There have been instances of regret
in my life where I felt completely helpless to contribute to situations that
could determine the life or death of somebody else. I think most of us can
relate to a particular instance in our lives where we watched something happen
when we could have helped in one way or another. There was that time I was driving
home from work and a young university girl talking on a cell phone cleaned a guy
out who was walking across the street. I was the first vehicle behind her and I
watched the entire thing unfold from the point he stepped out into the street,
to the point his body rolled off the windshield and smashing it into pieces, to
the point where he lay shaking in the fetal positing in the other lane. I was
less than a meter away from him on my motorbike and the unsung hero inside of
me had no voice that day. I sat on my motorcycle and stared at him on the ground
while he was shaking, it’s not that I didn’t want to help, because I did, but I
simply didn’t know how. Overwhelmed by shock I remember only a few things after
that, one of them being a woman who I recall walking home from work two blocks
earlier had knelt down next to him and yelled over to me to call an ambulance.
I didn’t, I couldn’t, I had no breath in my lungs and no blood in my veins, I
couldn’t move. Judging by the distance she had to walk before reaching the accident,
I must have been watching him for over a minute before she took control of the
situation. The young girl was of course in hysterics, still not quite believing
what had just happened and of course, like me, was no help to the injured man
on the ground. I watched for another five minutes as more people gathered to
comfort him and help while the ambulance made its way to the scene. I simply
drove away in complete confusion of what I had just experienced.
There have been other instances such as riding
a midnight train in Australia when the girl sitting opposite of me fell to the
floor in a seizure. Knowing enough to stabilize them and prevent them from
hitting their head while the seizure passed, I was still concreted to the floor
and chained to my seat.
More recently at
a beach in Vietnam, four Vietnamese kids went into the water fully clothes with
jeans and shirts and started drowning because they didn’t know how to swim. Yet
again, within arms distance away I couldn’t do anything, I didn’t know what to
do or how to do it. If you’ve ever found yourself in a similar situation than
you’ll know what I mean when I say it feels like shit. Knowing that we can help
but not quick or brave enough to act, it eats away at my inside. Knowing that
those precious seconds of indecisiveness and delayed reaction could cost
somebody their life.
After each occasion
I always reflect on it and promise myself that if it ever happens again, I
won’t be the helpless bystander holding the statue stance. Ironically enough I
got to put this into practice sooner than anticipated.
The day after I watched the kids
drowning and being saved by other people, I was back at the same beach, in the
same place enjoying an afternoon of lazing in the shade. The screams and cry’s
for help still echoed in my mind as the warm sand kissed my feet and gentle
breeze tickled at the sweat trickling down my back.
But with the breeze brought a familiar sound,
a sound I knew and thought about allot in past 24 hours. It was the sound of
disparity and fear; it was the sound of people drown
ing…. Again. The only thing different this time was I was ready for
it. I had just spent the past day thinking about all the things I could have
and should have done but this time it was impulse that pumped my legs towards
the water instead of the fear that cemented them down so many times before.
They were three older Vietnamese men who got pulled out a little ways beyond
where their feet could touch. My twisted ankle felt no pain as I did the Pamela
Anderson Bay Watch sprint and dive into the water, remembering to spike my
headband in the sand before committing myself to getting wet (maybe for the
extra effect). I was quick enough to save two of them before more helped
arrived to save the last guy. It was all over in less than a minute where I was
back, heart racing, sitting on the sand in the shade under a coconut tree. Contrary
to what I thought it would feel like to be the hero of the day, I was
embarrassed for the men and mostly annoyed with their ignorance of water
safety. If I hadn’t of saved them, someone else would have so I didn’t expect a
parade and banners to be flown in my favor so the day just kind went on like it
was clock work. Personally though, I was proud to finally follow through with
my own threats to react instead of stutter. So unlike the previous night, it
felt good to know that I did everything I could in a situation where my actions
could define the fate of life or death for someone other than myself. I was
proud and happy, as I should have been, however little did I know what this new
responsibility meant because not all perilous situations have happy endings and
unfortunately neither does this story.
I’ve been warned, preached to,
educated, and advised about the dangers of driving a motorcycle and still with
the consistently proven statistics; it can’t keep me off of them. It’s probably
the most encouraging factor as the risk taker I like to think of myself as
being. That being said, there are things that can certainly slow me down and what
I experienced yesterday was the first time in my life I ever honestly
considered given them up. I like to drive fast, in fact I’ve already been in a
bad motorcycle accident in Vietnam because of my overzealous throttle grip and
still it wasn’t enough to slow me down. I had just dropped out of a 2000 meter
decline along a mountain pass heading for Nha Trang on the Central Coast of
Vietnam. Maxing my wimpy little 110 cc Honda Win out in top gear down the
awesome pristine curvy roads, the adrenaline was still pumping as I checked my
rear view mirror to see I’ve lost view my German friend Tim who was trying to
keep up with me on his Russian Minsk. I was grinning and cocky about my
superior leaning and perfect apex turns with the delusion that I was driving a
real motorbike but in reality it’s only a scooter. I cracked the throttle even
harder as I went into a long smooth bend and that’s when this motorcycle trip
exposed the dark side and reality of the dangers involved with driving a
motorbike, especially in Vietnam. I knew by the eerie silence that there had
been a bad accident, the shards of plastic and glass lay still and undisturbed
like a fresh snowfall in the streets at night. I knew I was the first person to
see the accident as the fuel and coolant from what remained of the crumpled
motorbike still trickled from the wreck making a fresh stream down the road.
