Visa Run to Mai Sai
Mai Sai, Northern Thailand
“If you come to the nightclub, I will sing Karaoke for you,” Dang said, moving closer, his arm already resting on the back of my chair. Ever since he had learned I was 31, with no ring on my finger, he had been putting on the moves. He was 33 and single, a rare thing in Thailand.
Tiger, who was 42 and sitting next to him, was also single, but he was divorced with two kids.
“It happens,” he said, waving dismissively. It might have had something to do with whiskey. He got louder with every glass.
“I’m a straight up guy,” he said. “Tell it like it is. The people who work for me, they like me, because I do what I say. And if you’re straight with me I’ll do anything for you.” Why? Because. He was a straight up guy. Straight up, he gestured with his hands to show how straight. He learned to be that way in the military.
He was also stinking drunk, not a problem for Patricia or me, but it looked like it was going to be for the couple sitting across from us – elderly, British, stiff upper lip. The word that comes to mind is persnickety. She had soft, grey curly hair, skirt and blouse, a flowery print, cotton, the type of person who seems most at home drinking lemonade in a rose garden. Her husband’s pants ended where his chest began, the waist unnaturally close to the underarms. His colourful shirt was tucked in. When he opened his mouth, his teeth stuck almost straight out. Braces would have been useful. I’m being catty, but they brought it on themselves.
The conversation had started out pleasantly enough, even lively. They told us of their trekking adventure and even joked back and forth with Tiger about how many girlfriends he had in every hilltribe village.
“He likes the young women,” she said to us, “it’s no wonder he chatted up the two of you.”
The reason he got on so well with the girls, Tiger explained, was because he was also from a hilltribe – his mother was Lisu, his father Chinese. (He was born the year of the Tiger, hence the nickname.)
The conversation moved on to talk of Britain and Canada. Both Patricia and I had been to London and they had been to Niagara Falls. Then we looked at a small photo album full of pictures of their son, who was living overseas with his German girlfriend.
“She looks German, doesn’t she?” she said.
“They’re a good-looking couple,” I replied.
All was well and sublimely superficial. Until Patricia and I mentioned how much we loved Thai food.
“Really?” The British woman said. “Oh. But what about all the garlic?”
Thai food was full of garlic. G-a-r-l-i-c. Which was evil. The scourge of the earth. They hated it. The level of their hatred had actually affected their lives and relations with other people. They had walked out of restaurants, angrily, because of the smell.
“It’s horrible,” she said, face screwing up, eyebrows pushing down, voice pitch rising.
“But,” I said, trying to be practical, “I’m sure there are lots of things you like that other people don’t. So it’s not really that big a deal.”
Well. It was, actually. Everyone else was stupid. Everyone else had no taste. Everyone else was plain WRONG.
“You must feel very grateful that you found each other then,” I said, “since most people in the world seem to love it.”
Despite my gentle jab, they were not backing down. Garlic was bad. And further, it was unnecessary.
Garlic, of course, was also a key ingredient in Thai food. And since Tiger was drunk, he took all of this as a direct attack on Thai food, and hence himself.
“You not like our food?” Tiger slurred. “I don’t like your food either, but I not insult it.” He sat back and sulked. The Brits glared. Dang didn’t seem to notice any of it; he was too busy smiling at me. So Patricia and I did our best to diffuse things. Move the focus. What would they be doing tomorrow? Going to Burma, they said, but just for an hour, then a waterfall and then the four-hour drive back to Chiang Mai. With Tiger.
Tiger was their tour guide, Dang was his driver and when this night was over, they would have to drive the Brits back to their hotel. Which had the potential to be dangerous, since Dang was red-eyed and three-sheets as well.
We had come to Mai Sai on a visa run, which we planned to do the following morning. Like Mae Sot, the border here was partially open to Burma, which meant you were allowed to cross over for the day to shop in the markets. When you returned it was like you were entering Thailand for the first time and therefore you received an extra 30 days in the country.
We had met Tiger and Dang in Mai Sai in the late afternoon, next to the river that divides Thailand and Burma. Tiger had asked us where we were staying and what it cost, because they were looking to book in some place. I then commented on how easy it would be to swim across the river, since it was only about 10 to 15 feet wide.
“Well. Then you would be shot,” he had said bluntly, pointing to a round bamboo and rattan building on the other side, with holes all around the bottom.
“That’s a Burmese military post with rifles aimed right here.”
“Right here” was where we were standing. The Thai military post was behind us, a more substantive building with soldiers sitting out front, rifles hanging at their sides.
“This is a dangerous place,” Tiger said. “Lots of fighting.”
And how did he know that? I asked.
Because before he had started his own guiding company, he explained, he had worked with the border patrol for ten years.
