Umpiem Mai

 In the middle of a bright, vivacious jungle in the North Western corner of Thailand, surrounded by a hazy view of purple mountains like mirages in the horizon, there is a village. The air is calm and a cool altitude breeze eases the sun into a pleasant, warm dance on the skin. This is nature’s paradise – but for some it feels like a prison.



Umpiem Mai is a refugee camp, one of nine that line the Thai-Burmese border. Together they home an estimate 140 000 people who have escaped atrocities in Burma. With the oldest camps almost 30 years of age, this is one of the world’s most protracted situations for refugees. People come here hoping to register as asylum seekers and move to safer corners of the world. Facing deportation if they go outside the camps, people’s lives are on hold. Although many have been able to resettle as refugees across the globe, constant new arrivals have ensured population numbers here haven’t fallen.

I and my coordinator Ta are here for one day, taking pictures of the women artisans in this camp of 15 000 people to help promote fair trade for WEAVE. On first sight Umpiem Mai looks like a relaxed, rural village. Children are busy playing their serious games that are so often underestimated by passing adults concentrated on their own daily woes. Roosters pompously fight for territory on the hilly dirt roads that are lined with leaf-roofed, delicate bamboo homes. There are no brands, at least not like you and I know them. Instead the paths are lined with logos of international relief organisations with each one holding its own area of responsibility from medical care and education to protection and sanitation. Basic needs are covered and some people have electricity generators and radios. Food – rice, oil, fishpaste, peas, chillies and protein powder – is rationed and delivered on the 27th day of each month. Income generation is a problem, according to some estimates only 10% of the population here works for a wage. Domestic violence is common.

Many adults were born here, knowing no reality outside these camps. Naddii, one of WEAVE’s artisans and our guide for the day has lived at Umpiem Mai for some 10 years. She is tiny and in her efficient and graceful manner there is an ethereal quality. She takes us inside family homes raised from the ground with bamboo poles, their thin and transparent floors cracking under our weight. The bright afternoon sun pierces holes into the otherwise murky inside light as we photograph the women working at their simple weaves. There is no furniture par a few sacks and barrels, maybe an altar.

In late February a fire at Umpiem Mai destroyed the homes and belongings of almost 3000 families. Miraculously no one died and today the air is filled with the sound of rhythmical hammers rebuilding structures. As I and Ta watch from a nearby hill a man climbs up to talk to us. He has been here since 2007, his father and brother being no strangers to Burmese jails and hard labour. He is frustrated; university educated, he would like to do a master’s degree in computer science. But like most people here he is waiting to register as an asylum seeker to get permission to continue his life safely - as a free man. “Can you inform people? We are waiting. Can you tell them about us?” He asks me as we say good bye.





It would be tempting to end with a cosy platitude on hope. With all eyes on Burma of course there is hope but people here are yet to be convinced. Over the distant mountains, the sun may set a thousand times beautifully and mournfully. But before there is change in the outside world, here in the midst of formidable beauty these people’s dreams and destinies can’t escape. As the hours, years and decades pass, everyone is still waiting – for news, for a home, for a better life. This is the prison of the human spirit.

Questions

 

“Today you’re going to meet the wizard”, says Rachel’s friend Roula, as the three of us try to harmonise our arms, shoulders and legs in a jam-packed bus in 40-degree heat. I have a day off volunteering and I’m spending the morning observing Rachel and Roula’s healing/massage class. Their teacher is called Pischet, a healer with a reputation reaching across the globe. Small and smiling, he is a chain smoker who dresses in an old pair of shorts and a white t-shirt sporting a logo ‘Thailand Massage Circus’. He talks quietly sitting on the floor in a room that appears to be a temple, massage studio and store room. Acupuncture wall charts hang amicably next to cross legged Buddha statues and a wooden carving of an elk’s head. There’s a grandfather clock in the corner that could’ve belonged to my late grandparents’ living room. As the fans hum and lizards cackle, Pischet lectures in his own brand of English that Rachel smilingly translates: hangover means emotional baggage, in the bok means in the box, or in the coffin. For me his wisdom is hard to decrypt.

I’ve been in Chiang Mai for three weeks and I’ve developed an inquisitive routine. Most weekdays I volunteer as a media boffin at WEAVE. The charity aims to empower refugee women from Burma to earn a living by practising traditional handicrafts. I’ve been busy taking photographs for Oxfam’s online shop as well as updating our own catalogue. In the evenings and weekends I mix with Chiang Mai’s transient foreign community. Many people here are looking for something; there’s a spiritual idealism that is in strong juxtaposition with a sense of disappointment with the Western world. So far I share neither, but as a nosey Parker I’m tirelessly fascinated. The people I talk to vary from a French aid worker disillusioned after seven years in Somalia to a Jewish Canadian researching communication between animals and human beings.

