On March 24, 2011 Ron Zakreski was detained by the Burmese army less than fifty meters from the border of Thailand. He was held at Kheenyalee command center by Light Infantry Battalion 356 when it came under fire from the Democratic Karen Buddhist Army. Transported through conflict areas to Myawaddi he was charged and put on trail facing five years in Insein prison. Both prisoner and guest, Zakreski was forced to walk a tight rope through the war zones of Burma. His story is one of survival under the effects of sleep deprivation and fear. It is a psychological self assessment of extreme duress told with clarity and wit. Vivid unforgettable characters are portrayed as they haunt him and help him throughout his ordeal. They themselves are trapped between orders from the state and the need to provide traditional hospitality. Graphic descriptions of the brutal reality of present day Burma provide the backdrop. This is the true story of his experience.
Chapter One
Thursday March 24, 2011 It is easier to beg forgiveness than to ask permission. I always was one to test limits.
The share taxi drove into the open area and stopped. We were in Wallea town, the end of the line. Everyone got out. A Thai military encampment loomed overhead. The large natural rise in the terrain was sandbagged into a network of camouflaged bunkers. Thailand and Myanmar existed with an uneasy truce. The line was drawn here.
Faces looking out from the bunkers were few and far between. Unseen eyes kept watch from hidden vantage points.
It was only 10:30 AM but the market was winding down. People do their shopping early in Wallea. Some of the bigger stalls were already coming down. A few remained as die-hard vendors competed for last minute customers. DVD’s were on sale. A long row of tables displayed hundreds of them. A ghetto blaster with cracked speakers blared out a popular local tune.
The smiling merchant looked up and caught my eye.
“Have English,” he suggested, as he held up copies of recently pirated movies. A DVD of Thor was in one hand. It wasn’t even out in the cinemas, yet here it was for sale in this remote corner of the world. I looked away as he flashed a copy of The Hangover. It was interesting to see the latest releases but I had no intention of buying anything. I moved on.
A clothing stall displayed pants and shirts. No interest there; I had plenty of clothes back in my room in Mae Sot.
The next stall offered fresh pork by the kilogram. Large chunks of meat stood beside a bloody scale. The smiling vendor clutched a razor sharp knife in one hand. He wiped the other on a blood stained apron. A pig’s head and tail lay beside a pair of hoofs. Someone must have purchased the other pair earlier in the morning.
Trotters for breakfast.
A colourful length of linoleum covered the table. It provided an easy to clean surface. A few flies buzzed around the meat but the stall was clean. I didn’t ask the price.
Fresh pork is a great gift, but I didn’t know anyone in Wallea to bring it too. My plan was to hike up to the border and look over. It was a clear sunny day and I wanted a glimpse of Myanmar.
A group of people sat on a wooden trailer off to one side of the market. They waited for transport home with their supplies. A new model truck covered with fresh flowers parked behind them. Something didn’t seem right. It didn’t look like they sold any. The people of Wallea didn’t have the coin for luxury items like flowers. Closer inspection cleared up the confusion. The flowers weren’t for sale. They covered a coffin. Family and friends were getting ready to transport a body to the funeral. The morose group hung around the truck waiting for something to happen. No one spoke or met my eyes.
The share taxi drove into the open area and stopped. We were in Wallea town, the end of the line. Everyone got out. A Thai military encampment loomed overhead. The large natural rise in the terrain was sandbagged into a network of camouflaged bunkers. Thailand and Myanmar existed with an uneasy truce. The line was drawn here.
Faces looking out from the bunkers were few and far between. Unseen eyes kept watch from hidden vantage points.
It was only 10:30 AM but the market was winding down. People do their shopping early in Wallea. Some of the bigger stalls were already coming down. A few remained as die-hard vendors competed for last minute customers. DVD’s were on sale. A long row of tables displayed hundreds of them. A ghetto blaster with cracked speakers blared out a popular local tune.
The smiling merchant looked up and caught my eye.
