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December 31, 2005
Mong La back to Kentung
The next morning we wake up and prepare for the journey back to Kengtung. Brittany has arranged with driver who brought us to Mengla to take us back. She goes out for breaky at some local joint near the ‘bus station’ beside the hotel and I just munch on some fruit I bought at the market the previous day, drink some green tea, and watch the English-language Chinese CCTV news channel on my room’s television. Once our negotiated departure time approaches, we check out and sit down at Brittany’s breaky joint, chat about the people there, and sip much tea and coffee. We also watched a couple of platoons of soldiers marching back to and fro some destination with ancient, single shot rifles.
Finally our driver is almost ready to depart having packed up his Toyota to an unbelievable degree. There are even a dozen people sitting on makeshift benches up top. It is stunning how heavily loaded the truck is. After ten minutes he returns from the immigration office without our travel documents and indicates to Brittany to hope on the back of the scooter so they can pick up our paper work.
While she was away, it became clear that something definitely was no normal. My paranoia set in. Thoughts of how to handle hypothetical situations where racing through my head: what if they came back for me? (Shit…I bet the food is bad.) What if they said she was detained and I was free to leave? (No. She’s been a good travel mate so far and I’ve got mobile phone reception…start making calls.) What if I can’t get my internal papers…are my chances of crossing the border into China illegally and hoping for the best? (Great idea...now my salvation lies in the hands of Condoleezza Rice’s US State Department.)
I’ve asked Brittany to explain in her own words what happened next:
I jumped on the back of the motorbike behind our taxi-driver, and zoomed off to the immigration office. We entered to find 6 guys, dressed untidily in t-shirts and longyis, crowding around a table. Due to them not being in uniform, it was unclear if they were SPDC (Burma Army) or UWSA (United Wa State Army), the drug producers who signed a ceasefire agreement with SPDC who control that area. As it was immigration, I would imagine that they were SPDC, although USWA would control the check-points and border crossings. So, all these guys are crowded around the table, with the head guy speaking and jabbing his finger accusingly at our (Stu’s and mine) two pink travel documents on the table before him. I speak barely any Burmese, so had no idea what he was going on about. This exchange, him barking and pointing, me shrugging, smiling contritely and replying “na ma leh bu” (I don’t understand), went on for a while. I realise that something is wrong, but am too nervous to pick up the documents and inspect them. In irritation he huffs, and flaps his hand at one of the guys, who comes to my side, two documents in hand, and tries further to explain to me. It is clear that the other guys believe that he is speaking English, and he believes that he is speaking English. But believe me, it wasn’t English. I couldn’t understand a word he was saying. Eventually I look to our taxi driver (who, thankfully, doesn’t seem too fazed by all of this) for support. He was Shan, spoke Shan/Thai (the two languages have a lot of similarities), the basics of which I understand. He speaks, everyone looks at me expectantly, but no luck, I don’t understand. Although nervous, I’m not particularly worried at this point, as I know that whatever the document problem is, it has no relation to the work I do in Thailand, work that if the SPDC knew about, would bring me interrogation resulting in being kicked out and blacklisted. But this is the slightly worrying thing, I’m no ordinary tourist, I’m here because I’ve been working with people from Burma for over 3 years. And no matter how vigilant I am about keeping my identity safe, the paranoia-inducing bastards still manage to get me on something! I look at the two open documents on the table. Head guy jabs his finger at Stu’s document, at a stamp of ‘MGL’, and barks “Mong La!”. He jabs his finger at my stamp, which says ‘KTG’, and barks “Kengtung!”