International Space

Thinking too long about border crossings unnerves me.

Land border crossings aren't too bad, though they are by and large the most difficult and inefficient way to get into a country. They're also the best if you want to sneak into one, as overland border security tends to attract the lazy, the local, and the corrupt. What I mean by that is this:

Border officials tend to be overworked. There are, at any given moment, hundreds of people trying to cross most borders worldwide (exceptions like North Korea exist, but are rare). Of these hundreds of people, many of them are simply people that live on the other side of the border that need to get to their job. Most border towns have people that work on both sides of the actual line, so they have to do a daily crossing. Processing these people takes time, effort, and is shockingly monotonous.

Then there are foreigners who are traveling overland. There are more of these than you think, depending on the season, and they all don't speak the local lingo, all have a sense of entitlement about getting through the border, and all have way more liquid capital than your average border guard. The average overland border guard tends to shut his brain off when he sees a western passport, and unless you're doing something suspicious, acting nervous, or he's just having a bad day and wants to take it out on someone, they'll typically stamp your passport and let you go without even looking at what's on your departure/arrival card. The faster they can get through this queue of white people the better, in their opinion.

The local: Most border officials live in the areas that they perform their duties in – some in the border village itself. This creates close ties to the local population, which can be a great thing, because it allows a competent border guard to keep his pulse on what's going on around his border, and to know when anything suspicious is happening. It also allows him to fast-track people he knows that do work across the border, allowing that person to get to their job, and saving time and paperwork for everyone. He also knows what looks suspicious as he is around there all the time, and knows that the village idiot doesn't have a job on the other side of the border, and shouldn't be making the crossing three times a week with a giant backpack full of meth. This local connection is a double edged sword however; if the official isn't good at his job, or has been paid off by the local crime lord, it all of a sudden becomes very easy to sneak drugs, guns, and whatever else you want across the border.

Which brings me to corrupt: Most border officials are underpaid. Many of them have families – families with lots of kids and mouths to feed. They could take a second job and work nights or . . . they could use their government granted power to supplement their income. Corruption comes in many forms, but the two most common are extortion and being paid off. Extortion is pretty self-explanatory. I experienced it at the Koh Kong border crossing between Thailand and Cambodia.

Visas to Cambodia are twenty dollars. That's what it says on the website, that's what they'll tell you at any embassy, and that's what it says in the books. Underpaid, overworked and corrupt border guards like to tack on extra processing "fees" for anyone who hasn't had the foresight to get one at the embassy. Sometimes these fees, like in Koh Kong, end up being as much as the visa itself costs.

You do not have to pay these fees, but fighting them takes time, effort, and if not done gracefully could end up with you being unable to cross the border. Most travelers just pay it in order for things to go smoothly.

The darker side of corruption in border guards is the darker side of law enforcement everywhere. Cops of all types are typically underpaid and overworked. Their toughest enemies are generally people who have lots of money, consider themselves above social rules, and who aren't afraid of committing violence to get what they want. What that boils down to is many border guards are paid by criminals to look the other way when something illegal is happening. If this shocks or offends you, or you think you would be above this, think about it this way:

You are a Cambodian border guard with five children, a sick mother, and a wife who loves you and worries about you. You need to feed, clothe, and educate your children on your pittance of a salary that only comes every once in a while. You need medicine for your mother, who has some illness that you can't even comprehend; you're not a doctor. The doctor says she needs it, but it's expensive. And your wonderful wife, who manages to keep a lid on all of this at home while you make just enough money to support the family, all she wants is for you to keep coming home at night. So one day this guy comes up to you on your way to work and says, "Hey, there's a wagon coming through today, I will give you thirty dollars to just wave it through." You protest and say you can't do that, that you have to search it. The guy responds with, "You've got kids right? They go to this school right? Real shame if something happened to them." You agree to let the wagon through. "I knew you'd see it my way," and he hands you thirty dollars. Your wife doesn't ask where the extra money came from, your mother gets her medicine and the kids get 500 extra calories each and maybe a new pair of shoes.

It's not always like this, but it is for a lot of people. Some border guards are straight up corrupt people who are just in it for the money and power. Others are good guys in rough situations. Most fall somewhere in the middle.

Anyway, this turned into a blog about corruption and border crossings rather than what I wanted to talk about, which was the weirdness of being in international space. So between most border crossings, and in airports once you get past passport control, you're technically in international space, and no country has responsibility for you. That's what I was talking about when I said that thinking about border crossings unnerves me.

