NAM

(working title for a self-help article title)

"How to cross the Camodian/Vietnamese Southern Border in Typical Gina and JoAnne Fashion"

(or how about for the Daily News)

"Capers Abound! Gina and JoAnne in Vietnam, Finally!"

(Women's Health and Fitness would call it)

"How to Completely Give Up on Your Diet, DESERVEDLY!"

(Forbes would have a different take)

"The Importance of Verbal Comprehension and Written Agreement in the Transfer of Money Across Southeast Asian Countries for the Economic Benefit of the Traveling Young Female"

(and the American Health Association would be interested, too)

"The Prevalence of the Urinary Tract Infection Among Women in Tropical Climated Underdeveloped Countries where Facilities are Less than Standard if not Wretched"

Yet again, Gina and I have managed to make our way, laboriously and hilariously, into another country. Should you consider such a trek in the future, I have posted a "DO" and "DO NOT" list of activities to aid in your travels.

DO:

-Take a motorbike from Kampot to Had Thian (VN border) because it's beautiful and everyone needs to hum a little Traveling Wilbury's now and again (Well it's alright/ Riding around in the breeze / Well, it's alright/ If you live the life you please)

DO NOT:

-Trust that your moto driver has "a brother" who "lives" across the "border" and will take you all the way to the ATM-less town of Chau Doc for "Just Five Dollar"! Fantasy, baby. He will take you to see his "brother" at the "public bus stop".

DO:

-Take the 4 hour bus ride to Chau Doc and enjoy the smell of rice paddies and corn fields, fresh Vietnamese pastry buns sold on the side of the road, and the most glorious of all: sugarcane after a short blast of monsoon-season rain.

DO NOT:

-Let said bus take off without travel buddy who was in desperate need of a bathroom and ended up going in a native's riverside hut. You can let the busdriver lay on the horn all he wants, and even if he doesn't speak english and everyone is laughing at you as you wave your hands frantically while straddling 25 pound bags of rice laying in the aisle, you must remember that your travel buddy's ass is hanging off the side of the Mekong river, guarded only by a small curtain and several moto drivers. Come on. Do your part.

DO:

-Try Vietnamese Coffee.

DO NOT:

-Ask for it black. Even though the woman at the streetstall cafe looks really sweet in her matchy-matchy silk jumpsuit, she is lacing your coffee with Cocaine. She brings it to you in a small 4-oz shot glass, brewing in the Vietnam version of a french press. At first, this will make you smile. Then. You will tremble. You will sing Eric Clapton. You will tell your travel buddy that you haven't felt this way about coffee since college. You will not be able to finish your breakfast of delicious chicken Pho (noodle soup) because you can't physically bring the chopsticks to your face anymore.

DO:

-Take a hike up Nui Sam (Sam Mountain) after you have come down from your "caffeine" high.

DO NOT:

-Forget to go to the bathroom before you go, otherwise you will be stuck in a touristy-Disneyland-but-full-of-dirtiness alleyway, paying 2,000 dong to have a grown Vietnamese woman stand centimeters from your face and poke at your sunburnt nose while you wait to use the "bathroom": a shower stall. With a drain. And four walls. And a tub of water to wash it down the drain when you're done. Also, it is recommended that you refrain from attempting the Guiness World Record of Longest Urination Performed by a Caucasian Female Backpacker at the worst pay squat toilet (if you can even call it that) in the history of the world.

Portraits of Kampot

Spastic is not an appropriate enough descriptor for William, but it is as close as the English language permits.

We meet William as we are sharing a taxi (an early 80's model of a Camry, I think) with a total of 7 people in it. William is the only English - speaking Cambodian in the car, sharing the passenger seat with another compact Khmer. His obnoxiously large diamond ring and dress clothes do not convey his comprehension, so Gina and I verbally carry on to God-knows-what extent, though it's enough to affirm any stereotype that Americans are all characters from Desperate Housewives, I'm sure.

