Martin Bargo
The moonless night invited the tour bus to break down three miles before Boeung Trakoun. Wielding a paper map and a compass, after some finger measurements, we decided to leave the road and walk across the eerily quiet forest. “Straight northbound, we’re almost there,” Arkadiusz promised.
“You and your shortcuts!” I replied, frowning in the dark.
A minute later, we reached town. While jumping over the guardrail, an astonished group of locals stared at us, jaws dropped, some grabbing their heads. “Did you walk through there?” asked one of them in perfect English. Hesitantly, we both nodded. “You just crossed a World War II minefield.”