“Are there problems right now?” I asked, trying to keep my voice calm and even. Like. Right now.
“Oh yes. Always problems. Lots of shooting. You may have noticed, not so many tourists here.”
In that case, did they want to accompany us, past the armed Thai soldiers over to the Riverside Restaurant? We had heard it was good and so were headed there for dinner.
They did.
When we arrived we found it was just a small place – the deck overlooked the river and the almost complete darkness that was Myanmar at night � and there was only one table left, so we shared it. Tiger and Dang had begun drinking whiskey almost from the moment we sat down, eating nothing but a shared seafood and cashew dish – “drinking food,” they called it.
“During the day we are ‘working working,'” Tiger explained, “but now we’re on holiday, so we are ‘drinking drinking.’ But I never mix the two.”
“Why?”
Because. Tiger was a straight up guy.
Dang nodded, raised his glass.
“Working working. Drinking drinking,” he said.
“Good for you,” I replied, not knowing what else to say. I raised my glass to cheer with them. “You should enjoy your holiday. Chock dii.”
But a few chock dii’s later, the first bottle of whiskey was gone, and Tiger had decided it would be a good time to invite his clients out to dinner, crossing the line between working working and drinking drinking.
That had brought us to the present state of affairs, with Patricia and I playing mediators. Or Patricia playing mediator, since I had started listening to Dang. He was singing for me – the latest love song by Loso. And he was pretty good. Attractive too. Something I hadn’t noticed before.
Tall, muscular, with unusually dark skin for a Thai, almost red really, which was why his name was Dang – red in Thai. He was attentive, at least appeared to be, and seemed compassionate. Grew up with two sisters and no brothers – usually good (especially when you considered that Tiger grew up with six brothers and one sister). Even the ripped up army pants were kind of ruggedly appealing. So our cultures were a little different. And he was uneducated. Not even a high school diploma. That could be a problem. But it didn’t mean he wasn’t intelligent. Though I didn’t speak enough Thai to know whether or not he was intelligent. He was quiet, thoughtful.
“Do you meditate?” I asked, not sure if that was a new criteria for possible men in my life or not.
“No.” He paused. “But I was monk. One year. When 27.” He smiled. Then recited the complete Pali chant for me: “Namo Tassa Bhagavato Arahato Samma Sambuddhassa.”
That was kind of impressive. “And after the monkhood?” I asked. “Then what did you do?”
“Military,” he said. “Two years.”
“That’s the most English I’ve heard that man speak in two days,” the British woman cut in. The garlic incident seemed to be over, as she was smiling again. And pointing down at my feet.
“Look down, look down,” she whispered. I looked down. There was a child sitting there, in between my legs and Dang’s. Meowing. Next to her was a balding pink and white cat. I’d never seen either of them before.
Dang bent down and smiled at her.
“Hello,” he said. “Meow.” Which meant cat, in Thai. The girl leaned against his leg, smiled shyly, looked down at the cat, back at him, then got down on all fours again and scurried away. I looked around. A short, hairy man was standing at the end of our table.
“Sorry,” he said with a heavy French accent. “She crazy for cats.”
I looked around some more. The girl was back sitting with her mother, a Thai woman. She waved at Dang. Who waved back.
“Hello,” he said again. He liked children. Big points.
It was about this time that Santa walked by, or a man who looked like Santa. Grey hair, grey beard, rosy cheeks, rounded stomach, suspenders.
“It’s Mr. Claus,” the British woman said, laughing gleefully, so hard she was almost snorting. “It’s really him!” She was loud enough that other tables full of people stopped talking to look at this poor man, who had no idea why we were all staring. Tiger, seeing the man’s discomfort, tried to include him.
“Hello,” Tiger said. “How are you doing tonight.”
“Good, good,” the man replied, with a heavy, unrecognizeable accent. “Very very good.”
He seemed jolly. But his name wasn’t Santa.
“I’m Roman,” he said, “from Rome.”
“Good to meet you,” said Tiger, motioning at us to introduce ourselves.
“I’m Shawn from Canada,” I said, and so it went around the table, picking up momentum until it had become a game.
“Tiger from Thailand!” Tiger stood up and shouted.
Roman couldn’t help himself. He stood up and threw his arms into the air: “Roman from Rome! Nice to meet you all.” He then sat down, the moment having passed.
“I think we’d like to get going now. We have to get up early,” the British woman said. Her husband agreed.
“Maybe we’ll see you in Burma, then,” he said.
“Yes, maybe.” I looked at Patricia, who looked like she also wanted to go. I looked at Tiger, who was still drinking, and could barely formulate a sentence. Dang had gone to get the car to drive the Brits home.
