Making bad decisions but not regretting them

Looking to Burma

This weekend three girlfriends and I decided to get out of Mae Sot and head up the border a few hours to a little town (that shall remain nameless for reasons that will soon become clear), for a night away. It was a lovely quaint little town, and as we have all been feeling the stresses of work recently, we decided we needed a break. This town is on the same river, the Moei River, that Mae Sot is on and it too forms the border with Burma. This trip made us all realise how poor our Thai is, particularly me. All communication was very stilted, and I have decided that whatever fool thought that publishing phrase books for tonal languages is a moron. The written words mean very different things if you don’t know the correct tone to use. Anyway, we figured out a place to stay, food to eat and all was well. We spent a good couple of hours or so on Saturday afternoon sitting at the rivers’ edge staring at picturesque Burma and its stunning jungle-covered mountains. So close, and yet, so far. We discussed the idea of crossing, tossing up the possible repercussions. It started to get dark, so the idea was abandoned. We had a pretty hilarious dinner at a tiny restaurant where there was no English at all, the highlight was definitely the amazing early ‘90s Michael Jackson dvd they were playing – absolute gold (or should I say absolutely amazing gold g-string leotard worn over jeans).

Looking to Thailand

Sunday morning came, and with it, the laziness that Sunday morning is famous for. Eventually we made it to lunch, and then decided that we would head back to the river to stare at Burma a bit more. Once there, the decision was made: we were going to cross. Our combined Burmese is exponentially better than our Thai, so negotiations were made, and into the narrow, rickety long boat we piled, along with Burmese villagers returning home from the Thai markets. 

Getting off the boat and stepping into Burma felt very strange. The potential repercussions we could face were severe, and I think we were all feeling a good dose of anxiety and nervous excitement about what we were doing. The previous day we had seen a pagoda on the other side – this was where we said we wanted to go. So upon arrival, our friendly boat driver led us up the hill to said pagoda. It’s incredible how very different it is over there. It really is a totally different world. The jungle is pristine and spectacular. We think of Thailand as being lush and green and full of jungle – it has nothing on the remote areas of Burma like this. 

Once over the rickety bridge and up the mud-slick hill, we were in a monastery, one so very different from those in Thailand, a mere 50m across a stretch of water. The family invited us in, and we were told the head monk would come and see us. Expecting an ancient old noble looking man, we were pleasantly surprised when the handsome, muscular young monk came to greet us (it seems all the monks in these parts are inappropriately attractive). He was delighted to meet us, and we had a wonderful conversation with him – largely thanks to one of us that speaks very good conversational Burmese. There were many questions back and forth, my favourite being his asking us what religion we were, to which the other three replied, Christian and Buddhist. I was slightly apprehensive about what to say, but I figured that since I have the word tattooed inside my mouth, I’d tell the truth, which is that I have no religion at all. His response was most unexpected: a huge grin, a laugh and a thumbs up. He told us that he thought it was fantastic that I have no religion, as this means I am free to think whatever I want, and that must have a very open mind about the world. I’m not going to lie to you, I was very pleased at this response, he was pretty impressed when I told him I’d studied all world religions though, after which he proceeded to tell us that he knows about what Hitler did to the Jews.

Eventually the conversation shifted, and we asked him exactly where we were in Burma – the response was not the greatest, there is a lot of fighting in this particular district. The nervousness that had finally settled in my stomach began to bubble up again. And when he responded to the question “are there any soldiers in this village?”, with “yes, around 50 – 60”, we decided it was probably wise to high-tail it out of there before word spread of our presence. We weren’t sure who controlled this area, and therefore what kind of soldiers they were – DKBA, KNLA, KNU or straight-up Burmese army, whoever they were, it was best we didn’t find out. Our monk friend was very understanding that we wanted to leave now, and after showing us the breathtaking view from his incredibly peaceful pagoda, escorted us back to our boat. After an entirely uneventful trip back across the river, we found ourselves safely back in Thailand. 

Now, I am fully aware that this was perhaps the most moronic and dangerous decision I have ever made, and that any number of things could have happened over there. But you know what?  Nothing happened except for wonderful things. Anyway, I've done it now, and I'm not planning on doing it again. And there are obvious reasons why I’m not telling you where I was, or the names of the village, or the monk. My second adventure into Burma was certainly shorter than my first, and much more illegal, but it was exciting, and wonderful, and once again, I was taken aback by the hospitality and sincere kindness we were shown. I can’t love these people enough.

Mae La refugee camp - the biggest and oldest of all the camps on the border