Frustration

I am an optimist by nature, but I am beginning to get frustrated. Frustrated by all the things I don’t understand. I’m frustrated by the thousand acronyms which plague my perception of a conflict older than me. Maybe I came here hunting for a simple answer, but nevertheless any answer at all is hard to find as books on Burma are a rarity here, English ones even more so. Mae Sot is a friendly place, full of wonderful people doing their best to make ends meet. But there really is much, much more to it. There is a richness to this place, but I don’t quite know how to go about tapping into it. Language barriers get in the way and as much as people are eager to share their stories it’s hard to get anything more than a basic sense of the narratives, so complex, so riddled with heartache, determination and hope.

This morning James and Emma picked me up bright and early and we zoomed to the local Burmese part of town we’ve been haunting the past few days. It’s strange how even here, in a place so small and full of volunteers who have come to contribute to the local community, informal segregation is quite common. Westerners rarely dine at local shops, and as such there are plenty of up market restaurants which- expensive by local standards but still ridiculously cheap- keep over-cautious travellers happy and somewhere else. Thus when we scoot over to the predominantly Muslim sector- two white girls and one incredibly tall farang man- we are quite a spectacle! We hunted the streets for mohingga. A traditional Burmese breakfast, mohingga is a deliciously comforting bowl of mildly spiced, coriander drenched, rice noodle fish soup. Absolutely amazing! It tasted like my perfect comfort food, like the exact thing I’ve been craving all my life those rainy days when I’ve been home sick with the flu and there was nothing to watch on TV but Days of our Lives. Heaven.

The little lady whose one road side table we occupied was tickled pink to have us there, and grinned profusely every time we exclaimed “Gaown Deh!” (delicious!). Yet while sitting there I witnessed a peculiar exchange between the woman and a Thai guy who stopped his motorbike next to her stall. He approached with a little booklet, which she appeared to sign before handing him 80 baht- quite a lot of money in this area. The exchange- although terse- was brief, and if I hadn’t been facing that way I would have no doubt missed it. I had no idea what the transaction was about, and don’t know if I’ll ever figure it out. Does she have to pay money to set up her street side stall? Is she in debt? Was he some kind of corrupt street merchant who made people pay for their security, a common occurrence I remember hearing about in India? Either way, maybe I read too much into things but she looked relieved when he went on his way.

Yesterday, riding back from the waterfall I was passed by an unlicensed vehicle zooming down the highway; black with tinted windows. Who was driving it, and where to, what for? I wondered if the police would bother stopping them, or if there was some kind of underhand arrangement going on. Perhaps it was one of the many cars destined to cross the border into Burma in the depths of the night. But I doubt I’ll ever know, and that frustrates me as much as it adds to the mystic of this place, adds to my determination to want to know more. It’s hardly been more than a week, but Mae Sot is under my skin.

I went down to the border again today, and watched the familiar sight of people ferrying to and fro. I still can’t believe Burma is quite literally a stone’s throw away from me, from where I stood this morning. I traced the well worn paths to the water’s edge with my eye, looking forward to the day I’ll be standing on the other side of the Moei, looking back at Thailand. Disappointed my friend Mah wasn’t around, but figuring it unlikely I’d catch him on a Sunday, after a quick stroll I headed back to town. As I rode my bike back up the highway towards Mae Sot, my right turning lane of traffic was stopped by the traffic police. We sat through our green light and watched as five speeding cars approached and passed us, zooming in the opposite direction towards the border and the friendship bridge. Three mini vans with windows so tinted they were practically blacked out, led and followed by two wailing police cars, their lights and hazard lights flashing wildly. Burmese diplomats? Lucrative business men? I could only speculate, and not for long as once they had passed we were finally allowed to continue on our way.

There is so much to be done, and while I am taken aback by the size of the task I have set before me, I’m confident it’s achievable. I don’t think I’ll take no for an answer. I’m pissed off. I’ve heard the stories of other big NGO’s, other journalists or PHD researchers who come here with their goodwill and plenty of questions. Who take information, photographs and valuable time, and leave nothing but footprints and empty promises of support. Who never reply to emails, who never return. I’m determined not to do that, and am already planning my next trip to Mae Sot, when I hope I can stay for longer. More than that, I’ve decided that my gift to the children and to the families of the school will be my few photographs. Realising how excited the children get seeing their faces on camera, I’ve told the school that I’ll do class photos and individual photos this week. Before I leave I’ll print out copies for each of the hundred and fifteen students. Everyone deserves something to remember their youth by, some evidence that they were young once, for an all too brief period of time.