Crossing into Cambodia – a Harsh Journey
Thinking full well that the following 24 hours would be hell, Chris and I boarded the icebox of a bus hoping that with earplugs we could trap a couple hours of sleep. It never ceased to amaze us that the bus was colder than the Arctic. We were bundled in layers, our only 2 pairs of socks, sharing the scarf that we bought from the longnecks, covered in a blanket and still too cold to sleep most of the night. I would awake from nightmares that I was losing limbs to the snow, much like the movie I watched over and over at 13 – Alive. Picture this – even though the temperature outside approached 80 degrees, the bus attendant strode around in a ski jacket, mittens, scarf and beenie. And she looked at us like we were crazy when we asked if they could turn the air off! Still, pounding karaoke welcomed us with psychedelic neon upholstery, like an outdated and scary casino engulfing us in a dizzying trance. We arrived in Bangkok before sunrise and were whisked away by an awaiting cab driver to wait on a dirty street corner for our next bus to the border. Six hours or so passed and we were a mile away from the Cambodian border. The bus took us to a restaurant/travel agency/Visa proprietary, which just happened to have all of the services we needed. Everyone was linked to someone or something else, not just a reoccurring theme in Southeast Asia, more like the only way of life.
Like the other passengers, we worried that obtaining a visa at the border would be too difficult (we’ve had our share of difficult border crossings in central America – taking up to 4 hours), even worse would be too time consuming and missing our next bus in Cambodia. We overpaid $10 USD each for our visas and hoped like everyone else that the extra charge would be worth avoiding hassle. Conveniently, the visas with photos would take at least an hour to create and we were roped into eating there for lunch as well. An hour and 15 minutes later we arrived.
Border towns in 3rd world countries are best described as purgatory – a waiting zone too close to hell itself. Filthy is an understatement. Like a town built within a trash dump, people hopelessly wander barefoot. Two-year-old children drag their naked infant siblings with them to beg from passerbies. Typically, all surrounding structures and people are covered in a thick layer of dust, of dirt. Any meager plants growing are sadly strangled and suffocated by the harsh exhaust and their surrounding environment.
Odors of urine and feces abound – sometimes so great that we grasp our shirt and ration the remaining air within our clothes until the odor creeps in…then, we breath only through our mouths – shielding our nostrils from the rank context. Stenches of harsh rotting flesh, maybe animal, possibly human, linger while locals walk the streets trying desperately to sell their trash, their rotting fruit.
Children beg mercilessly, infants scream while soaking up hours of hot sun. The border is a place unfit for the living. As we marched down the street, I wondered how the peoples’ fates had unfairly brought them to this exact spot in the world and if any of the souls living in this purgatory would have the fortune of escaping one day.
The crossing was nearly a half-mile. Cambodian mafia greeted us and easily escorted us through. Apparently, they control most of the process, guiding us by bus to specific rest stops, restaurants and guesthouses. Nice as they were, they were as crooked as pretzels. We boarded a trolley to a dodgy “minibus” and wondered how long this day would last.
The dirt road drive was rocky, bumpy at best. At times if we closed our eyes, we vibrated violently as though we were firing machine guns. We stopped a couple of times while Europeans were eager to suck down a cigarette and the mafia would casually ask us where we were staying, hinting that they had somewhere better for us. At some rest stops we were expected to pay if we wanted to use their restrooms – literally holes in the ground. No water. No soap. After Central America, we were accustomed to carrying soap and paper. We guiltily hid behind the bus to wash our hands with bottled water – the only water we could access.
We passed empty field after empty field, the air dusty. Everything lining the road was brown. Bright green plants and colored shacks were muted by dirt. Rice Farmers worked in the fields, which were lined by ditches of Hershey milk chocolate-colored water. Cows were parked in front yards like SUVs in suburbia. Homes were like a patch work quilt, pieced together with remnants of various colored wood and tin and perched high on stilts.
As the sun began to set, light was few and far between. Occasional fires burned in yards and we began to wonder how long this drive would be. We were told that we would arrive in Siem Reap, the city nearest Angkor Wat ruins, at 6pm. It was 6pm and we were no where near the city. The drivers began to stop – too often and we began to wander what exactly was going on. After an unnecessary rest stop and absolutely no hint of a flat tire, they pulled over again. This time, they told us that we had a flat tire. Chris and some other fellows went outside to check it, highly irritated that there was obviously no flat tire. Still, the young and skinny mafia-esque guys insisted that they take an hour to completely take apart the tire – oh yeah, we were conveniently parked at a shack in the middle of nowhere that changed and rebuilt tires.
Our heads, backs, stomachs and tailbones were aching. 30 straight hours on a bus is no fun. Our patience was growing thin. We watched out of the bus window as they hammered away at the tire – trying to make it appear as though they were doing something and stopped thinking about when we would get there….just hoped that we would eventually.
Cambodia is not set up for tourism. Yeah, if you are Angelina Jolie, I’m sure you gracefully fly upon the Pitt private jet, land with hordes of government officials and elite swarming around you and happen to miss how Cambodians really treat those entering and leaving their country. I’m pretty certain that Angelina isn’t as jaded about Cambodia as we were quickly becoming. There are no ways in and out on land that aren’t sketchy or where the people don’t try to take extreme advantage of you. With that said, Cambodia was confirming all that the guidebooks said – that the drivers will try and wear you down, taking as long as possible for you to reach your destination so that you arrive late at night and decide to stay where they want you to stay – so that they get paid off.
Chris’ handsome pink undertones were beginning to boil to a nice raging, blood red. He was growing more and more irritated and I had to remind him that we were almost there. We eventually hit the city and the teenage Cambodian Godfather himself refused to let anyone off of the bus. We were stuck going to a guesthouse – God knows where.
Miles past where we needed to be, we pulled up into the dark drive and were told to leave our bags on the bus. Chris and I made a dash for our bags, were violently screamed at, but ran across the road – hailing a taxi and escaping the tour and unwavering shove for us to stay in crooked company.
For all the disappointment, the trip started to get better at once from there. The true Cambodia started to show herself and we would be greeted with smiles and great attitudes from everyone we came in contact with for the next few days.We found an honest tuk tuk driver who took us to a respectable side of town and we checked into a decent hotel with AC, a great bed, cable and a clean bathroom for around $14. Seeing that we were worn out, the owner even loaned us money to pay our taxi driver so we could get some rest right away. We would spend the entire next day touring the ruins so we fell asleep easily, exhausted from the days’ struggles.
Tags: Travel
pcschroeder
Leave a Reply