It began with such promise. The young woman staffing the travel office was a delight. Much more friendly that your average Veitnamese entrepreneur, fluent in English and full of concern for our comfort during our travels. A simple request. We would like to travel from Phu Quoc to Sihanoukville that we may engage a boat to take us to Koh Rong. The solution equally simple. A passenger van would pick us up at our resort and deliver us to the wharf serviced by the Super Dong (I feel like we should have some Star Warsy "Ba, Ba, Ba, Baaaaaaa" music when I type that) which would carry us to Ha Tien at the Vietnam/Cambodia boarder, a passenger van to take us from that harbour to the border crossing, an air conditioned motor coach to take us to Sihanoukville. Easy.
There are a number of boats that service Phu Quoc, the queen of these the Super Dong (Ba, Ba, Ba, Baaaaaa), a slick, spacious fast boat with a large after deck perfect for sunning. There are also "pencil" boats, nasty and slow with, inexplicably, the seats buried in the bilge and the windows placed a foot and a half above your head. There are also the 8 hour transit fish boats. Obviously, the Super Dong (play music) is more expensive but we were feeling flush and asked, several times, that we have the SD (music). Absolutely, we were assured, to be followed by a modest but air conditioned passenger van which would deliver us to the border, followed by a motor coach sporting comfortable, reclining seats and air conditioning which would whisk us in ease to Sihanoukville, Cambodia. All for $28 per person? Are you kidding me? This sounds to good to be true!
Right. Let's explore what happened.
On the morn of our departure a passenger van arrived to gather us within 45 minutes of the agreed upon time (read, "after"). This gave me pause as the SD (music) departed at 8:00 am and we were picked up at 7:35. Tight, but still, it is only a 20 minute trip from our resort to the SD (OK, I'll stop). Fifteen minutes to spare, right? A kidney crushing 45 minutes later over what could only generously described as road we arrived in a small, narrow laned village and ordered (yes, I mean ordered) out of the van. Before us a 500 meter, 3' wide concrete pier leading to, you guessed it, an idling "pencil" boat. What do you do? Find a way back to town to give the travel lady a severe reprimand? Kill a few innocent villagers? Get on the boat? Right. Get on the boat.
A special feature of the pencil boat is a large flat screen TV on which is aired really bad Hollywood gangster films that no one has ever heard of, dubbed into Khemer by a single woman's voice and the volume set to "ear damage". There are no outside decks.
We did, along with many other travellers, arrive at Ha Tien. We were met at the port gates by a young man holding a card which listed seven travellers. The reception area was crowded with tourists and smart new mini vans and drivers holding cards. Quite quickly passengers were gathered and hustled into vans to be sped, in air conditioned comfort, to their next destination. Our guide led our group to a nearby, meagre, street side canteen. Where we sat. In the sun. For an hour. Our guide, who spoke remarkably good English while corralling us to the canteen, somehow completely lost that ability when pressed as to why we, among all the many travellers who disembarked the boat, were left to bake in the late morning sun.
But a van did eventually arrive. A shiny new 9 seater Ford - in 1973. Today, this dented, rusted out piece of rolling scrap metal ran, but that concludes the list of up-sides. There was ten minutes of banging, slapping and kicking in an effort to get the back hatch open so that we could load our luggage. Once loaded, the back hatch wouldn't remain closed. That took a few minutes. I thought to my self, "will we have the same dance trying to get our gear out?". OK, off to the border. No air conditioning but as the roads are so dusty the driver insisted the windows remain closed. That could have been an issue had it not been a five minute drive. We could have walked in twenty minutes rather than sitting at that canteen, but hey, we've got time, right? And more bashing and banging to get our gear out.
The fixer in this crew disappeared with our passports (and our money) as we moved into the border control offices. Tourists don't deal directly with immigration officials at these borders as there are negotiations with the officials regarding how much a visa costs on this particular day (based, I think, on what pressing costs may have arisen at home) and a common language is essential. The speed with which one moves through border control depends on how much of the money you have given the fixer he is willing to share with the border control officer. In our case, our fixer was clearly tight fisted as, for almost two hours, group after group, just like ours, were brought by their fixer into border control and quite quickly led into Cambodia and waiting vehicles. I would have loved to have raised a ruckus but I wasn't going to do that with the border officers and I did mentioned our fixer disappeared, yes?
Actually, at this point I have, to my shame, lost my cool. I may have been heard to utter, "you have got to be fucking kidding me", a couple of times. Loudly. But Kim calmly pointed out that this sort of stuff can happen while travelling in Southeast Asia and that I should cool my jets. I will have great fun with this later.
Eventually we passed through the border and were led to a much newer passenger van, I think from the '75-'76 model years. While the back hatch worked there was no air conditioning. By this time the outside temperature is in the mid thirties and, again, the driver does't want to get dust inside such sweet a ride and insists we keep the windows closed. In an uplifting display of democracy in action, we held a vote and "screw you" came out ahead and all the windows of the van were promptly and fully opened. Our driver did not receive the result graciously.
