...And a headlong rush it was. Thundering along the rutted, pot-hole riddled stretch of mud-saturated clear-cut that passes for a road in these parts, we watched with a strange sense of de-ja-vous the last remnants of Cambodia pass us by in a blur of thatched, stilted huts, padi-fields and threatening thunderheads as we retraced our steps to the Thai border. It didn't take long to reach the border but here our race for Bangkok came to a sudden and unyielding halt.

It was the coup; everyone knew it was the coup; even the pigeons (har har!). That was why we were standing here being mercilessly hammered by the torrential monsoon rain in a static queue that was apparently setting out to match the longevity of Angkor itself. And so we stood, helplessly watching the inexorable blinking of the seconds on our collective watches as they slowly counted away our chances of making it to Bangkok whilst at the same time, as if on some macabre seesaw, they raised the ugly possibility of yet another sweaty, wet night in a tent.

Administrators the world over are the same. They wield their small slice of power like a beacon of light in their small, dark, twisted personal universes and feed off the frustration and despair they create. As ever we stood at the mercy of the small-minded. There was nothing we could do except collectively will them to let us through. To process those passports just that little bit faster. 'I am not a revolutionary anarchist planning to overthrow your government and hell, even if I was, I just missed the party. I just want a comfortable night in a hotel. Honest. Let me in. Pleeeease.'

Eventually, after what seemed like half an eternity the queue started moving, accompanied by not inconsiderable relief from the denizens of the Exodus truck, and we began once again to inch slowly towards Thailand. I don't really remember the journey from the border. It passed in a mercifully uneventful blur of flat, blandish scenery, rain swept skies and terminated in the bright lights and traffic queues of Bangkok. I do remember the rush of excitement as we edged our way through the chaotic traffic and marvelled at the neon signs and brightly lit skyscrapers of what was probably the most modern and busy city we had seen since leaving Beijing weeks before. This was it; 28 weeks of truck-bound bone-crunching, bruised arses and wind-burned faces was over; we had reached our goal. We cruised slowly down Nana Plaza past the pubs, pool halls and go-go bars towards the Crown Hotel slap in the middle of Bangkok's renowned red light district listening to the cat-calls from the uniformly stunning Thai girls out to make a quick buck in time honoured fashion. The reality of climbing down the aluminium steps of the truck for the final time hit with a potent mix of melancholy and relief. I thought, as I sank into the comfortable bed in my shabby but adequate hotel room and glanced at my profile in the full-length bedside mirror that today served only to remind me how unerotically thin and dirty I had become. ‘No more camping for me for a while; YES!’