Crossing The Border into Cambodia
July 2005
I am traveling for three weeks through Viet Nam and Cambodia
with two sisters from England, a woman from New Zealand newly married couple
from Australia. As has become so prevalent when I travel now, foreigners are
openly critical of President Bush, the United States and our foreign policy. During
his first term in office, people are polite, “it’s not Americans we don’t like.
We just don’t like your government.” I heard this statement too to many times
to remember.
But this second term of his is different. Unabashed these
people tell me that now they no longer like Americans as well. “We gave you the
benefit of the doubt before. But when you reelected Bush, you sent a real
message to the rest of the world. You Americans only care about yourself”.
Harriet delivered her position with as much restraint as she could muster. She
tries to hold back for the sake of preserving civility amongst the group. But
she is still visibly angry.
“Hey,” I respond offensively. “What about you guys. You re-elected
Tony Blair and he sits right there in Bush’s pocket. You’re just as bad”, I say
lightheartedly in hopes of dissipating some of the tension in the air. It’s obvious
the others agree with Harriet. But they aren’t going to add any more unpleasantries
to our tense discussion.
Meredith chimes in. “That’s different. We didn’t have any
good choices. You have choices. There were plenty of competent Americans to run
your country and you picked Bush twice”.
“If it’s any consolation, I didn’t vote for him,” I say with
hopes that this’ll redeem me with them. It does for the moment.
“Well, how unusual, an American with a conscience. You don’t
see that too often,”
Harriett retorts.
With that we end our discussion and move on to more pleasant topics.
That afternoon, we go to the American War Museum. And the
displays of atrocities on our part are awful and shameful and hard to defend.
Meredith and Harriet can’t get past the front room of exhibit. So they wait
outside in the heat, their bodies baking from the sun and their angers boiling
over from the consequences of our foreign policy. None of us speak on our way
back to the hotel. Each of us are deep in thought and sorrow. It’s an ugly day.
Several days later we are going to cross the Vietnamese-
Cambodian border by riverboat. We are on the Mekong River. Our guide assurances
us that there will be no problem. “It will be smooth sailing. You’re just show
them the passport and you finished. It’s okay. I’ll be with you whole time. No
problems. Guaranteed,” he says lightheartedly.
So we board our boat and we float down this river which is
one photo op after another. I am clicking away on my camera and enjoying every
moment of this voyage.
We come to the border
and we dock. We are instructed to get out of the boat and line up. For some
reason my guide suggest that I stepped to the back of the line which I do
without question. The five in front of me get through without a problem, just
is our guided promised. They move on to the local shops and restroom.
But my passport seems to cause the official some concerns.
It’s hard for me to understand what the issue is because their English is
limited. I have no Cambodian language skills. I looked at my guide to
intervene. He is off in the distance and not accessible.
I am now alone with these officials. It is just ten soldiers
with their machine guns and me with my passport that seems unacceptable to them.
The man in charge holds my passport with his left hand and points to it with his
right index finger. He seems annoyed. He speaks in broken English using only a
few keywords, “no”, “American”, “no good”. I am worried and I see my guide off
in the distance. He gets in a waiting boat and takes off. He abandons me and now I suspect that all of
this is planned. I’ve gotten used to the universal assumption
that all Americans are rich. We have money to burn. I can see now that this is
nothing personal. I am just the opportunity of the day.
The official indicates that there are not enough pages left
in my passport. I examine it and I find
five empty pages. I show him but that doesn’t appease him. Apparently he wants to put my entry sticker
only on a right-sided page and I only have left-sided pages available. I do
have ½ of a right side available that would have accommodated this sticker. But
he wanted a full page. He huffed and sighed and jester that he was at a
complete loss as to what to do.
How were we going to resolve this monumental problem of not
having the absolutely perfect spot for this damn sticker; the sticker that will
never be looked at again. I was becoming
angry but realize that I have to contain my emotions. Shit happens. I am going to have to pay something to him. And
if I’m not careful, my attitude could contribute to the final cost.
So I watch my tone and ask to summon the US ambassador. My
request is understood but ignored. So I
ask again.
Harriet finally notices that I am being detained so she comes
over and checks in on me.
“What’s the matter?” she wants to know.
“Apparently, there aren’t enough pages left in my passport
to accommodate the entry sticker so I can’t come in.” I roll my eyes.
“What?” She can’t believe
it. “Where’s our guide?” She looks around for him.
“Gone. He took the first boat out of here.”
“Gone?? Where did he go?”
“He must be in on it because he got the hell out of
here. He’s already on his way back to
Viet Nam. Have you seen our new guide?”
I ask.
“No, not yet,” she tells me.
There is a little panic in her voice. “What should we do?” She stands
beside me and scans the area in search of anyone who looks as if he could be
our guide. She whispers to me, “Do you
think they are doing this to you because you are the only American?”
“What do you think?” I ask with a tone of annoyance.
“This is unbelievable,” she says almost apologetically. I could see thoughts racing through her
head. This is the flip side of all of
her views of our arrogance. It never occurred
to her that I could be abused because I am an American.
Again I ask to speak to my US ambassador. And again my
request is ignored. But now the official seems to have improved dramatically in
his English skills. He tells me in very broken English that there are not
enough pages on my passport. And if I sign a statement (written in Cambodian)
to that effect and pay a $10 US fee, they will put a sticker over a page that
has already been used. And then I could
be on my way.
The statement handed to me is two pages long and all in the Cambodian
language. I sign the document and added
at the bottom, “I have signed this document in direst.’ I ask for a copy of the
document but my request is denied. I
hand over a crisp $10 bill which the official takes quickly. He palms it in his
hand. He puts the sticker squarely in
the middle of a used page and then with a facial gesture, ushers me off the
dock. I am free to go. We move quickly.
Harriet is livid and I suggest she hold her comments until
we are clearly out of their view. I can
hear a transformation in her thinking. Her views on Americans will never be so
black and white again. This gray matter
would permeate her thinking now.
“I can’t believe them,”
she says, shaking her head. “That was unbelievable. They just stopped you because you are an
American. Who do they think they are?” Her
tone could be empathy or shame or both.
But she is shaken by her own naiveté.
We join the others who had wandered off to so some shopping
with the local merchants. I’m not sure they knew we were missing.
“Where have you two been?” Meredith wants to know. Our new
guide is with them and he introduces himself, oblivious to what just transpired.
Harriet tells the story but I don’t pay any attention. A part
of me is angry. A part of me understands the unpleasant reality of corruption. And
I recognize that I am living on the plus side of life and the border official
is living on the minus side, and I realize I got off relatively easy
today. He could have charged me more. But maybe, just maybe, my repeated insistence
that we call the US ambassador worried him. Maybe he realized that it was not
worth it to me to make a big stink just for $10. And he was right, I was already putting the
incident behind me. It is just the price I have to pay to visit this developing
country.
Two days later, I am in my hotel room, getting ready for the
day’s events. I turn on the TV and it is
another day of horror for the world. I immediately
call to Meredith and Harriet’s room.
“Do you gave the news on right now?” I ask quickly.
“No”, Harriet tells me, “why?”
“London’s been bombed.
The tube system was just bombed.”