Being it had only been a week since I saved those men from drowning, I was
reminded of the last time I was the first person behind the scene of an accident.
This is one instance is where being the frozen statue probably would have
served me better. I jumped off my bike and ran towards the man lying face down
in an awkward unnatural bodily position. I saw the cargo truck fifty meters
beyond with a trail of debris leading up to it painting a picture of the events
that occurred moments before I rounded that same corner. It was a truck and a
motorcycle and he lay on the ground motionless, I knew what ever happened, it
was bad and bad enough that the next few minutes of my actions could define if
this man lives or dies. As I reached the man I was about to extend my fingers
to his neck and check for a pulse. I’m not a medical expert in anyway but there
was a sudden natural realization that I didn’t need to touch him to know the
extent of his injuries. There was no need to check for a pulse, I knew there
would be none. The shock factor set in pretty quick as my only reaction was to
run back to my bike muttering oh shit, oh *&%#, he’s dead.
The silence that surrounded us when my friend
Tim caught up to me was deafening. Even the birds and crickets could sense the
tragedy that had just occurred. The driver of the truck was M.I.A and it was
just Me, Tim, and the body of this man who’s wife and children are about to go through
the toughest experience of their lives. Knowing that there was nothing more
that could be done for him and by the odd disappearance of the driver, we knew
that sticking around for the police to arrive is a definite no no in Vietnam. I
don’t think my speedometer passed 40km/h for the remaining journey into the
city as I had to fight back the dry heaving erg to puke inside my helmet
thinking about what I had just witnessed. I’ve come to terms with it and knew I
was going to see something like it along the way considering the 300,000 Annual
motorcycle deaths in Vietnam. But it’s like any realization, like how we know
our grandparent has died and no matter how much we think about it or suppress
our emotions, nothing can prepare us for the moment we touch their cold hand as
they lay peacefully in their casket. It was a helpless and awful thing to see
and I may never feel the same way about driving again but as a young reckless
risk taker, it’s probably the most important thing I could have seen on this
trip. We’re not invincible, no one can live forever, we’re fragile creatures
with unrealistic ideas of life expectancy. Life is a gift and sometimes we need
reminding of how truly grateful we need to be with our limited amount of time
in this world. I know that the only reason it was another man’s body on the
ground and not mine is pure luck, I knew the risks involved in what I do but
only recently have I realized them. He may have made the ultimate sacrifice,
but if it makes me a better driver and prevents another accident similar to
this one, his death will not be in vain.
Love , live, laugh, and drive
safely.
I
happened to be in a bar, talking to a super hot girl from Denmark. The stories
were usually answers to questions she had about my bike trip and as the stories
I told her reflected the stories I write in my blog, slightly depressing with
glimmers of hope, sad and tragic, usually over dramatic. Before I knew it we
both sat there silently with a table between us, thinking about the tragedies
and sorrow of some of the experiences in my life, neither one of us feeling the
urge to lunge across the table and seduce the other in furry of saliva exchange
and curious fingers. Those are good stories but not the type that get you a
mouth exam from a Danish med student’s tongue. So being the charmer I am, I
told her the story about one of the most embarrassing, humiliating, awful, yet
funny stories about the time I shit my pants in Vietnam. It’s not generally a
story most people flaunt or brag about but I’ve told a few people prior to this
in more of a confession format rather than a story and the results have been
surprisingly hilarious. By the time my beer was almost finished and the last
details of that dreaded day were explained, I found a beautiful girls arm
around my neck and a hand clenched against my knee as she braced herself from
the rib splitting laughter that brought tears to her eyes. Some guys talk about
surfing 35’ waves, some guys just wear a muscle shirt and look pretty, I tell
girls the story about the time I shit myself and I can guarantee you they will
understand me allot better than the other guys when I dash off mid meal on our
first date to an Indian restaurant. 
I had
been in Vietnam for over a month already; I had had gut rot and diarrhea since
Papua New Guinea three months prior. Succumbing to the crippling pain in my
stomach and endless rolls of toilet paper, I went against my unreasonable manly
stigma about going to the doctor. “The last time I saw I doctor was when I had
a brain eating parasite in Africa and I would have died if I didn’t see a
professional” I preached to the Physician in the clinic who sorted me out with
some basic Anti parasite medication and de worming tablets. I woke up one morning
after nearly a week in my hotel room bed in Hanoi feeling healthy and
revitalized. More importantly I fought the urge to sell my bike and head back
home because up until this point my trip was pretty shit, little did I know how
shitty it was about to get. My morals were high and my spirit to finish the
trip and enjoy myself was barely enough to leave the city behind me and embark
on a new adventure all alone this time. 
