Passing Through

Traveling is all about being flexible. I'll give you an example of a change of plans during my travels. My time here in Cambodia is almost up. My visa expires in a couple of days and I've to make sure I'll leave the country in time. Originally I was getting to head up north from Phom Pehn to a little town called Kratie and then to the border with Laos. Normally, at ever border crossing in the region, with the exception of Vietnam and China, you can get a visa on arrival. You just show up, with twenty dollars in your hand, and get a stamp in your passport. Well, that's what I thought. But, of course, the one border crossing Laos shares with Cambodia had to be the exception to the rule.

There is no problem travelling from Laos to Cambodia, but the other way – the route I was taking – you need to get a visa at the consulate or embassy beforehand. I found that out when I was in Kratie, next to the mighty Mekong river, home to the endangered Irridawy fresh water dolphins and halfway to the border. Great. What were my options? Or I go back to Phom Pehn, get to the embassy, wait three days and get a stamp, or I'll let someone else do it for me in Kratie (costs alot more) who will send by mail, or I'll take a completely different route. I chose option number three.

I still go to Laos, but I'll enter at the capital, Vientiane. That means I have to go through a bit of unexplored north-eastern Thailand. It also means I can visit Siem Reap (of Angkor Wat fame) and see some of my “old” friends. Travelling is about being flexible – the journey is the destination, right?

The most popular mode of transport for Western tourists (and a large number of Khmer) in Cambodia is, by far, the bus. In every major city the streets are lined with tacky looking travel agents. Most of the guest houses and hostels also arrange bus tickets, with the added bonus of a free pick-up at your hostel by a tuktuk. Tickets go from anything between five to fifteen dollars. For that price, you'll get a simple, reclining seat in an air-conditioned bus. Legroom is considered luxury.

Sometimes they'll serve you cold water, little pastries or other snacks. Some even have proper, working toilets on board. Most of the buses stop regularly, sometimes every hour, so you can stretch your legs or get a cold drink. Unfortunately, except for the “VIP” buses, the ordinary coaches also stop for every paying passenger on the side of the road. The journey takes a lot longer this way; when they say it takes five hours, you'll arrive there in eight.

Oh, but you haven't heard about the best part yet: every bus – and that's every single one of them – has a TV on board, with the volume completely turned up, and with Khmer music video's playing the whole trip long. In the so called karaoke video's the guys “sings” about a girl and about love. No exception. The only thing that changes is the scenery. In one the action takes place on a farm, with water buffalo's in the background, the singer and his girl in typical farmer outfits. In the next their in a trendy modern apartment, with plasma TV and expensive wine, and smart looking suits and beautiful dresses. The story is always the same.

Then you have the Khmer stand-up comedy shows: these are really, really, really unfunny. The shows are always “live” recordings. One guy on the very basic stage makes the jokes, the other one is always the simple guy that gets hit or chased once in a while. They stand there, talk, and after a minute comes the “punchline” - literally. The Khmer love it.

The only redeeming feature of the TV on board the bus, is that they sometimes show really bad Chinese kungfu movies from the seventies. They overdub it in Khmer, but some of them have English subtitles and, to be really honest, the acting is so bad, stories utterly crap (there's always the wise, grey haired martial arts master who kicks everybody ass) and the action so convincing unrealistic, they actually get to be a lot of fun.

I've spent hours and hours in the bus. My head resting on the window, looking out, trying to block out the blaring Khmer music. Sometimes I sleep. When I wake, I see the flat countryside, the rice paddies glistening in a thin filter of water gliding past. You can see a long way, past the isolated clusters of palm trees, the water buffalo's, the simple wooden huts on stilts. On the horizon big, fat, white clouds pass by. These lands flood regularly during the rainy season.

The paved road on the dike ends, and the bus starts bouncing and shaking on the sand and mud track. People walk by. They're farmers with colourful chequered kroma scarves around their neck or waist, some on bicycles balancing wicker baskets full with little, screaming piglets. Others zoom past on their rickety, Chinese made motorcycles. Some of the bigger houses have billboards in front of them. They're political signs, denoting where, probably, a big party chief is living. Most, maybe all, says Cambodian People's Party. Other political signs you see far less.

They say this country is a democracy. It isn't. The Cambodian People's Party has been ruling the country for the last sixteen years. The political party is a continuation of the same government that was put in power by the Vietnamese after 1979. The big chiefs are all ex-Khmer Rouge, soldiers and civilians who fled the country into Vietnam during the murderous years of Pol Pot's. Other political parties, including the royalists, sprung up during the United Nations elections in 1993, but to no avail. Over the years the Cambodia's People Party got stronger, more corrupt and bend on taking all power. They cemented their control in a coup in 1997. They are more busy with filling their own pockets, than with rebuilding the country and helping the people.

Things are not a lot better now. Non-governmental organisations run the country. Corruption is everywhere. Poverty too. Large pieces of prime real estate are sold en mass by the government to foreign companies and investors. People living on the land are kicked off, their houses bulldozed, to be turned into resorts or casino's. I've never seen such a blatant sell-out before.

Almost all the Cambodian tropical islands in the Bay of Thailand, close to Shinoukville are in private hands. A little bit inland, close to the town Kampot, a complete national park, famous for it's view on top of a hill, is now being converted by the Chinese into a casino and resort. The park is closed for visitors. In Phom Pehn, a huge lake and popular tourist attraction in the center of the city with dozens of guest houses and restaurants lining the shores is in the process of completely being filled up. A Korean consortium will build hotels, casino's and a resort on the reclaimed land, ruining dozens of lives and putting a lot of Khmer owned enterprises out of business.

I close my eyes and drift away into a half sleep you always have on busses and trains. I have a great sense of passing trough. I see elephants drinking water, and I'm driving on the back of a mototaxi through a raging thunderstorm. Other images follow: children smiling and waving, cows lying down and dozing off on the side of the road, the red clay and dirt of the roads, people buying little bags of crickets and cockroaches as a snack, boulevards of Phom Pehn, a fleeting glance of a dolphin in the Mekong river.

When I wake I'm in Siem Reap again. The sun is low on the horizon, but it is still hot. The glare makes me close my eyes and in the back of a tuktuk the breeze blows through my hair and cools me down. We pass a market on the side of the street. Strong smells invade my nose: wood fires, the cooking of rice and chicken and other meats, the spices and fruits, exhaust fumes from the dozens of motorcycles. Scurvy dogs run between the crowds. People barter, and shout and laugh. The sun slowly dips below the horizon.

This country is far from perfect. But I'm not at all unhappy to be here.