“Have English,” he suggested, as he held up copies of recently pirated movies. A DVD of Thor was in one hand. It wasn’t even out in the cinemas, yet here it was for sale in this remote corner of the world. I looked away as he flashed a copy of The Hangover. It was interesting to see the latest releases but I had no intention of buying anything. I moved on.
A clothing stall displayed pants and shirts. No interest there; I had plenty of clothes back in my room in Mae Sot.
The next stall offered fresh pork by the kilogram. Large chunks of meat stood beside a bloody scale. The smiling vendor clutched a razor sharp knife in one hand. He wiped the other on a blood stained apron. A pig’s head and tail lay beside a pair of hoofs. Someone must have purchased the other pair earlier in the morning.
Trotters for breakfast.
A colourful length of linoleum covered the table. It provided an easy to clean surface. A few flies buzzed around the meat but the stall was clean. I didn’t ask the price.
Fresh pork is a great gift, but I didn’t know anyone in Wallea to bring it too. My plan was to hike up to the border and look over. It was a clear sunny day and I wanted a glimpse of Myanmar.
A group of people sat on a wooden trailer off to one side of the market. They waited for transport home with their supplies. A new model truck covered with fresh flowers parked behind them. Something didn’t seem right. It didn’t look like they sold any. The people of Wallea didn’t have the coin for luxury items like flowers. Closer inspection cleared up the confusion. The flowers weren’t for sale. They covered a coffin. Family and friends were getting ready to transport a body to the funeral. The morose group hung around the truck waiting for something to happen. No one spoke or met my eyes.
Just behind the pork stall a small bridge arched over a narrow stream. People casually crossed over with their purchases. A camouflaged bunker stood beside the bridge. It was barely visible behind the meat stand. Signs in Thai were tacked up. One had a single word in English.
INFORMATION
“Well, inform me,” I quipped. Lighthearted and sassy seemed the way to go.
Confused faces inside the bunker let me know that actual information wasn’t available. They couldn’t speak a word of English but their smiling faces said it all.
What’s a Caucasian foreigner doing here?
Bags of shopping weighed down a middle-aged woman with white pearl powder on her cheeks.
She strolled over the bridge with the confidence of a contented shopper. Burmese women smear powder on their faces all the time. They use it as a sunscreen and believe it will keep them beautiful. I followed her across the bridge. I was determined to find the border crossing and look over into Burma.
INFORMATION
“Well, inform me,” I quipped. Lighthearted and sassy seemed the way to go.
Confused faces inside the bunker let me know that actual information wasn’t available. They couldn’t speak a word of English but their smiling faces said it all.
What’s a Caucasian foreigner doing here?
Bags of shopping weighed down a middle-aged woman with white pearl powder on her cheeks.
She strolled over the bridge with the confidence of a contented shopper. Burmese women smear powder on their faces all the time. They use it as a sunscreen and believe it will keep them beautiful. I followed her across the bridge. I was determined to find the border crossing and look over into Burma.
I stepped down on the other side as a voice stabbed out from behind.
“Don’t go there,” warned a casually dressed middle aged man. I turned to see him wave his finger back and forth. His stern look challenged me but I heard it all before. I took his words as advice and nothing more. Everyone wants to tell you where to go and what to do.
“I’ll just go up a bit further and come right back,” I responded over one shoulder and walked on.
Who was he to give me orders anyway?
A rectangular wooden gate topped with three triangular huts was directly ahead. It stood proud adorned with emblems found at entrances to tribal villages. Light blue markings comprised a system of hexagons, circles, squares and crosses. The design was complex but pleasant to look at. My eyes fixed on a gate fringed with teak boards carved in ornate shapes. It looked interesting. The small huts on top would be a great observation point. Someone could stay up there and keep an eye on all the people who passed underneath. Limp flags rested on poles at the top of each peak. They would flap in the wind, but today was dead calm. The opening on the road was big enough for two trucks to drive under it at the same time. It was an impressive sight.
I would go that far at least. It would be a shame not to.