. Oh… I don’t have a stamp to be in Mong La. HOLY SHIT, I DON’T HAVE PERMISSION TO BE IN MONG LA?? How the hell did this happen? The immigration guy in Tachilek gave me this document, how come he only stamped it for Kengtung? And why the hell didn’t he tell me he only stamped it for Kengtung? And how come all the checkpoints we came through between Kengtung and Mong La didn’t realise it was only stamped for Kengtung? And why didn’t the taxi boy, who got all the photocopies and dealt with all the paperwork in the checkpoints not realise? OH MY GOD. I look at the taxi boy. He looks at me. He looks ok, he doesn’t look like he’s just realised he’s gonna be facing the firing squad, or be made to stand in the sun for 8 hours (Myanmar Lonely Planet explains somewhere how because 2 stupid tourists on a bus refused to pay a checkpoint charge, the checkpoint soldiers took the bus driver out and made him stand in the sun for hours as punishment, while the tourists sat on the bus in ignorance. Stu, can you check this for me – the piece is boxed text.) Oooooh, be extra contrite to head man. Explain how immigration in Tachilek gave the stamp and I hadn’t seen it. Smile, nod/duck, wai (hands together, head bent), do anything to deflect this situation. Head guy glares, puts wrists together, to imitate handcuffs, "Kengtung!”. They’re gonna arrest me in Kengtung? No no no, he’s joking, everything’s ok, I put my wrists together, back away looking at head guy in mock-indignation, “No no no. No arrest” Head guy’s eyes open wide in disbelief and anger, bangs table, starts ranting. Everyone starts ranting. Taxi boy, head down, deflates, “she’s blown it.” Oh for god’s SAKE! Ok, ok, back to table, head down, ranting stops, nobody speaks. I gesture weakly at documents, “Ok, Kengtung, Kengtung, no Mong La. No Mong La… Sol-ee...” Raise eyes, they’re all glaring at me suspiciously, shit, put eyes back down. No one speaks. What to do? Wonder what the bathrooms are like in this place? Did I notice a comfy sofa on my way in? (Just to humour myself. Of course there was no comfy sofa, I think I saw one broken plastic chair.) I’m a woman. Would they treat me well, bring me nice bits of food? Oh come one, someone speak, the tedium of this is killing me. Head guy folds up 2 documents, hands them to me. Starts writing a letter neatly on note paper. I breathe with relief, look up to find guy in doorway pointing camera at me. Oh please, now that is something I really don’t want. Smile for the birdy…
The letter was signed and stapled closed, handed to taxi boy. We left. I doubt that anything will come of the photo, they have no computers up there, pointless documents govern every part of everyone’s lives, documents that get lost very easily. I’ll let you know the next time I apply for a visa to Rangoon, in June…
It was good to have her back and everything in order. At about 11am we finally hit the road. Because of how heavily laden the Toyota was, our driver took it nice and slowly. Every time we hit a pot hole I had visions of the cute little seven-year-old girl up top flying off. Our driver spent more time looking in his rear view mirror than forward. During the descents down slopes he repeatedly pulled over, grabbed a plant watering bucket, and poured stream water onto the disc breaks to cool them down. Fan-fucking-tastic.
At one point we came across another truck, even more heavily loaded, that had a catastrophic tire failure on the right rear side. Our driver, without hesitating, got out and helped them fix the flat. I just love that kind of community spirit. It delayed our own journey a good twenty minutes, but whatever.
Some hours later we made it back into Kengtung with little more drama. Quickly we check in and discover that there are two $4 rooms that they don’t really advertise unless someone is about to walk away. I got room 117 this time. Both Brittany and I were not up for a trip into town so we settled down next door to Harry’s for dinner. Making use of my newly acquired ‘how to eat when you do not speak the same language as the cook’ that Brittany taught me, I walked in and pointed at a few things and, in the end, had a nice scrabbled eggs with mixed vegetables dinner. We invited a lone traveler, Ivan, over to join us. He was from Slovenia and turned out to be a bit of an ass. He also seemed to have a really dodgy background, but that is speculation. Brittany retired early. Ivan and I drank a bit until it became clear we disagreed on much, and I decided he was just an ass. Oh, well. We tried.
Posted by stu at December 31, 2005 09:39 AM