This is a four part story about my first harrowing bus experience in Southeast Asia.

Anyone who travels Southeast Asia has at least one story about a terrible journey from Point A to Point B.

Don’t get me wrong, while travelling in Nepal, I took a few busses that left me praying in my seat that I would make it without flying off the cliff that was an inch from the tires of the bus whipping around the corner, or that the driver playing chicken with oncoming traffic would merge back in time. However my worst travel experience didn’t come from the windy, bumpy journey from Kathmandu to Pokhara, but the unnecessarily long and frustrating trip from Battambang to Phnom Penh.

Part 1: The Six Hour Wait

For those who do not know, Battambang is a small town between Siem Reap and Phnom Penh. It’s an interesting stopover between the two major cities because it was once a French port in Cambodia. All the buildings there are French colonial style and the contrast between the beauty of the architecture in the area with the surrounding poverty is shocking.

It’s not hard to get to and shouldn’t be hard to leave, so I don’t know where I went wrong.

The bus I wanted to take out of Battambang was the 2:30 p.m. bus to Phnom Penh, which would have me arriving around 8:00 p.m. Travelling on my own as a female, to a city that does have warnings to take extra care in, I had no desire to arrive later than that.

At 2:00 p.m. (sharp) a tuk-tuk driver pulled up to my hostel to take me to the bus station, as per the pre-arranged agreement with the place that I bought the bus ticket. I hopped into the back of the tuk-tuk, hauling my 20 kilo bag up on the opposite seat and off we went.

When we got to the “bus station,” essentially just a table with an umbrella and a bench beside it, the driver took my bag out of the tuk-tuk, put it on the bench, said something in Khmer to the man at the desk before turning to me to say “right stop. 2:30.”

I checked my watch and it was 2:20 p.m. Perfect timing.

But 2:30 comes and goes. And no bus showed up. The guy at the “desk” didn’t speak English, but nodded when I asked if the bus was coming before motioning for me to sit back down. It’s Cambodia though I simply thought the bus was running on Cambodian time.

Fifteen minutes later, there still wasn’t a bus. Then it’s 2:50 p.m. and even for Cambodian time standards that’s a little excessive. So when a new man shows up at the “desk,” one who spoke English, I was happy to be able to find out how much I had to wait.

“Oh! No bus!” he exclaimed.

“I’m sorry, what? But my ticket says the bus is leaving at 2:30.”

“No. There’s no bus at 2:30. The next one is at 4:00!”

Well shit. So there I was, at this bus station that wasn’t really a bus station, in the middle of the city, with this massive backpack of my stuff, weighing in at 20 kilos. At least it’s only one more hour until the 4:00 bus though, so I settled in with my book and waited.

Part 2: From the City Station to the Chicken Station

4:00 p.m. rolls around. A man with a motorbike pulls up to the bus station.

Not a bus. A motorbike.

The man said something to the guy at the “desk,” who replied to him before motioning for me to get on the motorbike.

The last time I was on the back of a motorcycle I wound up with a second degree burn on my calf from the exhaust. That’s a story for another day but obviously that was what I was thinking about when I was looking at that motorbike. And how were we going to do this with my 20 kilo backpack PLUS my 7 kilo carry-on backpack?

Obviously the driver put the big bag in front of him, straddling it between his legs. Why didn’t I think of that?

So with my big bag nestled safely in the front between his legs, I hopped on the back of the back, side saddle because I am a lady after all. And I don’t wan’t to burn my leg on the exhaust.

The driver then took off, whipping down the road, swerving potholes and other drivers, waving off tuk-tuks that were pointing and laughing at the ridiculousness of us. And probably also at the look of pure terror on my face.

After 20 minutes driving North of the city, we pulled into a bus stop with plenty of chickens and stray dogs to welcome us. My knuckles were white from holding on so tightly that I could barely unclench them before climbing off the back of his bike.

The driver then walked over to the man at the desk there, said something in Khmer and turned me to say “wait here” before jumping back on his back, tearing off down the dirt road.

It was 4:30 by the time we got there. At least now I’m somewhere that looks like an actual bus station however, there still wasn’t a bus in sight.

Once again, I waited, thinking “Cambodia time… Relax.”

By 4:45 though I feel as if I have been patient enough so I went and asked the man at the desk where the bus was, showing him the ticket I had made the other guy re-write to say the new bus with the new time.

“Oh… No… Sorry. No bus at 4:00,” he said. “The next bus is at 6:00.”

And I lost it. My patience has completely worn out. I was supposed to be on a bus at 2:00 p.m., ensuring I would arrive in Phnom Penh by 8:00. There was no bus at 2:00 and the next bus I was told I would be on doesn’t actually exist so now I feel as though I am being jerked around. On top of that, I don’t speak Khmer and no one spoke English so there was no way for me to figure out what was actually going on.

This poor man got the grunt of my frustrations… As in a sweaty, tired girl bawling in front of him. Let me tell you, even with a language barrier, this man understood my tears. And it doesn’t matter which country you are in, a woman crying will always make a man uncomfortable.

But what could I do? I made this man issue me a new ticket for the next supposed bus, sat back down in my chair with a chicken running around my feet and settled in for a two hour wait. I couldn’t go anywhere because my massive and heavy bags, nor was there anywhere for me to go to because I was in the middle of nowhere.

6:00 p.m.: there is still no bus.

“Oh… No… It’s at 7:00!” the man exclaimed when I went over to inquire, looking slightly scared in anticipation of my reaction.

Wonderful, I thought. I would now be arriving after midnight. That made me very uneasy.

Finally, at 6:30 p.m., people began to show up to the bus station. I had been sitting there with no one but the bus station guy, a half naked Cambodian man cooking on a nearby grill, and chickens running around and squawking every five minutes. People showing up on their motorbikes with bags was a huge relief.

