This is a continuation of the first part of this story, which can be found here. 

One of the first things I did was fashion a turban and dust mask from my sarong to keep from breathing the floury dust that puffed up from the road.  We pitched into potholes so deep that the force of the bounce threatened to damage my kidneys.  At times they made us get out of the truck and walk along behind it as the driver navigated the “road”.  We never stepped foot off of the dirt road, instead fearfully walking in the exact treadmarks of the truck’s tires.

It seemed as though there were only two towns in all of that vast area — Poipet, which we’d just left, and Siam Reap in the distance.  Everything in between was rotted roads, fetid creeks, and bombed bridges.  And the constant worry that the next vehicle to approach was loaded down with gun-toting Khmer Rouge.  I already had a plan, which was to wedge myself into the middle of our little group, and at the first sound of an AK-47 rattling off death, I’d hit the deck and hopefully be buried by the corpses of my fellow travelers.  I’m not proud of that, but it was my plan and I figured my only hope of survival.  Of course, I had no further plan beyong using my companions as body-shields and surviving gunfire.

We pulled in to Siam Reap at around 10:00 pm which was late even by local standards.  A crowd gathered around us instantly, groping us, tugging at our packs for any loose pieces that they could get a hold of and keep.  Touts offered us rooms in guesthouses, the best bars for buying and smoking marijuana, motorcycle tours of Angkor Wat, or anything number of other things.  They would do anything to touch a foreigner, to get some sense of a world outside of their own.

It constantly felt as though I was in a land of walking dead.  The Khmer Rouge regime was recent enough to be a vivid memory for many around me.  I couldn’t fathom the kind of fear they lived in constantly, had probably known all of their lives.  The result was a community of jaded, hollow-eyed shells, some missing limbs from near-misses with land-mines, others dragging themselves on stumps as a result of direct-hits of polio.

My time in Cambodia was beautiful, yet emotionally abyssmal.  I visited the Killing Fields and the blood-spattered walls of Tuol Sleng — a school-turned-concentration camp.  By the time I came out the other side of Cambodia and landed in Vietnam I’d worked myself into a complete and very black depression.  It was as if the horrible things they’d endured had somehow wormed into my own brain and planted their memories in mine.  It was like being bitten by a Zombie.  Except, instead of turning into a walking dead person, you are turned into a desperate person who clamors for the slightest hope that they can go back to a time when travel was easy and your cares amounted to nothing more than whether the bus toilet would flush.

On weekends I’m posting 2-part short stories of any genre.  Most of them are my own, but if you would like to contribute your short story, contact me at teresa@teresamowen.com  The first part is published Saturday morning, second part published Sunday morning.  I hope you enjoy this new feature of my blog.

Frank propped his feet up on the divider in front of our seats.  We settled in for the 6 hour bus ride to the Cambodia/Thailand border, munching on Pringles and resting.  We had a long trek ahead of us.

Frank was a 6’2″ good-looking airline steward from Belgium.  We met in Burma, went our separate ways, and then one day on the street in Bangkok someone placed their hand on my shoulder and I turned around.  It was Frank.

At times Frank was a fantastic travel partner — eccentric, outgoing, and spontaneous.  But he also cheated at gin rummy.  You can’t trust a travel partner who cheats at gin rummy.  He was gay, too, so there was some territorial encroachment happening there.  Not that it mattered.  For my 4 month stint in South East Asia I’d sworn off men, booze, and drugs.

Our trip to Siam Reap, Cambodia covered the spectrum of comfort levels.  From Bangkok to AranyaPrathet, we traveled on a paved road.  We sat in plush velour seats in an air-conditioned coach with a semi-functioning toilet.  The few miles from AranyaPrathet to Poipet, the border, we rode one on the back of a motorcyle and the other in the attached side car, bouncing down a pot-holed dirt road.  Frank folded himself into the side-car and sat on top of our backpacks.  I clung to the back of the motorcycle driver like a coke-habit he couldn’t shake as he swerved and rattled down the road to Poipet.  Then travelling got difficult.

As soon as we arrived in PoiPet, things changed.  The road was dirt and flanked by beat-up old cinder-block buildings.  Giant oxen cart were dragged by teams of barefoot humans through the gates between the two countries.  Men waved firearms at the teams of people, yelling at them and moving them along.  They struggled pulling loads of baskets, boxes, and gun-waving masters. Amputees, victims of the still-active mine fields, begged for food and were chased away by unconvincing authorities.  Starving amputees with no prostheses don’t exactly move quickly.  It was like being dropped into a spaghetti western, only it was in Asia, so I guess you’d call it a rice western.  Or a zombie apocalypse.

Frank and I shared nervous glances.  No one mentioned the border crossing.  The warnings I heard from fellow travelers were: the overland crossing from Poipet to Siam Reap was cheap but also required copious amounts of valium or opium, never step off the road, never travel after dark, and hide your valuables well.  The border crossing never warranted so much as a warning not to drink the beer, yet we felt that we’d stepped into a war-zone.  We could only imagine what the rest of the trip might be like.

Actually, we couldn’t imagine at all.

We found a small Toyota pick-up truck loaded with a couple of nuns and 13 backpackers, paid the fee, and hopped in.  We all perched on our packs, laid in the back of the truck, like buzzards on road-kill.  It was close to 2:00 pm and we knew that the 100 km trek could take up to 6 hours, well past dark.

Pol Pot died in 1997, and by 1999 most of the Khmer Rouge came out of the jungle to surrender.  Our trip took place in early 2000, and it was well-known that some Khmer Rouge hanger-onners with access to weapons occasionally held up a few tourists and took their possessions.  I knew of other, more violent crimes too.  I decided not to think about those.

Our truck rattled and belched down the dirt road.