Camp near Mae Sariang

I must first apologise to those who have been tuning into my weekly installments, for the lack of recent blog updates. This was mainly down to paranoia instilled by recent events.
To cut a long story short, I delayed my flight to Myanmar owing to a chance encouter with a Frenchman who I met in Pai. he told me of a refugee camp on the Thai Myanmar border, which is home to roughly 30,000 Karen refugees from Myanmar. The camp is meant to be a secret, however, I've heard better secrets kept between a group of Mount Carmel schoolgirls.(ie. everyone knows about it!) The Thais want it kept a secret, probably so that diplomatic relations with Myanmar aren't disrupted.
Anyway, I won't go into too much detail, for fear of boring those who just want to hear about the fun stuff. The long and the short of it is that, the camp that I went to is housing 16,000 people, with the camp next door housing another 13,000. Some people have been there for 10 years and there are more arriving everyday. This isn't one of those treks that your average "right on" ethnic embracing hippy harps on about, it was an opportunity to see a real life event that most of the world has vaguely heard about, but doesn't know as its all behind closed doors.
So on with the story. I postpone my flight by a couple of days, in the hope of seeing two sides to Myanmar, before I fly out there.
Wed 29th March. I leave with Max, my French friend, at 6.30 in the morning to meet the Pastor, who will take us to the camp in his pick up truck. The truck is laden with clothes for the people in the camp. They aren't allowed to leave or trade outside the camp, and have no identities once they have left Myanmar, hence the reason why everything they have must be donated. So we set off from Chang Mai with the Pastor(catholic priest) and his driver.
After the first 5 minutes, of what sounds like agony for the pick up, I resign myself to spending another day in Chang Mai. The truck, however, proves more resiliant than I suspected, and motors on, albeit at a slow pace.
Four and a half hours later, we reach Mae Sariang, where one of the tyres is changed for a more substantial, chunky piece of rubber. The reason for this is to become apparent in the next few hours. We throw down some noodles, whilst the truck's being prepared, and get back on the road again. After 10 minutes of scenic, meandering corners.......we run out road, and the adventure begins. The first half hour of dirt track flows at a steady pace. We then stop, lock the hubs and engage four wheel drive. The following three hours is spent in first and second gear, low ratio four wheel drive, only to be interrupted with three stops to allow the truck to cool down and fill the radiator with water.
I was under the understanding that I had spent plenty of time off roading in various friends vehicles. These instances pail into insignificance compared to the driving I was to experience on the way to the camp. It was by far the best example of vehicle control, on what cannot really be described as roads, that I have ever been party to. If it hadn't been for a small streak of male dignity in me, I would have hugged the driver on arrival and promised things that I shouldn't have.
However, dignity aside, we reach the camp. Max and I have had papers organised for us, to allow access( I couldn't resist the "your papers are not in order" joke, from countless war films. Sorry). I have to keep my camera hidden, on entry, as journalists are forbidden, and any confusion could result in a few months familiarising myself with the inside of a Thai prison.
We pass through the gate, no problems.
The camp is more pristine than any hill tribe village that I have encountered yet, and it's hard to imagine that these people are refugees.
When we pull up and get outside the truck, it becomes a bit more apparent. The children can't help but stare, and some of them just run away. From what I learn, only about 150 westerners have ever been to the camp, and for the new arrivals, Max and I are the first white people that they've ever seen. Which, is a scary thought in anyones book!!
So we spend the following few hours walking throught the camp, meeting people and seeing how they all live. In a nutshell, they have nothing but the worn clothes on their backs.
The story becomes sadder the more we hear, however the people seem happier than most I've ever encountered. This, I suppose, is due to the fact that they are all safe and, for the meantime, don't have to worry about some of the attrocities that they and their families have already encoutered.
Again, I won't go into too much detail about this now. However, rest assured, that everyone I know will be fully informed, to the best of my knowledge, about this on my return.
So we spend the night in the camp town hall, having been fed and treated like kings and, despite the best efforts of a very loud and bright thunder storm, get a good nights sleep.
Sadly, we have to leave early the next morning, so I can make my flight to Myanmar, which is a shame, as half a day there wasn't anywhere near enough to grasp a feel of the situation.
On a lighter note, due to the rain, the return journey was almost traumatic, and with a load of 2 soldiers and half a dozen thai locals on the back we slip slide our way through a ridiculous thick red mud and rocks back to Mae Sariang. This time, the driver illustrating his ability to switch to and from opposite lock with the grace of a ballet dancer, without the slightest concern for the sheer drops on one side of the track. Needless to say, I wasn't bothered at all.......until I opened my eyes.
I will cut this installment short now, regroup with a couple of cheap beers and try to summon the strength to tell you all about the two and a half weeks in Myanmar.(Plus the two thai girls on the computer next to me are flirting outragiously with some middle aged geek in England, and its quite difficult to maintain ones concentration).
By the way, the small child with the umbrella cried when I spoke to him........how bad did I feel??