As she and I take turns sitting on top of each other and inadvertently poking at each other's mosquito bites, we cogitate on our last days in Sihanoukville: lots of silliness on the beach by day and mass consumption of alcohol by night; two Englishmen almost par with our particular brand of dorkiness for all of it.

Talking is the only remedy to ease the torture of the trip; the windows don't roll down, the driver hates us because we wouldn't pay US $24 dollars to hire the entire car (thus the vindictive time-consuming gathering of other people to reach his quota) and we are both in the wake of round two of the intestinal virus (termed "Cambodian Belly" by the 60-year-old French woman staying next door to us when she cornered me into listening to details of her night in the restroom).

Little did we know that William was studying our every sentence, and meticulously plotting the events to come.

When we reached Kampot, we are formally introduced: Will is a Phnom Pehn based real estate agent. He speaks at us as if he is firing missiles, and has to push his glasses up every two seconds because of the shell-shock of it all. His intensity is endearing if not concurrently dizzying. In a rush, we all settle on the same guesthouse; we agree to meet him for dinner.

10 minutes before we are to meet, William knocks on the door, does not wait for an answer, walks in.

"Seachfood! Sheachfood? Uh- LOBSTER! YES! I GET TODAY AT THE MARKET! We eat, ok? OK!"

"Ok?" We smile. He leaves.
Wait, what just happened?

We go downstairs to the guesthouse restaurant. No William. We sit and wait. No William. We blame translation, and go back up to his room to sort it out.

He opens the door with a spray of water launched square at unsuspecting Gina. In a moment we process: William is naked from the waist up and is holding a comb. " I WASH MY HAIR!" yells he. Gina attempts to explain that we were confused about the lobster. Did he want us to wait while he ate? Should we go someplace else and meet him later? We are informed that "NO!" We are to join him, he got $25 worth of prawns; he definitely wants us to eat with him.

We of course accept, with trepidation on account of our frail stomachs and the fact that William seems harmless but displays enough Ted-Bundyisms to raise a flag.

Dinner is served: An absolute feast. Fried pork in eggplant. Red vegetable curry. Steamed Prawns. Beerlao. William makes sure that we each try the prawn's egg, which is a rare and expensive treat, apparently. William makes no secret of the fact he is rich. My first clue was verbal: "I AM VERY RICH!" My second, third and fourth were shown in his attitude towards other Cambodians in service roles. He was terribly ungracious...but why so nice to us? Red flag number two.

Conversation is amazing. William is a member of the contentiously corrupt CPP (Cambodian People's Party) so we get an earful. He is literally the Entertainment Tonight expose of all the information Gina and I have pondered and had no one of repute to ask about. We learned why Cambodia hates Thailand (in 2003, riots broke out on the streets of Phnom Pehn because a Thai actress claimed Angkor Wat belonged to the Thais...plus a bunch of racist stuff). We gained further appreciation for the family structure. The typical Cambodian father hides all emotion and is supposed to look happy to keep the household in order. (Could this be an allegory for a post Khmer-Rouge country controlled by tourism and a failing UN-driven war crimes tribunal?) We learn how Cambodian men feel when Western men marry Cambodian women. "This is good question. But we don't worry. They marry the ugly girls and it is good for all."

We also learn that 27-year-old William is quite lonely and would like to rectify this by convincing Gina to stay forever.

Wholly blind and against good backpacker sense, we take motorbikes to a spot over the "New" bridge, a gift from the Koreans.

We land at the local Karaoke bar. Transparently conspicuous (women only work at these establishments, not frequent them) Gina and I are pulling rank with Paris and Nicole.

We wait on the patio as they prepare a room for us. We eat mangoes and peanuts and drink Angkor (Slogan: "My Country, My Beer").

The Karaoke room: Envision a bomb shelter with a large black leather couch, television, 2 microphones and a coffee table. It's Clay Aiken's bachelor pad in Kosovo, basically. An older woman comes in and opens our second round; William screams at her in Khmer, Gina and I quietly say thank you. We are embarrassed that our host is a big meanie.

