(These events took place November 14, 2008)

Although I enjoyed the environment of Phnom Penh, I was anxious to leave.  The air pollution stirred up by all the people attending the water festival had seriously aggravated my cold.  It felt as though I could actually touch the air I was breathing … or at least the dirt in it … and I couldn’t stay in Phnom Penh any longer. 

So after the last day of the water festival, I headed south to Kampot, a small, river town in South Cambodia which lays claim to the best pepper in the world.  During the time when Cambodia was a French colony, none of the best restaurants in Paris would be caught with ANYTHING but Kampot pepper on their tables.  I tried some while I was in town and enjoyed it very much.  It was a wonderful respite from the “pepper power” which passes for pepper in all other parts of Southeast Asia. 

truck stuck in a monster dirt road pot hole

The bus ride from Phnom Penh to Kampot was comical, except for the faint of stomach.   The roads were horrible.  Sitting towards the back of the bus, I couldn’t see much of them, but presumed from all the bouncing we were doing that they were comprised of more potholes than smooth asphalt.  Craning my neck for a better look, I realized that potholes weren’t the culprit.  Instead, it seemed that the asphalt had been laid more like ribbon candy than flat pancakes.  The suspension on the comically crappy bus exacerbated the jolts.  The bouncing was so exaggerated I imagined I was riding in a cartoon bus which, viewed from outside, had four wheels all of immensely disproportionate sizes and none of them perfectly round, the way a child would draw them.  In my cartoon image, the bus was very short and round and bounced happily along a roller coaster ribbon of a road.  

Cartoons aside, the reality of experiencing the bus from the inside was no picnic.  Although I appreciated the humor of the situation, I still got an awful headache from being jarred up and down in my not-so-cushiony seat and against the window on the occasions that were unfortunately more frequent than rare.  One unlucky Cambodian guy across the isle was more affected in his stomach.  He was seated in the aisle and between him and the window sat a white Western woman, keeping very much to herself as if the poor chap had cooties.  His immediate need to use the window was apparently outweighed by his desire to impose on her highness.  He was suddenly standing in the aisle and starting to clambor over his fellow countrymen in the row in front of him when he hurled projectile style straight into the lap, face and all over the body of the even more unfortunate Cambodian man who had been sitting in the seat directly in front of him … and directly across the aisle from Eric and me.  

Cambodian stop sign

Although it must have been over in a fraction of a second, the whole incident seemed to  happen in slow motion.  For quite a while afterwards, Eric and I continued to marvel about any number of aspects of the situation.  In the first place, the most unfortunate man who received the lapful (and faceful!) of vomit didn’t freak out, scream, gag, or hurl as just about any Westerner I know would. Instead, without uttering a single word, he calmly remained in his seat, (even while the poor young guy was still climbing across him trying to access the window), removed a tissue from his pocket and solemnly began brushing himself off.  We couldn’t help but notice that the contents of the boy’s stomach were almost pure rice which seemed to instantly dry and brush easily off of the man’s face and his navy colored pants.  We laughed to ourselves that perhaps the man wouldn’t have been so calm if he’d received a faceful of typical Western breakfast.  (I think I mentioned in another blog entry that Eric and I both have dark, sarcastic senses of humor.)  

We had been told when we purchased our bus tickets that the trip took two to three hours so we were surprised when, after two hours of travel, the bus pulled over for a snack stop and potty break.  “Why stop when we were so close?” we wondered.  As on many occasions during my travels, I just had to suspend my curiosity and “wait and see” on account of language barriers. That day was no exception.  So after a small break, we hopped back on board the bus and continued bouncing down the road for another two hours.  

I laughed hysterically when the bus turned off of the asphalt road and onto a dirt road … but continued moving at the same speed.  We were on the dirt road for over an hour.  At times, the bus slowed down to less than 1 mph as it waded through ditches and gullies (I don’t suppose you can call them potholes if they’re in a dirt road, can you?)  that would swallow … well … even a bus. As we turned onto the asphalt again, I began seeing signs for Kep, an oceanside town that was well out of the way of Kampot.  Had we missed our stop? Perhaps the “break spot” was also the stop for Kampot and we had accidentally traveled too far.  We began asking around.  A snooty, but apparently knowledgeable, foreigner looked down her nose while she indulgently informed us in all seriousness that the roads along the direct route to Kampot were bad so we were traveling the long way around through Kep to get to our destination. Ha!  These were GOOD roads???!!!