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Published: March 29th 2015
The night is stifling hot and for whatever reason I am really not feeling well. My head is pounding and my stomach is off, but one way or another, I am going to get to my destination. I looked at the clock on the wall: 1:45 a.m. My bus was supposed to leave fifteen minutes ago.
Phnom Pehn in the heart of Cambodia is not only exceptionally hot – ranging from mid-30s to mid-40s – it is extremely dry and dusty. The broken roads are thick with fine dust, the marketplaces a sweltering maze of vendors where lazy dogs lie sprawled along alleyways and sickly-thin cows graze along the arid roadside.
I sit on a hard stone bench while the fumes from an idling bus seep into my already dizzy head. It is not long before my clean shirt becomes a sticky mass of fabric melted to my skin.
Where is the bus?
As chance would have it, a long time friend of mine happens to be in Cambodia. It has been
eighteen years since I last saw him and I am determined to make my way across the country to the sleepy Ochheuteal Beach along the
Gulf of Thailand…
…if my bus ever comes.
Leaving Erin behind to explore Phnom Pehn, I decide to take an overnight bus as our time in Cambodia is quickly passing and I have to be in Sihanoukville and back to Phnom Pehn in time for our trip to Siem Reap.
I overhear someone in broken English say the bus will not be here for another half hour. I can hardly keep my eyes open and I am certain I am coming down with something. I must have eaten something bad.
The dial of the clock makes its slow rotation; minute after minute passes. It is now 2:30 a.m. I overhear the same broken voice tell another waiting passenger the bus will be here in thirty minutes. I feel ready to pass out and consider going back to the hotel where Erin would be fast asleep in our cool, clean room.
The bus finally arrives. It is 3:30 a.m. My eyes are hardly open and I feel like I have been hit by a freight train. As the bus pulls into the station, I am grateful I spent the extra money for a sleeper on an
air-conditioned bus. The bumpy trip will be five hours, but if we leave now, I should arrive just in time to meet my friend.
I slowly inch my way toward my sleeper: 8C. I begin to climb up when the bus driver makes his way back saying, “No, not your bunk.” I show him my ticket, but it makes no difference. He pushes me back and points to a bunk. At this point I just need to lie down. I crawl inside and pull the curtains closed. It is oppressively hot and the air-conditioning is not working, but I quickly begin to drift off.
I feel someone pushing me. “What is it?” I asked annoyed. I am trying to keep my stomach down.
“Hi”, a large Cambodian man says. “I share with you.”
“Sorry? This is my sleeper!” I say noticing that the other sleepers are each filled with two people also.
As I accept that I am sharing this enclosed three foot space with a large Cambodian man, I give in and huddle up against the wall. The bus slowly picks up speed and soon we are bouncing along the dirt highway towards the
southern end of the country.
I must have fallen asleep for I wake up some time later drenched in sweat. There is no denying it, I am ill.
I peak out the window shades; it is still dark out. I have no idea what time it is and despite the lack of air in the stuffy, cramped bunk, I drift back to sleep to the lull of the engine.
When I open my eyes again the sky is a light blue and I sense we are getting closer. While I want to sleep until this wave of nausea passes, I get anxious and want nothing more than to get off the bus. The large man pressed against me begins to stir. I pretend to be asleep.
The bus comes to a stop and we all pile out into a large field. This is the bus depot. Buying a ticket for my return trip that night, the man says to me, “Bus leave at 5:30 p.m.”
‘Sure’, I think and take my ticket.
Hiring a tuk-tuk I make my way to the place where I am to meet my friend. The sun has hardly risen
but the air is already thick and it is hard to breathe, but I can smell the salty ocean air somewhere in the distance and imagine the warm gentle wind and refreshing waters.
As we crest around a corner at the top of a large hill, I see the quiet town spread before me, the vast sea stretching across the horizon.
Ordering a pot of tea, I soon see a tuk-tuk pull up to the café and my old friend step out, his long gray ponytail captured in the warm breeze. Aside from a few more lines telling the story of two decades of life lived and lost, he has not changed and we quickly find ourselves telling tales of now while reminiscing of then.
We finish our tea and walk the three kilometre stretch of white-sand beach that edges the warm waters, the waves lapping over our bare legs. I feel much better now. The sun beats down on us and we lose ourselves in conversation, reflecting on life. We wonder how life has changed us from who we were to who we have become. Neither of us has an answer and we quietly wade on,
staring out across the ocean into the unknown. We both feel a sense of peace as we contemplate the vastness of it all, the water having the power to wash away our thoughts.
Reaching the halfway point, we stop, look at each other and realize that it is these moments that make life worth living. We say little and continue on.
As the sun begins to descend it is time for me to leave. Sadly saying my farewells to my dear friend, a tuk-tuk takes me away. I turn around and we give each other one last wave. I feel my eyes blur and wonder when and where I will see him next.
Life is often a mystery of the things we try to explain yet can often find no answers to. It is a series of moments that have no beginning and no end. As I stood with my friend of twenty-odd years on a beach thousands of miles from where we first met, I wondered if life is nothing more than a dimensionless anonymity that somehow drives us towards something we will never begin to understand.
Whatever the reasons are, and no matter what constitutes the mysteries of life, it is the fleeting moments that remind me what life is all about. It would have been easy to give in to how I was feeling and run back to the hotel, curl up and let the pain pass, but it would have been at the sacrifice of a moment much greater.
Life is a journey and nothing lasts forever, particularly those rare moments when I have an opportunity to cherish and share special times with my friends, family and my beautiful wife.
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