Ban Lung is colored rust.

Making full use of my visa, I spent the rest of my time in Laos; up to the very day of my stamp's expiration. I stayed in a bungalow on the island of Don Det, a small getaway out of the supposed thousands created in the waters of the Mekong, and in the heat of the day, when no one attempts to leave the slight comfort of a shadow, I laid in a hammock and read The Road by Cormac McCarthy, while sipping a chilled Coca-Cola with a straw.

I wish I could have had a Coke in my hand as I crossed the border into Cambodia. A single wooden shack with three officers and four pens stood as a roadside checkpoint into what appeared to be a wasteland. I was stamped into Cambodia.

While waiting for others making the crossing, I walked to the center of the road and stood there, watching nothing apparent. Without a bend in sight, a hot tarmac strip ran to the horizon. The land on either side, choked and sputtered in the dust. Here you could hear the earth in a dry whisper counting the days to the start of the wet season.

Storms are arriving with night time frequency. Soon I hope, the skies will break.

Stopping only for lunch in the town of Stung Treng, I hopped on a four hour, bumpy minibus to Ban Lung, where I spent my first two nights.

Again, dust clogs the air, prompting even a few foreigners to cover their mouths with a scarf, while most of the locals handle this rusty air with tenacity and little concern. A few naked toddlers run about with white smiles peeking around the corner, their dark skin colored in orange splotches, and motorbikes ride past with a cloudy tail of filth; their riders covered from head to toe.

I noticed that many of the women here wear matching pajama tops and bottoms, in the middle of the city and the middle of the day. Red with floral patterns or yellow with something else. This is a bold fashion statement in the rusty dust of Ban Lung; or maybe its merely a comfort statement. With socks and sandals, or just sandals alone, these women of all ages stretch out from their shops in patterned pride.

In physical features and the sounds of language, I am beginning to mentally note the subtle differences between Thai, Laos, Vietnamese, and Cambodian; and even though I am surrounded with their presence, there are times that I am physically stunned by the beauty of the people here. Only the most bitter hearts can resist a smile. I certainly know mine is not bitter.