“Since the last bus had left and the government-run taxis were stalled, we could either lodge in a seedy gambling establishment, or take our new, remarkably-good-English-speaking Cambodian friend’s offer to get a ride in his car – a mafia taxi. It was an offer we couldn’t refuse.
When four of the largest Cambodians I could ever imagine (who knew sumo was popular there) squeezed out of ’94 Corolla, my spirits actually lifted – I might as well use my last breaths to laugh!
Fortunately, only one of the behemoths could fit into the car to drive us. Unfortunately, he spoke not a lick of English, so our questions along the way remained unanswered by all but our own anxious and sleepy imaginations, which were being battered by the bumpy ride down the unlit ‘highway.’
Mid-night we thought we reached our destination. But alas, after driving a few laps around the dusty village roads, our driver stopped behind another car. He got out to smoke with a much thinner man under the glow of a lonely street light. Suddenly, we were motioned out of the car by our driver, who, strangely, learned enough English during the drive to repeat “I’m sorry” while the other man transferred our bags from the trunk to his. Now we were in this stranger’s hands…”
(as published at Matador Network)
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