“Don’t go there,” warned a casually dressed middle aged man. I turned to see him wave his finger back and forth. His stern look challenged me but I heard it all before. I took his words as advice and nothing more. Everyone wants to tell you where to go and what to do.
“I’ll just go up a bit further and come right back,” I responded over one shoulder and walked on.
Who was he to give me orders anyway?
A rectangular wooden gate topped with three triangular huts was directly ahead. It stood proud adorned with emblems found at entrances to tribal villages. Light blue markings comprised a system of hexagons, circles, squares and crosses. The design was complex but pleasant to look at. My eyes fixed on a gate fringed with teak boards carved in ornate shapes. It looked interesting. The small huts on top would be a great observation point. Someone could stay up there and keep an eye on all the people who passed underneath. Limp flags rested on poles at the top of each peak. They would flap in the wind, but today was dead calm. The opening on the road was big enough for two trucks to drive under it at the same time. It was an impressive sight.
I would go that far at least. It would be a shame not to.
Under the gate a man with a small child sat on a bench between the columns. The child was animated and playful but the man looked tired and frightened. He wore a wide brim straw hat and carried a pink bag that identified him as ethnic Karen. Even the child had light pink stripes on his jacket. They were the hunted ones. The people the Burmese army routinely rounded up and detained. Suspicion of anything earned a lengthy prison sentence or torture. The fear in his eyes was unmistakable.
I was a stranger. I was the unknown. His fear was justified.
The morning heat began to build up.
I passed under the gate and continued on to a crossroad. Two weary soldiers sat on the ground with their backs against a building. They were curious, but unconcerned by my arrival. World War I Lee Enfield bolt-action rifles rested casually on their laps. They were armed with World War One trench rifles. Curious unknown emblems were displayed on their well-worn uniforms. I didn’t give them much thought.
Pointing to the left I signed my intention to go in that direction
“No, no .... Danger,” was the warning that came back.
They nodded all right when I pointed straight ahead. I marched on.
I had permission to continue.
I was a stranger. I was the unknown. His fear was justified.
The morning heat began to build up.
I passed under the gate and continued on to a crossroad. Two weary soldiers sat on the ground with their backs against a building. They were curious, but unconcerned by my arrival. World War I Lee Enfield bolt-action rifles rested casually on their laps. They were armed with World War One trench rifles. Curious unknown emblems were displayed on their well-worn uniforms. I didn’t give them much thought.
Pointing to the left I signed my intention to go in that direction
“No, no .... Danger,” was the warning that came back.
They nodded all right when I pointed straight ahead. I marched on.
I had permission to continue.
A collection of simple shops lined both sides of the road. Some had tin roofs; others were thatched with coarse leaves in the traditional manner. Items offered for sale were everywhere. Small plastic bags of dried squid hung beside rows of laundry detergent. Clothespins held the items up on frames of string. Handwritten signs in Burmese were posted on walls, but so were larger advertisements in Thai. A sign with the familiar leopard announced the availability of Leo beer. Further down, two more places used banners with the elephant symbol to advertise beer Chang. Thai branding was everywhere.
It was way too early for a beer. I walked on.
A second wooden gate was directly ahead. It had a simple design and wasn’t in as good condition as the first gate. Huge holes had been punched through the boards. It looked like someone had taken an axe to it. In the upper left hand corner the numbers 2008 were written in white on a light blue background. Plastic bags littered the ground around it. I waited a few seconds as a Chinese-style single engine tractor pulled a trailer under the gate. Three men rode in the back. They were going out to work the fields.
Children ignored me as they played. Young girls avoided eye contact with a purposeful stride. They were leery of strangers but not overly concerned by my presence. I was an unknown commodity, a Caucasian foreigner in a place that sees few visitors. Almost everyone had pearl powder on their cheeks. The powder was a sure give away. They were Burmese.
It was way too early for a beer. I walked on.