He has told her to play "Hong Kong Karaoke"- song after song of sappy love ballads in English, most we had never heard but enjoyed harmonizing to. Occasionally we'd get "Un-break My Heart" or "Right Here Waiting For You" but mostly these were tunes that had taught William English - he embodied the words and sang them to Gina, quite emphatically.

So emphatically, that we decided to leave the Manson Ranch before things got REAL bad.

There was not one motorbike home to save our impending lives, so we walked the 2 miles, haphazardly, as William's phone GPS had died.

Back at the Guesthouse, we shook hands curtly and ran the flight of stairs, locking the door behind us.

This was a necessary action as our businessman was leaving for Phnom Pehn at 6 am and as he knocked repetitively adding a giant "HELLO!" at 5:45, we rolled a sleepy eye at each other and said prayers of gratitude for the double lock and deadbolt.

***

I sat at a restaurant on the river this morning, reading Haruki Murikami and eating yogurt. A fully bearded man walked by on the street, 6 yards away. He is scruffy, tall and wearing a heavy jacket despite the heat. He sees me, walks backwards four steps. He draws an imaginary index finger gun from his leg pocket. With a "ShhhwwwooosssH" sound effect, he first "shoots" himself in the right kneecap. Then the left. Right arm. Then left. He opens his mouth, glares at me, and pulls his thumb trigger. Scared, I looked down.

2 hours later, I am sitting in the same spot, cup of coffee in hand. He has a bag of groceries in his right hand, but this does not stop the returning Khmer sporting the Unibomber look to draw his left hand imaginary pistol and take aim for my forehead.

***

Les is a burly, bleached blond Canadian in his early 60's. He and his partner live in Kampot for 5 months of the year. Les, needing a substantial doctor-ordered form of exercise (and in want of a good suntan) decided to build a beach on Prek Kampong (the river). He tells everyone about it and invites them to lounge on "good sand" and draws them a map if they look directionally challenged (ME). Les and David hire a Cambodian to live year round on the property, attending to his guests and seeing that the lawn chairs are straightened properly.

***

Chanda (pronouced Jehnn-na) works at Lili Perles, a bead shop initiated by a French jewelry designer. I stopped by to create adornment, and met the young Cambodians working there. Chanda, with her huge grin and immediate offer of friendship stuck like the green-tea gum she shared with me.

When I was somewhere floundering in pre-adolescence, my family would go to Minnesota, spend a week on the lake, fishing, swimming and eating 'smores. Other ritual behavior included a stop at the "Loggin' Camp"a chitzy, lovable breakfast homage to Paul Bunyan and his blue ox.

There was another flat-chested 12-year-old running around. Her father owned the restaurant. Upon meeting me and my similar Kerri Strug top half, she took my hand and we ran through the woods; she promised there were fairies, she'd seen them.

What magic it was to think there might be other-worldly beings in the North Country. Even more magical that for a period of summers, we'd still run to go find them.

It takes me like heat lightning, still. The surprise connection that people share; the shock of comfortable kinship in befriending another woman. As Chandra helps me find matching beads we speak, pragmatically at first as I probe the extent of her English. She is beyond proficient. She exclaims "It's Un-be-LIEV- able!" when I ask her if she likes the Robbie Williams album that is playing. She thinks he's handsome. Unaware of the movement to bring sexy back, I assure her that Justin Timberlake will be her new wildest dream and I promise to send a CD.

She tells me about all the languages she speaks, I'm duly impressed and tell her she should go into business. She laughs, long and easily. "That is a funny thing. A Cambodian woman in business." Regardless, this girl, at a mere 20 years old, runs a water plant at her home village (keeping her younger cousin accountable for the money he seems to be laundering) , manages the Lili Perle and keeps a long distance boyfriend in Phnom Pehn (who her mother whole-heartedly disapproves of).

"A shame," I retort. "You would be a better businessman than most men!"