My contemplative mood is interrupted by a fight. Since arriving in this town surrounded by moats, the momentum has been gathering for a three-day battle. The whole city of 1,5 million people partakes so I buy a weapon from a local dealer. I’m safe for all of 30 seconds. Then a car pulls by my side, the window is lowered and I’m royally drenched in water. The Buddhist New Year, Songkran, is here. For the next three days valuables as well as white t shirts are best left home because everyone is a target in the great water fight. Originally a blessing with a gentle trickle, these days water is blasted with garden hose pipes and poured by buckets from open top vans by normally tranquil citizens. I get immersed in the fun with Ben, 7 and Jade, 10, bright and brave expat children based in Bangkok. They are visiting Rachel with their teacher parents Andy and Carrie who have lived overseas for over two decades. “The idea of Songkran is to dodge the water” Jade expertly coaches me as I recover from yet another ice cold bucket load emptied over my head. As I get to know this family I admire their courage to think outside the box and chase their own lifestyle.




Back at Pischet’s, a student sitting next to me feels the tension in my neck and signals with his hands an overwhelmed mind. He is right. I try to make sense of this notorious healer’s wisdom about how we need to learn to listen to our bodies. But I struggle to put together my thoughts. I wonder about life experiences that happen so quickly and seem to bear little relation to each other. How are memories, conversations and moments best treasured? How do we best learn? In this particular journey I’m half way. As I prepare to lift my oh-so-swollen rucksack after a month in Chiang Mai I have no answers. But perhaps it's a good idea to keep trying to get soaked in more than just water.

Fang

Inbox (1). A message from Phra Greg. He welcomes me to spend the weekend with him and a colleague, Phra Fred. I thank and accept. He tells me to get to his place as early as possible the next day.

Phra, pronounced a bit like Praa, means monk in Thai and I’ve just arranged to live in a Buddhist temple, Wat Sri Boen-Ruang, based in Fang, some 100 miles north of Chiang Mai learning the monks’ humble ways. I wonder about these Phras, sitting on their computers in their orange robes. Are they PC types or do they use Macs? Do their Iphones or Androids have orange covers?



Casting my eyes over Phra Greg’s blog I notice something not mildly terrifying. Eating allowed only between 6am and midday. I unashamedly base my life around food so on the bus to Fang I plan carefully. I'll have a probiotic multivitamin for a starter, a malaria tablet as a main course and if I feel like dessert I'll feast on a mixture of ibuprofen and paracetamol.



There are some 200 000 monks in Thailand and almost 30 000 temples. “Ordaining isn’t for life. Monks are allowed to disrobe and get married, for instance. If they want to return to their life as a monk that's fine, they can stay married but they must then leave their married home,” explains Phra Fred, a former member of the British Army who converted to Buddhism long before it became en vogue for soft media-types to come on these retreats.

My routine here is simple. I wake up around 4.30am to meditate. I sport a white loose tunic and cotton Thai fisherman’s trousers popular with the Southeast Asian travelling and temple communities. During my fortnight in Thailand I’ve learnt to wear these trousers the right way round but the string holding them up still doesn’t fill me with confidence. After my meditation I follow the monks on their alms round. As we walk past the village markets the locals donate food receiving a blessing and good Karma, and in return the monks get their breakfast. After the morning chants Phra Fred teaches Buddhism and Phra Greg advises with a meditation type called Vipassana. Practice follows until it’s time for the evening chants and retiring to bed early.



I take a surprise liking to meditation, especially the walking kind, where you try to concentrate your mind on the present by placing attention on the movement of your feet. I heard the term monkey brain in London; it refers to distracting thoughts when trying to focus. It turns out I have about 70 monkeys in my brain; disappointingly they like to think about mosquito bites, Facebook and food. “It’s normal, ask your friends, everyone’s minds are full,” says Pedro, a vet from Portugal who has been practicing meditation for over three years. “But when you start getting those split second moments of no thought...” he pauses, looking – well – serene. “Just stick to it for now, they’re worth trying for.” So I do, moving my bare feet along the concrete floor in my ascetic room until a loud cackle from the ceiling makes me jump. Coloured like a rat, the sound source is a large lizard. It’s probably habited this room longer than I and is used to observing others exercising this strange routine. Mind in the present I note my disgust and continue my slow zombie walk. The road to enlightenment will be long.