This occurred to me when I was in the Bangkok airport waiting for my flight to Delhi. I'd crossed through the customs checkpoint and from a legal standpoint, I was no longer in Thailand. But, I hadn't gone through Indian customs. I was in international space, and while it seems like fuzzy logic to me, I think that makes me subject only to international law.

Interesting concept. I'm sure a lawyer (dadcoughcough) could explain it better, and maybe I'm totally wrong. I'm sure the practicalities boil down to whoever gets a hold of you first. If you commit a crime in Thailand, you're subject to Thai authority, no matter what part of the airport you're in. If you commit a crime on an airplane, you're probably detained by wherever your flight lands.

But the theory is interesting . . . and a bit unnerving.

-Doug

 P.S. If you are detained at an overland crossing, ask if there is some kind of customs fee that you have forgotten to pay, but never call it a bribe, as bribing an official carries serious consequences. Use common sense, as this may work getting in or out of Cambodia, but will definitely not work getting into or out of the United States. Better option: plan ahead, get your visa, and don't get detained. 

Trees

The entirety of the complex of temples that makes up Angkor Wat stretches over an area that covers more than five hundred square kilometers. Some temples sit far away from the main site, strange ziggurats jutting above the landscape of the jungle with in groups of three’s or more with a strange, single-minded presence. Others cluster closer, within easy walking distance. Still others have been overtaken by the jungle and it is at one such as this where Amanda and I spend our last day.

There is an official name for the temple, but the locals just call it the "Tomb Raider Temple." Made famous by being the set for Angelina Jolie's somewhat notorious role as Laura Croft – Fantasy Woman of Every 90's Gamer – the temple is actually one of the youngest in the complex – an estimated two hundred years old. It was abandoned at the end of the last Khmer empire, and the jungle ate it.

Now it is Amanda’s and my playground. The Cambodians care about their cultural artifacts, they really do, but they also let tourists walk all over them. With the exception of a few obviously dangerous areas, visitors to the Tomb Raider Temple can climb up and down the walls, navigate through maze-like passageways, and in general do whatever they feel like as long as it doesn't involve picking up a hammer and taking something home with them – which hasn't stopped some people.

The things that amaze me are the trees. They spring from the temple with total and utter apathy at their own glacially destructive power. Roots and vines push aside stone with all the patience of implacable entropy – churning the earth, ripping apart the walls, and burying the works of man beneath their might. One particularly fine example erupts from the very wall itself, with roots hanging down like a green and brown waterfall, anchored to the earth only recently – speaking in terms of decades.

 Nature has always been my only true divinity. Since I was little it has humbled me, always in unexpected moments, and in profound ways. I love trees; there are ancient things in them and a solidness that is rooted into the very foundation of our world. Often I have found myself touching a tree and feeling as though every fiber of my being is on an alert – like I'm standing on the edge of a vast and implacable knowledge or power that my mind can only grasp at the edges of; like I'm touching the only truly real thing there is, and my brain just can't comprehend that.

The trees at Angkor Wat know of such things.

- Doug

Angkor Wat

Angkor Wat was a major religious site for both Buddhists and Hindus in Cambodia for hundreds of years. Today it is a crumbling ruin that serves as an interesting relic of the long dead Khmer empire.

It is eye-poppingly beautiful, and though Amanda and I do not arrive at sunrise as all the guidebooks say to, we are suitably impressed. The crumbling facade and jungle-conquered outer walls stir my poet's soul. "My name is Ozymandius: look on my works and despair."

If I had paid more attention in freshman English, I might have been able to quote the whole poem to you, or tell you who wrote it. I suspect Shelley, though Byron comes to mind as well. Regardless, the sentiment is the same – here lies the madness of a long dead king; a once sacred palace and holy center now a tourist attraction, nearly entirely secular in nature, and interesting only because of its ruinous nature and grand scale.

Nearly totally secular. The highest point of the complex is still considered sacred by someone important, because a ministry of tourism booth blocks the staircase, and men in uniform determine, seemingly entirely arbitrarily, who can get in and who can't.

Men are largely admitted, and in fact I never once saw one turned away. But the leering tourist officials stop women wearing tank tops and dresses that come above the knees, despite the sweltering heat of the day. Amanda and I are stopped because she is wearing her "Chi Phat Wildlife Alliance" tank top; because showing too much skin in the presence of the holy one brings on hurricanes and earthquakes.