I ask her what it is that she wants to do, if she could do anything at all.

" Travel, " is her out-of-character one word reply.

"Come with us!" I teasingly beg. I wish it were as simple as taking her hand and running into the oaks and pines, chasing fairies.

Beyond her native Khmer, Chandra can speak Chinese, Thai, English and is learning French. Her voice eases over each of them with a non-existant glottle and a savoring of vowel sounds. Her word worship is delightful, so I fire question after question, mainly to hear her adoration of the language.


***

He has the frame of Kate Moss, with less chest and a little more of a backside. In fact, I think his figure is ideal, actually. I'm sure if we had conferred about this very personal issue, however, he'd probably disagree. I wouldn't expect less from the man who politely shot down all of my other statements that attempted to praise his genius.

Arne is the co-editor and publisher of "The Globe". Based in Phnom Pehn, the Globe reaches the English-speaking intelligentsia of Cambodia. Slick graphics, an original voice on politics and an occasional piece of malarkey a la the "Today Show". It's innovative and smart - delectable and in step just as hearty - an oatmeal-raisin cookie of a publication.

In one year, he and his partner have managed to employ a full-time staff of nine people and have been granted an exclusive with Bill Gates for next month. Also hugely awesome is their close coverage of the UN/ECCC (Extraordinary Chambers in the Courts of Cambodia) tribunal to finally judge war crimes against the Khmer Rouge.

Quietly, in his small uncontrollably curly-haired German demeanor, Arne is bounding buildings. He speaks, he shows me the magazine. All I want is to stitch my own superhero cape and jump along.

***

The tour agent booking our taxi to Vietnam is asked his name by Gina. "Viet."
He pauses. "But not Viet Cong, ha?"

Tomorrow we are gone.
To my love, Cambodia, for all that you have been and are to me,

Jo
February 24 2008
Kampot

Valentine's Day

Keeping busy: joining an international crazy running club, observing monkeys climbing electrical wiring, thinking of creative ways to say no to men offering Tuk-tuks and motorbikes to take us whenever and wherever ("Hey, Lady! You want Tuk-tuk?" to which the best response so far has been "Hey, Man! We walk, walk!"), taking in the national museum (cool), learning to run in the mornings through Phnom-Pehn traffic (a tiny bit crazy), eating taro buns, watching women fry tarantulas on the street, looking for temporary volunteer work, planning our next move to Sihanoukville, giving kids candy...

AND, due to a couple unfortunate rounds of intestinal virus and a migraine, we've definitely clocked our TV time at the guesthouse.

Our favorite is Asian MTV: We're learning Chinese by osmosis; it plays constantly whenever we're in. And when you're sick...that's a lot of MTV.

I am not sure exactly what's going on, as my understanding of Chinese is right up there with my proficiency in insider trading, but we have a really good time (well, as good of time as you can have with 7up, baguettes and the fan on the highest speed).

My favorite video lends itself to the story of the song, completely appreciated. As a young child, the singer has a best friend, a beautiful little girl who is one day suddenly pulled from her desk at school and he never sees her again (I don't know why she's left, but it's darn sad). He spends his days playing violin and singing about her. One day they are grown and he is playing on the street and he sees her! They embrace and walk through the lotus blossoms, and apparently, he confesses his love for her - but -

she's married. Uh oh.

He returns to the street, desolate. Oh, but wait! She's explaining something to her not-as-attractive-as-the-singer husband! What? Where is she going? She's running! Back to the street where her childhood love is Itzhak Perlmanning it up. As she crosses the street, he sees her. His eyes light up, but question...?

Then she gets hit by a truck and the video ends, on an unresolved chord.

Suck. And the tears flow, just as we've been crying at subtitled "Bridge to Terabithia", some movie where Kevin Bacon goes nuts and kills an entire street gang, and the gospel arrangement of "Let it Be" on a day-delayed broadcast of the Grammys.

Bed-ridden TV time lends itself to girl talk, which lends itself to boy thought.

