Pick your battles

-If you fight with a 50kg bag of rice for leg room you will lose.

This truism holds if you wage war for one minute, one hour or all day.
A tuk-tuk has a lot in common with an under-developed pickup truck where the bed has been encased in a steel cage, wrapped in a vinyl tarp, and lined with once padded wooden benches. Nothing can make a tuk-tuk comfortable. This is true if you are an over-fed American with a soft ass, a pony tail and a mono brow or you are 5-year old Lao boy dressed in your best overalls and kung-fu t-shirt.

Prior to my last tuk-tuk ride I might have believed that the 5-year old boy had the advantage in this situation. After all, instead of fighting an never ending and losing battle with the rice bags he simply flopped his body on top of one and promptly fell asleep. When the truck bed lurched forward slamming myself and and the 8 other people on the same bench against the cab this little boy briefly awoke only to conclude that we weren't there just yet. This same jolt that barely woke him initiated a game of musical chairs in my spine. (L-4 never found a seat when the music stopped.)


What this boy did not know as he slept: Little men get no respect for their gear and this was going to be a miserable ride for him too.

When he had to pee mom whipped out a water bottle, dropped his overalls to his ankles and rammed the boy's little pecker inside. This is a great method on smooth roads but we were not on a smooth road. Half way between needing to pee and complete relief the tuk-tuk again lurched. The hard mouthed plastic water bottle cum urinal went one way, the little boy went the other. I cringed, the boy screamed, and the clutch of assembled woman laughed. Suzanne helpfully noted "Its not like he has much to hurt yet." I suppose all men learn to look after themselves at some point and this little boy started learning early.

Fortunately for all of us where stagefright had not been a problem pain prevented a loose fire hose from becoming an ultimate protest.

In time the shrieks of pain and the accompanying laughter died down and my fourth lumbar vertebrae logged formal complaint, "If you don't allow me to sit next to my friends L3 and L5 you're going to wish you were that little boy with the bent penis"

I have always found negotiation with my spine to be particularly difficult, "I'll get you a nice massage when we get to Pakse."

"You're a cheap bastard, I don't believe you." And for emphasis, that little PIA, L-4 sent a bolt of lightning through my groin to my foot.

"The massages here are cheap!" I protested, "Its like buying a large latte at Starbucks." Under my breath I added "You little shit.", forgetting that when arguing with your own spine it can always hear you.


"If you call me a little shit one more time and if you renege on this massage promise I'm going to take up gymnastics and start working on my floor routine. I wonder if you'll still be willing to insult me after a few back hand springs."

I make it a point to only cave into blackmail when it's the easiest way out of a situation, "Suzanne, I need to get a massage once we get to Pakse." At this my loving wife rolled her eyes.

"This will be your 5th massage since we left home." I tried to interrupt but she kept going, "Let me guess: your body is insisting on it and if you don't get one you'll suffer terrible and never-ending pain and suffering." Again I tried to interrupt only to be silence again, "Perhaps if you weren't so cheap we would be riding in a VIP air conditioned bus and you wouldn't NEED a massage."

In a brief moment of complete honesty I faltered, "I would probably need a message then too but a good Lao massage is so nice."

I got my massage and got my spine all straightened out. I doubt that the little boy with the crooked penis got so lucky.