I want to ride my bicycle...

The transport revolution is two-wheeled, and Asia is the hub. I love cycling here, and it’s still by far the best form of travel. Today, however, was not my finest hour in the saddle.

I should have read the signs. With admirable gusto for a Monday morning I stride to work to start writing the report of our recent hospital assessment. My nurse colleague is delayed as there are no taxis – one comes along in a few hours so no panic. Happily the electricity seems to be working, so we do get going on the computer before it’s noodles and pumpkin time.

On our return from lunch we realise the power is a cruel hoax – the mains is actually off, it's just that the emergency generator is on to fan the visit of a city guest. As soon as his Lexus hits the dirt road the power is back off and our computing stalls. This of course also means that the wards have no power either; their needs are well down the hierarchy.

Several sweet coffees and immeasurable hanging about later we find another taxi to take us 50kms south to the larger sister hospital at Mongkul Barey to give ourselves a fighting chance for the next day. The bus is no longer an option: until a few months ago there was a once-a-day service, but then it mysteriously ceased and nobody seems to know why. Improving public transport is not yet a priority here.

So this morning I jump on a bike and potter along the couple of kilometres to the office. Not so fast! As I trundle along there’s a sinking realisation that the road is bumpy even by local standards – I have a puncture.

Fortunately there are plenty of repair shops, though in my hour of need they seem to all specialise in motos. But some friendly men in the market direct me to a little bike-fixing shack – in fact they even chase after me when I walk past it thinking it must be a derelict tractor store.

Now these guys are good, they can fix anything, so I’m confident I won’t wait long. The repair man is at least 107 years old but gets to work on my inner tube with youthful zest.

The first challenge is to inflate it to find the puncture. This is not so easy when VSO issue you with 1978 model Chinese rustbuckets whose valves have never been seen south of Laos. But the enterprising bikeman opens up his box of bits and builds a new pump from a wedge of plastic, a handful of nuts, a pin, some duct tape and the remains of his thumbnail.

This is not a quick process, but time is not a priority here. I bite my lip as other customers pitch up and he breaks off to pump tyres and grease wheels before sidling back to my job. I get this often: for example, once persuaded into a shared taxi, the driver thinks nothing of leaving you for an hour or so, before setting off in the wrong direction so he can first discuss the price of rice with his second cousin. And the trundling bus to Phnom Penh doesn't have to take all day, if we don't stop every hour for rice / toilets / greetings to the local peasantry. My time is not of value here – I need to chill and go with it.

So I’m happy that in less than an hour and only a few near-misses later the special pump is working. The innertube inflates to reveal a gaping hole. Of course at this point I would happily have just bought a new tube and been on my way, but they are much less wasteful here. Instead he winds the rubber around a metal cylinder, sands the puncture area with a rough-edged toilet-roll, applies tar, sets it alight (maybe he just escaped from Battambang circus?), blows on it, applies a patch, bashes it with the metal fork - and it’s mended.

Unfortunately it’s not that simple; on re-inflation the tyre promptly goes flat again – there must be a second puncture. At this point his 112 year old sister takes over. The process is repeated, with minor adaptations: she prefers a large candle for the fire trick, and decides that the best thing is to create a new valve made to superior Cambodian specifications.

I take deep breaths, and distract myself from the ticking clock and growing mountains of work which await me by trying to dissuade the bikeman’s great great granddaughter from her poking fingers in spokes game. Someone has to do it - interventions by the Cambodian Health and Safety Executive or Child Protection Unit are unlikely.

Eventually the job is done – at barely two hours, this must be the QuickFit of the east. And guess how much it costs? Well, would you believe it, the guy won’t take a cent. I argue hard until he takes a miserly 2,000 riels, less than half a dollar. I leave marvelling at both the ingenuity and the generosity my Cambodian hosts.

So finally I can get to work. I whizz along to the hospital, enjoying the whistling wind whisper through my hair as only cyclists can. Except that, sadly, it’s not the wind (and certainly not my hair), it’s the unmistakable hissing of a rapidly deflating back tyre...