So, in the spirit of Saint Valentine... (Which cannot be escaped - not even in Phnom Pehn! Today there are women who have set up shop on the street with card tables, selling roses, teddy bears - and even gift-wrapping them if you so desire. I bought Gina a chocolate: it was a giant red heart that had the Aids awareness ribbon on it and it said "Recover Well Soon". We laughed long, heartily, and quite inappropriately.) I bring you the dude's guide to a girl's heart. (Provided the girl you want is either JoAnne or Gina).

1. Girls just want someone cool to hang out with. This includes but is not limited to: mountain-climbing, silly-song singing, ping-pong playing, whole-wheat bread-baking, Buena Vista Social Club-listening and laughing. Laughing in spades.

2. Girls want someone who is going to think they are as awesome as they themselves are discovering they truly are during their southeast Asian trek. Someone who never wavers on this point. And obviously, someone equally as modest and humble.

3. Chicks dig it (or at least this is favored by the more literary-minded ones) when dudes save words; guys who calculate them and use them appropriately and creatively, because they matter to us most of all. And PS - we really DO want to trust you. Promise...it's just that...you can only hear so much recycled crap before you start to question it's authenticity. And you can only roll your eyes so many times before they stick there.

4. And this goes without saying, alas, most have experienced at least a little turbulence in this kind of thing, so I think women ought to START saying it: There will be no cheating. None.

5. And no getting hit by trucks, either.

Art

There is no place in Art

For sunsets or flower vases

While this goes on.

Art must scream for those who cannot.

-WarlessRabbit

Tuol Sleng S-21 Prison and Memorial, Phnom Penh

Once you reconcile with the piles of skulls, a survivors’ pastel renderings of hanging torture, black and white snapshots of the 20,000 prisoners (of whom 7 survived) you still have miles to go. You must ingest the documentary where you hear the eerily docile Khmer Rouge anthem, literally translating to the effect of: “Glorious, sublime red blood that covers the Democratic Kampuchea”. You are forced to accept the stories of people being skinned alive, of a crazed leader, of an attempt at agrarian communism by stripping Cambodians of every creative urge or thought that could be construed as “informed” and naked, forcing them to bear the torture of digging their own graves.

This is too much and you have to go to the bathroom.

It is a recently added portable stall built over the still blood-stained cement walls and the barbed and barred window. You notice that some one has taken a moment to provide you with entertainment. In blue ballpoint pen is a serene scene sketched two by two inches. It depicts a stick-figured couple holding hands, watching the sun over an island with a mountain scape draped in birds. You sympathize. You’d rather be sitting on the beach too. In fact, you’d rather be doing a great many things that facing the responsibility of being human.

You consider the reign of the Khmer Rouge and their leader, Pol Pot (his own derivative, short for Political Potential). You can’t comprehend his desire to push the country back to now-named “Year Zero” by brain-washing and brutally destroying human life (including a great deal of his own soldiers). It makes no sense, no matter how thoroughly you understand socialist or communist theory.

You wash your hands and splash a little water on your face. You are dirty; you've been traveling. Your eyebrows, once neatly manicured, are reminiscent of Jim Henson's Bert puppet, and, leaning your head to the left side of your shoulder, you become completely sure you should be washing your beat up v-neck t-shirt more carefully. As you stare at your reflection you come to terms with your last 30 seconds of thought: You are from a country that puts millions of dollars in advertising into the shape of your eyebrows, but you're also from a country that put millions of land mines in the one you're standing in.

You're a good (albeit boundlessly guilt-ridden) Lutheran, so the next thing your brain does is reference James and his claim that 'every good and perfect gift comes from the Father of Lights who does not change like shifting shadows'. You're not sure that the big JC's brother had any right to these claims of flower vases when you are standing in the shadow of an old Phnom Penh high school turned mausoleum. You know that the bathroom stall artist made an admirable attempt with the sunset business, but you're pissed off about that too.

