THE real world

“Passport for border crossing,” the tout called out.

Sporting a comb-over and an untucked shirt, he moved slowly through the bus aisle, collecting navy blue, green and maroon booklets from the hands of bleary-eyed Westerners.

The Cambodian countryside rattled outside the window—bushes and thatched houses that gave way to lots of nothing, brown expanses of dirt— as the bus maneuvered down the pitted road leading to the Laos border.

I reached out to hand him my navy-blue booklet.

“Five dollars,” he told me.

“For what?” I asked, keeping my grip on my passport.

“Two dollars for overtime charge on both sides,” he said, averting his eyes. “One dollar for me.”

“Oh, well,” I said with a smile, “can I walk across the border myself?”

He gave an annoyed sigh and waved his arm—“Yeah, yeah”—and continued down the aisle.

“Well, that’s good,” I said to my friend Alicia. “We can stretch our legs and save a dollar. And,” I added, “see about negotiating that ‘overtime charge.’”
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