A second wooden gate was directly ahead. It had a simple design and wasn’t in as good condition as the first gate. Huge holes had been punched through the boards. It looked like someone had taken an axe to it. In the upper left hand corner the numbers 2008 were written in white on a light blue background. Plastic bags littered the ground around it. I waited a few seconds as a Chinese-style single engine tractor pulled a trailer under the gate. Three men rode in the back. They were going out to work the fields.
Children ignored me as they played. Young girls avoided eye contact with a purposeful stride. They were leery of strangers but not overly concerned by my presence. I was an unknown commodity, a Caucasian foreigner in a place that sees few visitors. Almost everyone had pearl powder on their cheeks. The powder was a sure give away. They were Burmese.
A small footpath lined with a cactus fence forked off to the left. It looked more pleasant than the dusty main road so I followed it. Several shade trees were ahead. Some people with buckets could be seen further on. The trail wound down a short descent and curved through a section of light jungle. Directly ahead was the village well. A mother and three children were doing laundry. The older daughter was about ten years old. She drew water up from the well with a rope strung through a pulley on a pole. Attached to the rope was a plastic container with the top partially cut off. It served as a bucket. A young boy of about five also helped. He poured water over the clothes as the mother scrubbed stains with a brush. An even younger child played at the game of laundry. They were suspicious of a stranger but soon welcomed me with warm smiles. It was a photogenic scene so I took a few snaps. Everyone enjoyed seeing themselves on the small screen.
I filled up the memory chip and replaced it with another. The full chip was transferred into a small plastic case. I stored it in a pouch in the front of my camera case. We stayed together for a while longer then I took another path back to the main road. A cactus fence lined most of it but some residents used barbed wire to keep unwanted visitors away from gardens plots.
People were friendly back at the main road. Some of them began to show an interest in the foreign visitor. I approached an older man who sat on a teak wooden porch. He was doing something with the rim of a bicycle wheel. It was rigged up in an ingenious manner and functioned as a homemade spinning wheel. He was processing fiber into strands that could later be woven into cloth. A blue tray of tamarind pods sat in front of him. Several seeds on the floor showed that he had recently eaten a few. He wore a traditional Burmese loungee and a black singlet. A loungee is a woven cloth wrapped around the waist and worn like a sarong.
His right eye was partially shut and didn’t work properly. I guessed it was due to a blow that happened years ago. I wanted to watch his device in action but my presence caused him distress. He acted confused and seemed frightened.
I decided it was best to leave him alone and moved on.
People were friendly back at the main road. Some of them began to show an interest in the foreign visitor. I approached an older man who sat on a teak wooden porch. He was doing something with the rim of a bicycle wheel. It was rigged up in an ingenious manner and functioned as a homemade spinning wheel. He was processing fiber into strands that could later be woven into cloth. A blue tray of tamarind pods sat in front of him. Several seeds on the floor showed that he had recently eaten a few. He wore a traditional Burmese loungee and a black singlet. A loungee is a woven cloth wrapped around the waist and worn like a sarong.
His right eye was partially shut and didn’t work properly. I guessed it was due to a blow that happened years ago. I wanted to watch his device in action but my presence caused him distress. He acted confused and seemed frightened.
I decided it was best to leave him alone and moved on.
Several men called me over. They indicated that I should join them for tea. Two of them wore colourful tattered sports shirts. A third man was bare-chested. All of them wore a traditional Burmese loungee. They sat on teak benches around a teak table covered with a linoleum top. Some large pots and a kettle stood nearby. It was a place where food was served. I sat down and the bare-chested man poured everyone a cup of strong black tea with sugar. They wanted to ask questions but none of them could speak English. The conversation died out before it even got started. We did a bit of miming but that didn’t go far. Their curiosity was natural. They wanted to know what I was doing here. International visitors in Wallea town were few and far between.
