I wish I could give you some advice, a few tips, on how
to enjoy this journey but I don’t think it’s possible. Maybe hold on
tight. Bring a rain jacket. Wear lots of sunscreen. Have drinking water
handy. Don’t wear good clothes. And bring a cushion. Or maybe just grin
and bear it!
The journey I’m talking about is the one overland
from Battambang, in northwest Cambodia, to Thailand via the Cambodian
border town of Poipet. A few of my friends and I did this trip a couple
months ago during the end of the rainy season, and it still has left an
impression on my mind. I knew that there aren’t public buses in that
part of Cambodia so pickup truck is the masses’ means of transportation.
But still it came as a shock when the pickup pulled up in front of our
hotel on that warm, heavy, pre-dawn morning with fifteen people already in
the back! It was going to be a tight squeeze.
There
aren’t public buses in northwest Cambodia, so pickup trucks are the
masses’ means of transportation.
While the driver hoisted our bags into the bed of the
truck, the Khmers arranged them against one side and immediately sat on
them, giving us just enough room to precariously perch ourselves around
the edge, butts hanging over the side. Thank God I had a woman sitting on
my feet because she was the only thing that kept me from falling backwards
onto the road when the driver suddenly revved the engine and we sped off.
In the growing dawn we raced out of town along a road
that was really just compact dirt covered with tiny ruts and potholes. At
the time I thought my teeth and bones would break from the vibration (but
this was nothing compared to what was coming later!). The only chance we
had to talk or pass around our breakfast of bread and cheese was when we
made very brief stops at villages and towns to let people off and others
on.
Passengers
too? I doubt it, but one never knows...
Despite the growing light of the morning, the clouds
thickened and grew darker. And then it started to rain. Hard. Our driver
quickly pulled over, jumped out and passed a large blue plastic tarp to
one of the Khmer men in the back with us. We quickly unfolded it and tried
to cover everyone as much as possible, but we all got soaked anyway. Even
30 degree Celsius Cambodian heat feels cold when you’re wet and
travelling 80km an hour!
Suddenly the truck stopped again. I peered out from
underneath the tarp and watched the driver run over to a tree in the
pouring rain, break off a long thin branch, run back and attach it to the
windshield wiper. He looked at me and grinned, and with water streaming
into his mouth said, “No good!” He hopped back in and we were off
again at top speed with the tarp flapping in the wind, us huddling
together trying to hold it down, and the driver leaning out of the window
pushing and pulling the branch to get the windshield wiper moving!
After a while the rain let up and we were able to put
the tarp aside, which was a relief as it was getting a little steamy with
so many people breathing under that plastic. Looking down at the road
below me I saw we were driving through what looked like thick reddish
brown soup - the mud level at this point was half way up the wheel.
I
still can’t believe this is what the Khmers have to endure every time
they need to travel somewhere in northwest Cambodia.
I glanced up at the road ahead of us and to my surprise
saw a Toyota Camry dip nose down, disappear out of sight, and then
reappear with tires spinning up and (I don’t know how) out of the
largest pothole I had ever seen. Then it was our turn. We sped downward
into this pit of mud, red slop almost covering the windshield and spraying
out to the sides. Gripping onto the edge of the truck and cramming my feet
under the butt of a man sitting on the bed floor in front of me, we
pitched back and forth, then finally bounced through, up and over the
other side.
By this time my rear was so sore it was a slight relief
to hit a bump and bounce into the air, even for a second. But the landing,
when I slammed back down on the hard edge, hurt one hundred times worse.
My friends and I looked over at each other and our grimaces conveyed the
same meaning: we couldn’t wait for this journey to end!
The sun had burned through the clouds by this time, and
was beating incessantly into our brains and onto every piece of exposed
skin until we were turning red. I had never been so hot in my life.
Realizing we still had a ways to go, we tried to ration what water we had
left. I could feel a slight headache coming on and I hoped I wasn’t
getting sunstroke! The Khmers, used to this mode of travel, all wore
checkered scarves called krama wrapped around their heads to protect
themselves from the sun’s glare.
Suddenly we heard the impatient honking of a truck
coming up behind us incredibly fast. We all looked back to see a pickup
barrelling down upon us, spraying the red mud in it’s path out either
side, like two giant waves. We barely had time to turn our backs and duck
our heads before we were covered in a wave of thick red mud as the truck
passed us, still honking. The Khmers sitting with us stood, shook their
fists, and shouted at the disappearing pickup as my friends and I tried to
scoop the slop off each other.
So this is how we arrived in Thailand - hot, sunburned,
thirsty, tired, our butts in so much pain it hurt to sit down for days
afterwards, and us covered in (by now) dried mud, caked onto our clothes
and into our hair. It was a journey I am happy to say my friends and I
were able to laugh about (although not for weeks) later. I still can’t
believe this is what the Khmers have to endure every time they need to
travel somewhere in northwest Cambodia. That one trip was good enough for
me.
