Not OK: The Tuk-Tuk Ride From Hell
Kent Cranford, an alumn World Racer from January 2013's M Squad, experienced this during his time in Cambodia. Here, he imagines what it might be like to be a tuk-tuk driver–someone who drives a small bike-cart form of public transportation–whose job it is to bring prostitutes to their clients.
You close your eyes as you wipe away the sweat forming on your forehead.
You look down at your watch and realize you've got to go. A quarter till 11. It seems like the clock never changes. You receive a text that simply says, “I'm ready.” You hop on your tuk-tuk and head towards the nicest hotel in town.
You arrive and see him standing there. He's always the same. Suit. Tie. Hair combed back. Cigarette in his mouth. “Better late than never” he says as he shakes your hand and hops in the back.
You don't have to ask for the destination. You already know. You're heading towards the land of neon lights. The place where everything is different.
As you turn left followed by a right, you get closer. The lights that were in the distance a few minutes ago have surrounded you completely. Everywhere you look, women scream for your passenger's attention. Ignoring them, he types a message on his phone, he tells you to hurry the hell up. So you do.
You pull up to a little bar. You know the place. Your uncle owns it.
As you pull up to the door and stop, you see her walk out of the door. Her dark skin shines. Her hair flows. Her makeup done perfectly. She looks as if she walked out of the pages of a magazine.
You hop off your seat and help her into the cab of your ride.
“Hey sweetie…” you hear the man say.
You feel it. You know what's about to happen.
“To the hotel…”
Your head bows. You can't do anything about it.
As you look to the door of the bar, you see your uncle there. Watching. Waiting. Grinning.
As you drive off, another Tuk-Tuk drives up behind you with another man in the cab. Another woman walks out.
All you can hear in your head are his words, "Hey sweetie". You know her outcome is the same. You head towards the hotel.
You pull into the hotel and the man escorts the woman from the vehicle. As she wait for him to pay, you see a tear fall down her cheek. You feel it. The weight of the world is in that tear.Yet, you do nothing.
“Be back in a couple hours” says the man.
“Yes sir…couple hours…I'll be here."
As the man takes his prize for the night inside, you light up another cigarette.
Each inhale feeling like slow motion. With every breath of smoke, the reality of what is happening inside Room 201 hits you.
The woman, she isn't a woman. She's far from it. While she may look 21, she's not a day older than 15.
To escape the guilt you feel, you crack open the whiskey bottle you keep in your jacket. The smell of bourbon fills the air and soothes your pain momentarily. As you think of the girl, Dalis, you can't help but wonder, “Is it worth it?”
The hundred dollar bill in your pocket says yes, the heart inside of you says no.
As the hours pass, you grow weary. You fade in and out of sleep in your own sweat while laying on the leather cushions in your cab. You hear a voice. As you look up, you see the man and the girl.
You see the smug look on his face as he comes out in nothing but his undershirt and pants.
You look at her, she doesn't look the same.
She isn't glowing. The way she lit up the road earlier has burned out. Her hair covers most of her face. Mangled. Dress torn down the side. As the man kisses her goodbye, he whispers something in her ear.Each word like a knife to her soul. You can tell by the tears that stream as she tries to keep her composure in the moment.
He lifts her into the cab and gives her one last kiss on the cheek. You drive off. You don't speak, and neither does she.
You pull up to the same bar. It's 3:30 in the morning. Lights that were flashing are now completely turned off. All you see is your uncle sweeping by the front door.
She exits the cab and turns around and looks at you.
You see the bruise covering her right eye and the scrape above her forehead.
You know how it happened, and so does she.
Was it worth it? Was it worth not doing anything?
As your uncle ushers her inside the bar, he walks up to you.
“Here's your take,” he says as he hands you a twenty dollar bill.
You look at the money, put it in your pocket, shake his hand and say, “I have another client lined up for tomorrow already.”
“Good…I'll have Dalis ready around the same time as tonight”
You nod your head and start the engine. As you make it back home and begin to clean your cab, you feel everything.
Instead of stopping though, you scrub away the pain and hurt as you do every night and wipe your seats clean. In your mind, you're washing your hands of what had happened. It wasn't you. You were just the driver, the middle man, the person who could do nothing to stop it. Not tonight. Not ever.
You finish up and head over to the convenience store open across the road. You find a bottle of whiskey and take it to the counter.
“That'll be $18.40, sir,” the cashier says.
You reach in your pocket and find the $20 that represents Dalis's worth and time freezes.
The images of the night burn in your mind. And your heart.
You hand away the bill…
“Keep the change.”
While the story above is one that I thought of, it happens. It's real.
It takes place every day in cities such as Phnom Penh, and yes, even back in your hometown. My second night here, a tuk-tuk driver told me that he could take me to “get a Vietnamese woman for cheap” and when I declined, he snarled back with,
“She doesn't know how to say no. Only yes. You can do whatever you'd like”…
Whatever I'd like.
I'd like to buy her. I would.
I'd love to show her more than what she gets nightly and has to constantly endure. That there's light. That there's somebody who loves her with everything in this world and wants to know her. Wants to romance her. Wants to show her how worthy she truly is in His eyes. Wants to simply be with her…for all the right reasons, not the wrong ones.
But I can't. Not now.
So I do all I can. I pray. I weep. I feel her pain with each rain drop that serves as a tear from the Lord. I share it as if it's my own.
In each moment, I allow God to peel back another layer that surrounds my heart, each time allowing Him to show me what love really means.
To not only let give it out, but to let it come in. To appreciate what I have and declare with everything inside me that this is my passion. That it's unacceptable for this to simply be a standard men have to live up to in this culture and my own. It's not that of a man, it's that of a boy.
When will it stop? Today? Tomorrow? Or never?
If this blog touches you, even a little bit, stand up for it. Pray. Weep. Give God a few minutes and ask Him to give you the heart of those who endure a pain unlike anything we've ever felt. Step into their shoes and ask yourself if you can honestly continue to sit back and do nothing while this injustice continues all over the world. Don't run from it. Run towards it. Speak up for those who can't speak.
I still have $7850 left to raise in order to be fully funded for my 11 month mission trip. Please help me not only make it to the mission field, but to stay there! Your prayers and support mean more to me then you know.
