Tuk tuk? Tuk tuk! Tuk tuk. TUK TUK.

“Tuk tuk? Tuk tuk! Tuk tuk. TUK TUK. TUK TUK!!!!” Blinking, we emerge into the bright, harsh Cambodian sunlight for the first time. Phnom Penh’s airport seems to be an airport in disguise. With a red wooden paneled exterior, it’s more akin to an American ranch resort than an international airport. The customs officer waves us by with disinterest as she continues chatting with a lounging guard.

“Tuk tuk? Tuk tuk! Tuk tuk. TUK TUK. TUK TUK!!!!” Hoards of eager drivers wait outside the airport scoping out the very obvious disoriented travelers who have groggily exited the pseudo-airport, bags clutched nervously at their sides. They wait and unabashedly stare as their bewildered prey makes their way to the foreign currency counter to exchange a bit of money for local riel. They shrewdly wait until a nice hefty wad of clean bills has been slid under the window only to be followed by another and yet another. With the largest local bill being 10,000 riel (roughly about 2.50USD), this causes even a small exchange of a hundred dollars to make one’s wallet explode. I manage to shut what is now George Castanza’s wallet, dreading the thought of my next receipt.

“Tuk tuk? Tuk tuk! Tuk tuk. TUK TUK. TUK TUK!!!!” The word sounds like it might mean ‘hello.’ Simple, easy to remember, welcoming and common, this word is uttered at every foreigner on average a thousand times a day. Phnom Penh would be a very quiet town if it weren’t for the tuk tuk. Named for the sound its idling engine makes, the tuk tuk carts around tourists, locals and monks alike. Without the tuk tuk there would be no sputtering engines and the daily conversation (which, based on my experience, mostly involves the exchange: “Tuk tuk? TUK TUK! TUK TUK!!” “No tuk tuk. No tuk tuk,”) would gravely suffer.

“Tuk tuk? Tuk tuk! Tuk tuk. TUK TUK. TUK TUK!!!!” The cry only stops when one is physically in a tuk tuk. But even then the solace is fleeting, for once a vigilant eye has spotted even a toenail leaving a tuktuk’s premises the solicitation continues. Flashes of orange race by as somber looking monks sit comfortably on the back of motos, their colorful robes carefully gathered away from the engine as they brazenly hold on to nothing. Whole families zip here and here, children tucked in between parents or sitting carefree on their laps. A family of five goes cruising by on a single moto and my jaw drops seeing the three tiny children, all helmet-less, blithely riding around nearly perched on the handlebars and tailpipe.

“Tuk tuk? Tuk tuk! Tuk tuk. TUK TUK. TUK TUK!!!!” Their persistence is almost admirable. But liking to be difficult we take a cab.

A tuk tuk for reference

And a moto with a monk to compare