No Apple Pie

When we entered Cambodia, we got our first taste of institutionalized bribery, and once you see it first hand, it becomes impossible not to spot on a near daily basis. The problem for us was passport pages. You see, in an aggrandizing display of paperwork, many of these poorer countries require a full blank page on which to stick their flamboyantly colored seal of entry approval. Cambodia even staples your departure form on additional page for you to carry around the entire time your in the country.

Anyways – I scraped in with one last completely blank page, enough space to stick a visa and get stamped and allowed in. Zane however, had already run out of blank pages. After a solid minute while the border officer stared at us in apparent obliviousness as to how he could possibly proceed to get a sticker in the passport, and us staring back, knowing what was coming but not wanting to be the first to broach the subject, he pointed to page 22 of the passport, the part after the pages that say “Visas,” in the back where they are titled “Amendments and Endorsements”.

“You pay me 5 dollar and I can put in there.”

Five. Not the end of the world, by any means. We get in for an extra 20%; this “lieutenant” in the T-Shirt gets an extra five to take home tonight. “You have to get new pages in Phnom Penh,” he explained shifting to what became a very sage tone.

“OK. Yeah. We will go to the embassy.” Avoiding this process at future border crossings (which are already hellish financial rape centers) was a priority. Zane was forced to hand write a note on a scrap of blank paper that read

I give permission to the Cambodian Police to put a visa on page 22 of my passport.

And that signed piece of paper went into the drawer and will most likely never seen again.

Fast forward four days and we are in Phnom Penh, determined to get some new passport pages at the embassy. Neither of us had been to an embassy before and expectations ran high.

This was, after all, only a week after Thanksgiving, and it’s no stretch of the truth to say that both of us were missing some of the creature comforts that American life offers this time of year. On this little patch of American sovereignty abroad we would surely be welcomed home with open arms and smiles framed by natural blond hair. They might even have some apple pie for American visitors, who surely get the all-star treatment for these brief visits to State Department property. I imagined leftover turkey sandwiches, maybe with some stuffing and cranberry sauce. Or a Budweiser. How cool would it be if they employ a cowboy from Texas to welcome each American in with a cold Bud and a pat on the shoulder? “Welcome home, son.”

Giddy, we rounded the corner of Street 61. There it was, beautiful spiked fence and all.

The first thing to go wrong was with the guards. To start our train of disappointment, they aren’t American. Although the star spangled patches stood glaringly from their police-blue uniforms, the heavily armed Cambodians in the booth spoke almost no English. And they yelled at me for taking a picture. National Security issues, you know, like taking a picture of the George Washington Bridge. Who knows what terror cells I might send it to? And they told us we weren’t even in the right place; we needed the consulate, which is on the other side of the compound. This being America again, there is a bit of a machismo sprawl to the Embassy.  We own an entire city block in Phnom Penh, filled with a series of featureless corporate-looking boxes that are uniquely at odds with the surrounding French and Buddhist inspired architecture.

So through the blazing early afternoon sun we plodded around the block again, following the steaming sidewalk and knowing that Homeland Security can probably see us in the eagle-eye cameras. There is most likely a missile silo in the ground here. On the other side of the 12-foot spiked fence, every featureless grey expanse of reinforced concrete wall states IMPENETRABLE: American money hard at work. This made us giddy. Good old American Might right here in Cambodia. Anticipation was building.

The consulate’s working hours seem like something out of pre-bailout Greece. One hour in the morning from 10 to 11, and then two hours in the afternoon: 1 to 3. These people only work with visitors for three hours a day. It was 12:45 when we got there and there was a line around the block. We were the only white people. Everyone in line standing with their hopes and dreams clutched in folded papers and unsealed envelopes – double, triple checking their American visa paperwork, mentally preparing for an altogether terrifying process of multi-level scrutiny and interrogation.

We bound in through the herd, shining like the two young American bucks we are. Our opportunity presented itself immediately: We bulldoze to the front of the line, stand in front of the glass door and wave to the guard, flashing that über-valuable piece of leather with the American seal.  Another Cambodian (where are the blondes?) opens the door and sticks his head out.

“You have appointment?” he asks.

“No. We are American citizens. We have a problem with our passports. Can we come in?” It feels good saying this. The proud assertion of our inherited global status.

“No appointment, sorry.” He hands us a piece of paper and closes the door. Now we are bathing in the vindictive glare reflected in dozens of sets of eyes; everyone we had cut in front of was staring at us. Watching us flail in the fettered contingency we had no reason to expect. We were flummoxed, angry and ready to scam the US Consulate to get in today.

The paper listed phone numbers to call for different types of appointments – Immigration, passport questions, visas, emergency line. They were all the same number. There was also a website listed where you could make appointments online. We try the phone first, right outside the door, to make an appointment for five minutes from now and just walk in; let’s hope it works.

This is how we met the smiling man and the helpful wife. She, a well-cushioned looking woman, had overheard our exchange and subsequent muttered cursing. She offered her phone and, in great English, explained that I should calm down and just make an appointment for tomorrow – easy, she says, she and her husband have been here a lot lately. They are trying to help their daughter-in-law get to America, where they live with their son.

“We live in a really nice place,” the man exclaimed from behind me. Turning around, I see he’s doing whatever is beyond grinning. Every tooth is bared, eyes are wrinkled slits, he can’t contain himself. The house in Phoenix was clearly The Accomplishment of this man’s life. Unlike other late-middle-aged Cambodian men, this man doesn’t have the wiry build and sun-browned skin that comes from working outdoors every day of your life. He is well plumped round the middle, has a nice set of glasses and doesn’t look like he’d be comfortable in jeans. He’s also bouncing on his toes like a 10-year old boy waiting to show how big his candy collection is. 

He has the dual effect of calming and infuriating me. With his uncontrollable giggles and restless feet, I can’t help but smile with him. But inside I’m boiling. Where is my star treatment? Why is the juggernaut façade of bureaucracy holding us back? How is this man’s American experience going so much better than mine?

I came (half actually) expecting everything I loved about my country to sit in front of me on a silver platter. Instead I’ve ran headfirst into the stagnant pool of everything I hate about it. This is the DMV in Cambodia.

Across the street is the SunWay Hotel. It looks nice; there are valets at the door and ushers to bring you inside. (Our hotel, for purposes of comparison, doesn’t have locks on the doors.) They most likely have a business center we can sneak into – we can make an appointment online for later today and just hang out at the hotel for an hour or so. We are sneaky geniuses and this can’t go wrong.

Until we remember that neither of us know how to hack a password. After shuffling dirtily past a lobby full of business suits and smiles, we scampered downstairs in our tank tops and flip flops to find four waiting computers and an unending set of frustrating keystroke failures. We call up to reception, which gladly sends down a young woman who explains to me how much money we will have to spend to get online. OK, fine. Here is two dollars. For that we get fifteen minutes. We could buy lunch for the both of us with the same amount.

Once online, the process is remarkably quick. We jot down an appointment to get new passport pages for tomorrow at 10:15 and print out our receipt. It’s there that we notice the dollar sign. Oh, shit. This is going to cost money. Yes. A lot of money, the computer tells me. $82 amount of money. What I could live off for four days here. Cash only.  This day has incrementally shattered my happiness, thirty minutes at a time. 

At the consulate the next day we are shuffled between windows where people with unidentifiable accents hand us forms under glass windows with little metal recesses at the bottom. It’s like the bulletproof glass in scary urban area minimarts. The striking imperial grandiosity of the outside is gone in the sterile air-conditioned space of paper and staples and stamps. There weren’t any turkey sandwiches.