Everyone who spends time travelling builds up a bank of war stories with which to bore their friends, but during the last holiday I took in Thailand before opting to move here I found myself part of a simply incredible series of events.
In June of last year, when I was working in Ireland, a friend of mine was plying his trade in Australia. We decided to meet half way for a holiday and Thailand chosen as the venue. I had found myself in a drunken conversation at a house warming party some months previously during which the person I was chatting with made me promise that if I ever set foot in Thailand again, I would fly to the northern city of Chiang Mai and go trekking around the villages of the hill tribes that eek out a spartan existence in the jungle-clad mountains near Thailand's border with Myanmar. It was an unusual conversation but I set aside my concerns about taking advice from an inebriated stranger and started to lay my plans.
The area in question is the site of considerable unrest given that the tribes of the region, the Karon being chief among them, have been driven quite recently across the Thai border by the Myanmar army which has been attempting to wipe out its ethnic minorities. Despite the presence of Thai troops, the Myanmar army frequently launches incursions across the Thai border in pursuit the Karon and other tribes.
Being a super-star journalist in the making, none of this was of any real concern and in fact, made me want to go there all the more. Sadly, my friend was somewhat unconvinced – hill tribes, Thai army outposts and military incursions weren't what he had in mind. But although he wanted to split his time between the beach and the bars my rabid enthusiasm won him over and after meeting in Bangkok we flew to Chiang Mai and readied ourselves for the journey. As it turned out, we found a travel agency which sorted us out with a guide who could bring us from our base camp (cushy hotel) into the mountains by bus until we ran out of road. From there it would all be on foot.
The agency also gave us a ludicrously long list of things we might need and being the hill walking newbies that we were, we wandered the streets for hours on end until we had the lot. So, weighed down with twice the luggage we would need, crippled by Thai whiskey hangovers and suffering from some bizarre side-effects brought on by medicated malaria pills, we boarded our bus at the crack of dawn for the two hour journey. Our travelling party consisted of myself, my companion Robbie, a teenage Thai guide who had adopted the name of Tony, and two stoney-faced girls from New Zealand.
By the time we got to the edge of the jungle proper, it was absolutely chucking down with rain and after 20 minutes trying to clamber up the muddy banks of the first of what would be literally hundreds of hills we would be forced to negotiate, I was having second thoughts. However, the cheerful, gung ho attitude of the New Zealanders sparked a competitive element that forced us on.
Around the three hour mark, we came across a stunning waterfall and although it was still pouring out of the heavens, myself and my compatriot peeled off and jumped in. Tony the guide followed gingerly after us but the New Zealanders remained on the banks, ostentatiously checking their watches a la Alex Ferguson in extra time.
After staying in the water longer than we really wanted to, we sauntered out and took off on the second leg of our journey towards the first village. We had been walking for a good eight hours before we began to hear the clang of pots, the barking of dogs and the giggling of children being carried through the trees. When the village came into view, it became apparent that it consisted of little more than a dozen stilted wooden shacks made out of bamboo. However, we could barely keep the grins off our faces at the prospect of being able to lay down for a while and the reception of our hosts, who greeted us with warm smiles and by taking our bags for the last few feet of our journey, made the rudimentary nature of the facilities a non-issue. Amoung the welcoming party was a village senior and myself and Robbie had to suppress our laughter when he introduced himself as 'Mick'. I didn't know it then, but this cheerful but authoritative individual would, within days, turn me into a cold-blooded killer.
To be continued...
