Traffic and ice cream

Most people I know like ice cream. But the traffic of Phnom Penh is mostly endured, feared or despised.

I love it. I love being amongst the scooters and motorbikes, bicycles, carts, cars and landrovers, street sellers, street sweepers, and over loaded trucks, as we all weave around each other and pot-holes in a mad, crazy dance.

I learnt to ride a motorbike in our first few weeks in Cambodia. The thrill of achievement was comparable to when I learnt to ski - exhilarated at cheating death and injury, while mocking the signs advising us to “always ski in control”.

However, control is essential for negotiating the chaotic traffic, as is an understanding of the seemingly nonexistent rules. Maintain your cool. Be ready of the unexpected. Big always wins. Traffic lights and lines are guidelines only. Forget everything behind you. And don’t ever stop, just keep edging forth slowly. The one time I tried to ride according to the Australian rules through an intersection I quickly became entangled with a confused fellow traveller.

Deemed too unsafe for children (me and the motorbike), we gained permission to purchase a tiring tomato red Corolla. This is now my main form of transport for going to the shops, trips to the doctor, visiting friends, taxiing visitors, attending meetings and going out as a family.

For our family outings Steve usually drives. He hates the traffic but he hates not being in control even more. But tiredness and stress affect his ability to remain calm and our trips are often dotted with various exclamations. His agitation began to grate on me but my urgings to “get over it” only seemed to fuel his frustration (particularly if I was the reason he was in a rush).

Finally, we came up with a compromise. Every time he got annoyed with someone he would say the word “ice cream”. It quickly became the main topic of conversation in the car. “I feel like an ice cream”. “Give me more ice cream”. “Chocolate fudge and vanilla ice cream!”.

But our six year old soon admonished his Dad. “I still know what you are saying. It would be better not to say anything, you know.” The four year old disagreed… starting yet another back-seat argument.

On Friday night we went out for (you guessed it) ice cream. Tired after a hard week at work and already one hour in traffic, Steve pressed the keys into my hand. “Wanna drive?”

I grabbed them with silent glee. Bring on the ice cream!