Bus Journey from Hell #1

We’ve been relatively lucky with buses, so far, if you take squat toilets and a fine coating of red dust, AKA a Ratanakiri suntan, as part of the experience, though it would be fair to say that I’m more adventurous on the roadside food front than Z.

Anywise, it took us twelve hours to get from Phnom Penh to Ban Lung in the north-east. About two hours in, a young woman boarded with her 18-month old son and 5-year-old daughter.

The bus was beyond full, but the conductor, who spoke some English, saw a bright side. “Ladies and babies sit together!” he said, ushering the three of them to our seat and Z onto my lap.

Even with the little girl perched on bags in the aisle, cramped doesn’t even begin to cover it.

The “aircon”, or those few vents which worked, couldn’t cope with the demands of six hours of unmade road, plus Z felt sick, so we progressed in stately fashion with his head out of the window, a smokestorm of russet dust entering the vehicle and our water firmly wedged somewhere under four pairs of feet.

Apparently, only the oldest buses, and that means some considerable vintage, go onto those roads — the temporary bridges and two-foot ruts meant we passed several at the roadside.

The baby was hot, so cross, so screaming, even when naked. The driver utilised such verve that bumps sent us over six inches into the air, though I guess better that than bottoming out. And it wasn’t just Z who was feeling the ride.

Mama emitted a steady and ladylike stream of vomit into a mercifully substantial supply of carrier bags, which accumulated on the floor or whizzed past my face and through the window.

They can transport anything in a carrier bag here. Sugar cane juice, kerosene, left-overs, 200 kilometres worth of vomit. It’s mastery of a kind, I guess.