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I’m riding through the back roads of Siem Reap, Cambodia, on the back of a motorbike. As much as I’d love to be the one driving, that just isn’t done in Siem Reap. They’d rather have tourists hire drivers than attempt to drive on their own.
That said, I’m having a great time exploring the temples of Angkor from here – I’d much rather be on a bike than in a tuk-tuk. On the bike in front of us is a family of four: a father driving with a little girl in front of him, a mother on the back holding a baby boy. Just another day in Cambodia!
My driver is trying to make the baby laugh – waving at him, dancing, pointing to him and laughing. The baby stares, his eyes like obsidian marbles.
“You love babies?” I ask my driver.
“Yes!”
“Me, too. You have a baby?”
“No. You have baby?”
“No,” I laugh.
“How old are you?”
Oh, here it comes.
“Twenty-six.”
“Ack!” he chokes. We both laugh.
“Yes, I’m old! I know!” I say.
“Twenty-two, twenty-three is good to have baby.”
“Yeah, that’s nice.”
“Maybe you have baby in September,” he suggests.
We make boom boom today, you have baby in September? I know that’s what he’s thinking. “Jesus Christ, let’s hope not,” I tell him.
As we drive on, the landscape is as dry and dusty as my twenty-six-year-old uterus. And I think to myself…I love my life. I love my life so much. And I love that there’s no baby in it.
Will that change someday? Maybe. Maybe it won’t. For now? Play on, playa.
