Barbed Wire and Bamboo pt. 2
Trip Start
Sep 2005
1
10
15
Trip End
Ongoing
Mae La,
Thailand
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
Khangsai is busy back in Mae Sot, so I go on my own to find the old musician. Let Let Win's daughter takes me there. His house is an eclectic collection of dusty old instruments, Buddhist and animist statues, Christmas lights, and incense offerings. Several of his students are there. He's friendly and animated for an old man, for some reason he reminds me of Chris Donahue, my musician friend in Bozeman. He speaks a different dialect of Karen, so with the help of a translator, I arrange to come back to record a few of his students.
Meanwhile I walk around the camp some more, chatting with guitarists and teashop proprietors
another morning street
. Kids are everywhere, shouting "hello teacher" wherever I go. I stop outside KWO's office to talk to Let Let Win, but she's busy entertaining some American aid agency representatives; loud Californians, here to see where their money is going, horribly mispronouncing the Karen language greetings they attempt. Let Let Win looks right through them, like they were snake-oil salesmen.I meet one of the students I'd interviewed the other day. He asks if I can get him a school uniform from Mae Sot. A strange request, I think, wouldn't he prefer a book? But anyway I promise him I'll look for one his size. We walk around and I realize I've missed the last bus home. Foreigners aren't allowed to spend the night, but my new friend invites me to sleep at his house, provided we can get permission from his district leader. His house is high on the steep hill. We eat some rice and take showers, which consist of a bucket of water tossed over the body, naked except for sarong-like longyi. We hear some music from a nearby campfire and I go to record.
It's a group of teenagers. One of them is leaving for Australia tomorrow, so this is his farewell party. I attempt a brief interview, but his English is limited. "I'm going for education" is all he can say.
banana leaf and rooftops
They invite us to a meal and singalong at a small bamboo church nearby. The guitar is passed around, and people tell stories and sing gushy love songs.The district leader wants to see my paperwork and passport. He reminds me that he's concerned for my security, but I am welcome to stay in his village. His assistant, a Kachin (different ethnic group) asks for English dictionaries and a copy of a English/Karen/Burmese pronunciation CD that I'm producing back in Mae Sot. I tell him I'll get it to him when I can, but in the dark, I soon forget where he lives.
I head back to Mae Sot early next morning. A professional photographer has volunteered his services to the same group that's asked me to produce the radio program on the Karen Women's Organization. He's spent time in some refugee camps in Africa and needs some guidance getting to and through the camps. Although I can barely navigate the camp myself, I take him along and we spend a few days walking through the camp. While the light is good one morning, we hike high above the camp, just below the cliffs, and navigate the steep and narrow trails along the perimeter. A group of kids are riding flattened pieces of bamboo down a dirt gully, crashing with glee and getting up and doing it again.
Camp Panorama
They call it skiing. We walk on, surprising residents who probably never see foreigners this high above the camp. They wash their clothes, tend to rooftop gardens, and send their kids off to the nearest school. There are several churches and Buddhist temples throughout the camp. Some people have told me that there are specific sections of the camp for each religion, but I don't see that. It seems completely mixed.
On a Sunday morning, we walk to the oldest section of Mae La, where a pastor called Dr. Simon has the largest Baptist church in the camp. The choir is beautiful, but the pastor is nowhere to be found. A girl with excellent English takes us up the hill to a smaller chapel, where a church has been set up specifically for orphaned children. Dr. Simon greets us but is too busy today, perhaps we could come back another time?
One day when we don't visit the camp, the prime minister of Thailand shows up to give a speech for foreign representatives. He apparently says that the refugees will be going home soon, which scares many people. Going home now means being delivered to their executioners. Thaksin Shinawatra, the prime minister, is known to have business ties with the Burmese Government, and has threatened this before
campfire kids
. But it's all talk. A few weeks later, Thaksin is voted out of office after a series of protests against him. But it shows how precarious the refugees' situation is. Leaving the camp one day, an old man stops me to chat. He's got an infected gunshot wound in his leg and is trying to get to Dr. Cynthia's clinic in Mae Sot. Dr. Cynthia is a Karen woman who's set up an illegal clinic that treats 50,000 Burmese refugees and migrant workers a year. She's been nominated for the Nobel prize and I'd interviewed her previously. But the road to the clinic passes through several checkpoints, and he doesn't have the 12 dollars to buy the checkpoint. I promise to bring him some bandages, antibiotics, and paracetemol.
When I return the next day, he's waiting for me and tells me his story, grateful for the medicine. The SPDC forced him to be a porter a few years ago. He carried weapons for them in his sandals over the rough terrain for a few days, but since he was given no food or water, when he got tired they shot him. He somehow escaped with only a bullet in his thigh, and came to the camp. I'd seen a hospital a few days before, and I ask him why he didn't go there. He was on crutches, and it was a few miles away, but surely he could have gone there? No, he says, the hospital is only staffed by foreign volunteer doctors (like Doctors Without Borders), who aren't allowed in very often
condom poster
. Anyway they don't have the medicine to provide for 50,000 people, all prone to falciparum malaria, dengue fever, landmine accidents, or infected gunshot wounds. I give him the instructions for the medicine and antibacterial creme and walk to high ground to get a cell phone signal. Khangsai was supposed to meet me today to record the old musician/shaman. She was eager to learn how I record multiple musicians with only one microphone and she could use the recordings for her radio broadcasts. But she and a friend tried to take a motorbike to the camp instead of paying for a secure military intelligence escort. She was stopped at a checkpoint, arrested, asked for "lunch money", and sent back to Mae Sot.
"How many times have you been arrested this year?" I ask her (a little frustrated since I gave her enough money to buy safe transport, money which was now being spent on beer by some opportunistic cop).
"Five times," she says.
"Allright, well I'll see you tomorrow."
I find another translator and head to the old man's house
dance practice
. He's wearing a white gown with Karen designs embroidered on it. With a few of his best students in tow, we walk up to a buddhist monastery to record. The music is wonderful, and the space surprisingly quiet (much of the camp is abuzz with petrol generators). They play five songs for me, but one of the kids can't seem to shut off the alarm clock on her watch, so it may take a while for me to clean up the audio. The instruments include the 6 or 8 string Thana harps, the Toyo, or homemade fiddle, and Son, a fretless mandolin-like instrument.
Some of the tunes are prophetic, a 50 year old song predicting the Karen being scattered all over the world, an 80 year old song about the Salween river running red with blood (it is currently slated to be dammed by a joint Thai/Burmese deal, the SPDC clears the area - kills local residents - before it begins megaprojects like this). There's love songs and the story of Jirapo, a bird who escapes a burning forest. It is creaky old-time music, but the old man doesn't really sing much, he plays each of the instruments, but mostly directs the students.
I want to stay and learn more, but the old man is finished for today. I promise I'll bring them copies of the recordings next time I'm back, and catch a truck back to Mae Sot.
