The order of the border

Greetings to you, faithful followers.

The day began with our final meal together for a very long time.  It consisted of syrup-like coffee, fruit, bread and jam.  Every conceivable Vietnamese speciality was available and being devoured by the predominantly local clientele.  

The hotel was quite eerie and officious, with curious music pumping down the corridors.  I wouldn't stay there again, although Jo is there for another two nights, so I wish her well.

We said goodbye and I pootled down to the bus station, where I jumped on a Cambodia-bound bus.  It was luxurious - air-conditioning, bottled water, really helpful and friendly staff.  I was the only Westerner and one of the driver's 'mates' constantly translated for me, which was very kind.  I wondered; if I sat in a bus full of Vietnamese speakers for long enough, would I eventually start speaking Vietnamese? After six hours, I could still only speak two words; maybe six months might work? Maybe I'll try that sometime.  

I've crossed a lot of borders in my life.  Inevitably, the questions come - 'are you married?', 'where is your husband?'.. etc.  I've become accustomed to creating a husband who is waiting for me in whichever town I happen to be heading towards.  I've fought off more marriage proposals than I can remember, and managed to (eventually) cross all borders, without having to actually marry any of the inevitably surly lot.  My imaginary husband story has only gone horribly wrong once, in Mali, West Africa 2002, when after assuring a border guard that my 6-foot-rugby-playing giant of a husband had crossed the border a few days previously, he assured me that no man of that description had crossed the border so far that year, if ever; thankfully, two Polish backpackers turned up, and I was able to pretend to be married to one of them, much to his confusion; hence, my passport was stamped and they let me into Mali.

I was ready for similar shenanigans at today's border, and am pleased to report that there were none.  The bus guy collected up all our passports, plus $20 if we didn't have a visa, then sorted everything out for all the passengers.  We alighted and bundled into the immigration buildings, where the surly (why are they always surly?) border guards processed passport after passport, then the bus guy called out the names and we each collected our own, then progressed to the electronic checking, where the security was like the US - four fingers, thumb, other four fingers, other thumb.  Jump back onto the bus.  That was it - welcome to Cambodia.

Twenty minutes in, we stopped at a roadside cafe for refreshments.  I fell into conversation with a man called Frankie, from Malaysia, who was en route to Phnom Penh for business.  He had studied in Brighton and was familiar with South East London, where I reside.  Small, small world.  I told him about the epic World Conference; he was aware of Girl Guides in Malaysia, which was reassuring.  I told Frankie about this travel blog - so greetings if you are reading it, Frankie!

On arrival in Phnom Penh, the coach was predictably surrounded by tuk-tuk drivers and mopeds, but not threateningly so.  I was keen to get some cash with my magic cash card, as I had 40p on me (the equivalent), after changing up the last of my Vietnamese dong in the roadside cafe.  My cash card failed me in three consecutive ATMs, which wasn't good.  I went with plan B, got some cash, then took something called a remork (remorque-moto, a roofed, two-wheeled trailer hitched to the back of a motorbike), which was great fun.  It was less fun when it transpired that the driver and I had shaken on a price, which I was thinking of in riel (local currency) and he was thinking of in dollars.  We compromised eventually, as the rain came tumbling down in that unique rainy-season way.  Once he'd disappeared, I realised that my guesthouse was nowhere to be seen, but it was the right street; I sought refuge in a cafe, rehydrating on Coke and filling up with some special fried rice.  You can't beat special fried rice.

The rain finally eased and I sought directions - it wasn't far.  I checked-in and settled into my perfect little air-conditioned, ensuite room, affected only by the occasional power outage, which can make things quite dark. Unfortunately some of my clothes were soaked by the rain, so I have created my own little Chinese laundry in my room.  

I have been making plans for my 2 days of sole adventuring, as the friend I was meant to meet has been called away, to another country.  This often happens when I arrive somewhere.

So all is well; the guesthouse is cosy and friendly.  The rain is still pouring down and pounding the streets, not that any Cambodians seem very affected by it.  

I've read up on Cambodian history and am as ready as one can be to go and visit the Killing Fields tomorrow.  That blog entry will not be a chirpy one, I'll warn you now.