The woman next door sat on a wooden platform outside her house. She waved at me to join her. Long braided hair trailed down on one side of her shoulder. She was agitated and tried to communicate how her heart kept palpitating rapidly. A tan dog shared the platform and looked up with uncertainty. It seemed as frightened and stressed as the woman. The upset woman continued to communicate her anxiety. She continued to mime how her heart beat erratically. With dramatic flare, she threw her hands up and simulated the sound of an explosion. The message was clear.
Bombs had recently gone off nearby.
Bombs had recently gone off nearby.
A young boy came over and sat beside her. He wore a Garfield T-shirt. The caption on it read, ‘Am I cute or what?’ The blank stare emanating out of his eyes was anything but cute. He was numb to the world. He had seen things young boys should be spared from.
A voice inside warned that it was time to go back.
It went unheeded. I would just go up to the border check point and look over into Burma. Taking the woman’s hands in mine I gave her what condolences I could. She needed to relax and I tried my best to communicate that to her. The boy impassively observed me as I turned and left. My staying or leaving didn’t matter to him one way or another. I was merely an extraneous variable in his complex world.
A voice inside warned that it was time to go back.
It went unheeded. I would just go up to the border check point and look over into Burma. Taking the woman’s hands in mine I gave her what condolences I could. She needed to relax and I tried my best to communicate that to her. The boy impassively observed me as I turned and left. My staying or leaving didn’t matter to him one way or another. I was merely an extraneous variable in his complex world.
I continued on to a crossroad at the edge of the town. It forked on the right towards a building behind a wooden fence. A roundabout with a partially completed brick structure stood in the center. Metal rebar poked upward announcing future plans to make it taller. The bottom of the uncompleted structure was a square with openings in all four directions. It was a guard post in the making.
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A few houses further down I met another family that was much more animated. They sat outside the door of their house on the wooden porch. The mother was busy applying pearl powder to the faces of her children. A black and white handbag hung on a column near the door. It designated them as members of a tribe but I didn’t know which one. They were excited at my approach and eagerly posed for photos. A young boy with a prominent harelip was first. The pair of young girls posed next. Both wore earrings and had lightly powdered faces. The younger of the two raised a plastic cup as if to toast the camera. Everyone loved seeing themselves on the small digital screen. A final photo of the group showed a different mood. The lighthearted antics displayed at our first meeting were over. Their faces portrayed worry and sadness. They wanted to communicate their troubles but once again we couldn’t understand each other.
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I went to the left and casually walked up a rise in the road.
A man outside of a small shop squinted in my direction and pulled out his mobile phone.
He made a call as he kept his eyes glued to me. His piercing glare gave me an uncomfortable chill as I stopped at the top of the hill and looked past it. The village came to an end as the road continued on into fields and jungle.
My decision to turn back was a moment too late.
A motorcycle roared around the curve below. Two men were on it. They honked the horn ominously as they raced towards me. Another motorcycle with a single rider sped in from the other direction. The two men from below jerked to a stop just past were I stood. The man on the rear had a .45 semi-automatic pistol tucked into the small of his back. The lone rider pulled in from the other direction to box me in. He patted the empty back seat and issued a command.
“Get on.”
“I think I’d rather walk,” I responded weakly and did a quick about face. I started to hike down the hill.
A man on the first bike pulled out a two-way radio and sent off a message.
I kept up the rapid pace as I sped down the hill. My heart pounded harder and harder with each step.
The lone rider caught up easily and demanded I get on the back of his bike.
“No, thanks,” was the best I could come up. Long strides continued until I was back at the roundabout. I started to feel winded. The fast pace in the afternoon heat was taking its toll.
Rounding the corner, I kept up the speed until I was under the damaged arch. I could see the second one ahead. It became my new goal. The men on the motorbikes were unsure of their next move. They followed along demanding that I stop. Quick determined steps got me to the next arch. I dread the thought of the pistol coming out. A shot in the air or across my path would stop me cold. A bullet in the leg or the back would cripple me.
The man and his child were still sitting on the bench underneath. Unresponsive eyes passively observed the melodrama as I sped by. They were numb to my plight.
