily, and there were two reports of traffic fatalities, one after the other.  In the first, a moto had swerved to avoid a pothole, and it slammed into a car.  In the second, a car had swerved to avoid a pothole, and it crashed into a moto.  (In both cases, RIP to the late moto drivers.)  

Right here on my very own Street 95, someone took it upon himself to fill the potholes with heaps of building waste -- broken chunks of cement and brick, shards of porcelain and what-all.  Each of these mounds rose about 6" above the street surface. All of us on two wheels were swerving around them and each other. "Who's the genius I can thank for this?" I fumed as I wove the bike around the "shell mounds" as if it were a barrel-racing quarter horse.

Phnom Penh:  Enjoy the thrills of off-road riding. On the roads.

There is, however, one good thing to be said for all the monstrous SUVs that ply the streets:  Within a couple of days, they'd reduced these mounds of rubble to patches of dust that were about flush with the street surface. Evidently the genius who filled the potholes has done this before and knows the amount of rubble needed for the job.  

Last Monday I cycled over to the children's hospital where I'd donated blood the week before. I needed to pick up my blood donor card.  As I was making the turn into the hospital, a moto driver sped around the corner to my left and hit me broadside.  As I watched my sandal spiralling through the air over my head, I thought, "Hmm, this might not be good."  There was a group of men gathered at the hospital gates, presumably waiting for family inside. They came out and picked me and the bamboo bike out of the street. Someone found both my shoes. I was horrified to see that the moto driver had three small children on his bike, and two of them had come off when he hit me. Not a helmet on any of 'em. Before I could hyperventilate about that, I noticed both that the driver was focused exclusively on his bike's front fender (which had a crack in it) and had scant interest in his dislodged offspring, and also that the hospital security guard was busy scolding the moto driver for his imprudent speed.  I concluded that the kids were either unhurt or that no one felt it worthwhile to fret about them.  My next thought was, oh damn. That crack may have been there for months or years, but he's going to see a foreigner and conclude that he might be able to get a new moto out of this collision.  The security guard, however, saved the day and sent the man and his kids packing.  The other men, who had been looking very intently at the moto's cracked fender and mumbling like a flock of pigeons, turned their attention to my bicycle. A flock of insurance adjusters couldn't have inspected it more thoroughly, and they burst into unanimous, astonished laughter. Thumbs up all round. There was no hint of any damage.  Let's hear it for bamboo bicycles!  

"Moahm nah!"  [Very strong!]

I felt blessed to have come out of it with nothing more than scrapes and bruises, shattered nerves, torn trousers and a scuffed helmet.  "Your blood is normal," the lab tech told me when I finally went in to collect my card. I mooched a little soap and iodine and was back on my way again.

When I cycled in the US, it was important to carry a spare inner tube and know how to change it in the event of a flat tire in the middle of nowhere. This is not the case in the Phenomenal Penguin, because you needn't go far to find a jiang pah -- a fellow who does all manner of tire-fixing. These fellows hang out on street corners with their compressed air tanks every few blocks.  I visited the one on the corner of my street when I just needed more air in the tires. I learned a whole bunch of tire-related vocabulary and rode off on two perfectly inflated tires for the lordly sum of $.15.  On Monday, though, I was near the Russian Market when the rear tire went totally flat. I walked the bike a couple of blocks and found this wiry older fellow, blind in one eye. It took him about 30 seconds to pull the tube from the tire (without removing the wheel from the bike).  He inflated the tube and ran it slowly through his pan of water to find the leak. The hiss of bubbles showed us exactly where the puncture was.

Rough streets? Yup. It's a living.

He got out his shears and cut a patch of rubber and applied it with some black tar, then smoothed the patched area with a fine file.

Who knows how many tubes he's repaired, but this was his first on a bamboo bike.

He then clamped the tube under a metal canister containing some burning substance. I suppose the heat melded the patch. He seemed to know exactly how long it would take without melting the whole tube. Seeing my raised eyebrows, a middle-aged fellow who was hanging about told me that this jiang pah is very skillful. That I don't doubt; it's just that his equipment looks a wee bit primitive.

Please, Lord, don't let him incinerate my bike.

