All the Little Lies

As I was wrapping up my check-out procedures and was about ready to ask where to put my luggage for the day, a man walked up next to me and started talking to the manager.

He spoke English very slowly, like he was trying to be careful and precise. From his accent, he's Russian. But what do I know? He could just as easily be Ukrainian or some other former Soviet bloc nationality. For the sake of brevity, we'll stick with Russian.

He was explaining that he had to talked to his friend, and he would have some money on Tuesday. I gave him a look out of the corner of my eye. He was a beefy dude and appeared to be missing a few of his teeth. He was definitely down on his luck. The precision in his speaking could be because English was a second language or because he was still messed up from the night before and was trying to hide it, or both.

The man behind the counter didn't say much. Nothing, really. He just nodded assent that he heard the Russian.

The Russian continued: if he could just have a little money for food and water until then... Again, the manager didn't respond. The Russian continued: he'd pay him back. It would all be good on Tuesday. He was staying with a woman. The lies were so practiced and simple. Something told me this was not the first time the Russian was telling his story.

In the quietness of the manager, I could sense his resignation and understanding. He knew any number of things: that he should not have rented the Russian a room in the first place, that he should have asked for a deposit, that he would never get his money back, that yelling would do no good, that he was in for a penny, so he might as well be in for a pound.

He asked the Russian how much he needed.

Twenty dollars. While the Russian continued with some prattle about how things were cheap outside and that would be more than enough, the manager reached into the cash drawer and pulled out two tens and laid them on the counter.

The Russian picked them up and shuffled back to his room, and the manager and I went quietly about our business, pretending we didn't just witness a moment of kindness and charity.

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Location:Paragon Hotel, Phnom Penh, Cambodia

The Wheels on the Bus

While hanging on the beach in Sihanoukville, Cambodia, I unwittingly ganged up on the nice young woman working there. She is traveling the world, and working, and plans to eventually study human rights and international relations and all that malarky. (I kid! I kid!) it was suggested that she keep a journal; I agreed.

The next day, she brought it up again with another customer, and I again said writing down the details would be a good idea. She turned the tables and asked where my journal was. I told her I kept a blog, although I have been a bit slack of late.

Suitably impressed that I at least mostly, or somewhat, or even a little, practice what I preach, she laughed and backed down.

So Montana, if you're out there reading, this one is for you.

(These are the notes I took on the bus to phnom Penh from Sihaoukville. They are largely unedited.)

Left about on time at 9:30ish. Three pick-ups in town at bus depots. No big. Bus appears full, but I'm not craning my neck around to inspect.

First stop: 10:20. Not sure why. We pull over on the wrong side of the road at a couple of shanties. Two workers get off, but since I'm pulling out the iPad to take notes, I don't notice who gets back on. But we then immediately drove through a toll booth, so maybe it has something to do with that. Or maybe one of the company works gets off and heads back into town.

I'm sitting next to a nice, older woman with a bright, dark coral shirt. She just gave me a menthol candy. Sweet. We are all going to breath well during the journey.

10:28. We pull over again. This time on the right side of the street, but then we back into a dirt parking lot. Uh. A dude gets off, and I see him outside the bus, maybe kicking at the tires. So, I guess it's goods they're checking this out, but shouldn't they do that _before_ the bus leaves the station? I'm just thinking here. About five minutes in, a bunch of white dudes get off the bus. Certainly they're not getting off here. Nope. Think they're just having a smoke. Well, at least they have the decency to get off the bus. Unlike those Chinese blokes on the train.

10:44. I can hear a pneumatic drill. Must be changing a tire. While most of us are sitting on the bus. The lady next to me is hawking up a big one, but she doesn't spit it out. That is both comforting and nasty all at the same time. At least they've left the bus running, so we have some air con to combat the hot air pouring in through the open door.

I thought Sorya Transport was a reputable company. I guess we'll see. I'm wearing my red undewear to be safe. But somehow, this could easily stretch beyond the three and a half hours the book says it's supposed take.

10:24, and the pneumatic drills starts up again. 10:25, the bus driver is in his seat and pulls forward. And stops again. The passengers stream back on the bus, but I am still skeptical.

11:30, and we're back on the road. Looking out the window, it seems that we are driving down the middle of the road. Sure, sometime we officially pass vehicles, and then we're way on the left, but most of the time, we seems to be cruising pretty central. Still, it's not too bad and the driver is keeping his horn usage to a minimum. Someone puts a 70s Chinese (Hong Kong, probably) kung-fu movie into the DVD player. The men are sporting some pretty serious feathered haircuts and the judo chops are rather silly. But the old man across the aisle from me is loving it, so it must have some entertainment value. It's got some horrible dubbing, or maybe its just a voice-over, because it sounds pretty Chinese and it has Khmer subtitles, so what do I know?

Around this time, the woman next to me falls asleep. She's letting out some quiet snores, so I'm pretty sure she's not going to jolt awake; I take the opportunity to look a little closer. There's a reason why she didn't look Cambodian to me, and I finally place it: her drawn-on eyebrows make her look like a nice Latina woman. Her nicely coiffed, permed hair helps. (I noticed the short 'do early on, but I missed the eyebrows.) her jeans are black and appear new, and her bright lipstick goes along with her dark coral shirt. Her baby-pink flip-flops are the only thing that belie her rustic upbringing. Well that, and her infrequent but determined hacking. And the occasional flatulence. And a belch or two. She's not quite the demure seat-mate I first thought she was.

11:44 and we stop by the side of the road to pick up two women. There go my hopes of an Express bus.

On we roll. We stop a little after 1 for the lunch stop. I'm not that hungry (I've been snacking on Pringles), and I live in fear of missing the bus at these places. No one ever says what's going on, and I can't ask for help very well, and there are certainly no announcements. Being left behind is NOT an option. So, after a quick trip to sit-down commode that is set up like a squat (in the middle of the stall and without a hint of a seat ever having been attached), I wait outside in the fresh-enough air. I'd have a Coke, but I also live in fear of peeing my pants on one of these trips.

Horns are honking, maybe it's time to get back on. We pull out at 1:25.

On the way back on, I notice the ubiquitous plastic stools, most often seen at street-side restaurants (as in all the cooking is done on the sidewalk -- pavement if you are British -- not that you just sit on the sidewalk/pavement to eat). The driver's assistant/guide/DVD operator doesn't even get a fold-down seat on this bus. He has a plastic stool.

My seat mate has gotten twitchier after lunch. She's snacking on chips, and her left elbow has something of a nervous tic. So, unless I scrunch into the corner of my seat, it's like she's nudging me to get my attention... All the time.

1:49: we pull over on the side. A couple of people up front point at something. Thirty seconds later, the bus pulls back onto the road. I have no idea what.

I think I need a nice French meal for dinner tonight.

And so it continues. At 3:00, the bus pulls off at a depot. A bunch of Westerners and some Cambodians get up. Er? This is where things get scary for those of us who are already nervous travelers (ferry rides, anyone?). Should I be getting off here? Do I know where "here" is? Would anyone tell me if I needed to?

I operate under the assumption that I want to get off where most people want to get off, and that's not here. The Germans behind me are still on the bus, and there is safety in Western numbers. (TC3 has gone on ahead at this point, so I'm riding solo.)

The bus stops again at 3:21, 3:37, and finally at 3:50, everyone gets off. It's suitably busy to be the main bus depot in town, and it turns out I'm right (or the bus driver is).

That's six hours and twenty minutes.

But it cost me $6, so at less than a dollar an hour, I guess I shouldn't complain too much. And no, we didn't have a blow-out.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad