THAILAND 6: Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice

"These aren’t my rules.  Come to think of it, I don’t have any rules." - Beeteljuice

“Nonthaburi [the city where we’ve been placed] is still experiencing severe flooding.” Justin reported.

“Great! What are we going to do, row our boat that we don’t have to our apartment?” I asked Justin as that familiar fire began to burn inside. 

“According to this paper, the U.S. and Thai governments are issuing a warning to all foreigners, telling them to avoid coming to Thailand until January 2012.  And it says here that the government has issued all schools in and around Bangkok to be postponed until November 8^th.” Justin’s reporter voice was on and in full swing, “Oh! And it says that they are flying in vaccines from Japan for bites from the Green Mambas.” 

“Yes thank you reporter Justin, all of this has made me feel much better.” I mumbled ungratefully under my breath.

We were catching up on the news while eating breakfast and preparing to head off to the boat that was to take us to Burma.  Our few more days had just turned into another week, and I didn’t like the pattern; if it continued like this we wouldn’t be in our place until after the holidays.

Burma. I cradled the thought in my mind and reminisced on a conversation Justin and I had had when we were back at school in Phuket.

Two of our classmates who were seated nearby had overheard me state that my visa was running out.  

“Where do you plan on going to get a new visa?” They asked.

Justin looked up from his paper to answer, “Cambodia, Malaysia, or Myanmar (a.k.a. Burma).” 

“Isn’t Burma really dangerous?” came the logical question from one of the women.

“Yes,” I cut in quickly.  “And, we’re NOT going there.” I looked over at Justin with one of those looks. 

Oh the famous last words we say . . .

And now, here we are sitting on a long-tail boat headed to Burma.  Of course we are far too cheap and ‘adventuresome’ (mostly just too cheap) to take the farang (foreigner) way across to Burma, so here I am looking into the cracked-out, jaundiced eyes of our boatman.  His teeth are stained red from betel juice.  Betel leaf, or paan, is a green leaf that has been chewed in Indian and Asian cultures for thousands of years.  It is often combined with tobacco or areca nut, to release a euphoria that is not only addictive but coupled with adverse health effects such as gum disease and throat cancer.  

Our boatman’s wide, wild eyes remind me of the 1980’s comedy horror film Beetlejuice,  and I felt like calling out ‘Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice!’ hoping it would scare away him away.  

His movements come in fast jerks, and angry demands, and I wonder if we will die before we make it to Burma.  I think of my family and friends back home and wonder how long it will be before they realize that we will never be returning, and I hope that it eases their sorrow to know that I died happy doing what I‘ve always dreamed of doing alongside someone I love. 

“Do you think he is bribing them with that money?” Justin asked nudging me awake from my morbid thoughts.  

“Looks to be that way doesn’t it?” The crazed boatman had run off the end of the long-tail boat onto a floating immigration office with a wad of money he had gathered from the other passengers.  We had heard that the passage through here wasn’t completely legit, and more than likely the people trying to pass into Burma would have to bribe the officers in order to cross.

We always do our research before heading head long into a feat like this, and we knew how to go about it, the costs, and risks.  Of course we walk around with money signs attached to our heads wherever we go, and we expect that people will try and charge us the price that matches the color of our skin.  We have learned enough Thai so far to make sure that we can haggle the price down to what the locals pay, although surprised by our (and by our I mean mostly Justin’s) ability to negotiate strictly in Thai they always seem quite dejected that they aren’t able to finagle more money out of us.

“Fie mi-nut!” The boatman cocked his head to one side and then peered sideways with a wide eye examining us as he shouted as though we might be hard of hearing.  He pointed a thin finger towards the peer, the immigration office, and then back to the boat, “Fie mi-nut!” This was not a suggestion.

“I take it that he wants us back on the boat in five minutes,” A wry smirk across my face.

Immigration had never taken only five minutes, and I was hoping that this experience would be different.  I’m not too sure that they won’t leave us here stranded if we are late.

A man with pale yellow powder covering his face stood under a yellow umbrella shading him from the sun.  His dark eyes looked forlorn toward the sea.  The strange custom of painting yourself to avoid catching the sun and to appear more white was predominate in this border town, and as peculiar as it is to see I think how it’s similar to how we daily smear sunscreen on our faces, and since the days of the Babylonians we’ve painted our faces with lead paint to stay white.  We really aren’t so different from one another; isn’t it all done in the name of beauty and status anyway?

As we approach the immigration office with two, crisp U.S. ten dollar bills and our passports, we are surprised to see there is no line.  It is customary for foreigners to have to pay in unsullied U.S. dollars.  We had had to ask around before we left Koh Phayam island where we could find two perfect U.S. ten dollar bills, and eventually we discovered a British chap who lived on the island had quite a few that we could buy for $15 (or 450 baht each). 

It seemed strange to me that they would specifically ask for U.S. dollars, but Justin was happy to add to my learn something new for the day storage bank, “The U.S. dollar is a global currency, and the Burmese kip is unstable and is subject to collapse without notice.  They take the U.S. ten dollar bills and circulate them by selling them to foreigners for a profit.  The same ten dollar bills are often sold time and time again.”

We were the only ones doing a border run at the moment and the transaction was painless.  We were in and out within minutes and ended up having a few minutes to spare before we had to be back to the boat.

The boat ride back was uneventful, and now we had to reenter Thailand to receive more days on our passport.  The paperwork isn’t so difficult, but it is always nerve racking nonetheless waiting to find out if you have been allowed back and into the country and for how long. 

The Thai immigration officer handed me back my passport, and I looked down to make sure that everything was in order.  “Wait! Justin, this says that we only have 15 more days in Thailand! This must be a mistake! All of this, the hassle, the time, the money! For 15 days! We have to go through this again in two weeks?!” I was in full swing, and to add to my panic the dragon hadn’t been fed yet today.

“Well, not exactly like this; we won’t be able to go through this port again.  But for now that gives us more time on Koh Phayam!”  You could see that surfing alone was on his mind, and probably the refreshing watermelon shakes as well.  I on the other hand had money on the mind, and food.

The next morning we took the boat back to the beautiful island of Koh Phayam.  Immediately upon reaching the shore we were bombarded with offers to take us to our bungalow.

“$5.00!” I exclaimed, “Forget it.  I’ll walk!”  Five dollars had become a lot of money to me over the course of the past few weeks, and even more so as school (and paychecks) wouldn’t start for at least another two weeks. 

Justin looked incredulously at me, “You do know that it’s about 3.5 – 5 miles to our bungalow right?”

“That’s about five meals!”  I didn’t need to say more. It costs about a dollar (30 baht) a plate to eat delicious Thai food, and when making purchases I use the ‘noodle index’ to gauge the value.   

The sidewalk sized path stretched out before us, and the sun beamed down trying its best to win the bet he had with the wind.  About four miles into our walk a man with a pointy hat sitting upon a tractor stopped to pick us up; we gratefully climbed into the trailer he was towing and held on.

Upon reaching our bungalow, we sat down for a much needed lunch only to discover that the prices had nearly doubled in our absence.  I shook my head disappointed, and sent the report down to the accountants.  They’re not going to like this.  I thought to myself.

“Well, I guess we’ll check out the local restaurants and see if we can’t find some cheaper meals.” Justin said staying consistently positive.  I tried not to become irritated with his lack of reality, and tried instead to pick up the jester’s hat and put it on myself when Justin exclaimed, “What?! You have to pay for the surf boards now?” he groaned in protest.

I let a mischievous smile tug at the corner of my mouth, and laid the hat back down.  Maybe, just maybe he is starting to understand.

“Oh well,” he said shrugging it off without another thought.  He directed his attention back to his food and began vociferously expressing his enjoyment. 

An authentic smile fluttered to my face as I watched him eat as though a wild man tasting flavored, well-cooked food for the first time.  His mother would have been appalled, and I could see her shaking her head wondering if the manners she tried so persistently to teach him had find their way into his apish brain.

He is still the same Momma Vorhees.  You’ll be happy to know, he hasn’t changed a bit.