I’m not sure what my religion is but I’m humbled by the monks for opening the doors to theirs. I leave my short stay in the temple with a sense of discovery about Thai culture as well as Buddhism. Also, I now know it’s possible not to eat after midday. It’s a small example of how we get attached to external factors to lead the lives we’ve chosen. Buddha said: “One is one's own refuge, who else could be the refuge?” A philosophy or religion – potato patata – that relies on the mind and encourages to love every living being, seems valid in our 24-hour urban razzmatazz, like it did 2500 years ago.

So what was the first thing I did on my return to life as I know it? Buy a beer? Eat a pad thai? No. I braided my hair and bought a new pair of Thai fisherman’s trousers. "You know you'll only be able to wear those here. Back home you'll look like that person who went soul searching in Thailand," says Rachel as I demonstrate my fashion enlightenment. Oh really?

Phra Greg’s blog is at http://watsriboenruang.wordpress.com/

Chiang Mai

The scooter won’t start. It growls, but despite several attempts it dies until finally the spark plug delivers and the bike is off with a sound that ripples through the quiet neighbourhood. It wakes up a baby sleeping next door to me and suddenly all hell is loose. It’s 4am on Monday morning and as I remorsefully destroy all thoughts of being able to sleep longer, making the world a better place is the last thing I want to do.

I’m in Chiang Mai, North Thailand. A hot and sticky food paradise where a Thai massage costs less than a British pint and the rattling of tuktuks blends in with a language softened by five gentle tones. A few familiar names – or multinational eye sores – such as Tesco and Starbucks have made their way to the street scene. Walking past the hostels and tour operators I spot estate agents, health clinics and a probation office – telltale signs that in this foreign corner of the world life bumbles along of course, like anywhere else.



But about 200 miles away on the Thai-Burmese border it doesn’t bumble, and hasn’t done so for over 20 years. Thailand's hospitality towards asylum-seekers has spanned several decades and according to the UN it currently hosts over 140 000 refugees and displaced people in nine camps along the border. I’ve come to Chiang Mai to volunteer with WEAVE, a Thai NGO working with women and children inside the camps.





Today is my first day as a volunteer in their central office outside the camps. I’m heartily welcomed by Aunty Nancy who has been working for WEAVE for 18 years. “Do you think yesterday’s election in Burma will change things for people at the camps?” I ask her. She hesitates, “With the Burmese you never know, one day it’s like this,” she flips her hand to show me her palm, “and the next like this,” she flips it again. “People are still fighting; people are still arriving to the camps.”

The organisation is clearly doing some amazing work but the bureaucracy is relentless. What I really want to do is film for WEAVE and write about life at the camps but whether I get access is out of my hands. As a child of London-paced live TV, waiting doesn’t come naturally. “Take it easy,” says Ta, my co-ordinator at WEAVE and a video enthusiast with long black hair and a friendly face, as he spots my anxiety. Inside I have enough adrenaline to run a marathon, but I try to concentrate on cutting clips from the camps for the charity’s use. There is plenty for me to get on with in the office for now.



I was supposed to start my work a week ago but staff holidays postponed me. As plans changed, Thailand had me confused. In Siberia we were on a commuter train. We chugged along in dill-flavoured harmony with Russian businessmen and Mongolian miners dressed in equally fluffy coats. Here the patient locals coexist like parallel streets with pale travellers who look like their plane got stuck in a time warp somewhere in the summer haze of the 60s. It’s hard for these two groups to meet in the middle. The tourism industry has stereotyped Westerners into beer-loving and big-footed, and maybe that’s true.

With a few days to myself I turned to my trusted travelling partner Couchsurfing and met Rachel, an intrepid sailor/healer who has travelled the world and its seven seas settling here for a few months. I stumbled across a local human rights film festival. I enhanced future lunchboxes by taking a cooking course. All this got me thinking – it’s not what’s on offer for tourists, it’s how this unwearied, humble and traditional community has adapted to a flood of foreigners that is notable. I can observe and I can try to learn.





After lunch with Aunty Nancy, and an afternoon of editing with Ta he offered me a lift home on his scooter. Sitting back, circling past tuktuks, buses and other bikes carrying families, tourists and day-to-day commuters I felt a vague sense of belonging. I wish I had more time with WEAVE and I don’t think I’m close yet to mastering the art of patience. But I feel like I’m part of something and I think I’m finding my big Western feet again.