My traditional krama scarf kept only some of the dust out of my nose and mouth as my motorcycle driver raced along the packed dirt road and I was soon covered from head to foot in the fine, grey powder. Jim and his driver had taken an alternate route out of town and were nowhere to be seen. I was on the back of a moto with a driver who spoke no English somewhere in the countryside of rural Cambodia. And I was having the time of my life!