The Thai beer advertisements became visible on each side. I past them and kept speed walking until I could see the bridge. There was a Thai flag flying just past it. An illuminating light shone down on my stupidity. Of course I was in Burma. If I could just get over the bridge I knew I would be safe.
A third motorcycle raced in front and skidded to a halt directly in my path. The passenger on the back jumped off and held out his hands to stop me. He was a tall lithe man dressed in a loungee and T-shirt. A determined look on his face said it all. The driver pulled out the kickstand and turned to face me. He wore a uniform with Immigration written on his chest.
His big smile and pleasant greeting slowed me down.
“Please, wait a minute.”
It may have been the biggest mistake of my life but I stopped.
“Passport, passport,” demanded the tall man as he moved in close. Our shoulders butted against each other as he tested my mettle.
I panted hard as we locked eyes. The long speed walk left me out of breath.
The bridge was only forty meters away. So close and yet so far. Out running the fit man leaning against me wasn’t likely. I leaned back in his direction to test his resolve. He didn’t budge an inch. He was strong.
The two soldiers I had asked for directions earlier lazily loped into my peripheral vision. One stopped about twenty meters away on my side and the other continued to walk toward the bridge. Both carried bolt action rifles slung over their shoulders. They looked like basic grunts. The kind of men who would shoot first and ask questions later.
I continued to gasp for air as I did the math. It would take a second to drop their weapon to the ready and another second to chamber a round. One more second to aim and I was still only part way to the bridge. The numbers didn’t add up. I couldn’t outrun a bullet. The tall man leaning on me was another concern. I couldn’t out run him either and he was adamant that I stay put.
“Passport, please,” came the second polite request from the man in the uniform.
“I need to look at it, only for a minute,” he added. His big friendly smile concluded the deal.
I handed over my passport and he moved away a few steps to make a phone call. An animated conversation in Burmese followed. When he came back I asked him for my passport back.
“You said only for a few minutes,” I reminded him.
His head rocked slowly from side to side then he handed it back with a smile.
“I should be going back now,” I suggested.
“No, no. Wait. Others come soon. Want to talk,” said the tall man in the loungee.
“No, I really think it would be best if I went now,” and began my second feeble attempt to walk away.
The discussion came to an abrupt halt. A pick up truck loaded with armed men pulled in. An uneasy chill swept through my bones. The arrival of the truck completely dominated my awareness. On top of the cab rested a vicious looking automatic rifle with a round magazine clip. A man standing in the rear box pointed it in our general direction. Six well-armed men jumped out of the back and fanned out in different directions. They walked with a measured determination as they scanned for possible threats. They were professionals. The combat-seasoned soldiers turned as one when they reached the outer perimeter. Each man partially concealed himself as he took up a position facing inwards. One soldier plopped down on a bench and set his rifle on a table pointing into my face. Keeping his on me, he casually helped himself to a package of dried squid hanging on display. Our eyes met over the distance. He flashed a wicked smile then opened the package and chewed on a piece. Another man stayed in the back of the truck with the machine gunner. He waved an antique rocket launcher around with careless abandon.
All the villagers had long since vanished from sight.
A strong urge to run seized me. It was countered by all the weapons pointed in my direction. My feet remained frozen on the spot.
A practiced system of eye contact and hand signals existed between the infantrymen. Each communicated with Rocket Launcher Man that he was in position. When everyone had checked in he slapped the top of the cab twice with the open palm of his hand. The perimeter was secure.
The door opened on cue. Out stepped a tiny caricature of a man wearing a Kevlar vest and a steel helmet. He was uncommonly short and thin but outranked the other soldiers. Unsure of himself he stepped to the left and then to the right. After a several paces in each direction he regained his composure. He looked up and fixed his eyes directly at me.
The intensity of his stare churned in the bottom of my stomach. He slowly started to move towards me. Of all the men and their weapons he scared me the most.
He carried a clipboard and the self-righteous air of a man in charge.
