Failing at Travel

If someone tells you that the back of a pick-up truck is 'the only way to see Cambodia' one should point out that this is hyperbole; there are many other modes of travel with lower risk of mortality.

So, I'm going to die here; launched through the air at speeds that would be illegal on a motorway, and deeply inadvisable for this dirt track. I wonder if they’ll ever find my body.

I crossed the border from Thailand into Cambodia earlier this afternoon. Thailand; where I travelled on a bus, with suspension, on asphalt. On that trip the only hiccup was when the bus was stopped by police who hauled several people from their seats and lined them up along the side of the road, kneeling at gunpoint, before sending us on our way. That was dramatic. How innocent I was back then.

At the border I received my entry visa from the immigration officer.

“Do you have something for my family?”

Perhaps it was some deeper aspect of my British heritage or because he made the rookie error of returning my passport before asking for his bribe.

“Your family? No sir, I do not. Need I remind you that you are a government official?”

I have no idea where this came from, but I am not taken off to the side room, which I can only ascribe to the forces of righteous indignation; I wasn't even wearing my monocle and pith helmet.

As those I formerly classified as friends told me, I had no problem finding a pick-up truck heading to my destination. I joined 20 or so people stuffed into the vehicle and roof, along with countless sacks of vegetables and several ducks. I secured a prime spot behind the cab balancing on the side of the truck, I even had my own handhold that I would not be letting go of for the next 5 hours.

Driving out of the border town I see a tuk-tuk submerged in a pothole; I am amused by it. I even try to take a photo, as if a future me would even be alive to find it humorous, but that would involve releasing my grip.

Then we leave civilisation and the truck accelerates faster and faster, and the road gets worse, and worse. The kicked-up dust is blasted into my face; I will be blinking clods of dirt out of my eyes for a week to come. But at least it’s still daytime and the driver can dodge the worst holes in the road.

As the light fails I witness the most beautiful sunset I have ever beheld, as if a personal deity has taken a paintbrush of pinks, oranges, and crimsons to the sky. A poignant memory of how beautiful life can be when it’s inevitably snatched from me.