And this little piggy went... went...

It's even more fun in the dark. 

Rush hour traffic is never pleasurable, anywhere in the world.  In Phnom Penh, it's just mayhem.  I'm told that there are laws, though no one seems to know what they are, and the police seem to enforce them (read: take random and arbitrary action) only when they're bored or in need of some extra cash. These are the Cambodian traffic laws as I've been able to discern them:

1. The driver of the more costly vehicle always has right-of-way and is never at fault in a collision.
2. Traffic generally stays to the right, but that's optional. (See #3)
3. When moving against traffic, drivers expect to proceed on the inside, nearest the curb. Note:  This includes bicycles, motos, tuktuks and cars. 
4. It's best to proceed confidently through an unmarked, uncontrolled intersection. If you encounter unreasonable drivers who won't give way, behave erratically. Driving your vehicle, regardless of its size, up onto the sidewalk is a standard practice when there's inadequate space on the street. 
5. Driving licenses also appear to be optional; children of 10 or so zoom around the city on motos despite being barely able to reach the controls.
6. Nature and Phnom Penh drivers abhor vacuums.  If there are vacant centimetres, a moto driver will fill them.
7. If you need to transport 5-metre lengths of steel rod through the city on a moto, which is very commonly done, it's ideal to do it outside of rush hour, but this too is a mere suggestion. 

I happened to snap these two fellows when I was riding in a tuktuk.
Mind you, the steel extended many metres in front of and behind them.
As you can see, the moto driver is steering with one hand.
Turning corners is a special thrill for all involved.

I've heard that some countries have passed legislation banning the use of mobile phones whilst driving.  Rest assured, Cambodia is not one of them.  I confess, I marvel at the casual, relaxed posture of the Khmers who zip through traffic, holding their phones with one hand and steering (sort of) their motos with the other.

One of these fellows passed me on a street near my house on Thursday at 6.00pm.  It's a narrow street; two SUVs can't pass each other on it.  It was late dusk, and I felt a light bump on my left as I was cycling. I caught a glimpse of the moto driver, still chattering away on his mobile as he continued on his way. The bump sent my bike just a bit to the right -- just enough for the handlebar to catch on the mirror of a parked car.  I don't really know what happened, and I was lucky to have been moving slowly. The bike jerked; I somehow landed on my feet with the bike still upright.  I hobbled over to the front of the car, out of the traffic, to catch my breath and assess the damage.  Not bad! No blood, bike seemed fine. The only thing that hurt was my right foot.  I must have caught my small toes on the pedal somehow, because my foot looked remarkably like the classic Vulcan greeting -- the three big toes went in one direction, the two small ones in the other.

Live long and prosper... but try to find a universe with more logical drivers.

I continued on to my meeting, and I was blessed that one of the other women there, Jenny, is a nurse practitioner.  She advised me to contact a certain doctor who would likely send me to a clinic with an x-ray machine.  The next morning, I phoned Dr. Marissa, who said she'd like to see the foot before ordering the x-rays.  I cycled -- timidly and painfully -- to her office.  She opined that the fourth toe was fractured, dislocated or both.  I asked if I should proceed to Clinic Aurore for an x-ray.  She was unsure. I asked if she wanted to tape the toes together, and she said something about that making bathing more difficult. (!?!) In the end, she advised me to take 15 ibuprofen and call her on Wednesday, and she charged me $30 for the consultation. I pedalled home with my Mr. Spock foot, stopping at a pharmacy for ibuprofen.

By Saturday morning, the pain and the swelling were reduced, but the bruising was psychodelic, and the displacement was worse -- the fourth toe had come up and over the little toe, seemingly intent on forming a right angle with my foot.  I was dismayed about this, but I was also out of cat food, so I went out to buy the ingredients for a batch of raw food.  I bumped into a friend who looked at my foot and demanded, "Why is that not taped?!"  She sent me to the Clinic Sokhapheap Thmey ("New Health Clinic"), which is one street over from my house.  With saddlebags full of chicken parts, I pedalled up to the clinic and walked in.  That's when I encountered Gloria.

I was standing at the counter filling out a form when a stout woman of about my age or a bit more stomped through the lobby. If Monty Python had ever made a war movie, Gloria would be the one doing triage near the front lines:  "That one's too far gone -- toss him back into the trench! Slice that one open! Off with that leg!"  In my case, she stomped through the lobby and, slowing but not stopping, she stared at my foot. "That is dislocated.  Fix it!" A couple of young Khmer men jumped to their feet as if General Patton had just barked at them.  They led me into a treatment room and examined the foot. They claimed that if there is a fracture, it's in the metatarsals, not in the digit itself. They got a rigid-ish sheet of blue stuff, and they cut and molded it into a splint of sorts, then wrapped half the foot with gauze and tape.  I would like to say that I'm confident that this is just what a doctor [with any sort of skill or qualifications] ordered, but I confess I have some qualms.

At least all of the toes are pointing more or less
in the same direction now. 

I learned today that Gloria is not a doctor, in fact; she's also a nurse-practitioner. I have no idea what qualifications the two Khmer men might have.  They told me to keep the foot splinted for 4-6 weeks.

I keep telling myself, this is not a medical emergency.  Yes, it's painful and inconvenient, but no one ever died from a broken or dislocated toe.  My real worry is the possibility of doing or having done long-term damage to my foot.  I need to keep my feet healthy, as I rely on them for rather a lot.  The problem is, I don't know who to trust or believe here, and I can't keep making $30 visits to one clinic after another. 

My pal Malcolm and I started a conversational group for expats trying to learn Khmer, and one of the regulars is Zoe, a delightful woman from New Zealand who happens to be a physiotherapist. She said she's heard of a couple of foreign osteopaths in Phnom Penh, and she'll try to get their contact details for me. Failing that, I'll probably just carry on with the splint and hope it works out for the best. As it stands now, in retrospect, my best bet would have been to go directly to the pharmacy, spend about $3 for the gauze, tape, and splint-stuff and take the DIY approach.  The general advice to expats in Cambodia regarding health care is this:  If it can't be fixed with a plaster and a Panadol, evacuate to Bangkok. This incident certainly doesn't warrant a medivac to Thailand, but it does suggest that the advice on the street is solid.  

Speaking of Malcolm, he and his friend Lin and I went out one evening for dinner a couple of weeks ago. Malcolm and I ordered some green juice-smoothie things, and Lin snapped our photo. 

Hmm.  Just like Key West.