I am allowed to continue, but she must remain below in the courtyard. 

The ludicrousness of the situation infuriates me. No one worships here anymore, and they haven't for at least two hundred years. The Buddha statues scattered around the place are defaced by time and vandals, but for some reason allowing a woman to dress for the weather would offend the gods. Amanda is clearly pissed off, but our powers are limited. She shrugs, indicating me to go up by myself. I give the tourist officials an impotent, withering stare and proceed up.

Halfway up I get an idea, and when I return to the bottom, Amanda and I sneak off to a quiet corner and switch shirts. Now armed with my giant, on her frame, button up, she gives the tourist officials a smile and starts up. I sit in the courtyard in a tank top a size too small.

When she returns, we high five, delighted to have overcome this obstacle. Problem solving and critical thinking: 1; Dogmatic religious fear of women having control of their own bodies: 0.

By now Amanda and I are familiar with many Hindu deities and Buddhist doctrines, both of which the complex at Angkor Wat has in spades. A two-hundred-meter-long stretch of hallway features the now familiar scene of the "churning of the sea of milk" which is a Hindu myth. Supposedly all the gods and demons got together to churn this sea of milk, using a mountain resting on the back of a turtle incarnation of another god, with the snake god serving as the rope mechanism.

Yeah. That's a real thing.

Most of the rest of the murals are graphic descriptions of wars. One section has a complete pictorial explanation of the seven hells. I am distantly reminded of Trajan's column in Rome, which is similar to this, but covers the war between Emperor Trajan and tribal leaders in the northeast Mediterranean.

That one had pictures of men and women in shackles on it, too.

It is interesting to me that something so abhorrent as slavery is so ubiquitous. It never occurs to me to think of owning someone, and the thought of me being enslaved ignites such a fire of resistance in me that I find it difficult to imagine someone surviving the attempt, either myself or the enslaver. Only one person would walk away.

So there were murals of wars, of creation, and of hell. There were niches where Buddha’s would be but for vandals and the gnawing inevitability of time. Angkor Wat is a memory; an empty tomb of a long forgotten and longer dead civilization. But what is a tomb?

- Doug

Dickering

I overpay Hos. I like him, and he is charming in his own way. Three days work for him amounts to seventy-five dollars. In Cambodia, that will feed your family for a month, possibly longer.

It always strikes me as odd when I run into penny-pinching travelers. These people spent thousands of dollars on airfare, equipment, are missing income from their jobs to go out and travel, but they niggle with a cab driver over a few bucks. It's a strange frugality, and I find myself guilty of it, too.

As a tourist, you simply aren't going to pay what the locals do – for anything. And every time you try to, it's a long, and at least for me, distasteful bargaining process. I was born and raised in a place where everything has a fixed value. You don't negotiate with the barista over how much your coffee is. You just buy the damn coffee.  Having to haggle over something as simple as a beer drives me up the wall.

So, I usually end up "overpaying," which really means that I didn't pay local price. Most of the time, this doesn't bother me. While I'm not what most Americans would consider rich, I do have the financial resources to go on a six-month walkabout. This is due to the incredible generosity of my Grandmother, as well as the foresight of my parents, who started saving for my education before I was even born. Since I gained the ROTC scholarship, much of that money has been saved for something special, and I've been lucky enough to be able to go on this trip because of it.

I consider myself a relatively frugal traveler; I eat cheap street-meat, stay in hostels, and often times take night buses to combine travel days with accommodation. With that said, I'm not going to spend half an hour over the equivalent of two dollars when I want to buy a souvenir or get a ride somewhere. 99% of the time my economic situation is orders of magnitude better than the person I'm haggling with, and while a few dollars in either direction won't break me, it might make a big difference to him or her.

I've heard haggling described this way: You both make offers; they're usually far above and below what you think you should pay, and what the other’s willing to sell it for; then you make counter offers and eventually meet in the middle. A truly successful haggling experience has both parties walking away feeling like they paid or got a good price for whatever you're haggling over.

I like this. This is how I tend to treat it. The major difference between other travelers and me is that I don't mind not paying local price. But the point is, both parties walk away happy.

Recently I bought some tiles from a shop in Seljuk, Turkey. I'm 100 percent sure that I overpaid for them, despite an hour's worth of negotiation.

But I got my tiles, and I'm all right with the price I paid. Bottom-lining it, that's all that really matters.

 

- Doug