Seeking for the cure

On April 30th I arrived to a small and beautiful beach southwest of Dawei, Myanmar. There was a nice bar with an English name, The Village Cafe, read. The guy greeted me in and invited me a coffee. Later on a group of Italians that worked in an NGO came by, we talked and we had a drink, out of the blue they invited me to another beach where they had rented some bungalows, I was offered to sleep in one of them at night. I have the soul of an intruder, so I accepted.

I went and everything was fine, we had some beer on the beach, practiced my Italian and made friends but the two Burmese that were managing the place asked for 10 dollars to sleep in a filthy hammock alone. It is worth mentioning that I had less than five dollars in my pocket.

The Italian, from Milan, offered to pay the money as long as I stayed. I could not accept that and he offered to take me back to where we had met. We went out and it was raining like cats and dogs. Seven kilometers to the place and in the middle of the night and the storm I said goodbye. I went back to the cafe, went across it and found the sea, I remembered that to the south there was a big beach and far from the route (in Myanmar the police should not see you sleeping outside).

The tide was low and I followed, sometimes over the rocks sometimes by the sand. I continued until I stepped on a river's bed, the ground was as sticky as quick sands. My flip flops got lost on the mud couple of times, sharp stones beneath cutting my feet, trapped in that terrible place I couldn't even stand on my feet. And it was raining, it was still raining.

I turned around, crawled beneath some low and creepy trees and found a somewhat elevated place that seemed the most decent thing I could find in such a wasteland.

I pitched my tent, miserably damp and with the stench that comes when you try to sleep on a tiny plastic tent. I thought I had reached the peak of my misseries, but life has always a surprise waiting for you. After a while, the main pole of the tent broke in half, shaping my tent like a V, I cursed the heaven, the hell and the tent's manufacturer for the poor quality of it and went out to see what happened.

The sea had reached my bed, it was already on the side of the tent, half of it had already sunk. The tide was getting higher by the minute. I ran and put my things on the only dry corner, I tucked everything in the backpack, tent in a plastic bag and followed back my steps like in the middle of a nightmare.

Climbing the rocks I regretted my destiny, from rock to rock, trying to not to fall I stepped carefully despite of my mood.  I saw an man made terrace to my left, low enough to climb. Climbed up and found a small forest, the ground full of branches and leaves, at least the sea's cold fingers were not going to wake me up again  I could see a temple nearby,  sometimes we can't even imagine who is around fighting for something as simple as a peaceful night of sleep.

The night shone, patiently I swept the floor with my feet to avoid destroying even more the tent, sometimes I can not understand why the human need that much to close his eyes. Pitched the tent again, twenty minutes later the pole broke off on another point;  fixed it with a small metal pipe and tried to sleep in the misery of that April's night, the cuts on my feet burning, the stench of the damp tent was going to stay. 

Soon night and dawn were bantering in the sky. Just as I was about to leave my filthy bed the pole broke for the third time.

There was no way to return to the road from that terrace, down to the stones again, thanks to the weight of my backpack I fell and I hit my tibia with a sharp stone, the next day I would wake up with a golf ball in my lower leg. 

I stayed just one more day in that friendly, beautiful and terrible place, but the next night I slept in an abandoned hut.

*

The next day, I set off with the hope of going to Thailand and having a couple of normal days in Bangkok at my friend's place. After long waits a truck dropped me in Dawei, on the way the drivers stopped to smoke amphetamines to be able to continue with the work of the day. A 4x4 drove me through the turbulent 140 miles to the tiny border town of Htee Khee, which is barely more than a couple of houses but perhaps would see better days with the future Bangkok—Dawei Highway.

In the immigration office there were only two tables, a guy slept in his hammock and four puppies with their mother played on the floor. They gave me the exit stamp and I left with the same car. The Thai influence was noticeable: the people smiled less, the cars were shinier.

We arrived at Thai immigration.

— Hello! — I handed my passport

— Argentina, 90 days. Give me the vaccination certificate for yellow fever, please.

— What are you talking about? I do not need any certificate I left my country two years ago, haven't been in any Yellow fever zone since.

The clerk inside the office whispered something, the one outside laughed.

— I do not have it, but it's been two years since I have been in a yellow fever zone.

— I do not believe you, give me the certificate. If you do not have it go back, give yourself the vaccine and come back.

It was 5:50 PM, the border checkpoint closed at 6:00 p.m. I pleaded and appealed with excuses that were useless.

The Burmese officers opened their eyes wide open when they saw me coming back, they did not know what to do.

— Where are you going? Are you sure there is a taxi to Dawei now?