I left
early in the morning to beat the rush hour traffic in the city and skipped
breakfast all together. Reaching the country side and the open road it was
nearly ten o’clock and my stomach did a good job at reminding me of the
forgotten meal. A nice little family restaurant on the side of the road sent my
stomach into a throbbing belly ache at the sight of it. As the only customer,
the woman tending the hot pots of rice and boiling soup was shy and excited
that a white guy on a motorbike was in her front room looking for some food. I
ordered my meal using all the best and polite Vietnamese words I knew and she
was so overjoyed I was concerned she wanted to adopt me. So far so good, this
is much better than feeling sorry for myself in a hotel room. ‘I can’t believe
I forgot how fun it was to ride a motorcycle through this country’. My Pho
Noodle soup came in a delicious waft of garlic, beef, and mint leaf. I don’t
handle spicy foods well and I know this, but like that last beer that tips us
over the edge and we know we shouldn’t have, a scoop of chilly fell from my
spoon and mixed among the mid-morning feast. Mistake #1. It was hot, I mean
really hot so an Ice Coffee helped wash it all down. Mistake #2. I don’t even
drink coffee and there’s a good reason for that. Full of hot liquids, chilies,
and coffee, I hit the road again before anything had a chance to hit bottom.
The drive
was nice but like any road in Vietnam, it was bumpy. The constant ups and downs
have a tendency to loosen things up on the inside. The final hump into the
small rural town was enough to dislodge whatever forces where holding the
torrent at bay. It was urgent but I still had a few minutes grace before all
hell broke loose so I needed not panic… Unfortunately however I just drove into
the biggest small town in Vietnam. I dare not stop because most restaurants
only have a trough out back to pee in for men and women, asking to use a toilet
without buying a meal is absolutely unheard of in Vietnamese culture so my best
bet was to take a jungle dump once I got to the other side of the town. The
houses just kept on going and the pot holes and bumps in the road just kept
getting worse. I painfully counted at the kilometer markers, ticking away each
km as it was a new Olympic record. Six kilometers later I hit the end of the
metropolis but with the extra speed also brought a more ruthless barrage of ups
and downs on my seat. Tears in my eyes, I came to skidding stop onto a grassy
shoulder next to a lightly forested patch of trees. I couldn’t drop my bike
with all the weight strapped down on it in fear of breaking off indicators,
clutch levers, and mirrors. I desperately struggled like a rabbit caught in a
snare to get my bike up on its center stand but the slope of the hill,
compounded by the soft ground and weight on the rack made my predicament very
bad. Using all my core strength to lift my bike and the shift between sitting
to standing was a cocktail of unpleasant movements, it was like a script for
the sequel of ‘The Perfect Strom’. The chili soup and coffee tore at my insides
screaming for freedom, someone just turned on a washing machine in my stomach, drain
cycle. A heroic fight but the battle was lost the moment I left the comfort of
my porcelain throne that morning. Against my best efforts for control, I was defenseless
against the chemical bomb that just exploded inside my gut. It came. I stood
there shitting my pants on the side of the road watching the gruesome stares I
received from families on motorbikes driving past. All I could do was keep my motorbike on its
wheels and wait until the gush of partially digested food finished oozing from
all escape roots out of my briefs, off the legs of my shorts and down the back
of my legs.
There’s
a sudden change of mentality as everything switches from panic and disparity to
disbelief and shock. There was a small muddy stream just down the embankment
and it took every bit of optimism and positive thinking to salvage my pride and
moral from this unfortunate event. “no big deal, il just clean myself off down
there, wash my clothes and put new ones on” All good in theory but of course
shitting your pants in Vietnam is never so practical. My bike popped up on its
center stand with ease (of course it did) I trudged down the embankment being
careful to remember where I walked as I left a trail of human fertilizer on any
bush or tree that brushed me on my way past. I did my very best to be
methodical about the order of cleaning myself off but I’m not ashamed to say I
was new at this and it got everywhere. Now humiliation is a funny thing, I’ve experienced
it allot life and thought I was calloused to it even in this situation however
the man mustering his heard of water buffalo introduced me to a whole new
level.
Anybody
who’s been to Vietnam will know that the people have little to no boundaries
about privacy and personal space. The one man who saw it all whilst grazing his
buffalo took it upon his rightful duty to call everyone he knew and invite his
extended family to the spectacle of the white guy who just shit himself in his
front yard. At that point I was completely naked crouched in the muddy stream
washing away the embarrassment that coated the lower half of my body. Now there
is humiliation and then there is this, men and women alike dismounted their
motorbikes and grouped around at the top of the river bank plugging their noses
and giggling as they took cell phone pictures of me like I was monkey doing
tricks for biscuits. This wasn’t the way I had planned on going viral on YouTube.
It seemed like nothing could possibly get worse but it did. In my rage of self-consciousness
and anxiety, I clumsily dunked my soiled shorts into the muddy stream to clean
them however I forgot my blackberry and money were still inside the pockets.. I
was considering calling my mom and crying but I couldn’t even do that because
my phone was now dead. Eventually all the spectators except the guy grazing his
stock left and I also continued on my way. Moral of the story is that if you’re
going to shit yourself, you mind as well do it with a smile on your face and
throw up the peace sign. 
