A Word on Motorbike Taxis

Like I've said before, Thailand is commonly referred to as "The Land of Smiles", based on the pleasant, 'anything-goes' attitudes of the country's population. But after countless missed collisions on the back of motorbikes, seatbelt-less cabs, and vans barreling down expressways at 150 km/hour, I propose that we toss out the "Smiles" and christen the country with a much more fitting nickname:

"The Land of Extremely Dangerous Methods of Transportation"

At the start of my commute every morning, I place my life into the hands of one of the motorbike taxi drivers who sit outside my apartment building. The Metro is a bit too far to walk to, and it's only a 75-cent ride on the back of a bike. By now I've come to recognize every different driver, so I know what the ride to the Metro will be like before I even sit down on the back of the bike. Take this morning, for instance. I walked out with relief to find the old, chubby dude who prefers an even-paced ride down the quiet backstreets, easing on the brakes at every speedbump while I sit comfortably on his spacious bike seat. Riding on the back of his bike is actually fun, and I don't feel like I'm going to go into cardiac arrest every 2.5 seconds.

So today I got lucky. Yesterday, not so much. My stomach dropped as I walked out of the building and saw him - the driver with the neon "Spiderman" gloves. This guy must be about twenty years old, and he seems to get a real kick out of scaring the living crap out of me (or any other helpless victim who is forced onto the back of his bike.) As he sped toward me in a cloud of tire-burning smoke, I took a deep breathe and took off my earrings and sunglasses, knowing that these things were bound to fly off at the extreme speeds this guy was capable of. After throwing the accessories into my purse, I hopped onto the back of the bike and assumed my usual "Dear-Buddha-Let-Me-Live" position, one hand gripping the driver's waist and the other behind me on the bike's back handle. I managed to keep my eyes open for the first few seconds of the ride, enough to watch the amused looks on the other driver's faces as we hurled towards the first speedbump in the road. I saw the chubby old man dozing off on the back of his bike, waiting for the next lucky customer. Worst. Timing. Ever.

As we flew meters in the air at every speedbump, I knew that the worst was yet to come. Unlike the dozy old man and his backstreets, this speed-demon prefers the crowded lanes of the expressway as a route to the Metro. As we slid into a three-foot wide space between two speeding buses, I had the same internal debate that I'd had so many times before in this same situation: should I just close my eyes and go with it, or is it worth an attempt to look ahead so I will at least have some warning when death becomes imminent? I decided to close my eyes, imagining that I was somewhere far away from the speeding buses, maybe sipping from a coconut on some tropical beach. I imagined the speed-induced wind sending my hair flying into my eyes as a cool ocean breeze.

The daydream granted me a momentary escape until...SCREEEEEECH! Speed Racer ground to a halt at the stairs leading up to the Metro. With a shaking hand, I reached into my wallet and pulled out a 20-baht note (still not really sure how I feel about paying somebody to almost get me killed), and slowly walked toward the train station entrance. I had survived the first half of my morning commute once again. At least this will help me kick my caffeine habit - who needs coffee when you've got a motorbike ride to wake you up every morning?