Myanmar’s ruling military junta’s outright ban on foreign journalists left media outlets across the world screaming for information from the handful of reporters who made it into the country in the wake of cyclone Nargis. One-the-scene journalists were in such short demand that tourists who happened to be passing through were relied upon by the likes of CNN to give live accounts of the situation on the ground. Blogs written by aid workers who had been operating in Myanmar when the disaster struck were being given two-page spreads in major newspapers.
I ‘d been planning a trip to the stricken country since before the cyclone but once it hit the number of people trying to gain entry – both aid workers and journalists pretending to be aid workers – meant visas became practically impossible to secure. After having my application knocked back repeatedly a desperate search of the web turned up a possible alternative to the standard que-fruitlessly-at-the-Myanmar-embassy-in-Bangkok-along-with-a-million-other-people method most were pinning their hopes on. I came across a Yangon-based travel agency which claimed to be able to secure a ‘visa on arrival’ in exchange for a fee. All I had to do was book a flight, get some digital passport photos taken, fill out a few forms and then email the lot back to the agency. They then sent me a document, entirely in Burmese, which when printed off was enough to get me onto my flight from Bangkok to Yangon without a visa stamped into my passport. It wouldn’t be enough to get me through immigration in Myanmar I was told, but the plan was that a representative from the agency would then meet me in Yangon airport and arrange for my passport to be visa stamped on site.
While furtively snapping pictures of the ruined Irrawaddy Delta region out the window of my near-empty Air Asia flight I was feeling rather chuffed with myself – I’d found a way into Myanmar faster than the head of the UN. The visa on arrival notion had run like clockwork – until I got to immigration – and no one was there to meet me.
As I frantically looked around for someone holding a sign with my name on it the seriousness of the situation I’d landed myself in began to dawn. Myanmar is suffering under one of the most paranoid, brutal regimes on the planet. They round up opponents and subject them to decades of torture and neglect in stinking over crowed prisons. They also have a particular bug-bear against western journos.
Less than a year ago they shot 50-year-old Japanese photographer Kenji Nagai at point-blank range in broad daylight in front of thousands of witnesses. Moments earlier I was practically clapping myself on the back for being cute enough to steal the march on the mobs of journalists stuck in Bangkok without a clue of how to gain entry – now I was cursing myself for being so stupid as to trust myself to some agency I stumbled across on the internet. I stood in the near empty immigration hall while the few mostly Thai and Burmese stragglers I’d shared my flight with filtered their way through the shockingly stern-faced officials who all wore military uniform replete with firearms.
Before leaving Bangkok I felt happy I’d pass the normal cursory inspection meted out to visitors, but not having a visa or anyone to help me get one meant I would be scrutinised. I could lie for Ireland if necessary but my passport, if examined closely, would betray my real line of work because it bore a work permit stamp featuring the name of the company I’d been working for in Thailand. The company was called Ensign Media.
I shuffled around at the back of the queue while the officials looked on until I could delay things no longer. I stilled my urge to throw up as I slid my passport to the grumpy, middle-aged official. He flicked it open to the page where my visa stamp was supposed to be, looked at me, looked at my passport and then back at me again.
“No visa!” he barked.
“No, I don’t have a visa. Sorry about that. Someone was supposed to meet…” I mumbled before being interrupted.
“No visa”, he said again as if this was now my name, “You go over there!” Before nodding towards a bank of manned desks similar to his own.
“Which one?”
“Over there!” he yelled again, without actually looking up or indicating in any other way where I was supposed to go. So, I picked a desk which was manned by an equally miserable excuse for a human being who snatched my passport out of my hand and again opened it to the harrowingly blank no-visa page.
“No visa! You go in there!”
This lad pointed and I knew where I was going, through a little doorway with an armed, green-clad official waiting patiently for me on either side of it.
As I walked towards the door I realised there were two other officials walking behind me. I’d no idea how long they’d been there but it all seemed academic by that stage – I was caught rapid. The interview room I was shown into had a small, greasy, be-spectacled fellow sitting behind a desk with a notepad and a pen on it. I took a seat in front of him when he motioned me to sit down. He looked at me in a way that spelled out the fact that he wasn’t up for any bullshit and I had to quell an urge to spill my guts straight off the bat. Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye I noticed someone entering the room. When I turned around I was confronted with what I’m still convinced is the most gorgeous girl I’d ever clapped eyes on. She was made all the more stunning by the fact that she had a piece of card with my name written across it.
“Mr Robert?” she asked.
“Yep.”
“I am Aye from Magoda Travel. So sorry I’m late!” she said, putting her hands together in front of her face and bowing slightly in the traditional Southeast Asian show of deference. She then said something in Burmese to the official behind the desk who responded with a grunt and a nod.
“OK, OK, he say no problem, you can go and collect your bag. I will arrange visa for you and see you outside in five minutes.”
I got my bag and Aye came after me with my stamped passport and a bill. She also gave me a map of Yangon, hailed a taxi for me and apologised again for being late.
“I read your passport,” she said quietly as I threw my bags into the back of the battered old motor. “Make sure you take care.”
The rest of the trip had its ups and downs, but I didn’t run into Aye again. Shame really, as, unbeknown to the girl, I’ve decided I’m going to marry her some day.