Is this world full of art to mask our sins? Do we craft beautiful garments and love songs that attempt to compensate for the marred desperation of ugliness? Do we praise a God with rainbows and butterflies and "Jesus, Jesus, you're so cool" merely to make ourselves feel better? Do we choose to see a Kate Hudson movie (one we've already seen with our sisters and girlfriends nine times already) over a BBC report on Darfur?Is there a place for Art while this goes on?

30 SECONDS ON THE CLOCK FOR A HUGE PARENTHETICAL, BREAKING OF THE THIRD-PERSON THING I’VE GOT GOING ON: Admittedly, I love Kate Hudson and I've seen "Raising Helen" more times than one person should be allotted. (It's just that Pastor Dan is so...great...) And the rainbow is a powerful sign of redemption and God's promise to never destroy the world again (although you wonder why he keeps getting closer). Maybe these are unfair ideas, but I say them because I need to say this:

Day by day, you are learning the cumbersome responsibility of being human.

Because some of us will fail in the ethical arena, others will have to be the rectifying power. There is yin and there is yang, a definite balance of black and white. We are responsible for attempting to correct horror and violence, and we do so in whatever way we find cathartic. This may result in more Miramax films with penguins, lots of bright pink Barbies, tons of Rascal Flatts' deliriously wonderful, whiny love songs and trans-fatted slices of cheesecake, but it may also result in Art that screams for those who cannot.

We are responsible for one another. But it isn't as scary or demanding as it sounds because you are staring at 20,000 black and white photos of humans denied an attempt at making Art and you grasp that your responsibility as a human is all privilege.

You have the honor of crafting your life into an honest, raw piece of Art. Among the flower vases of falling in love and the sunsets of the music of laughter, you make a note: You must put faith in your singular ability to be a unique voice within a community. You must trust an inner voice, no matter whose reformation or revolutionary ideas from which they came. And beyond any mere duty you feel to a sense of moral ethics, you can (and will) shout for those who cannot.

This is Art.

Happy New Year! Again!

Riding a bicycle in Siem Reap inspires you to sing the "Mario Kart" theme aloud.

Angkor at sunset

At Ta Prohm, the temple where parts of "Tomb Raider" were shot

The face of Jayavarman VII

We're now in Phnom Pehn, and will be for a few more days. It is Chinese New Year, and we're enjoying watching children (and adults) burn paper in giant bins for good luck, watching the throng of Cambodians and Chinese alike, celebrate on the streets. As we wait for the city to open back up, enjoy these pictures until the next update! Love and luck (especially for me: It's the year of the Rat!) to you and yours -

Jo

Friends

Champ loves Angkor Wat

Almost as much as he likes our 10 year old friends

His shirt says "Iowa City" The Hawkeye State (!!!!)

A group of students that we taught at an international school with their teacher

In a state of disbelief concerning the badness of the Swedes' dancing

Love

There are so many stories to be read about Cambodia. From the terrorous reign of Pol Pot's Khmer Rouge to Angelina's collection of orphans, you are foced to cerebrally accept the desolation.

But no one tells you that when you are engulfed in this country, it becomes a visceral part of your being and you fall in love.

Pure as the sugarcane cubes being sold streetside by the seventy-year-old woman who has endured 30 years of genocide. Pure as the small school girls on bikes who shly smile for photos, who are too young to know first hand of the massive struggle of their homeland. You fall so hard for Cambodia that the incessant sound of hammering heard around Siem Reap is no longer noise - it's music.

This very young country (with over 40% of it's population under 18) is now riding the back of the tourist industry, gaining a foothold on the backs of a whole lot of Europeans and a smattering of Americans. As a person participating in this role, you cannot help but be conflicted. Am I doing something beneficial here? Sure, simply, my money is being poured back into this country, but at what cost? When you consider that this is probably the only country in the entire world right now where the American dollar actually does well - because the Khmer system integrates the dollar is it's own currency and the rate hasn't changed in 5 years? When you take into account the amount of fossil fuel used to cart us all around - the amount of plastic water bottles at the side of the road?

