“What time is the wedding?” I asked for the third time.

“At 4:00 p.m.,” MaDavid patiently replied.

“And when will we be picked up?”

“At noon.”

I did not think much of the four-hour time gap, but in Cambodia, time works differently, and I was about to find out just how differently.

The student missionaries gathered, buzzing with wedding anticipation. Deon and I hopped onto his trusty Honda 650CC, having been warned that trucks could not make it to the remote village venue in Orieng, 30 minutes away. After a short prayer, we were off, 10 motorbikes, one behind the other, as we hit the dirt road with confidence. The two months of dust from the dry season soon clung to our jeans, boots and cool shirts like glitter at a child’s party. Deon’s once-white shirt became a damp, dust-caked mess.

The dusty road turned wild, passing through rice fields, cassava crops, and a thick forest. Narrow paths, tree roots and stumps tested every bit of Deon’s driving skills. But 20 minutes in, the bike just stopped.

Suddenly, a young man appeared from nowhere, tied some cardboard to his motorbike, and offered Deon a ride. I had the choice: squish in with Deon and the young man or ride with 16-year-old David, the son of MaDavid and PaDavid, who helped with the wedding and made sure our team arrived safely. I chose David. A teenager with jungle road confidence seemed the safer bet!

Deep in the forest, surrounded by giant trees, bamboo crushed by wandering elephants, and a jungle choir of sun beetles and animals, riding on David’s little 100CC Honda was like riding a rollercoaster. I clung for dear life, with one arm around David and the other on the bike. When the bike could not handle the path, I walked—my red, sweaty face greeted by laughing locals saying, “Hatpran!” (Good exercise!)

After several hours of bouncing through the jungle, we arrived at the village. The 20 families living there welcomed us like royalty. Tables were set up in the sand, food magically appeared, and we settled in.

Too late to leave, we stayed the night on the floor of the bride’s parents’ home, jungle lullabies provided by dogs, roosters and the occasional diesel generator. Sleep was a rarity.

The next day, our ride showed up. Deon looked at the young man’s motorbike and said, “I’m bananas.”

“What?” I asked.

“I’m bananas. I have seen this young man haul 300kg (660 pounds) of bananas up these hills. I am pretending that I am bananas.”

I laughed. But as we climbed and descended, with me again clinging on for life, I started whispering, “I’m bananas, I’m bananas.” It helped. So did the prayers.
I believe it was divine intervention that Deon’s bike broke down. We never could have made it through those narrow jungle ridges on that bike. God made a way through skilled locals, teenage drivers, and a cardboard-reinforced motorbike.

All we had to do was be bananas—let go of our plans, trust the journey, and let God take care of the rest.

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