The Cambodian Cow On My Luggage

The bus is a large, garish, colorful affair. The outside is a narcissist’s wet dream, completely coated with a gleaming mirrored surface so that everyone may see how hot, sweaty and generally disheveled one has become during his or her travels. The bright Cambodian sun bounces happily off the practical mirrored exterior; our baggage is roughly shoved in the bottom of the bus and herded to our seats, we are off.

The massive shining, tacky, gem-stone, traffic-accident-waiting-to-happen of a bus is filled with Americans, Canadians, Australians, Chinese and a few Cambodians. An international bus as there ever was, it plows on. An Australian behind me jumps when he realizes there is a random scrappy dog that has taken up lodging under his seat. He ponders the facilities of the bus out loud to no one in particular, wondering if that extra three dollars he paid for the insurance of a toilet and a complimentary bottle of water actually paid off. He asks one of the bus crew about the toilet and is greeted with a blank stare accompanied by an unconcerned shrug of indifference and finally the back of a head. He continues politely interrogating the staff as they walk by and each time is greeted with the same casual glance of disinterest followed by a lengthy silence. An Asian American guy behind him holds up a plastic bag: “I think this is it, dude.” He chuckles, happy that he went before he got on the bus. The Aussie looks disgruntled.

The driver is an impatient, aggressive driver. He zooms along the narrow roadways between Phnom Penh and Siem Reap at a fairly speedy pace. His eyes narrow in determination and his palm remains hovering over the horn, finding great delight in honking loudly, warning any lesser beings on the road of the bus’s impending arrival. Motos, tuk tuks, pedestrians, animals, school-children, nuns – no one is safe.

The hours creep on by as the bus rushes maniacally through village after village, field after field, clearing a path with its high-pitched wail of a honk. It begins to give the trip a rhythm and beat. And then, over my crappy iPod headphones, I hear that the heartbeat of the bus has changed.

The horn has become a constant drone. The pulse is racing. The bus starts to slow. We swerve. There is a terrific THUD.

THWANK.
THUNK
CLUNK
CLONK
WHUMP

We uncomfortably jostle over something on the road and the bus finally slows to a guilty ritardando stop.

Everyone’s eyes have gone wide, no doubt fearing we have just hit a moto driver or a somber looking monk with a lovely, fashionable, bright orange umbrella attempting to cross the street. But no – the massive thud was a cow. A poor, white, underfed looking cow that had mistakenly wandered into the middle of the road.

There is a tangible air of uncertainty, doubt and horror in the air. True to their stereotypical gender roles, the girls look terrified, the boys, excited. Several people – crew and passengers alike get off to assess the damage both to the cow and the bus. A portion of the bus’s windshield is severely cracked, but the damage is superficial compared to that of the cow. The poor creature’s back legs have been broken and, clearly unable to move with comfort, it struggles to drag itself pathetically off the road.

The bus backs up to the amazement of the unnerved passengers. Are they attempting to run the cow over again to put it out of its misery? There is much non-committal standing around and even more looking puzzled at the cow, but no one seems to be doing much to help it. Despite the immense amount of pain the cow must have been in her great brown eyes look calm, resigned and peaceful.

The crew seems to come to an agreement and to everyone’s utter shock and amazement a few men begin removing their jackets and unbuttoning their shirts. The boyfriend of the girl sitting in front of me has gotten off to see the spectacle up close and mouths something clearly to her from outside: “They’re… putting… the… cow… on… the… BUS!!” He gesticulates wildly to the bus, his blue eyes wide with excitement.

A few Cambodians begin attempting to lift the sad animal, grabbing her by her shattered limbs and looping makeshift ropes through her great nuzzly nose. The cow writhes on the sandy ground, the movements causing a large wound on its rump to become visible. It leaves patches of bright, red blood on the ground, which the sand thirstily soaks up.

It’s impossible. There doesn’t seem to be anyway the cow is going to fit. The bus is jam packed full of tourists who have all come to Cambodia with enough baggage to last them at least a week – because who would really come to Cambodia for a night or two?

But, after much pain, struggle, sweat and shoving, the cow has magically disappeared from my window seat’s line of view. All that’s left is a dried pool of blood on the dirt road.

The cow is now stored directly under my seat undoubtedly suffering one of the most uncomfortable rides in the History of the Bus.

Please fasten your seatbelts.

Your cow is stored securely under your seat.

I am concerned for the cow.

“Someone should have called a vet,” says the girl in front of me.

“A VET?! HAH!” says a man across the aisle. He appears to be around fifty to fifty-five years old but obviously still has a sense of adventure. His grey bushy hair is pulled back in a long ponytail and he’s wearing a loose white tank top, his arms and torso well tanned, sagging and freckled from the hot Asian sun.

“You don’t need a vet to kill a cow. Should’ve just taken the animal out of its misery. All you need is a rock – a boulder – swift blow to the head. That’d do the trick.”

As inhumane as that sounds, it may have been the less painful option than stuffing a fully-grown, dying, injured cow under a bus and taking it along for the remaining four-hour drive.

As concerned as I am for the cow, I also can’t but help but be, perhaps equally, concerned for my precious luggage, which I picture unloading later drenched and dripping with cow’s blood. I imagine sending home the various postcards and souvenirs to my family with small notes tacked on: “Don’t be alarmed at the bits of red here and there. That’s only genuine Cambodian cow blood. How authentic!” I present my bloody omiage – previously cute, innocent looking elephant key chains and authentic Cambodian chopsticks now blood-stained and mucky to my coworkers, assuring them, “In Cambodia, cow’s blood is lucky!”

The guy in front of me had helped to stuff the cow into the bus and takes his time to carefully wash his hands with bottled water and cleanse them with wipes his girlfriend had supplied. As he gets back on the bus he leans over and mutters to his girlfriend – “The driver told me to hurry up. Can you imagine?” Indeed the engine had been idling impatiently. Another minute of this dawdling and the horn would have sounded.

The bus whizzes on full of perturbed passengers, luggage fraught with peril and one fast expiring cow.

The driver, seemingly more annoyed at losing valuable time, once again positions his fist grimly over the horn, unconcerned by the moribund cow and nearly picks up another one on the way.

Scenery was something like this:

Guess what the plane served on the ride back?