When you really love something, you hate to see it sold to Disney. And even when it's doing well for you (when you're Michael Eisner) it's probably a little hard to sleep at night considering the loss of your true love's authenticity and soul.

Until the onset of an intestinal bug I picked up a couple of days ago, Gina and have been steeping in Cambodia - our sunburnt brains grateful for some aloe-vera. We've been riding bicycles to the temples at Angkor Wat, making new friends at roadside food stalls (one new friend in particular... my intestinal virus...), scheduling volunteer time at an area primary school (hopefully I'll be better by Tuesday), walking as far as we can out into the countryside, teaching kids that we meet the hand-slap game, squealing as we watch snake-like amphibians slither out of their big container at the Old Market into hiding spots in plastic bags nearby (no doubt an attempt at freedom), and continuing the practiced art of trance dance with our travel buddies for this leg of the journey - 3 tattooed swedes who are very sweet and kind graffiti artists.

The other night, a handsome Cambodian tuk-tuk driver drove us home for the whopping price of US $1. We had a conversation that took 3 times as long as it might have without a language barrier. I asked this man if he sometimes wished (this was a bad word for me to choose, and spent a long time finding a synonym) that there were no tourists around all the time. "Yes,"he said. "I want to do else. But this is what you want to do. And it helps me to make you do what you want. I am tuk-tuk driver and I make dollar."

And my heart aches.

"And now you in...CAMBODIA"

4:30 am - metered taxi to Hua Lumphong train station, Bangkok.
5:50 am - slow, 3rd class train to Aranya Prathet, eastern border of Thailand.
8:20 am - scary bugs fly in the window of metal train car, Gina sleeps through this apocalyptic act and pays with a bite under her right eye.
12:00 pm- tuk-tuk ride to Poipet (border crossing). Driver takes us to a "travel agency". (To talk to a scam operation.) JoAnne gets pissed. "We go. To Poipet. RIGHT. NOW."
12:16 pm -Immigration.
12:38 pm -Conman follows Gina and JoAnne as they walk the .5 mile to Cambodia. Girls ignore him, but apparently funniness is part of his schtick. "And now....you in....CAMBODIA!'' He remarks to them as though there were crossing the Mississippi into Illinois or something.
12:49 pm - Fake police officer tries to take Gina's passport after passing the first immigration booth. JoAnne, still pissed: "Let me see your badge. You're not the real police, She doesn't have to show you her passport. Let us go." Conman thinks it's funny that JoAnne is pissed and cracks a smile. Let's us go.
1:15 pm - JoAnne and Gina almost don't get past the second checkpoint, as their righteous indignation seeps over onto the REAL police who get angry that we don't believe them. After explaining, humbly, the scams JoAnne and Gina have been through, they finally surrender departure/arrival cards and the girls stand in line.
1:20 pm - Gina has applied for entrance to Cambodia on her Dutch passport - but she exited Thailand on her American passport. Confusions ensues.
1:30 pm - But they make it through.
1:40 pm - Find a french couple to share a taxi ride to Siem Riep. From the border, this is only 170 km...but the road is so degraded that it takes 4 hours. JoAnne and Gina hit their heads on the roof of the sedan as it hits large potholes every couple of minutes.
1:41 pm - Dust everywhere.
3:16 pm - See a small child sitting in the road.
4:10 pm - Lots of school children on bikes.
4:30 pm - People bathing in mud in ditches.
6:00 pm - Siem Riep. Finally. Go to the most budget guesthouse they could find, but it's pretty scary.
6:11 pm - a tuk-tuk to a more localized part of town. All good guesthouses are full, but they manage to find something a little more upscale just for the night.
7:00 pm - 11:00 pm - Gina and JoAnne go find unidentifiable food at the market, take it back to their room and watch movies, exhausted, but enjoyed their streetside rice pudding and fermented pickles.