At times I welcome a break from the authenticity of third-world travel. The bus ride to Chau Doc would not be one of those times. I thought I had been pretty clear when I told Kim that I wanted a direct, air-conditioned mini-van for the six hour journey to Chau Doc, the border town connecting Vietnam to Cambodia.
I first suspect a problem, when after half an hour, we're unable to flag down one of the passing mini-vans, which are already full. The large, red bus that finally pulls over reeks of local flavor and before I can protest, I'm ushered onboard. I'm able to make out what looks like a small person buried under the bags that are spilling into my seat. Some of the passengers seem amused at my choice of transport. Others just seem plain puzzled.
The first stop comes one hundred yards down the road. "Damn it Kim!" Once I realize that this is not a momentary stop, I step outside to stretch. I trade smiles with a couple of guys who've settled into one of the ubiquitous hammocks that line the highway. I search their eyes for a clue as to what's happening, but they seem just as uncertain about the delay. Vendors riding bikes or pushing carts begin to assemble and with help from my fellow strandees, I sample some of the banana leaf-wrapped snacks. I consider breaking out my bottle of banana-rice wine to get this party started, but as it's only ten thirty in the morning, I decide against it.
With the ice now broken, I step back onto the bus with my new friends. The hours chug along and by turning sideways into the aisle, I manage to find a position that causes only a minimal amount of discomfort. Hunger is one problem I don't have. Whenever the bus pulls over, a slew of vendors board the bus selling the same three or four items. With two hours left, I grow weary of the heat and the juvenile show on the T.V. that has everyone else laughing out loud. "It couldn't get much worst than this," I think to myself. There must have been uproarious laughter in the heavens at that moment.
With about an hour to go, we come to a river crossing where all vehicles must board a ferry. We had just picked up a lady who managed to squeeze herself into the aisle next to me by sitting sideways on a short stool. She doesn't even bother to take off her sweater, gloves, face-mask, hat or red, plaid safari helmet even though I'm sweating in just a t-shirt. As we inch along toward the ferry, vendors start to board the bus. Okay, A) We've all eaten, B) We've already bought all of these same snacks and C) The lady in the aisle ain't budgin'.
So the vendors, unable to squeeze by, actually start climbing over her. Soon they're all crammed into the aisle and since we're now on the ferry, they too sit down. Now the skinny girl sitting next to me must have a very quick metabolism because her leg feels like a fricking furnace pressed against me. The stifling heat is now close to unbearable. Sweaty, sticky and unable to move, I remember the headline I had seen a few days previously. "Ferry sinks, passengers drown." I always wondered why people didn't just swim to shore- now I knew why.
And just when you think you can't get another person on the bus, in walks Mrs. Determined, selling the same damn thing as half of the others. It reminds me of the circus clowns endlessly piling into a small car. It's at this point that I decide to leave my body. I'm drawn back moments later by the loud, staccato haranguing of this last vendor who is foolish enough to believe that a woman wearing that much clothing, a face mask and two hats could possibly be convinced to give up her spot, however lowly.
The argument lasts long enough, that I'm able to film part of it, waiting the whole time for a slap, which is never delivered. Although I'm certain that there is nothing unusual about this particular bus ride, I sense that the guys from the hammock are able to see it from my perspective and smile broadly at me as I put away my camera.
When I finally step off that bus an hour later, my relief is only temporary, as I must now navigate my way through a maze of moto-taxis and tuk-tuk drivers, all vying for my attention and determined to deliver me to any hotel other that the one I want.
I first suspect a problem, when after half an hour, we're unable to flag down one of the passing mini-vans, which are already full. The large, red bus that finally pulls over reeks of local flavor and before I can protest, I'm ushered onboard. I'm able to make out what looks like a small person buried under the bags that are spilling into my seat. Some of the passengers seem amused at my choice of transport. Others just seem plain puzzled.
The first stop comes one hundred yards down the road. "Damn it Kim!" Once I realize that this is not a momentary stop, I step outside to stretch. I trade smiles with a couple of guys who've settled into one of the ubiquitous hammocks that line the highway. I search their eyes for a clue as to what's happening, but they seem just as uncertain about the delay. Vendors riding bikes or pushing carts begin to assemble and with help from my fellow strandees, I sample some of the banana leaf-wrapped snacks. I consider breaking out my bottle of banana-rice wine to get this party started, but as it's only ten thirty in the morning, I decide against it.
With the ice now broken, I step back onto the bus with my new friends. The hours chug along and by turning sideways into the aisle, I manage to find a position that causes only a minimal amount of discomfort. Hunger is one problem I don't have. Whenever the bus pulls over, a slew of vendors board the bus selling the same three or four items. With two hours left, I grow weary of the heat and the juvenile show on the T.V. that has everyone else laughing out loud. "It couldn't get much worst than this," I think to myself. There must have been uproarious laughter in the heavens at that moment.
With about an hour to go, we come to a river crossing where all vehicles must board a ferry. We had just picked up a lady who managed to squeeze herself into the aisle next to me by sitting sideways on a short stool. She doesn't even bother to take off her sweater, gloves, face-mask, hat or red, plaid safari helmet even though I'm sweating in just a t-shirt. As we inch along toward the ferry, vendors start to board the bus. Okay, A) We've all eaten, B) We've already bought all of these same snacks and C) The lady in the aisle ain't budgin'.
So the vendors, unable to squeeze by, actually start climbing over her. Soon they're all crammed into the aisle and since we're now on the ferry, they too sit down. Now the skinny girl sitting next to me must have a very quick metabolism because her leg feels like a fricking furnace pressed against me. The stifling heat is now close to unbearable. Sweaty, sticky and unable to move, I remember the headline I had seen a few days previously. "Ferry sinks, passengers drown." I always wondered why people didn't just swim to shore- now I knew why.
And just when you think you can't get another person on the bus, in walks Mrs. Determined, selling the same damn thing as half of the others. It reminds me of the circus clowns endlessly piling into a small car. It's at this point that I decide to leave my body. I'm drawn back moments later by the loud, staccato haranguing of this last vendor who is foolish enough to believe that a woman wearing that much clothing, a face mask and two hats could possibly be convinced to give up her spot, however lowly.
The argument lasts long enough, that I'm able to film part of it, waiting the whole time for a slap, which is never delivered. Although I'm certain that there is nothing unusual about this particular bus ride, I sense that the guys from the hammock are able to see it from my perspective and smile broadly at me as I put away my camera.
When I finally step off that bus an hour later, my relief is only temporary, as I must now navigate my way through a maze of moto-taxis and tuk-tuk drivers, all vying for my attention and determined to deliver me to any hotel other that the one I want.
