Crossing a Border and Feeling It Immediately

Vietnam announced itself quickly. Not with ceremony, but with the subtle menace of louder engines and sharper elbows. Cambodia had eased us along like a kindly aunt; Vietnam grabbed us by the sleeve and said, Pay attention, or die.

When the Bus Stops at the Border

Our plan had been a slow drift from Kampot to Ha Tien. Something soft. Something that suggested we were competent adults who knew how to travel —like our final days in Kampot.

But thanks to “Han’s” — a mysterious police shuffle that sounded like a boy band but behaved more like a bureaucratic prank — we ended up on the one public bus at 7 a.m. for five dollars each.

The bus dropped us on the Cambodian side of the border — not gently, but with the enthusiasm of someone unloading a sofa they no longer want. Overnight, the crossing had become a no-bus zone, which is Southeast Asian for someone important changed their mind and now everyone must suffer.

Apparently, the Huns had spoken. Not the marauding horsemen of history, but the modern Cambodian dynasty whose word can stop a bus in its tracks. Land crossings were paused. No buses allowed to roll into Vietnam.

The official line? Safety.

The practical effect? A small crowd of confused travellers clutching tickets that now only took them halfway.

It’s a reminder that in Cambodia, travel plans are less about timetables and more about plot twists. And honestly? That’s half the fun. The detours, the delays, the “sorry, not today” moments — they’re the stories we’ll tell later. Because while the Huns may stop the buses, they can’t stop the wandering.

Sleeper bus

The Border Crossing (Where Time Loses Meaning)

The Cambodian border building was large, echoing, and clearly designed for crowds that had never arrived. We walked straight to the kiosk, where the officer frowned at our unstamped passports. Siem Reap, it turned out, had forgotten to mark our arrival — which meant our entire presence in the country was now a philosophical question.

After fifteen minutes of rummaging through proof like two children trying to convince a teacher the dog really had eaten the homework, we were stamped out and shooed into no man’s land.

From there came a series of checkpoints, each involving a different official checking a passport, a stamp, or a visa with increasing intensity. We were the only Westerners. Everyone else slid their ID or passport through the window with folded notes attached — a quiet, efficient choreography.

We waited. Patiently. Politely. Bribelessly.

The looks suggested we were doing this wrong. But eventually came the glorious thump of the stamp, and off we trotted — only to be immediately redirected to the medical counter.

A man in hospital scrubs summoned us over. He took our passports, asked for one dollar each, and checked our temperature. The dollar felt like a bargain — better to pay for a quick scan than risk whatever back-alley lobotomy the setup looked like it might lead to.

Transaction complete, we were waved into Vietnam — slightly warmer, one dollar poorer, and lighter of dignity.

The Traffic: Chaos with Rules

Vietnamese traffic is less a system than a group therapy exercise for people with unresolved horn issues. Everyone honks. Constantly. For reasons that remain theoretical.

The horn here isn’t anger. It’s punctuation.

“I am here.”

“I will be here in a second.”

“I continue to exist.”

It’s like being trapped inside a philosophy seminar conducted entirely by motorbikes.

Craig, of course, looked serene, as if he’d been expecting this all along. I, meanwhile, began mentally drafting my obituary: She died attempting to cross a road in Ha Tien, survived by her husband, who was busy photographing a puddle.

Louder Flavours, Faster Days

Vietnamese food does not sidle up politely. It arrives like an enthusiastic relative at Christmas — arms full, voice raised, herbs flying everywhere.

Halfway through our first pho meal I realised I was sweating so much I could have bottled it and sold it as fish sauce. Craig ate happily. I couldn’t tell whether it was humidity or chilli causing the meltdown, but either way I briefly considered whether it was possible to sue a chilli for emotional distress.

Resetting Your Travel Brain

Every new country resets you. Suddenly you’re fumbling with coins, mispronouncing words, and rehearsing how not to die while crossing the street.

There’s always that moment — usually while standing still with a bag that has fused itself to your spine — when you realise: Ah yes. We are idiots again. And then you remember you paid actual money for this privilege.

Cambodia Stays With You Anyway

Even as Vietnam revved up around us, Cambodia lingered in the background like a gentle grandma texting occasionally. Slower mornings. Softer edges. Fewer horns.

Vietnam isn’t better. It’s just louder. And like most loud things, it’s thrilling — until you realise you forgot your earplugs.

Onward, Slightly Faster Now

Vietnam feels like the next chapter written in a firmer hand. Same journey, different pressure on the page.

We’ll adapt. We always do.

Eventually

If you’ve enjoyed travelling along with us…

We’re slowly making our way through Vietnam — occasionally lost, often hungry, always slightly amused.

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