Sophie has had hitchhiking on the brain ever since we met. She knows it’s not prudent for her, as a young woman, to do it alone, so she feels my companionship gives her an opportunity she can’t pass up. Hence, when we found out that it was going to be 16 USD apiece to take the bus a mere 4 hours from the beaches of Sihanoukville to the Vietnam border, she started beating the hitchhiking drum right away. Unlike Thailand, where we had met reasonable people who had successfully found rides, Cambodia was uncharted territory and I needed some convincing. In the end we decided to take the 5 USD bus to the in-between town of Kampot, about 2 hours away, see if we felt like staying and if we didn’t, then try to hitch the rest of the way. Of course when we got to Kampot it was an ugly little town that didn’t seem worth a second glance, so after a passable noodle lunch in the market we shouldered our packs, headed east, checked the map along with a couple of road-signs and stuck out our arms, waving to the ground in the suggested Asian hitchhiker manner.
Our first mistake came early. We knew the name of the town that we wanted to reach in Vietnam, we knew the names of two towns between Kampot and there, but we did not know the name of the town (Prek Chek) where we planned to cross the border until after we said goodbye to the first of what would turn out to be seven different groups of Cambodians, each of whom, for reasons still obscure to me, was willing to convey us from one point to another. We later agreed it was possible that the truck driver who was kind enough to give us our first lift was in fact going all the way to the mercurial town of Prek Chek, but not knowing this we counted ourselves winners when we saw a road sign for one of the middle towns and asked to be dropped off, giddy at how far we’d come.
From there confusion was the only consistency. Many vehicles stopped, most were kind, but no one understood where we wanted to go. Our maps had only Roman characters and were completely useless as communication aids. After failing over and over again to pronounce “Prek Chek” and receive anything other than confused stares, we lowered our expectations and got in with a trucker going to Pnom Penh with the understanding that he would drop us where the road split. Our spirits rose again as we saw signs to Prek Chek and gestured to our generous chauffer that we would like to go there. “Vietnam?” He asked. We nodded our agreement and thirty minutes later he dropped us off at an unmarked dirt road splitting off from the main highway just as the spectacular thunderstorm that we had watched approaching finally cracked open over our heads. We took shelter from the grapefruit sized rain-drops in a darkened roadside shack, along with a few locals for whom we were an irresistible curiosity, ordered two glasses of a sweet, delicious iced-tea and coffee mixture, and watched with some skepticism as only two vehicles took the dirt road turn during our thirty minute stay. When the clouds cleared we shouldered our packs again and asked “Prek Chek?” Nothing. “Vietnam?” Yep. Down that dirt road. “Ok then.” It took us 20 minutes walking to catch our first lift on the back of a truck which unfortunately was stopping at a wedding somewhere in the middle, compelling us to negotiate a painful motorcycle ride (1.00 USD), three deep, packs hanging off our arms, to carry us within sight of the border.
Our excitement at finally reaching Vietnam was short lived. The border guards, a ragged looking group in an unmarked shack, explained that we cannot receive a passport stamp at this lonely outpost; for that we would have to go to Prek Chek. “We’re not in Prek Chek?” HaHa. No. A young man offered to take us there on his motorcycle for 20 USD. We passed, opting to turn around and catch a lift back up the dirt road, turning back onto the main highway, now tracing the same path of the driver who had taken us to this odd little corner of nowhere. A friendly Cambodian man in the back of this truck could speak enough English to ask about our ages and professions, but was clueless as to the location of Prek Chek. As the sun set over the jungle, we were dropped off in a unknown town twenty minutes further up the highway, bidding farewell to our most recent hosts in some confusion, wondering where we were now and what we should do.
A couple of young men graciously took us to a guesthouse on their motorcycles where we dropped off our bags and then went back to the street, stopping occasionally to ask random shop owners where we were and if they had ever heard of Prek Chek, to which the reply was always some smiling, Khmer variation of, “I don’t speak English, you idiot. Where do you think you are?” After a cheap dinner and an epic banana shake served in a giant plastic bag, we found someone who spoke English. Since he was heavily intoxicated, we decided to join him for beers in front of his shop. For reasons known only to him he kept kissing my hand and telling me he loved us, but between kisses we managed to find out that we had been pronouncing Prek Chek wrong and that it was just up the road.
The next morning found us walking up the road and waiving our arms again, confident this time that even if we failed to make ourselves understood, we would see the sign for the turnoff. After a couple aborted attempts, we were picked up by a middle aged man in a tiny Nissan, uncertain where he was going but happy to be on the road. The kilometers flew by and one hour turned to two as our confidence waned, both of us gradually reaching the realization that (a) there would be no road signs, and (b) we must have passed Prek Chek somewhere in the last hour, but (c) we had no way of knowing exactly where. From there a debate of indecision began (“I’m not making the decision.”… “Well I don’t want to either…”) between getting out immediately and going back the way we came, or riding this out until our assumed destination of Pnom Penn. Somewhere in the middle of this debate we arrived in Pnom Penn.
The driver wanted about 2 USD for his services, which we paid and began a new debate. Sophie was a little dejected, convinced that the bus would be even more expensive from here and hating the frantic, dirty hustle of this metropolis. I don’t hate cities like she does, but I knew where she was coming from. It all felt like too much to cope with; too many failures, too much money that we would be forced to spend in our attempt to avoid spending money and on top of everything, we were not in the tourist part of town which meant that we would have to pay a taxi to take us to a travel agent. But when all seemed lost and our bags seemed to be taking on both additional weight and heat, we stumbled right into a travel agency billboard offering tickets to Ho Chi Minh City for 12 USD each. This would put us a good distance north of our original destination but since we had planned on stopping in HCMC anyway, it would ultimately save us time and money. Six hours later we crossed the border. Two hours after that we had a room in a back-alley guesthouse, a Styrofoam container filled with pork dumplings, and a love-at-first-sight kind of feeling about HCMC.
I stayed out late that night, saying goodnight to Sophie early then wandering the bars, bullshitting with backpackers and volunteers, drinking cheap beer then overpaying for cocktails, trying without success to explain to strangers what I found so instantly appealing about this city. I know it can’t just be the avocado shakes on every corner, or the beef noodle soup stalls, or the odd way the local spots seem shuffled in with the tourist traps. It’s possible my love for this place has more to do with how I got here; the certainty and comfort of city life after the confusion and limitations of the countryside, the surprise and excitement of being here after planning to be someplace else.
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