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Cambodia

Border patrol

May 10, 2011

 

The overland border between Thailand and Cambodia is legendary among travelers. Not because of the landmines that still line the region. Not because of the deadly border conflict that has flared up over disputed territory. But because the scams here are as plentiful as noodles.

I had read all the blogs and horror stories. I knew what I was supposed to do:

1. Take the bus from Bangkok to Aranyaprathet, the Thai border town.

2. At the bus stop, get a taxi or tuk-tuk to the border.

3. Go through immigration.

4. Take a taxi or bus to Siem Reap.

Sounds simple enough, right? Wrong. At the “Scambodia” border crossing, everything is not what it seems.

My friend and I boarded a nice, air-conditioned bus departing from Bangkok. After about an hour, the bus stopped. We were shepherded onto another, far crappier vehicle.

The bus dropped us off several kilometers from the border, forcing us into hiring a tuk-tuk. Instead of immigration, he brought us to a diner. “This is where you fill out papers,” he said. We shook our heads no and refused to get out of the vehicle.

I said we want to go to the border. No more stops. Just the border.

The driver brought us to a Cambodian embassy building. It didn’t feel right — I’ve never been to a border crossing yet where you get the visa for the next country before exiting the first country — but the driver insisted this was the way. The building looked official, with a tall fence, guard post and the big gold seal of Cambodia.

Inside two men were playing chess.

They said a visa would cost $40. I pointed out that the visa is actually $20. One man shrugged and said, “Well, you’ll have to go to the border for THAT visa.” I wanted to scream, “So where the eff am I?”

He never looked up from the chessboard.

Back inside the tuk-tuk, the driver finally took my friend and I to the border. There was one line. Then another line. One form. Then another form. One stamp. Then another stamp.

We made it to Cambodia!

But the fun didn’t stop there. All tourists are taken by the government-run bus to a travel depot where the buses and taxis are double the price. This is really the only option for transportation, other than hitching a ride in a dusty pickup on a long, bone-jarring road.

When my friend and I arrived at 3 p.m., all the buses were conveniently gone for the day. Only expensive taxis remained, and we were forced into paying $15 each for a ride to Siem Reap.

In the big scheme of things, we didn’t part with too much money. It’s just exhausting and annoying to have so many people rip you off over and over again. Experiences like this make me grumpy, combative and distrustful — the exact opposite of the kind of traveler I try to be. It’s even more infuriating when the government(s) know this is happening and don’t do anything to stop it.

The biggest loss was our time. All of this sucked 12 hours out of our day, when it should have taken just six or seven.

Maybe this is how the border war started.

 

Float on

May 7, 2011

When I die and the undertaker cracks me open, I’m pretty sure sand will spill out. I’m a desert girl. My bones are made of cactus and my heart throws tumbleweeds with every beat.

So tooling around the floating villages of Lake Tonle Sap in Cambodia was a glimpse into an unfathomable life.

Here the landscape ebbs and flows, dictated by an ever-changing tide.

Not only is this the largest lake in Southeast Asia, it’s also a UNESCO-recognized biosphere.

Small villages are perched on stilts around the lake. There are floating stations for diesel, markets for essential sundries, even places of worship.

All floating, all perpetually drifting.

Twice a year, their entire world shifts as the Tonle Sap changes direction. During the dry season, about November to May, the lake drains into the Mekong River. When the rains flow again, starting in June, Tonle Sap swells up once again.

 

Go fish

May 3, 2011

“Fins to the left. Fins to the right. And you’re the only bait in town.”

I never fully understood those classic Jimmy Buffet lyrics until my friend Angie and I braved a fish spa in Cambodia.

No, fish spa is not where Nemo gets a rubdown.

Rather, fish spa is the perfect union of man and marine. You dunk your sore, tired feet into a tank of water, where tiny fish eat the flesh off your very bones. No biggie.

Also, fish spa in Southeast Asia is a righteous deal. We paid $2 for 25 minutes, which includes a free Angkor beer. And I don’t know about you, but I’ll do whatever it takes to get a skin slough and cold beer for just two buckaroos.

It is funny and happy.

 

So Angie and I dove in.

As soon as I dipped my toes in the water, the beasties swarmed my appendages like a truckload of hungry farmers at a Bonanza buffet. They were Napoleon, and my feet were kingdoms to be conquered.

Chow time.

 

It was actually kind of cute and novel until I realized hundreds of insane garra rufa fish were devouring my old, dead skin. And then it was totally creepy. And then it was prickly and tickly. And then it was rather excruciating.

I screamed and thrashed around for a few minutes, because it’s scary to have mini piranhas gnawing at your feet. I don’t even like swimming in lakes for this very reason, and now I was begging the tiny monsters to eat me.

The “spa technicians” promised I would get used to the feel of fish mouths after a few minutes, and they were correct. But long after the tickling faded, some questions remained.

Is fish spa vegan?

Is it ok to feed fish if the food happens to be your flesh?

Where’s my free beer?

Overall, my feet ended up smoother than when I use a pumice stone or get a professional pedicure. They felt better. They even looked better. I’m not sure if fish spa legitimately increases circulation and contributes to better health as the spa claimed, but it definitely gave new meaning to the term “go fish.”

Oh, and I did finally get the free beer.