Three busses stopped and let people off after 6:30. Each time, I looked at the man at the desk and he would simply shake his head no at me. Until finally… A bus arrived, I looked at him and he nodded yes with a smile on his face. He was just as happy for me. Or just really happy to see me go because he didn’t want me crying on him again.

By the time they got the bus loaded up with everyones motorcycles, mattresses and fresh produce, it was 8:00 p.m. and we finally hit the road for Phnom Penh, me jammed in the back with all the Cambodian men staring at me, sitting on a bag of onions.

Part 3: The Journey

Being the only tourist on this bus, I spent most of the ride being stared at. Until I fell asleep and then my eyes were shut so I don’t know if people were continuing to stare at me.

About two hours into the ride, a baby started to cry. As you do when you’re a small child on a six-hour bus ride.

The child’s mother got up as the bus lurched around, soothing the baby, bouncing him up and down on her hip trying to calm him down.

Suddenly, a woman in front of her turned around and starting speaking very sharply to her. And the she started to yell at her.

Keep in mind, this is all happening in Khmer and she was speaking way too fast for me to understand what she was saying to the mother. Regardless, I could understand the tone and volume of her voice and this woman was not please with the mother.

The mother simply stood there calmly, continuing to bounce her baby, not even dignifying the woman’s shrieking with an answer. Another lady though, was not having it. From what I assume, this lady ended up defending the mother, yelling back at the woman.

Now, all the men that I was with at the back of the bus were sitting up in their seats, staring at the squabble that broke out, commenting to one another and smiling, clearly finding the fight humorous.

The two women continued to yell at one another, their voices getting louder and louder, and their tone getting more aggressive. The bus driver pulled over and stopped the bus because, I can only assume, he couldn’t concentrate on the road with the insane shrieking occurring behind him.

It was a good thing he did though because the fight escalated even more and the first woman turned around and began hitting the second lady with her umbrella.

Meanwhile, the crying baby? He was done. He was over it. He realized he was getting his mother yelled at and had stopped crying. He was just sitting in his mother’s arms, watching the whole thing with this expression on his face that looked like he was saying “what? I’m done crying. Calm the fuck down.”

Part 4: Two A.M. Arrival

This was exactly what I was trying to avoid by booking a 2:00 p.m. bus: arriving at an odd hour, in a new and unknown city that has a reputation for being slightly more dangerous. Plus, at that point, I had been travelling for 12 hours, trying to get somewhere that shouldn’t have taken more than six.

I had arranged for the hostel to send a tuk-tuk to pick me up at the bus station, however upon arrival, there was no tuk-tuk waiting for me.

Of course, being the only tourist coming off that bus, all the drivers there pounced on me.

There was one man who spoke a little bit of English and offered me a decently over-priced ride to my hostel. However it was on the back of his motorbike. Seeing no other options, I took this man up on his offer. I repeated at least five times to him my destination, and he repeated the destination back to me every time, nodding his head, laughing and smiling the whole time.

We agreed on a price to get me there, agreed on the destination, and shook hands about all this agreeing.

So off we go. Second time in 24 hours on the the back of a motorbike with more than 20 kilos of my stuff, being driven by a man who I’m sure was slightly drunk. The whole time he was trying to talk to me but his English was so broken I couldn’t understand him. He spent most of the ride saying “ok, ok, ok” and laughing, which made me more nervous. What on earth was he laughing about? I still have no idea.

After about 15 minutes on the back of his bike, flying through stop signs and swerving last minute to avoid other drivers, he dropped me off at a hostel… The wrong one. It was his friend’s hostel obviously, and he wanted to stay there because then he would make commission off my booking. I already had a place booked for the night and I had told him this multiple times.

Upon realizing I was at the wrong spot, I went back out and told him I did not want to stay there. I had a booking elsewhere and we had agreed before I got on his bike that he would take me there.

“You don’t want to stay here?”

“No sir, I do not want to stay here. I want to go to the hostel I pre-booked, the one we agreed that you would take me to.”

“Okay I take you there.”

So I got back on bike with my load that is my current life. As we took off for the correct destination he said: it’s ten more dollars.

I literally have no words for this. I was exhausted and furious and tired of being jerked around. But I was also on the back of his bike, with all my stuff. I debated jumping off the back, calculating how badly I would get hurt and if it was worth losing my big bag which has everything I need for the next six months. It wasn’t worth it.

For the next ten minutes, I was fuming as he continually said to me “ten more dollars.” But being on the back of a bike is no time to be arguing with your driver about how much you will pay them. So I sat quiet and prayed that he was actually taking me to my hostel.

He did. We arrived at my hostel and this time I saw the actual name of what I had booked. I got off his bike and took my stuff from him while he held out his hand expectantly for his payment.

“I’m just going to check that this is the actual place I told you to take me to before I pay you,” I told him.

“It is! It is!” he exclaimed, pointing at the hostel name on the wall.

“I just want to check for myself since you initially took me to the wrong place.”

I rang the buzzer, waking up the poor nighttime receptionist sleeping on the couch, took all my stuff inside with me, checked in for the night and booked an extra night because, after that day I wanted to do nothing more than lay out by the hostel pool tomorrow.

I then went back outside with the cash ready in my hand. No digging around in my wallet in front of this guy. I presented him with the amount we first agreed upon.

“This is what we agreed upon when I got on your bike so this is what I’m paying you.”

“No!” he said. “Ten more dollars! I had to use more gas!”

“I’m sorry but it’s not my fault that you decided to take me to a different spot than what we had agreed upon. I said the name of this place multiple times to you, and you repeated it back to me. This is the amount we agreed upon for you to take me here so this is what I am paying you.”

And that was that.