My sister was putting some fuel in her car
Saturday afternoon – the dashboard had been bleeping at her for days and the ‘miles-left-until-your-engine-dies’
were getting lower and lower. Whilst we probably could have squeezed the last
twenty-one point five miles out – it wasn’t worth the stress of wondering. As
she filled I busied myself with people-watching (just in case there was a story
there). No burglaries took place, no-one was having a full-scale row with their
partner over the bill, no children were screaming. It was all pretty boring
apart from the man in the passenger seat of the car next to ours. He was
adjacent to the pump (said car having a passenger-side tank) and he was
smoking, with the window down. Now I tend not to be a health-and-safety freak
(despite having been elected Health and Safety Officer in previous lives); I am
happy to play conkers, watch as children run full-pelt down slippery slopes and
I have been known to forget my nieces hats, coats and gloves on cold days. All
that aside, I did think his choice of smoking venue was unusual.
I
watched and listened intently. There were plenty of signs about prohibiting
smoking and the use of mobile telephones. I also know that the pumps are fitted
with speaker systems whereby the attendants can prompt you to tell the pump
where you are paying, enter your pin-code and (witnessed on occasion) tell you
to switch off your mobile so I knew it was only a matter of seconds before this
crazy passenger would get the admonishment he was due. It never transpired and
I was left with palpitations and sweaty palms as I studied the glowing stick –
trying all the while to work out how many seconds smoking he had left and
hoping fervently that he wouldn’t drop the stub out the window. We left before
he finished his smoke but, given that I’ve not heard of any forecourt
explosions, I guess he took his cigarette safely home.
All
of which reminded me of our time in Cambodia. Having just spent a wondrous
three days at Siem Reap, marvelling at Angkor Wat, The Bayon
and all the other architectural and tree-coated delights in the vicinity we
were making our way, by boat to Phnom Phen. It’s a lovely journey along the
Tonlé Sap – which is more a huge lake than a river. The ferries are
rather large but nobody sits down below – well at least back-packers don’t –
they sit on the roof of the boat. This is at once self-preservation (more
chance of survival in an accident) and self-destruction (the breeze, spray and
relentless UV-rays managing to play havoc with even the best protected skin.
About two-thirds of the way along we had to change to a smaller boat, an
interesting exercise given that we were already over-crowded and no-one was
staying behind and the whole exercise takes place mid-river. Once we’d all
managed our ungainly exodus we had to hang around whilst our new boat was
refuelled, from a third boat, again mid-river. Sitting on top we had good views
of the exercise – all carried out straight-forwardly enough, one Cambodian
chatting and shouting the occasional instruction from the fuel-boat whilst two
Cambodians from our boat stood astride the tank inlet, fuel pile trailing
through their feet. And smoking.