— Of course, of course

I went to the road more lost than before, just next to a check point where I was not going to be able to explain why I was heading west (not having a single town in ninety kilometers). Out of nowhere a Hilux appeared, two girls In the box. Waved them down, they stopped, I didn't listen where he was going and jumped in the back.

I covered myself with my yellow rain poncho to hide the fact that I was leaving the checkpoint in the back of a stranger's car, heading nowhere. After a few kilometers we stopped, I prayed that it wouldn't be the police, the driver approached the back.

— I stop here, where are you going? Where are you going to sleep? Do you want to stay in our house?

The last question hit my chest, that question is never asked in Myanmar. Yes, I nodded. In their small village only Karen people lived, most of them were soldiers.

They gave me a pillow and blanket, slept on a wooden platform, defeated. 

On the morning I had a coffee, the soldiers cleaned their semi automatics next to the kids that played with the dogs, a baby monkey was fighting with a puppy that was always biting late, the monkey had gone futher into evolution.

— You're lucky, one of us is going to Dawei now — one of those who spoke English told me.

We left on his motorcycle and in a cafe in the middle of the forest we waited, when another guy arrived: on a motorbike.

— Lets go!

We left with the two bikes to a nearby barn, they left the bikes. The guy just waved down the first 4x4 that passed by, I knew it was going to be trouble. Trips that are settled down by locals almost never work out.

We sat in the box, the pickup catched every possible pithole, the metal shaking furiously, hitting my leg, pain arising. They stopped to eat something, in that moment something changed, my companion told me they were only going to Myita (half way through). We set off again and suddenly, after a police post, they dropped us in the middle of nowhere. In the middle of nowhere.

The other noticed my anger and told me to wait, he returned after nine minutes on the box of another pickup. At the next police post they dropped me off with my stuff, the police wrote down my information and I walked out a minute after the pickup left in my direction, leaving me behind.

One hour I waited under the scorching sun, until another pickup took me to Dawei. At the Immigration checkpoint, the officer had told me I could give me the damn vaccine at the airport. A moto—taxi driver felt bad for my state and took me to the airport for free. I left it two minutes later with empty hands and five kilometers to walk to the Red Cross in the center, where I had came from.

Another angel came down the sky, another good taxi driver (I can not believe that those three words can go together) saw me limping  and took me to the Red Cross. I asked in the office under the pouring rain. Nothing there either, they sent me to Doctors Without Frontiers ' office where a Burmese who spoke in English wrote me a small letter (in Burmese) to show at the hospital or clinic.

"I need a vaccination certificate against yellow fever to be able to travel abroad" — he wrote in Burmese.

I went to the hospital, a beautiful Burmese dropped me there with her motorcycle, her perfume was sweet and she waved me bye with a smile.

— Yes, we have the vaccine. Is it the first time you give it to you?

— The second

— Oh no. We only give certificates for the first time when we give the vaccine. You have to go to a nearby clinic.

Life is funny, indeed. I went to the clinic, sweating like a pig on a plastic bag, the people there was more confused than me. They did not have it, in Myanmar there is no yellow fever. I went back to the hospital, the doctor made a couple of calls.

— My friend has a clinic, meet him at five there.

That day, the small city of Dawei saw a ragged zombie walking through its streets and asking about an unknown clinic. I found that place and at five o'clock I knocked on the door, the kind gentleman let me in.

We went to his office, and he read my letter.

— So you need a certificate for Hepatitis B, right?

— No, for Yellow fever

— Oh, because here they wrote Hepatitis B. For yellow fever we can not help you here, we do not have that in Myanmar.

Burmese Logic hint: When you have Hepatitis B you kind of turn yellow, then that should be what people call Yellow fever. Whole day lost, seeking for the cure of the wrong disease. 

— You can go to a nearby physiatrist, maybe she can help you.

On the edge of madness I walked to that place, twenty people waited, the lady looked at the letter and recommended me to go to the clinic where I had already been. Or to a private hospital called Mediland. Leg and mood totally destroyed cursed I went back to the damp and hot afternoon.

Another blessed man asked his friend to take me to the hospital, the hospital was a place for the rich, the employees spoke English and knew the difference between HB and Yellow fever and assured me that throughout the city I was not going to to be able to find it, only in Yangon, 600 km away.

One of the employees suggested that I could ask my family for a copy of my certificate and try my luck at the border, the guy helped me out to print one I downloaded from internet. There was nothing else to do, it was dark already and now I had to go back north and try my luck at the closest border: Myawaddy.

It seems to me that I have lived two years of dusk by the road, usually walking to find a place to sleep or the last trip of the day. Everything happens at dusk, it's a crucial moment. While I was waiting for the police to come, something better happened: the hospital employee came by, he was there to take me to the beginning of the highway. He dropped me next to a petrol station where I waited two hours before giving up.