Within 15 minutes I was on my way, and three days later, the tire is still solidly inflated. I'm a happy customer, and the half-blind jiang pah is $.75 richer.  (I've been told he cheated me -- the going rate for a tube repair is $.50, but I can live with this level of larceny.)

And then we have the Phenomenal Penguin cat news.  There is a new Film Feline at The Flicks -- meet Elvis.  My friend Malcolm mentioned to the staff that he'd spilled some popcorn, and the fellow replied, "Oh, no worries! We'll send the cat in to eat it." As we were on our way down the stairs I said to Malcolm, "He's delusional. What cat eats popcorn?"  Answer:  Elvis.  I came another evening and ordered a glass of white wine. I was fumbling in my wallet for the correct change when I heard slurping.  Elvis was drinking my chardonnay.  "Oh look, he likes wine, too!" one staff member exclaimed to the other. "I thought he only drank beer." (She did then top up my glass, bless her.)  I no longer doubt that he Hoovers up whatever people spill in the theatre.

"Say, are you planning to eat that whole quesedilla?"

As you may remember from an earlier post, The Flicks already had a resident cine-cat, Piri-Piri. Elvis is half of Piri-Piri's size, yet he manages to terrorise the ginger moggie. While Elvis was sitting atop the bar with his face in my wine glass, Piri-Piri cowered miserably on a bar stool.

"Pour me a double. Whatever he's having."

Meanwhile, at Bling Bling, Nareth has adopted a third cat from his brother's farm in Kampot.  Somehow this tri-coloured kitten had got badly burnt, and Nareth's brother was about to put her out of her misery. Instead, Nareth brought her back to Phnom Penh and took her to Agrovet for some first aid. Now of course he can't bear to send her back to the farm, so meet little Kampot.  Her burns are healing very well.

Kampot has decided the city life ain't half bad.

With the addition of Kampot to the household, PePe seems to have concluded that he now has a harem and is entitled to comport himself like a sultan.  Here is the last image of Sultan PePe before his trip to the clinic, from which he returned a eunuch.

Hasta la vista, PePe.

In one final bit of cat news, I, too, have been at Agrovet of late. On Friday night, I realised that Crumpet hadn't eaten at all that day. She was lethargic, reclusive and, when I approached her, aggressive. She simply wasn't herself, and I know that radical changes in behaviour usually indicate a medical problem.  When she refused her favourite treats on Saturday morning, I rang up Seyha the tuktuk driver, and we set off for Agrovet. 

The Crumps liked the aquarium full of fish in the waiting area
but was less keen on the adolescent golden retriever.

Agrovet is the best clinic in town, run by European vets (who charge European prices). There are a couple of local clinics recently opened by Khmer vets who trained at Agrovet, and I think they're acceptable for most things, but I was apprehensive about their diagnostic capabilities -- I didn't know if they have either the skill or the equipment to figure out what is wrong with a cat, given a vague list of symptoms by a neurotic human. 

Dr. Emma concurred that such aberrant behaviour suggests some malaise, but what, exactly? Crumpet had no fever, no vomiting or diarrhea. Her ears and mouth looked normal. The doc ran her fingers down the length of the cat's back, and that did the trick. Crumpet snarled and howled when the fingers pressed against her lower spine.  Oh no, I thought, kidney failure?  The lab assistant took her off to the back room to draw the blood for a kidney function check.  (They draw the blood from the jugular, and I've heard it's extremely painful, so sensible vets send the cats out of the humans' sight to do this.)  I was enormously relieved to learn that her kidneys are working normally. Dr. Emma concluded that the cat had somehow hurt her back -- maybe a fall? Given that Crumpet is a tad graceless, this is certainly in the realm of possibility. She withstood one more needle jab for an anti-inflammatory injection, the receptionist alleviated the inflammation in my wallet by $50, and we came home again. As soon as we got home, the Crumps devoured a massive serving of brunch. 

Now, on this Tuesday night, I listen to to the light rain and to Yee, the landlady, swinging in the creaky metal swing in the front courtyard. Crumpet is next to me, cleaning her face. Editing jobs are starting to flow in regularly over the internet. Life continues to be quite marvellous.