Burma Bound

I was eager to spend a day exploring Burma, knowing it lay only a 30 minute boat ride from Ranong. On a baking hot Saturday morning, I somehow convinced Dawn to hop on a Songthaew (a big truck with opposing bench seats in the back) to Ranong. The two hour ride passed smoothly and we soon found ourselves indulging in a long neglected craving for ice cream. We hopped on a couple of motorbike taxis to the Royal Princess Hotel – the same place I had stayed that first week when I was preparing the water quality monitoring workshop in Ranong.

After checking in we were off again. We grabbed a quick lunch at the market and embarked on a bit of a wild goose chase to find the appropriate pier. The first driver took us to a pier full of tourists heading to some local islands in the Andaman Sea. When we explained that we wanted to go to Burma, he took us to a business that operates visa runs for tourists needing to exit Thailand to stamp their passports for re-entry. No, no we explained – we just wanted to go see Burma and then come back. Finally we got the point across. After waiting in lines at the Thai immigration office to have our passports stamped, we found ourselves at a bustling pier that stunk of rotting fish and motor oil. Immediately we were swarmed by men trying to offer us rides across the bay to Burma. We knew the offers were three to four times what they should have cost, but could see no alternative. Just as we were about to agree to an overpriced offer from a winking boat captain, I saw a farang walk down the plank and hop onto a long tail. I yelled down to him to ask if we could join him and he motioned for us to follow him down to the boat.

Long Tails at the Thai Pier

Gratefully we took a seat and exchanged pleasant conversation as the driver played bumper boats with his competitors trying to approach the dock. We had no idea how we would make it back from Burma. It was just good to be sitting down and away from the pushy chaos in the crowded boat pier. Though hot under a blazing sun, the ride across to the immigration island was pleasant. Soon we were approaching the new coast. Dilapidated houses teetered on stilts over the water in a crowded line that stretched as far as I could see down the coast. We unloaded onto the Burmese pier and said goodbye to our farang friend.

Stilt houses on the coast of Burma

Passing through the immigration office proved more difficult than I could possibly have anticipated. Unlike the jovial Thai officials across the bay, these uniformed officers meant business. They scanned over our passports and demanded $10 US. I handed over a $20 but after a cursory glance the official handed it back to me, snuffing his disapproval. “No good,” he said. Apparently the bill had a tiny ink mark that disqualified it from use as payment for my entry fee. Luckily Dawn had a surplus of $20 bills and after painstakingly inspecting each one, the officer finally selected a crisp, clean bill that met his (very high) standards. What a relief!

“What would we have done if none of our bills were acceptable?” I asked Dawn.
“They would have charged us in Baht, and given us a really bad exchange rate,” she remarked. Well that was better than torture, which by the looks of the immigration office, was not outside the realm of possibility.

Billboard propaganda

Quickly we walked through the busy market and past the pushy street vendors. We spent the afternoon just walking through the streets of that Burmese town. Though just a few kilometers away, the contrast to Thailand was startling.

The first and most obvious difference was that traffic moved on the right side of the road, as in the U.S. Had I realized this 5 seconds later I may never have left Burma! Aimless and mission-less, we wound our way up a curvy road, soaking in this different culture. The people we saw seemed to carry an unidentifiable sadness, the kind that results from generations of poverty and political oppression. The outdated cars, old fashioned electronic equipment and worn, tired buildings reminded me of Cuba in many ways. Piles of bricks filled empty lots – even the most basic materials were recycled here. Those bricks had probably been used for other buildings hundreds of years before. The place felt like a time warp – as if nothing had changed in decades. I suppose that was probably the case.

A barber passing the time with his mandolin

I wanted to push on and explore more of that haunted town, but Thailand beckoned from across the bay. Soon the sun began to sink behind the mountains and we began to worry about catching a boat back. Judging from our experience at the immigration office, I didn’t feel Burma would be the best place to be stranded illegally. Fortunately a cluster of cheerfully painted long tails awaited us at the pier and we climbed aboard, exhausted but fulfilled by our brief cultural encounter.

Back to Thailand

Back at the Royal Princess, Dawn and I enjoyed luxuries unknown to us in Kamphuan: A swimming pool, a television with movies (American movies!), even bathrobes!! It felt so exorbitant, though it was really just a budget hotel. Dawn had been really stressed about her project so I knew she needed this break. In a way I did too.

I’m glad she got it, because the next morning we received a phone call that Som (her interpreter) had come down with a bad fever. Next thing we knew, Dawn was racing down to Phuket Hospital. The excitement never ends.