Battambang boat trip

I noticed that our boat  had slowed almost to a standstill and that our new additions were arguing with the skipper, pointing in a direction decidedly opposite from where the river was taking us. I looked to Kry to translate, but he wouldn't meet my gaze. Not a peep. He stared off at some fixed point in space, apparently oblivious. When, at our uninvited guest's instruction, the boat changed course, coughing and clanking up a narrow no-name creek perpendicular to the river, I barked to Kry, 'What's happening? What's going on?'

'We take shortcut,' said Kry, quickly slipping back into what seemed to be a coma.

'Shortcut'. The word filled me with dread. When has a shortcut ever worked out as planned? The word - in a horror film at least - usually precedes disembowelment and death. A 'shortcut' almost never leads to good times. And in Cambodia, with our skipper suddenly piloting the boat up a shallow, twisting, foliage- choked, water- filled ditch, deep into who the fuck knows where, with two who the fuck knows who giving the orders, I was not feeling too secure. I consulted my Lonely Planet guide and was dismayed to find this particular body of water did not appear on the map.