What is it with me and men in uniform? First it was the immigration officer at Dhaka airport. Now it is my travelling companion who just happens to be a policeman returning to work after a few days visiting his family.
Vanna doesnt speak much English, but excitedly whips out his Khmer-English dictionary when he finds out I am single. So we chat via translations for most of our journey. From Phnom Penh to Sisophon near the Thai border, Vanna travels the seven hour journey every second week to his job at the local police station. His mum and dad own the Casanova tailor shop in Phnom Penh, so I may pick up a few things on my return now we are about to get married – I think the tailor shop was named after him.
I am always talking to people – it really is the only way to learn about the culture, what the locals enjoy doing in their spare time (Im booked in for a karaoke session on my return), their hopes for the future, their family and what they really think about the $100 million + Khmer Rouge tribunal. Vanna was more than happy to share with me.
He also didnt hesitate at any of the toilet / snack stops to fill me up with food. For every stop, there were a couple more local snacks to try: my taste buds worked their way through bananas coated in sticky rice, boiled peanuts, guava and chilli salt, stuffed eggs, pomello, sour soup, steamed vegetable buns. I think I ate more in seven hours than I had in the previous week. But I enjoyed the taste sensations and the rarity of a local shouting me.
On our arrival at Sisophon, Vanna insisted on taking me to the taxi station on the back of his moto. Two wheels, two bodies, four bags, two bunches of bananas and a 1m ruler later, we headed to the taxi station to bargain my seat on the 30 minute trip to Chupvary. As most locals had already come into town and headed back home, I was the only one around who wanted a taxi, and I wasnt keen on paying the cost for the entire taxi. After liaising with Houen in Chupvary, she organised a taxi to come and pick me up – it just meant I had to wait until the taxi had only one seat left, otherwise I would have to cough up the $10 for the fare.
Vanna didnt want to leave me. He was worried that the taxi wouldnt find me. That I wouldnt be looked after. That I wouldnt be fed. He wanted to be my bodyguard and refused to head home when I said Id be fine. So, we waited. And waited. zzzzzz. And waited. Finally, my taxi arrived. As we said our goodbyes, I got the feeling Vanna would not have minded if the taxi never turned up.
To ensure you have the pleasure of a true John West sardine experience, you will find the taxi drivers in rural areas squeeze in as many people as possible into their taxi. So as Vanna dissappeared into the dust (literally due to heavy roadworks on the highway), I was on one butt cheek with two others in the front passenger seat. In the rear, were five adults, three children and two babies. At least I respect the driver for not being selfish and taking a seat all to himself. After a little bit of shoving, one more managed to squeeze in with his legs around the gear stick and an army major offered his lap to the driver. So all up, 16 of us headed off on our bumpy ride over countless potholes to the village of Chup. All in the size of nothing bigger than a Toyota Corolla.
On a few occasions, we veered off the main road into villages, tucked behind vast rice fields and sugar palm plantations. The major also needed to get back to the base, so we headed into the military zone to drop him off at his door. One of the babies needed a feed, the toilet was desperately required, some bananas needed to be purchased, three phonecalls had to be made and parcels had to be picked up and delivered. Just over an hour after departing Sisophon, I was the sole sardine, surroundered by a slick, oily residue of tissues, banana peels, plastic and nappies.
My trip to Chupvary is one of many off the beaten tracks I have taken over the years. The only difference is, this time I have a small reminder of the journey. Vanna wanted to provide me with a permanent reminder of our seven hour bus ride, and tucked inside my bag is a photograph of him outside a miniature replica of Phnom Penh´s Grand Palace. Together with a nice shiner from the gear stick jammed into my leg, the photo lays testimony to a journey well worth making. Food, entertainment, people, hilarity, kindness: I don´t mind having that kind of residue sticking around for a while to come.