As partial as I was to having a handsome Thai man sing for me, I knew it was a bad idea to stay. If Tiger kept drinking, things would get weird, maybe even messy, and as much as I liked Dang, he probably wasn’t my soulmate.
“Tiger, we’re going to go and try to find some dessert,” I said. Patricia nodded. She was all for dessert, one of the strong common bonds that kept us travelling together. We had already tried to order something from the restaurant, but they were out of anything sweet. I had my heart set on chocolate. Tiger looked disappointed.
“Okay. Maybe we will see you tomorrow.”
“Yes. Maybe tomorrow. It was excellent meeting you. Laa gon.” Goodbye.
The streets of Mai Sai were dark, except for the odd streetlight. All the gates were closed and locked. No stores seemed to be open. We were about to give up, when we saw a light flickering up ahead and heard music. It was a small place with a bar, some barstools and two tables, sitting in the middle of an outdoor corridor between closed shops. It was run by a woman, which made us feel somehow safer. We decided to stay for one drink – a flavoured yogurt concoction – and then go to our guesthouse just a few blocks away. But as we were finishing our drinks, Santa – Roman – walked by.
“Roman from Rome!” I said. He stopped, looked over.
“Shawn and Patricia from Canada!” He came and sat down.
“What are you doing,” he wanted to know.
“Lamenting the fact that we don’t have chocolate,” I joked. But he took me seriously.
“I can get you chocolate,” he said, with the solemness of an important oath.
“No no no, it’s okay, we don’t…” But he was already walking away, waving his hand.
“Just wait five minutes,” he said. “It’s an honour to get you chocolate.”
After Roman left a group of teenage boys swaggered into our alley and sat at the next table. They ordered beer. The woman argued with them in Thai, presumably because they were underage, but gave in and brought them beers. They were already drunk. And cocky.
One of them had turned around in his seat to stare at us.
Not look. Stare.
Without saying anything about this, Patricia and I continued talking, like “we’re just having a lovely conversation between ourselves, thank you very much. We’re not scared.” It was important, at least, not to show fear.
Roman would be back any minute and Roman was a big guy, rough enough around the edges to make a group of kids think twice before messing with him. But, in the meantime, it was uncomfortable, what with the staring and the rest of the boys saying: “falang, falang, falang.” Foreigner, foreigner, foreigner. If Roman did not come back soon, or at all, we were probably in trouble.
But Roman was good to his word, appearing with a bag in each hand. One contained four kinds of chocolate, the other, a bottle of Black Cat whiskey.
“Our hero!” I said, and he was, in more ways than one, since our staring neighbours had turned back to face each other. I was also ridiculously excited about the chocolate: a bag of M&M’s, two Snickers bars, Ferrero Roche and Kinder chocolate. I tore into the Snickers and found the courage to smile at the teenage boys in a friendly way. They smiled back, now more amused than anything else, amazed by our exclamations of joy as we ripped open packages and stuffed our faces.
Roman sat calmly sipping whiskey. He offered us some and we offered him chocolate in return.
“No chocolate,” Roman said. “I’ve just lost 20 kilograms.”
He stood and turned around to show us his behind (fully clothed in worn hiking pants), which was still considerable, but apparently less than it had been, since he was so proud of it. He sat down again.
“Why did he just show us his bum?” Patricia whispered.
“To show us how much weight he lost.”
“Oh.”
Then Roman told us his story – occasionally lapsing into Italian.
Before he left home, he had mental problems. He was grossly overweight. He was unhappy. So he came to Thailand, hoping to get away from it all. He came here to Mai Sai and just started walking. He had been walking for two weeks now in the mountains, alone, with just his little backpack. He felt wonderful. Just walking, alone, had cured him of his ills. His mental and physical problems had disappeared. He was a new man, a happy man, in love with life and ready to go home. He showed us that his tiny backpack was half full of gifts for friends – jade necklaces, bug keychains and precious stones from the border market.
“Life is good,” he said, raising his cup.
“Life is good,” we cheered, raising our chocolately fingers as though they held cups.
As Roman walked us home, someone honked from the side of the road. Because it was late and Mai Sai was a decidedly scary place after dark, we ignored it and kept walking. Then I heard a familiar voice.
“Hello. Hello. Hello.” It was Dang. Tiger and Dang.
“Hello!” Tiger called out, still drunk, but looking more stable. “We have just come from having a massage. To help us be okay in the morning.”
“Ah. Good!” I said, not slowing my pace, not looking at Tiger or Dang. There had been enough adventures for one night already.
“We are going home to sleep. Goodnight. Maybe we will see you tomorrow.”
They were still calling out “hello” as Patricia and I turned the corner and went into our guesthouse.
“Unbelievable,” she said.