I froze on the spot as he approached. My eyes moved from his well polished boots to the .45 caliber pistol neatly holstered on his belt. The clipboard swayed back and forth with grim determination. A faint red ring around his mouth marked him as a betel nut chewer. He slowed his pace and spat bright red fluid to one side.
Time stood still.
As if by magic, he appeared and peered up into my face. He was too close for comfort. The sickly sweet odour of freshly chewed betel nut worked its way up into my nostrils. The red around his lips accented his smile in a tragic but comic fashion. Slowly, his head began to rock from side to side. He studied me like a boy watching a bug held captive in a jar.
I was caught.
Bright red teeth dotted with black specs smiled directly into me. The others deferred to him. Once again, it was politely suggested that I come back with them.
“Back where?” I countered. “No, I have to go back over the bridge.”
“Just for a few minutes,” responded the friendly man in the immigration uniform. They crowded around and pushed up against me. In one large huddle we all moved toward the truck. Gently but efficiently, I was herded toward the waiting vehicle.
Arguments to the contrary fell on deaf ears.
I made a final plea as the door opened beside me. The man up top holding the machine gun communicated the general consensus best. A raised eyebrow and a lazy smirk said it all.
Do you really think you have a choice in the matter?
I got in.
He made a call as he kept his eyes glued to me. His piercing glare gave me an uncomfortable chill as I stopped at the top of the hill and looked past it. The village came to an end as the road continued on into fields and jungle.
My decision to turn back was a moment too late.
A motorcycle roared around the curve below. Two men were on it. They honked the horn ominously as they raced towards me. Another motorcycle with a single rider sped in from the other direction. The two men from below jerked to a stop just past were I stood. The man on the rear had a .45 semi-automatic pistol tucked into the small of his back. The lone rider pulled in from the other direction to box me in. He patted the empty back seat and issued a command.
“Get on.”
“I think I’d rather walk,” I responded weakly and did a quick about face. I started to hike down the hill.
A man on the first bike pulled out a two-way radio and sent off a message.
I kept up the rapid pace as I sped down the hill. My heart pounded harder and harder with each step.
The lone rider caught up easily and demanded I get on the back of his bike.
“No, thanks,” was the best I could come up. Long strides continued until I was back at the roundabout. I started to feel winded. The fast pace in the afternoon heat was taking its toll.
Rounding the corner, I kept up the speed until I was under the damaged arch. I could see the second one ahead. It became my new goal. The men on the motorbikes were unsure of their next move. They followed along demanding that I stop. Quick determined steps got me to the next arch. I dread the thought of the pistol coming out. A shot in the air or across my path would stop me cold. A bullet in the leg or the back would cripple me.
The man and his child were still sitting on the bench underneath. Unresponsive eyes passively observed the melodrama as I sped by. They were numb to my plight.
The Thai beer advertisements became visible on each side. I past them and kept speed walking until I could see the bridge. There was a Thai flag flying just past it. An illuminating light shone down on my stupidity. Of course I was in Burma. If I could just get over the bridge I knew I would be safe.
A third motorcycle raced in front and skidded to a halt directly in my path. The passenger on the back jumped off and held out his hands to stop me. He was a tall lithe man dressed in a loungee and T-shirt. A determined look on his face said it all. The driver pulled out the kickstand and turned to face me. He wore a uniform with Immigration written on his chest.
His big smile and pleasant greeting slowed me down.
“Please, wait a minute.”
It may have been the biggest mistake of my life but I stopped.
“Passport, passport,” demanded the tall man as he moved in close. Our shoulders butted against each other as he tested my mettle.
I panted hard as we locked eyes. The long speed walk left me out of breath.
The bridge was only forty meters away. So close and yet so far. Out running the fit man leaning against me wasn’t likely. I leaned back in his direction to test his resolve. He didn’t budge an inch. He was strong.
The two soldiers I had asked for directions earlier lazily loped into my peripheral vision. One stopped about twenty meters away on my side and the other continued to walk toward the bridge. Both carried bolt action rifles slung over their shoulders. They looked like basic grunts. The kind of men who would shoot first and ask questions later.
