Nomadism 101: A Daytrip to Cambodia pt. 2

(Scroll Down for Part 1)

Sitting in a Thai greasy spoon can be a dangerous experience. Whenever the cook tosses her mixture of chili and spices onto the wok, a wave of fumes washes over the restaurant. Mr D. coughs loudly, declaring that he's going to have to get some fresh air and a Thai girl sitting across from us looks up, grinning impishly. She's wearing a bright orange shirt and her long ponytail is tossed carelessly over her right shoulder. She laughs silently for a moment, then returns to the food she's sharing with her parents. The wait staff cover their noses with little napkins, waiting for the fumes to pass. The woman sitting at the counter buries her nose in her thin, gray and green striped hoodie and waits wearily. Her hair is damp from the moisture, her makeup is a bit smeared, and she looks like she'd rather be anywhere else.

I take shallow breaths and watch Mr. D leave and begin to have dark fantasies about what's happening with my passport. It's gone for good, I'm sure and now I'll have to go through hell to get a new one...or maybe they're setting up some scheme in which I'll get caught with drugs once I'm across; I'll end up in a Cambodian prison for years, and leave a bearded shell of myself full of HIV and Hep B. Hmmm, maybe I'll just stop thinking.

Forty-five minutes later, my eager guides re-appear, apologizing for the delay and brandishing my passport which contains a brand new Cambodian visa. I follow them towards border control and a little Thai girl appears, holding an umbrella over my head. I half-heartedly try to dodge her, but she is persistent in her quest to keep my skin from getting any darker. We get to Thai border control, I tip her, and she disappears. I stand in line for a few minutes, and once the grumbling woman stamping passports has let me through, I re-emerge into the hot sun and stride towards the Cambodian check point. My guides appear, and walk me across the short bridge that separates the countries.

Children appear around us, begging for change. I look down at the little girl tugging at my pants and try to smile as I shake my head. She's literally dressed in rags and has these desperate, sad eyes. I feel filthy as I look up and try to ignore her. What I really want to do is grab her up in a big bear hug and tell her that it's going to be ok, that I can help her, that I can save her. But I don't, or won't, or can't. I just keep walking.

My guides tell me to wait. They again have disappeared with my passport, but I fight the urge to freak out. I'm completely in their hands, there's not much I can do. They show up with a Cambodian police officer who motions me over to his motorbike, and I hop on, with some reluctance. As we pass his buddies, they shout at him. He yells back gleefully and they laugh loudly. there are really only two options here; they're making fun of the fact that he's got a black man on his bike, or I'm at the wrong end of a bad joke that's going to end me up in Cambodian prison. I've never hoped to be called a nigger more eagerly; it's certainly better than the alternative.

He drops me off at a small building full of foreigners getting their visas approved and tells me to wait outside the building. Cambodia may be a struggling country, but they seem to have tried to make the border crossing look nice. There are several modern looking office buildings covered in blue reflective glass and what looks like a mall. The only visible difference between here and Thailand is that they drive on the right side of the road. The buildings don't distract me long because I've decided I really don't like the idea of a cop hanging on to my passport. It doesn't matter what country I'm in, police always make me nervous; and this one has my passport, and knows that I'd do a lot to get it back to relative safety in my own hands.

Thankfully, he returns quickly with the passport and we're back across the border. I have thirty more days on my visa and I can suddenly breathe again. I realized I'm soaked in sweat. The car ride back seems longer, but I enjoy the sight of the sinking sun peeking through the clouds like a bashful child peering through living room blinds as I fade in and out of sleep.