Pigs and a Death Wish

So, we were off, the Irish and I, to Cambodia.   The journey, however, was not to progress with any semblance of speed.   I had rushed to make the 8:30 departure only to linger until almost 9.   Then we had rushed from the boat to the vans, only to wait around until nearly 10.   Then we had bumped with a focus down a few miles of rolling dirt road to the main highway where we sped 20 miles to the border.   At the Lao border, it was a minimum of 30 minutes for the 15 of us, as there was a French couple adamant about not paying the $2 ‘stamp fee.’   Pure corruption, but you’ll never talk them out of it.   And it’s not like it’s $20.   To me, it seems a bit silly to argue what almost all first world-ers make in less than 15 minutes of employment.   The French did not succeed in doing anything but getting terribly angry and then parting with $2.

Then it was a 50 yard drive to the Cambodian border where half the group still needed to obtain  visas.   I would have been up $15 but down “peace-of-mind” if I had waited.   My guidebook threatened that a visa at the desolate border wouldn’t be possible, so I succumbed to my (American?) need for security and got it in the Lao capital.   Finally all were processed  after an hour’s time, and we were directed  to a mini-bus.   There was no rack atop for the massive bags most backpackers carry, so we were instructed  to load them onto the bus in the back seats.   A hefty project in the stifling heat – the bus being a completely windowless oven.   I, thankfully, was mostly exempt.

We stood around the boiling pavement taking refuge in the shade of some small trees for the better part of an hour.   Finally, patience  not always being my strong suit, I sought out the guy in charge of the whole  operation.   He informed me that there would not be enough passengers for the minibus and that we would instead be taking a van.   The groans of the other 14 were humorous if you looked at it from a certain angle, as we formed an assembly line in the oven to transfer the bags.   Finally, a suspicious man (in this environment, all locals are regarded  as suspicious by most travelers) approached us enthusiastically asking if we were going to Phnom  Phen  and pointing at his car.   Having already paid $22, and not wanting to be  duped into paying more, we ignored him and stood with our crowd at the van.   Twenty minutes later, our conductor announced that the three of us making the journey to Phnom  Phen (the Irish and I) would go by car since the route varies farther along.   Good enough!   So we went, after all, with the suspicious man.

But.   Of course we couldn’t depart  right away.   First he opened the trunk.   Left to talk to some folk.   Then loaded the Irish’s bags (I loaded mine, they -in  the heat-  said exactly, “HE can do it.”).   Then left again on a conversational errand.   Then returned and encouraged us to get in the car.   Then, suddenly, had one more errand to leave.   The Irish grew comically impatient, practically yelling, “WHAT is with all this PISSING AROUND!?!?!?!”   I hadn’t set foot in the car, whereas they had been in and out.   I decided in the broiling heat, I wasn’t going to get in until the driver closed his door!   Two more errands, and we were off!

One hunderd  yards later, we were not.   Our driver pulled over and followed a path into the tall grass where we could hear him chatting with someone.   I took it upon myself to see if the A/C worked (it did!_, but he quickly shut it down when he returned a few minutes later.   Four hundred yards and stop.   Three hundred yards and stop.   Five hundred yards and stop.   Will we ever get to Phnom  Phen?

My mother and Pat will be glad to know that this man was one of the more careful I’ve seen.   He actually depresses the brake pedal on corners and when there are animals in the road.   However, as is standard, once we got going, we maintained a speed of 80-90 miles per hour on a road I wouldn’t trust with 60 in the states.   The potholes were horrifying as we slammed through them, bottoming out in our 90’s Toyata Camry again and again.   We picked up a passenger in the first town, and she rode shotgun with the foreigners in the backseat.   It took us awhile to discover why she kept throwing plastic bags out the window: the rough roads were making her terribly car-sick.   Poor thing!

We bombed through villages, took detours requiring the compact car to descend deeply rutted craters four feet deep and then climb the other side.   The scraping of the under carriage on the high points of the ruts was brutal.   I wanted desperately to get out and walk, but the driver just plowed through, groaning at each rub and smack.   Yikes!

Ordering lunch at the roadside restaurant was comical.   As there was no menu, we spent about ten minutes pouring over my menu-reader in my phrasebook with the staff trying desperately to communicate that we’d eat anyting.   How was the word for “rice” not in the menu-reader?   Eventually we got “fried rice” and “pork” from a woman diner at the only other table.   We nodded enthusiastically and were served  heaping plates of delicous  fried rice, the famous Kampot pepper, and some interesting meat bits – many of which I avoided – followed by a huge plate of papaya.   We tried desperately to finish it in the name of showing our gratitude, but it was just WAY too much food.

Most memorable on the trip (besides the atrocious roads and our severe sympathy for the car) were the pigs and boats.   Every population center we passed had loads of people driving aroung  with pigs in crates – their forelegs and hindlegs bound in pairs.   There were bicycles with pigs (yes, plural), motorbikes with pigs, trucks with pigs, carts with pigs, pigs, pigs, pigs.   At first we thought the pigs were dead, but closer inspection saw that they were just bound and stuffed in the crates.

The boats, were some kind of mythical  cross between medival  times and the third world.   I think they must have been fishing  boats.   A giant 60′ x 40′ raft hosted enourmous  poles that raced skyward at leaning angles shooting off like a hand in five directions.   At the tippy-top, maybe 70 feet in the air were giant nets connected to the five points.   I assume that the nets were dropped  into the water where they gathered fish and were hoisted back up.   But why so high?

As we neared Phnom  Phen, I realized why, when we had pulled over and were waiting for passenger-girl to finish puking  in the bushes, our driver had had  such a hard time understanding my friendly questioning, complete with map, about where he and his wife lived in Phnom  Phen.   At this point, you might do well to know that he was a customs official.   Well, I thought it was just a language barrier.   Turns out he’d been hoping the whole  time to squeeze a few more dollars out of us.   He refused (via “confusion”) to tell us where his final destination  was (lest ours be on the way), and tried to get $10 more for taking us to the door of our hotel.   When the Irish girls indignately  refused his first offer, suddenly his English was excellent so that he could tell us how bad traffic was and what a taxing chore and huge favor he’d be doing by taking us there.   They demanded him down to $6 – two a piece – and we ended up at “Capitol” – one of the most popular guesthouses in Phnom  Phen.

The second we stepped out the door of the car, we were descended  upon by the moto  and tuk-tuk  drivers desperate to make a buck all shouting over the top of one another for our attention (money).   We tried to politely decline, but our “no thank yous” fell on deaf ears and continued shouts, much to our annoyance.   Conveniently, the hostel had no single rooms left (true or not, I’ll never know), I instead had to pay for a double (one of the few downsides to travelling alone).   When I returned to the streets twenty minutes later in hopes of internetting a bit, of course I was accosted  again by the motos  and tuk-tuks incessantly, even after I communicated repeatedly that I did not need a ride as I was only going across the street.