As the only native English speaker in my haphazardly assembled, multinational backpacking crew, I was tasked with securing tickets for the sleeper bus to Luang Prabang. I asked the friendly English-
speaking guesthouse staff to book four tickets on the 10 PM bus. Cash exchanged hands, good to go. We ambled off to enjoy our last day in Vang Vieng, a river town famous for tubing, boisterous UK gap-year partying, and rock climbing.

Alas, when we returned to the guesthouse, it turned out that the staff had booked us on the 10 AM bus, long since departed. No money back guarantee, no night bus tickets remaining. Cazza, an Italian curse word, was one of the few words I understood in the argument that followed between my Italian and French travelling companions, the only agreed upon conclusion of which was that my English was not that great.

Like most backpackers learn to do, we rolled with the punches and found a different company to book tickets for a bus that left at 9:30 PM. Except, when the “VIP bus” pulled up, it wasn’t a bus at all, but a minivan, a minivan with a chainsmoking driver who took the hairpin curves that roll one after another at stomach-turning speeds. I curled up on a seat missing half its back and tried to block out the sounds of the guy in front of me vomiting into a plastic bag. The vomiting continued for three hours straight.

At the halfway point, we stopped on the side of the road, where two more people took the opportunity to empty their abused stomachs. A little over two hours later, around 3 AM, we pulled into Luang Prabang, where every guesthouse within walking distance was full or locked tight for the night. The Italians and I curled up on benches on a side street not far from the river and slept, our tummies finally at peace, until the sunrise woke us up in the morning.

We decided to come to this little dot on the map in central Laos to see Tham Konglor, Konglor cave, a 7-km long tunnel filled with stalagmites and stalactites that is best viewed by longtail boat. The cave was truly impressive. It seems like everywhere you go in Southeast Asia there’s a cave “that, like, you just HAVE to see, dude.” Spooky, spectacular Tham Konglor, unlike many other caves I saw, is actually worth the trip, but sleeping in a homestay in Konglor village makes the journey truly memorable.

The accomadations aren’t luxurious and the food isn’t gourmet. There’s not much privacy since you’ll sleep behind a curtain hung from the ceiling. If you want to see how Laos people live though, to “experience the culture” as so many guidebooks instruct you to do at streetside cafes, a homestay is the place to sleep. Eighty percent of the population in Laos lives in rural villages similar to Konglor. And while I savored the time I spent sipping espresso in cafes in the capital, Vientiane, and dreamy Luang Prabang, motorbiking through hamlets like Konglor and sleeping under mosquito nets on the floor was an infinitely more interesting, more thought-provoking mode of travel.

Cambodia is one of the world’s most heavily mined countries. The U.S. bombed the country during the Vietnam war, and the Khmer Rouge continued using landmines, which are easy and cheap to create but dangerous and expensive to remove, during the civil war that engulfed Cambodia from 1979 to 1991. No one knows exactly how many unexploded ordnance (UXO) remain, but estimates run in the millions.

I decided not to visit the killling fields just outside Phnom Penh where thousands of Cambodians were murdered by the Khmer Rouge or the infamous prison, S-21, where more were tortured. Like the Landmine Museum, both are popular, informative tourist destinations. However, I found the museum to be hopeful. There are solutions, albeit expensive and time-consuming ones, to the dangers presented by UXO (train deminers and convince countries to sign the UN treaty banning the landmines). However, there is nothing hopeful or redeeming about the terror and horror of the Khmer Rouge.

Basically, Cambodian (Khmer) food with its Thai influences, reliance on veggies and fish, and relatively simple preparation is yummy, not to mention healthy, and I wanted to try to learn to make a few dishes. Dressed up in a chef’s hat and apron at Le Tigre de Papier restaurant (the French too left their mark on Khmer cuisine when Cambodia was a protectorate of France), I attempted to imitate the rapid-fire hand movements of a Cambodian chef peeling and slicing green papaya, banana leaves, carrots, onions, and a variety of flavour-enhancing roots. Next came a test of arm strength pounding away at chiles and tamarind with a mortar and pestle.

My chopping skills left something to be desired, but the spicy green papaya salad turned out okay anyway. The amok fish I prepared, with more than a little help from our Cambodian instructors, contained the right mixture of coconut and lemongrass, though I failed miserably at folding its banana-leaf shell. However, my favorite part of the cooking lesson, besides snapping photos of all the dishes, was sampling my classmates’ creations. Fresh shrimp springrolls in paper-thin rice tortillas, fried springrolls, lemongrass chicken, cucumber salad, and for dessert, sticky rice. Delicious.

Once upon a time the temples were home to a million people, and today small villages still exist within the sprawling ruins. By buying a one-day pass for $20 we were able to enter Angkor at sunset on bicycles and return the next morning before dawn to watch the sunrise behind the monuments. It was cloudy and grey, but still impressive. Massive hunks of stone, impossibly detailed bas-reliefs, palaces topped by multiple heads, and steps so steep you have to shuffle down them sideways, this is what keeps sweat-soaked tourists wandering for hours (or days!) in Angkor. How did people build structures of this size over a thousand years ago? And how are these majestic symbols of spiritual fervor still standing now that twisted tree trunks have wrapped themselves inside and around the crumbling foundations?

“Quickly, quickly, we must process your tourist visas before the border closes for the night!” said the uniformed man that helped us climb down from the tuk-tuk. Quoting a visa price that was roughly double the number listed in my guidebook, he kept telling us to hurry up. The “consulate” didn’t look like any visa office I’d seen before, and the fast-talking “consulate officer” dressed in brighter colors than any immigration official I’d met.

After refusing to go inside for a solid 10 minutes, our driver finally motioned us back to the tuk-tuk, and drove us about 400 meters down the road to the border crossing. I’d like to say he looked sheepish, but he wasn’t, he just smiled when we asked if he took all of his passengers to the fake consulate.

Feeling quite pleased with ourselves for avoiding the visa scam, we scampered through Thai passport control and into the real Cambodian visa office. Confidently pulling out the correct change for our tourist visas we prepared to enter the Kingdom of Cambodia. But wait! The visa price increased you say? Funny, it says right here on the wall it’s still US $20… Oh, you want $30? Hmmmm. You’ll accept $25 if we don’t have $30? How about $22?

After learning a few Khmer words from the amiable, pocket-lining immigration officials we did enter the Kingdom. A slightly sketchy shared-taxi ride across an unlit highway and pancake-flat landscape brought us to Siem Reap, the gateway to the ancient ruins of Angkor Wat. Sigh. Never judge a country by its borderlands.