Our Favorite People

Traveling with a group of eight has its distinct drawbacks, the foremost of which is that we rarely get the chance to interact meaningfully with people other than ourselves-- be they fellow travelers or denizens of the places we visit. But two people we have met on our travels have gone above and beyond in demonstrating the hospitality and good-heartedness of their home countries.

The first is The Hostel Man from Bangkok. This receptionist (or concierge) at the hostel did us a service for which we couldn't possibly thank him in words: he led us to food. In the first case, he recommended the restaurant Ao Than to us, an establishment on Khao San Rd. We have reached a consensus that this was the best restaurant at which we ate during the entire trip; we ended up eating there twice. But in that instance, he simply pointed us in the right direction. On another instance, he literally told us to follow him as he led us, in the pouring rain, through myriad back-alleys and the winding stalls of Thai commerce, upstairs to an unmarked establishment serving a Thai-ified version of Vietnamese pho. We knew as soon as we slurped our first noodles from the bowl and drank of our orange Fantas: this was a great man who had led us here.

But believe it or not, Hostel Man's greatness has been eclipsed in our minds by another man: a small, unassuming Cambodian who goes only by the name of Mr. Money.

Needless to say, when we first received the little chit of paper proclaiming that our driver for our three days touring the Angkor temples was named Mr. Money, we had a little laugh to ourselves. But little could we know then that Mr. Money was no laughing matter-- he was an angel incarnate, a living saint, a demi-god perhaps left over from the days of the brilliance of Angkor itself.

This was because Mr. Money was no mere driver. He was so much more than a driver. He was a shepherd, a guide, a balm in times of sickness and want. When it rained, he brought out umbrellas. When we were thirsty, he produced water bottles, cold and inexhaustible. When we were confused, he lent us his Angkor guidebook. When we were done with a temple, he would be cheerfully waiting with the van already started and the A/C fully engaged. He created the perfect temple itinerary for us, and kindly brought us to delicious restaurants for lunch. When we scaled temples and could not muster the courage to come down by ourselves (we meaning Tony), he would ascend and show us the way. And all he asked in return was the total of $65 dollars we paid him for his three days' loyal service, which we supplemented with a $10 tip.

We wondered to ourselves what good, kind Mr. Money must be doing during the long, hot hours that we toured the temples. We concluded that he must be possessed of a brilliant intellect, and that his life away from the steering wheel must be spent as an amateur mathematician. As we climbed ruined structures and pointedly stupidly at big insects, he was, we were sure, writing long and brilliantly formulated proofs in a secret notebook in the glovebox. We sympathized with the setbacks he must face, and sincerely regretted how easily the monsoon winds could break his train of thought and set him back four years. How cruel life must be as an undiscovered genius, a diamond in the rough!

We even formulated a Mr. Money song. It is sung to the tune of Baby Monkey (see Youtube), and goes a little something like this:

Mr. Money
Mr. Money
Driving in a van
Mr. Money

Mr. Money
Mr. Money
Solving Theorems
Mr. Money

We need more lyrics; please send your suggestions to aseem.a.shukla@gmail.com.