Planes Trains and Automobiles

The road between Battambang and Siem Reap we'd heard was appalling. Dusty, bad traffic, in places slowed by construction, with large jolting passages of gravel to navigate. Buddy Lissy and I have thoroughly enough experienced the Cambodian highways already--a plentiful helping of honking, bad shoulders, pot-holes, and dusty hot wind to last us for some time--that we've decided to "cheat" and bus us to our destination of Siem Reap. We can save our bicycling energy for hopefully better roads to come.

We'd stopped a few days before at a bus company and were told that a bus left at 9am for the 3 hour ride to Siem Reap. We rolled up there this morning, 15 minutes early, to load the bikes. The young Mr. Bus told us, smackingly through a mouth of rice, that there was actually no bus going to Siem Reap.

Oh.

So we crossed the road to another bus company. A slurry of people pushed against the long ticket counter, and I wasn't sure where to get "in line", as it were, but as I stepped closer, the fog of people cleared and suddenly I had three ticket girls helping me. Oh, to be tall and foreign. (speaking of being tall, I've bumped my head twice today, which is about average for me around here)

It was unclear whether their bus would fit our bikes or not; people tend to answer most questions with "yes", so "will the bus fit our bikes?" brings "yes" and also "is the bus to small to fit our bikes?" also is "yes." So we decided to thread the few twisted blocks over to the bus itself to find out, which was parked and waiting "nearby the market."

We couldn't find the bus. Markets are packed and swarming and disorienting, and so we stopped and asked a man for directions. "You go Siem Reap?" he asked expectantly. Then he indicated not a bus, but a small lorry, and said he would take us and our bikes for $30. But before we could barter this down, however, we were swarmed by expectant men. We'd arrived in the "Where You Go?" part of town, as such, and they were typing prices into their Nokia phones to display to us, the long claw-like fingernails of pinky fingers making me cringe. Then we became an auction and the men were negotiating among themselves who would earn money by driving us to Siem Reap. Finally a Mr. White Camry won us with $20 for all, and we liked that he was leaving "now"--how convenient!

"Now" is a much wider span of time in Cambodia than it is in the USA.

A full hour passed before we finally left. In this time, Mr. Camry ranged about, adding passengers to his load, tying down boxes, convincing our bikes into the trunk. Two bikes in the trunk of a Toyota Camry: this is like pushing Christmas trees backwards through a doorway. I hovered, concerned, as he got out lengths of filthy ropes and began tying it all down. His tie job I hoped was serviceable, though I was appalled when he tried to tie through a spoke. But my Dad showed up for a moment and helped fix this. I jiggled ties and put cardboard in key places and hoped my dear darling bicycle would be alright.

Our camry was in a parking lot all of camrys in varying states of dustiness. They were not marked as taxis; but they seemed to be serving as informal taxis in a way, transporting people and goods between Battambang and other cities. I watched a new arrival camry roll in, and instantly four men appeared from the shade, putting their hands on the windows and jogging alongside. These were tuk-tuk and motorcycle drivers, staking their claims if the new arrivals needed a further ride.

Our camry was a tin of sardines: we had five people in the back-seat, four adults and a child, and a young man in the front with a cane and an unsavory sore on his ankle. I had my bags on my lap and it was hot and Mr. Camry had to push Buddy Lissy in a bit to get the back door to shut. I unlaced an arm from the tangle of bodies and wiped the perspiration off my upper lip. I felt lucky I'm not prone to car-sickness or claustrophobia.

I wasn't sure if I were more or less concerned that the knocking sound was coming from the engine rather than from the bicycles. But here we were, traveling in true Cambodia style: a jammed car and a stuffed trunk, people wringing the most out of those petrol-powered vehicles. And it was our turn now to be the in the place of the honkers rather than the honkees. Mr. Camry drove in top form, tail-gating, passing, horning at transportation smaller than himself. The whole time he was absolutely unperturbed, never impatient seeming.

On the road to Siem Reap, I sure was grateful not to be fighting it on a bicycle. There were places that had no pavement, and this created so much dust that the trees near the road had not green leaves, but brown.

We arrived all present and accounted for, with no more than a generous coating of dust on the bicycles. What an experience!