One for the Road: Not just a job

I’m sitting in a big bus station watching a man dressed in a military jacket aggressively, and seemingly unnecessarily, direct traffic in-and-out of the premises, and it’s doing my heart good.

Slowing down as we approached the station, which looks more like an aircraft hangar than a bus depot, I first caught sight of him. Or should I say, he first imposed himself upon me.

“What is this boy at?” I asked in irritated amazement, as he marched, with an absurd degree of military gusto, from the hard shoulder into the middle of the road, holding up an impassive palm to our tuk-tuk driver.

“Bit much,” I grumbled in solidarity with the taxi man, as, having brought us to a theatrical stop, the Führer of Cambodian Traffic Control literally goosestepped us towards the station, his outstretched arm chopping violently in the same direction he strode.

“That boy is gonna have to retire with ‘dictator’s elbow’ by the time he’s 30 if he keeps that carry-on up,” I baulked.

But the driver, who I hoped would understand my tone if not my actual words, never acknowledged me. Instead, to my astonishment, he gave a huge wagging wave to the traffic tyrant, who, having lifted his lead foot half a metre into the air and performed a perfect military pirouette, now paraded purposefully back across the road, where, with chest puffed and hands clasped behind his back, he would dutifully await his next assignment.

No longer the immediate target of his jerky gesticulations and frankly intimidating intensity of spirit, I’ve been watching him ever since.

The first thing I noticed after getting some distance between us is that, contrary to what I initially thought, he is not wearing full military fatigues. While it is true that his substantial shoulders and kite are snugly enveloped inside a woodland-patterned camouflage jacket, the rest of his uniform consists of a black cap with a yellow peak, grey slacks and a pair of well-worn white and gold Adidas trainers.

“Not exactly standard issue,” I thought.

The next thing I realised was that he is not alone. Indeed, there are two other people, both dressed in the bright orange attire of the bus company, doing the same job as him; though with much less pomp and panache, it must be said.

Indeed, the longer I have spent looking at this fella, trying to decipher his complex and self-designed system of swishing, swirling and swooping hand signals, which I am certain only confuse rather than clarify where the drivers should go, the reality of the situation has gradually dawned on me: This boy might not work here at all. Or if he does, his employment is not subject to the same conditions as those included in the contracts of his colleagues. Where theirs is based on the transactional logic of conventional economics, his role is rooted, plain and simply, in his love of directing traffic in and out of this very depot.

Looking at the way the drivers and other staff laugh affectionately when he is not looking, then adopt an attitude of the utmost seriousness when engaging with him, I can’t help think of a few people from home – whether you call them characters, eccentrics or vulnerable adults – who, though perhaps not the most efficient contributors to the businesses and organisations they serve, are nevertheless treated like the glue that holds the entire enterprise together.

It sounds stupid, but seeing this parallel between here and home has done my heart good.

When you’re travelling, it’s easy to miss overlook the communities you’re passing through. You project your own itinerancy onto everybody else, making it hard to see the thousands of tiny independent worlds you are fleetingly a part of. Every so often though, something happens that wakes you up the reality that, wherever you go, there are these microsocieties shaping and reshaping themselves to make life better for their family, friends and neighbours. This morning, I was reminded of this reaffirming fact by the Führer of Cambodian Traffic Control and the people who elected him to power.

PS: We are now about half an hour into our journey and your man has been riding his scooter about two car-lengths in front of us since we left the station.

There can be no doubt what’s going on: He’s giving us a military escort.

Good luck to him. It’s an eight-hour journey.