TRAVERSE 178
the economics dissolved and there was only the universal language of engines and balance, and laughter that held no prejudices.
Back on the trail, the route narrowed to sandy tracks threading between rice paddies. Children ran from stilt houses to wave, their smiles flashing white against sunbrowned skin. Women paused mid-wash at communal pumps to watch our convoy pass. The CRFs kicked sideways occasionally in deep sand, and each save sent a jolt of adrenaline through me. Riding here demanded attention; it rewarded commitment.
By the time we reached Stung Treng, the Mekong had broadened into a slow, muscular presence beside the road. The town itself felt unhurried, dusty streets, low buildings, fishermen mending nets in the shade. We parked the bikes in a neat line outside a small preschool on the outskirts, their red plastics
incongruous against the faded concrete walls.
The children heard us before they saw us. The growl of half a dozen adventure bikes approaching was enough to empty the classroom. They burst out in a wave of curiosity, surrounding the bikes with reverent hands. One boy reached up to touch the headlight as if confirming it was real. Another made exaggerated revving noises, twisting an imaginary throttle.
Inside, the classroom walls were decorated with hand-drawn animals and the Khmer alphabet. The teacher explained that attendance fluctuated with the farming seasons; during planting or harvest, small hands were needed at home. We handed out high-fives, cuddles, and plenty of laughter, simple gestures that the children accepted them with a seriousness that made my throat tighten.
From the saddle of a motorcycle,
TRAVERSE 178