The teenagers who worked at the petrol station gave me a wooden chair where I threw my sleeping bag. Seems that one of them was very bored because he was coming back to talk every ten minutes. We ended up drinking beer and eating a couple of snacks under the half moon.

I left at 6:30 without having a single bite for breakfast, two cruel hours of waiting followed until a Toyota helped out with 70 km to the north. On a bridge while walking a truck stopped dangerously, they were going to to Yangon.

While they were spitting chewed bitter nut in the plastic bottles, they laughed at the story of my misfortunes. Now I just had to sit down and get to the next big city where I would make a certificate to be free once and for all. The driver knew "Despacito" by heart. 

At 4:00 pm we were in Mawlamyine, I called a sailor who had picked me up a week ago and had told me that I could stay at his place, if I ever passed by. Six different rides followed until I arrived at his village, where I waited for an hour. 

— Hello! I've already fixed a motel for you and a bus for tomorrow to Thailand. The police will not let me host you.

In state of mental paralysis we drove to Hpa An, he dropped me in a GuestHouse quite packed with tourists, given how complicated things were I did not dare to refuse the night but I did not accept the money he tried to hand me for the bus. With a room for myself and with internet, I had the great opportunity to design the cure for my freedom and shape the damn certificate.

On the morning I printed the certificate, I was surprised by the quality of the result. I creased it to simulate use and then laminated it to avoid any kind of close inspection. 900 kyats or $0.85 the total of the operation.

Ready to try my luck I walked east, eventually I found a truck to Myawaddy. Three hours I spent in the box under the sun, the leg wound seemed about to explode. I arrived at the border town, defeated but willing to be free once and for all, with the little money I had I bought the only thing that seemed reasonable at that moment: ice cream.

I said goodbye to Myanmar, on the Thai side hundreds of Burmese people waited to enter. Some of them beckoned me to go ahead and go straight to the cubicle for foreigners, walking past the metal detector and the epidemic control office. The officer put his stamps and welcomed me. Back to the kingdom.

On the other side the wound on my left leg seemed to take a supernatural power over me and I had to throw myself in a corner to meditate my next steps. Dropped a couple of tears as I started to walk again. I saw that horrible world in trousers, obese children, empowered adolescents and indifferent gazes. I had returned to a country developed enough to allow spiritual suicide.

But hitchhiking worked, four minutes later I was in a Mercedes that took me to the outskirts of the city. Another ten took me to find some Burmese in a van that left me in Tak, on the highway that connects Chiang Mai with Bangkok. I walked north, a few meters away, stopped on a bus stop made out of wood, enough for that day.

I said hello to the lady that sold flowers, and her daughter. I laid down on a bench. The girl, only seven years old, lent me her stuffed Minion toy to use as a pillow. My head felt good on it but I felt I was going to sleep for long, I returned his friend and used my jacket instead. Sleep, just sleep.

Chiang Mai was only 200 km away. It was logical and easy to go there first and then to Bangkok. But decided to leave the exploration for later, steps from my bed I waited thirty-five minutes for a Honda that took me all te way to Bangkok in just four hours of travel. At the same time he left me in one of the worst places someone could ever find: twenty kilometers from my friend's house, with no money for the bus and the worst place to hitchhike: next to the airport.

I tried to hitchhike but next to the airport there is no place for drivers to stop. I asked the security staff what to do and they sent me to the airport where I tried to change the kyats I had left to take the bus to the center, they did not accept them and my card did not work either (it had already expired).

From here to there they sent me until I ended up in the Tourist police office. The officer was a bit grumpy and looked at me with an intense grief, I tried to ask what options I had to reach a walkable distance to my friend's house. Suddenly the officer put on his cap and grabbing my passport posed with total seriousness for the photo, simulating consternation for my case. 

— We want to help tourists and make them feel welcome in our country — A young woman said, her voice sounded like a recorded speech

Another officer came back with a couple of bills, gave them to his superior who came up to me with 280 baht, almost $10.

— This is for you to take a taxi to your friend's place.

— I'm going by bus, this is too much. Give me only 40 baht, it's enough

— I do not think it's enough

I refused and grabbed forty, but the officer pointed out that it wouldn't be enough for the bus and gave me another forty. I gave him my kyats, which more or less had the same value.

I jumped in the first bus that passed by, and the second one too. It started to rain like never before and the city was flooded in minutes, I walked to my friend's house, knee deep water. My backpack finally met the well-deserved floor, under the long dreamed roof with the cure laying down gently, knowing it had saved us all.