Border Crossing part 3 of 3

My brother-in-law and I conferred quietly. He won me over. We paid the money and sure enough, our guide walked us right to the front of the line. I felt a tinge of guilt as we walked past well-tanned, scruffy Australian Dude and his tank-topped, tattooed girlfriend sitting on top of their overly big backpacks.

Once through customs, we had to walk another 500 meters on the Cambodian side. As we were walking with our border crossing guide, a van pulled up. The driver seemed to know who we were and had been expecting us. He waved for us to get in. I looked at our border crossing guide who nods in ascent.

For the fourth time that day we allowed ourselves to be put in the hands of a complete stranger who spoke little or no English to be taken who-knows-where. I took a deep breath and had to force myself to not think of all the possible ways in which this could go horribly wrong. I glanced at my wife to see how she was doing. She appeared fine, so I climbed into the van. My children followed.

Three hours later -twelve hours after we had started our trek that morning- our driver pulled up to the front door of the “Home Sweet Home” guest house where the staff was expecting us.

Less than thirty-six hours later, we would reverse the whole process and do it all over again.

Maybe that laconic beach vacation down in Phukhet wouldn’t have been such a bad idea after all.

I was astounded at the level of organization required of the informal network of men who got us over the border. It reinforced for me the enterprising nature of human beings. Give a man a cell phone, get out of his way, and he will find a way to make a buck.

I would have loved to have been able to talk to all of those people –seen and unseen- who were involved in getting us over the border. I would have asked them who was in charge of all this. But I suspect that I already know the answer to that question. There was no one person who was orchestrating all this from on high. I’m sure it was an informal network that arose from the ground up. It’s the invisible hand Adam Smith talks about in the Wealth of Nations. God bless the free market, spontaneous order, and the profit motive.

Now, about these sheets here on our bed in our seven-dollar-a-night hotel . . . .

Home Sweet Home indeed.