Georgina Guedes
When I was a teenager, I would occasionally catch minibus taxis down Jan Smuts Avenue to visit my boyfriend-at-the-time.
I was amused by the "always room for one more" attitude of the drivers and the passengers, who would shove over and make room for at least one of my butt cheeks.
My nether regions invariably went numb on such journeys, and I would thank my lucky stars that the distance I needed to travel was covered in only a few short minutes, while some of my fellow passengers had been in their seats for the better part of an hour.
The heart of darkness
However, travelling in Cambodia has taught me that South Africans don't have too raw a deal when it comes to leg room and bum space restrictions in minibuses.
We booked our tickets on a minibus for the 10-hour trip from Laos across the border into Cambodia from the enthusiastically helpful Mr Mo, a guesthouse owner who dabbles in tourism services, for $18.
Now, after two months of travelling, I am no longer naive. I know that when you ask about air conditioning on buses, you will get lied to. Thus far we have had a variety of experiences ranging from the meat-locker sublime to the coal-furnace ridiculous, but all were described as "with aircon".
So, when I asked Mr Mo if the minibus we were booking had aircon, and he nodded happily, I knew that chances were that I wasn't getting the truth, but I felt that at least he was making the effort to reassure me.
Unfortunately, no amount of reassuring could do anything to take the pain out of the horror that followed.
Fourteen of us were first crammed into a rather rickety minibus, but were assured that this was just to transport us across the border, where we would be changing minibuses.
This made sense to us, and the border wasn't far away, so we all decided not to get too upset about the fact that that one of our number didn't have an actual seat, and was doing his best not to hit the ceiling with each bump that we went over, from where he was perched on a backpack behind the seat of the driver.
It did flit through my mind to wonder how a different minibus was going to suddenly create more seats, but I was still sure I was in good hands, so I didn't give this thought too much credence.
At the border, we were approached by a rather harassed looking Israeli guy who asked us if we were headed to Phnom Penh. We said that we were, but were already short of space.
He told us that he too had booked a seat on the "airconditioned minibus" and that his mode of transport was instead an open-backed pickup truck.
It also turned out that "across the border" was a pretty loose description for "somewhere in Cambodia" and no alternate minibus was waiting for us.
We were packed back into our rattletrap, one of our number still seatless, and we began our journey into the heart of the country, thinking murderous thoughts about Mr Mo.
Sardines
A very bumpy road trip later, we were herded onto a ferry boat with our backpacks and a few motorbikes, and taken across the Mekong River. And there, on the other side of the river, was our new chariot.
This minivan was possibly in even worse condition than the one we had left behind us, and by some miracle of welding engineering, another row of seats had been added in the back.
This meant that anyone sitting in any of the rows other than the front row had their knees pushed up to ear level by the seat in front of them, and their shoulders pushed forward to meet their knees by the seat behind them.
Since I am short, and my boyfriend Ter is tall, I opted to sit in the second row, while he embraced the legroom heaven of the first. I must make it clear at this point that "legroom" is a generous description for the squish of his legs, but at least his knees weren't up at his ears.
Also alarming were the three Cambodians packed into the front seat of the car in addition to the driver, and the motorbike strapped to the roof, with rider abreast.
We rounded a corner, only to come to a sudden stop (I spared a concerned thought for the motorbike rider) at the side of the road where two Cambodians waited.
We all started looking nervously over our knees at each other - where were these additions going to fit?
After a rapid exchange in Cambodian, it seemed that common sense prevailed and we drove away from the two gentlemen.
A couple of blocks later, we came to another stop, only to be joined by the two men we had left behind, who summoned their whole family from a house, each of whom came with two sacks of cement. One particularly overweight woman peered optimistically through my window, and I must confess I snarled at her.
The cement was loaded onto the roof alongside the motorbike - I could feel the car's shocks groaning - and then the packing in of the family began.
Ter's precious leg room was the first to go. Three people were wedged into it, squatting on their haunches and glaring defiantly at Ter.
We collectively started to express our protest, to be met with blank incomprehension from the driver. He was very busy putting the three guys sharing his front seat onto the roof, so he could fit another three into the front.
Although our objections fell on deaf ears, we did win one small battle, when the driver put a passenger on his seat, then climbed on and attempted to drive off in some "you do the pedals; I'll do the wheel" arrangement. Of course, the eviction of this gentleman meant that he had to be seated somewhere else. This achieved, the sliding door was slammed on us repeatedly until it closed, and we carried on our journey into Cambodia.
Jump-on, jump-off
We stopped every time one of our Cambodian roof-riders wanted to use their telephone. We stopped every time someone needed a cigarette, having banned smoking on the minibus in a move that did nothing to improve international relations.
We stopped every time someone needed the loo, or felt a little hungry, and we stopped quite a few other times besides.
One time that we didn't stop was when we passed a police officer. As I saw him in our windscreen, I thought to myself, "finally, an end to this insanity," only to be rendered gobsmacked as the officer smiled and waved us past.
At one point we let off five of our fellow passengers, only to take on board that exact number in our old friends the Israelis, who were by this point spitting mad and rather vociferous about it.
They renewed efforts to evict the Cambodian stowaways, a battle which we knew was long lost. They tried to enlist the help of a nearby English-speaking guesthouse owner, ranting about $18 dollars a seat, only to be told calmly that $18 had not bought them the whole bus.
Seeing their fury managed to restore some perspective for the rest of us, and we managed to accept our lot, and even made friends with the stowaways through spirited renditions of "Que cera cera".
By the end of our journey, eighteen hours later, thanks in no small part to our singing, international relations were restored.
And I even learnt a valuable lesson about travelling in my own country as well: as much as we may swear at our local taxis, they've still a good sight better than public transport offered elsewhere in the world. And if I ever get my hands on Mr Mo...
# Georgina Guedes is a South African woman travelling the world with her boyfriend. She'll be saving her money and travelling by public bus in Cambodia from now on.
News source: www.news24.co.za
Posted by: www.SouthAfrica-CarHire.com