I continued to gasp for air as I did the math. It would take a second to drop their weapon to the ready and another second to chamber a round. One more second to aim and I was still only part way to the bridge. The numbers didn’t add up. I couldn’t outrun a bullet. The tall man leaning on me was another concern. I couldn’t out run him either and he was adamant that I stay put.
“Passport, please,” came the second polite request from the man in the uniform.
“I need to look at it, only for a minute,” he added. His big friendly smile concluded the deal.
I handed over my passport and he moved away a few steps to make a phone call. An animated conversation in Burmese followed. When he came back I asked him for my passport back.
“You said only for a few minutes,” I reminded him.
His head rocked slowly from side to side then he handed it back with a smile.
“I should be going back now,” I suggested.
“No, no. Wait. Others come soon. Want to talk,” said the tall man in the loungee.
“No, I really think it would be best if I went now,” and began my second feeble attempt to walk away.
The discussion came to an abrupt halt. A pick up truck loaded with armed men pulled in. An uneasy chill swept through my bones. The arrival of the truck completely dominated my awareness. On top of the cab rested a vicious looking automatic rifle with a round magazine clip. A man standing in the rear box pointed it in our general direction. Six well-armed men jumped out of the back and fanned out in different directions. They walked with a measured determination as they scanned for possible threats. They were professionals. The combat-seasoned soldiers turned as one when they reached the outer perimeter. Each man partially concealed himself as he took up a position facing inwards. One soldier plopped down on a bench and set his rifle on a table pointing into my face. Keeping his on me, he casually helped himself to a package of dried squid hanging on display. Our eyes met over the distance. He flashed a wicked smile then opened the package and chewed on a piece. Another man stayed in the back of the truck with the machine gunner. He waved an antique rocket launcher around with careless abandon.
All the villagers had long since vanished from sight.
A strong urge to run seized me. It was countered by all the weapons pointed in my direction. My feet remained frozen on the spot.
A practiced system of eye contact and hand signals existed between the infantrymen. Each communicated with Rocket Launcher Man that he was in position. When everyone had checked in he slapped the top of the cab twice with the open palm of his hand. The perimeter was secure.
The door opened on cue. Out stepped a tiny caricature of a man wearing a Kevlar vest and a steel helmet. He was uncommonly short and thin but outranked the other soldiers. Unsure of himself he stepped to the left and then to the right. After a several paces in each direction he regained his composure. He looked up and fixed his eyes directly at me.
The intensity of his stare churned in the bottom of my stomach. He slowly started to move towards me. Of all the men and their weapons he scared me the most.
He carried a clipboard and the self-righteous air of a man in charge.
I froze on the spot as he approached. My eyes moved from his well polished boots to the .45 caliber pistol neatly holstered on his belt. The clipboard swayed back and forth with grim determination. A faint red ring around his mouth marked him as a betel nut chewer. He slowed his pace and spat bright red fluid to one side.
Time stood still.
As if by magic, he appeared and peered up into my face. He was too close for comfort. The sickly sweet odour of freshly chewed betel nut worked its way up into my nostrils. The red around his lips accented his smile in a tragic but comic fashion. Slowly, his head began to rock from side to side. He studied me like a boy watching a bug held captive in a jar.
I was caught.
Bright red teeth dotted with black specs smiled directly into me. The others deferred to him. Once again, it was politely suggested that I come back with them.
“Back where?” I countered. “No, I have to go back over the bridge.”
“Just for a few minutes,” responded the friendly man in the immigration uniform. They crowded around and pushed up against me. In one large huddle we all moved toward the truck. Gently but efficiently, I was herded toward the waiting vehicle.
Arguments to the contrary fell on deaf ears.
I made a final plea as the door opened beside me. The man up top holding the machine gun communicated the general consensus best. A raised eyebrow and a lazy smirk said it all.
Do you really think you have a choice in the matter?
I got in.