Border Crossing into Cambodia

I soon tired of the video entertainment on the bus bound for Phnom Penh and concentrated on trying to learn a few Khmer phrases which might come in handy for the next week. As we neared the border, the bus conductor (whom I will call Thuy) went around collecting everyone's passport, photo and $20 cash for the Cambodian visa. Although I already had my E-Visa (as told here) he still requested me to hand it over. A couple of hours later, Thuy went around trying to return the passports to their rightful owners. This basically involved flipping open each one, walking up and down the aisle searching for the matching mug, at times calling out the names when his facial scanning abilities proved inadequate. Now, repeat this process fifty times.
I casually opened mine and found a Cambodian entry card attached to my E-visa, all filled up by hand. People seated nearby also commented that Thuy had filled out their Cambodian visa application forms by hand. So apparently that's how a bus conductor occupies himself on this six hour intercity route - by painstakingly copying personal info from each passport onto the application forms and entry cards. As if getting yelled at by inconsiderate Irish girls wasn't bad enough. My seatmate Froso, who possessed a very striking Greek passport whose pages were replete with images from ancient times, complained that her application form was nowhere in sight. Thuy sheepishly admitted that he ran out of them, but would take care of the problem at the border. This process struck me as placing an unduly huge burden on the conductor. After all, providing the forms was itself an unexpected service - couldn't he have handed them around, with each traveller responsible for ensuring they were correctly filled out? Was Thuy part of some joint Khmer/Vietnamese government intelligence force responsible for first-line terrorist screening? Or perhaps the Benevolent Bus Conductors Association set up by the bus companies to ensure happy travels and minimal hassle to overland tourists? Alas, we probably shall never know.

The bus entered Cambodian territory, the passengers disembarked and collected their bags, and lined up at Vietnamese immigration to formally exit the country. Based on Thuy's instructions, we waited for him past the customs area and handed over our passports once more, which he meticulously stacks face up and delivers to one of the the immigration officers. At this point we were in a crowded, humid makeshift waiting area along with other tourists and passengers of countless other buses, all impatiently standing around and eager to enter Cambodia. Minutes passed, and as passports were processed by immigration, bus conductors yelled out their respective passengers' names and one by one those called filed out of the building. Given that the Vietnamese language has no less than six tones, some tourists could barely make out their own names and hesitated to come forward, leaving the bus conductor to resort to the more rudimentary facial recognition search pattern. Although I found this to be quite comical, unfortunately I was one of the last ones called, just when there were only 20 or so of us left in the once packed hall, thus the novelty had worn off and I was left cursing the heat, my hunger, and the damned inefficiency of the whole thing.


Outside, once Thuy had ascertained that each of the passengers had finished exiting Vietnam, we were back on the bus - for all of two minutes! The bus deposited us right outside the Cambodian border and told to disembark once more. As each of us walked past the border guard, we handed him our passports and walked on to - where? Not towards the Cambodian immigation hall, but rather, back on the bus!!! At this point, I'm thinking, "This is rather bizarre. Where are we driving to??". The bus continued on the main road, where the surreal sight of numerous casinos greeted us. Not quite as grandiose as Las Vegas, but still mystifying given that Cambodia is generally an impoverished country. Later my suspicions were confirmed that these casinos catered to Thai, Vietnamese, Chinese, Korean, and other visitors from nearby countries where gambling is not permitted. Quite perversely, Cambodians themselves are not allowed to gamble at these casinos which are present in most border towns. Quite worried about the fate of our passports and puzzled that no one else seemed to be, I turned to Bun and asked "Where exactly are we going?". He replied, "Going to have lunch, of course. No one knows how long it would take immigration to finish. Don't worry about it", his voice indicating vast experience with such matters.

That's it! Lunch, of course!! We had just spent hours on a bus, it was hot and way past noon, time for some chow. Our passports? Who cares that they were taken from us and their return somewhat nebulous?! So, the bus continued for a few kilometers past the casinos and parked outside one of the small roadside food stalls. The roadside cafeteria, though somewhat ramshackle and unispiring in appearance, offered seemingly tasty, hygienic and really cheap food, around $2 for an entree with rice, so pretty soon I was digging in and forgot the fact that I was travelling undocumented, but most tourists opted for "safe" American fare like cans of Pringles potato chips (no kidding!)...ummm, at least get some local brands of chips and snacks. My bottle of Angkor beer helped in beating the heat and made the wait somewhat more pleasant inside the fan-cooled cafeteria. After another hour or so of sitting around, all of us tourists were told to board the buses to continue on to Phnom Penh. Oh, and the passports - where exactly were they?! No one seemed to know, and our bus pulled out of the parking lot and idled on the roadside, waiting, waiting...for what?! For Godot? But this time, unlike in the play, Godot does arrive, in the form of Thuy, who had been conspicuously missing at the cafeteria and now scrambled onboard the bus carefully balancing a stack of fifty passports with both hands! Everyone cheered and applauded, and the first smile came from the perenially harassed Thuy's tired face that day. The bus' engine roared, and off we were! I entertained myself by musing about potential comedic situations that would occur in the event the wrong stack of passports was delivered to the wrong bus, but (un)fortunately no such thing happened.