If you've been keeping track, our itinerary called for a motor coach from the border to Sihanoukville -a two hour drive - and we all assumed our van was taking us to the bus station. Nope. We flew down Cambodian country roads, past rice fields and salt making operations until we reached Kep. Stopping at the depot in the centre of town, our driver happily announced we could now go into the canteen and enjoy lunch. He seemed a bit taken aback when we travellers insisted that we did not want lunch, we wanted to go to Sihanoukville. But service is what these guys are all about, so he hustled us all back in the van and set off a great speed back the way we had come. Away from Sihanoukville. WTF I thought. After a few kilometres, he pulled off the road and several Khemers dragged over five gallon drums of fuel and gased us up. Our driver took this opportunity to walk around the van and close all the windows. Then, again at great speed, he returned to the depot to pick up two other passengers who had been at the depot when we first visited but who, I guess, didn't feel like having a ride to get gas. "Fuck me" I thought. I may have used my outside voice.
But now, gased up, everyone on board, windows wide open (there was another vote), off to Sihanoukville, yes? Not so much. Seems the new passengers are going to Kampot, soooooo.....
Once we got to Kampot our driver deposited us on a street corner, closed his windows, and left. A strange absence of buses but I am sure time will cure that. After being left in the dark as to what would happen next and being ignored by the Khmer, and listening to the animated discussions going on among said Khmer, I asked about our future travel. Turns out the discussion was not about the US military's use of drones as I had assumed, but regarding how many of poor saps they could squeeze into a mid sized, five seater sedan. This is a car with a console between the front two seats and room for a snug three in the back seat. So, obviously, we will put six of us in the car. Plus the driver. And our gear. The conversation that followed was lively. For our part, we argued safety and comfort and were deemed unreasonable. After much back and forth, we settled on three as a number and, strangely, all agreed. Something didn't feel right about this. Regardless, we feel it has worked out and Kim and I and Katie, a twenty something German tourist (heretofore know as " the innocent bystander") go to get in the car. For comfort, we decide two in the back, one in the front. No. Another ten minute discussion ensues until finally we fold. OK, all three of us get in the back.
We have been dicking around on this corner for nearly an hour but now we are on our way, each of us wondering why we can't have one of us sit in the front. After driving exactly 50 feet, the car pulls over and a Khmer woman hops in the front. Ah.
As we discuss with Katie what a terrible trip this had been, she comments that she doesn't feel it was worth the $23 she paid the very same woman on the very same day for the very same trip that we had paid $28. Is that salt I feel being rubbed in?
As you will recall, I had lost my cool earlier in the day but the sage words of my sweet Kim drew me back from the abyss. Do you also recall I said I would have fun with that? Here it comes.
On the outskirts of Kampot we pull over again outside a hospital, and without a word of explanation we sit. And sit. Eventually, and likely somewhat testily, I remind our driver we want to get to Sihanoukville. He points out that this is not a private rental, but should be thought of more like a bus, stopping here and there for various, sometimes murky reasons. This discussion goes on for sometime, until the driver opens the door and helps a very elderly woman (he's no spring chicken himself) into the driver's seat and then attempts to sit on her lap! We explode in the back seat telling him there is no way he is driving to Sihanoukville in that arrangement. He finally agrees but is clearly not happy. He and grandmother get out and go around to the passenger side. In order to make room for the two women in the passenger seat, he releases the seat glide lock and violently shoves the seat back, crashing it into Katie's shins. The two women get in and our driver returns to he seat. Kim starts ripping him a new one about slamming the seat into Katie's legs.
We should pause here for some back ground in Khmer culture. While in Cambodia one must remember that feet are view with disgust. When sitting it is impolite to point your feet at others, anyone with any social graces would never be found with their feet on a chair, and to point your feet at the Bhudda while in supplication is tres verboten. I don't think I could write a string of invective that would fully capture the spite, the disregard, the hatefulness that would be expressed by jabbing ones feet at another in anger. We have been in Vietnam for a month where no such custom is held. Kim has forgotten all about this.
Back to our story. We are now driving. Kim is still ripping the driver a new one, who is none to please to be spoken to so, when Kim snaps, " well, how do you like this" and, one after another, slams both feet onto the console and into the front seat area. Well. You think the shit hit the fan about the sitting on a lap and driving thing. All three Khmer explode in offence and fury. The driver is trying to turn around and has his arm cocked to strike Kim. Both Katie and I are making cooing, settle down noises, and after a bit tempers have cooled. We were able to reach Sihanoukville with all accounted for.
What fun. Just as advertised on Phu Quoc.
Sihanoukville is a bit of a shit hole, dirty, party town, but that is OK. We arranged our transit to Koh Rong and to Koh Chang, ate, drank, rented a room and went to sleep.
As I write I am laying in a hammock on our porch of our thatched hut on Koh Rong. Later, I will tell you all about it.
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