Crossing Cultural Borders

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Before today, I always considered the bus ride between Chile and Argentina to be the most dramatic border crossing. The Andes Mountains themselves seem to echo the message that you have arrived in another way of life. The journey made in Chile's first-rate buses, however, could never compare to the transm experienced by entering the Kingdom of Cambodia.

A relatively uneventful ride through the Vietnamese countryside ended in a dusty parking lot, where we were told to collect our bags. A 300 meter stretch of dusty road under construction was all that separated us from the border, and our bus guide instructed us that a shabbier bus and worse roads would be awaiting us on the other side. True to his word, we emerged on the other side to board the bus of a driver who seemed very reluctant to prematurely end his lunch hour for some lousy tourists.

The dirt roads that ensued were assuredly bumpier than in Vietnam. We travelled through tiny villages with small shacks lined up along the roadway. Everyone was going about their business, and entrepeneurial stalls selling soups and noodles peppered the frontyards. Somebody who needed some bamboo shoots flattened had sagely lied them in the middle of the road to let the motorbikes and buses do the work.

Eventually, we arrived in Phnom Penh, and I knew immediately I had been delivered to a special place. Picking my way along the streets to a guesthouse, the people seemed friendly, smiling gently and giggling as I tried out my first "hello"s in Khmer.

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