Better run for the border

Before returning to Thailand back in January, I promised Lian that I would arrive in time for us to meet up in her hometown of Nasan, where she was caring for her mother, the flasher. I also promised that I would still be here for her birthday in early April. Consequently, this puts me one week over my 60-day visa limit. To avoid a steep fine at departure and possible banishment from the country, I make my very first visa run.

It's a simple thing, really, and a whole industry is built up around it: a van or coach takes me up to the border town of Mae Sai, where I step across into Myanmar, immediately return to Thailand and collect a new visa stamp, good for 15 days. (Arriving by air, the limit is 30 days, don't ask me why.)

So I buy van passage at the nearby Riverside guest house, where everyone knows "Mr. William." Thursday morning I am the second pickup as the silver 10-passenger van makes its rounds of nearby backpacker hotels to collect the day's runners. The driver turns out to be yet another maniac who cannot abide the presence of any vehicle in front of him. So for the next five hours we are passing on blind curves, passing with oncoming vehicles barreling down on us, and getting passed by even crazier drivers. Why everybody in this country doesn't die in a head-on collision every single day is beyond me.

Cucumbers on their way to market.

On the highway I watch farm produce go by. Cukes are a big deal over here. Most every plate of food, especially spicy dishes, includes a generous garnish of raw cucumber slices to quench the fire. Lian and I go through about 10 cukes a week ourselves. So it's a very popular crop for northern farmers.

After a harrowing four hours over mountainous terrain we arrive in Mae Sai, where our driver lets us off at a crossing station. "One hour!" he shouts, and that's about how long it takes to exit Thailand, pay our 500-baht entry fee into Myanmar, and then fight our way back through the filthy, despicable little beggar-boys who tug at our clothing and plead loudly for coins to distract us as their accomplices behind probe for our wallets. Rotten little bastards.

The Marlboro Monk.

Passport freshly stamped, I make my way back to the van and settle into my seat for the trip back. Glancing over to the door of a nearby 7-Eleven, I see something I have never seen before in all my trips to Thailand: a Buddhist monk pulling out a pack of cigarettes and lighting up. Those guys have rules about that sort of behavior!

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Here's what $89,000 buys you in a gated community outside Chiang Mai.

The owner is an acquaintance of Lian's who wants to move back to her hometown in the south. So just for fun we go have a look. "Only looking!" I caution.

We take a Red Car down to the suburb of Hang Dong. (Snicker, snort.)  After some difficulty we track down the correct address in a maze of identical-looking houses.  We tour the place and I will admit, it looks very clean and comfortable. But Lian instantly loves the place and wants to move in this minute. "Maybe we can ask for discount, you think?" she whispers eagerly in my ear.

I patiently explain that the short answer is: no. And that the long answer is also no.