Okay, so that’s not entirely true.
Motion sick, steeped in our sweat, and slightly nauseous from the day’s diet of potato chips, Fanta, and chocolate-filled rolls: after eight hours of yet more transit of varying discomfort, Lauren and I ambled over to the nearest serviceable guest house, settling into a spartan mosquito den that happened to contain a mattress. Following several hours of slow torture on the concrete bed (an unfortunate cultural transition, to be sure) and water-weight loss, we found ourselves eager to escape the oppressive, malarial heat of our room and ventured out into the unfamiliar street. Passing the local jail, a small room stuffed equitably with men, women, and children, we noticed that the streets were abandoned, inhabited only by the ubiquitous packs of stray dogs, small-town moped gangs, and police dressed in black, banging repetitiously on streetlamps, truly the poor man’s Gong Show.
If this introduction comes across as ominous, it is because Mae Sot seems painted in uncertainty. A tenuous border-town eight kilometers from Burma (Myanmar), the population consists of unwanted Burmese (or in many cases, wanted for arrest), beleaguered Thais, and a very small but quite noticeable collection of farang (foreigners), in town to save the Burmese or to marry their women (a separate post on this phenomenon may be likely). Here unfolds an interesting daily charade, a game played on the local and national level: the Burmese, comprising over half of the population, reside largely illegally; the local police, under loose guidance from the Thai government, abide the Burmese influence; as local cops, however, they still arrest and detain Burmese for five days, and if the detainee cannot provide an official ID or scrape together a decent bribe in that time, they will be released again into Burma, as animals back into the impoverished wild. Moreover, NGO’s are technically illegal, so in order to secure their operations, however temporarily, these under-funded agencies are obliged to regularly pay police to look the other way. Throw into the mix Burmese military spies, political assassinations (one occurred three weeks ago), and Thai intelligence, and you will have one convoluted cocktail, a Long Island Iced Tea precariously and unevenly concocted.
Though Mae Sot certainly would not fit the bill of “dangerous,” one could not deny a particular tension in the area. Many Thais view the Burmese as uncultured scabs pockmarking the natural wonder of Thailand’s rosy cheeks. Whereas Thailand is a prosperous nation, particularly for the region, Burma is indigent and desperate, and those that can cross the border with no tangible skill or prospects eagerly fill the gaps and monopolize the bottom rung, much like Mexican-US relations but with thousands of years of animosity and invasions. The Thai response to the Burmese infestation, so to speak, varies from quiet acceptance to intimidation; Thais are a happy and benevolent people, for the most part, yet the town’s deserted streets owe to the roving gangs of young men, two to each shiny red moped. Cruising in formation, these Junior Roughriders give the Burmese a new aggressive military about which to fret, and they have and will attack any Burmese that they find outside after ten at night (we postulate that the Banging of the Lampposts comprises the evening swansong of the police, alerting locals that though they are on duty, they are mentally and morally promised to green tea and glass noodles). Note to all mothers: the gangs have been given strict and uncompromising orders not to touch the white people. Woe to those Americans of Burmese descent who choose to further their ancestral cause in Mae Sot.
So what, then, is the attraction of Mae Sot, the town fictionalized and glorified in the latest and most pointless Rambo installation?
NGO’s live here. They breathe here. They breed here. One can hardly step on an ant without an Association for Burmese Ant Survival and Proliferation (ABASP) springing straight out of the ashes. Whereas other Thai locales concern themselves primarily with Advocacy, Fundraising, and Possibly Profiteering, Mae Sot is a town that delves into immediate crisis. Many NGO’s deal directly with former sex workers and HIV-infected children, halt the bleeding of a strife-ridden people (envision doctors in an overcrowded clinic, dealing consecutively with tuberculosis, low blood pressure, and landmine patients, so hurried as to ignore basic hygienic precautions), or are comprised entirely of Burmese who would be arrested upon reentering the country.
The glut of NGO’s has, perhaps unsurprisingly, created a culture of competition, sometimes to the point of silliness: Medecins Sans Frontieres, a French medical group, competes for resources against Aide Medicale Internationale, a French medical group; the Burmese-run Association for Political Prisoners competes for resources against the Burmese Political Prisoners Union; The People’s Front of Judea competes for resources against the Judean People’s Front. Evidently, there is a high threshold for drama in Mae Sot, and political dissidence, disease, and the ever-present threat of arrest does not suffice.
Enterprising cops, sparring NGO’s, and semi-feral canines do not tell the whole tale of our adopted haven (well, perhaps the dogs might be rather emblematic). When approached, everybody has a story to tell, an opinion to offer, a hand to lend. Lauren and I, in desperate search of lodging and without the benefit of Craig and His infernal List, turned to the general populace of Mae Sot, and were not disappointed in the kindness of strangers. Bakery owners, bicycle mechanics, furniture retailers, vendors at swimming pools, et al. gave us directions, phone numbers, and rides to find accommodations. Such kindness proved problematic, before long, as Thailand smiled too much and tried to help, unable to simply say “sorry, can’t help ya, bud.” Jesus Christ would have been born in a Buddhist wat before anybody flatly refused to help find poor Mary a respectable home.
Another small example: Lauren and I wandered into the town’s market, uncertain of the depths into which we would plunge. Innocuous at first, you pass by the basics – simple shirts, beans, a few nondescript fried animal parts. After a little while, you start not to recognize the people and the place, your mental bread crumbs swept away by provocative sights (fried chicken heads, buckets of infant turtles for repast, motorbikes slowly but determinedly edging their way in narrow, enclosed spaces into which internal combustion should not venture) and even more invasive odors. Having worked for nearly a decade’s worth of summers slinging fish guts and basting in clam juices, nothing could have prepared me for the scents of lukewarm pork slowly roasting in tropical temperatures or a bucket of eels underfoot, sloshing vivaciously and kicking up their aquatic aromas. Saturation of scent had never been so complete. We were lost in the Muslim district (previously unknown to us) before long, fully perplexed as we had noticed Thai trappings fade to Burmese sarongs, only to yield to turbans and scraggly beards. Noticing my incongruity, two men sitting behind a vat of nervous fish waved me over and called out “whiskey!” as they shoved a pink cup in my hand. Though I am generally loathe to accept the alcoholic handouts of street folk, their persuasive grins and persistent demeanors bade me consent to their offer, and they happily congratulated me for partaking of their generosity. Lauren did not share our immediate delight, however, as she informed me that the water that the men had included in our transaction was my first sample of the local water, and my continuing gift could likely be dysentery. Fortunately, this did not come to pass, and only their peculiar friendliness remains in our minds.
As this town has conspired, both personally and professionally, to keep our attention and affection for the next few months, Lauren and I have finally found organizations to which we can commit. Though the frustratingly slow Thai/Burmese pace (so common and yet so unique to countless developing nations) slowed the process, we did have some choice in where we would involve ourselves (not the prettiest girl at the dance, but eager and approachable enough to still be desired), and are pleased with the results. More to come on this development, as well as our new house – complete with Western toilet – but we are happy, safe, and satiated.
