I made a run to Cambodia the other weekend, the impetus of which was my visa, set yet again set to expire in a matter of days. A common practice among expats and foreign travelers alike is to do what’s dubbed, a “visa run.” This is basically taking a trip to the closest boarder crossing station, going through customs, acquiring visa and or appropriate stamps indicting that you have in fact left the country and then turning right back around and re-entering the country, in effect renewing your visa. This is so common that business have been established offering transportation to such boarder crossing. However, not too long ago an American employee of Mariani attempted said “visa run” and was basically mugged in broad daylight, proving this kind of trip to not be entirely without a specter of danger. Further proof are the smattering of other horror stories one can dig-up online, coupled with the fact that it’s an eight hour excursion to get there and back, not including the time spent actually getting the passport thing taken care of. At this point any remaining motivation for the trip is pretty much killed. Fortunately, Nat decided keep me company during the trip, also having the foresight to bring along a comforter and pillows, clearly establishing the optimal way to while-away the hours in the car, catching up on our much needed “Z’s.”
Upon arrival at the boarder, the city of Anyaprathet about thirty yards away, I hopped from the van laden only with the 1,000 bht I would need for the visa, a pen, my passport and a couple mug shots of myself also required for the visa. In addition, I had a back-up thow tucked into my shoe in case bribe money would become necessary. My other effects that I didn’t particularly care to put at risk of ‘seizure’ remained in the car.
Anyaprathet could be likened to many a border town one would find entering Mexico. Good old-fashioned filth! No apparent order, simply more of what I’ve come to call: abided chaos. Rickshaw-esque trailers ramble along side rusted out pick-ups that belch exhaust fumes as they pass shoddy bicyclists who weave through pedestrians that meander the dirt streets hauling bags, buckets and bundles of god knows what to god knows where. I’m probably not stretching the truth too much in stating that most of what goes down in this place is strictly under the table. A handful of merchants have staked their place under large umbrellas set up along the road, hawking trinkets, gum and beverages.
From the reading I had done, I was lead to believe that at any moment I was to be bombarded by marauding hordes of hustlers that would try to dupe me into paying them for “services” in acquiring a visa. I think that because I was here on a Monday and not on a weekend this was not really the case. It was more like sporadic molestations by an assemblage of underprivileged individuals. But I would definitely recommend to anyone else doing this kinda thing, to do it during the week, and avoid the rumored weekend exodus.
Ambling down the dirt road I passed at least half a dozen casinos strategically placed for the rich Thai and Chinese residents to spend their weekends. A disconcerting juxtaposition with the piss-poor of the population loitering the streets, begging for a hand out, while the coifed and pleasant smelling happen past them, vanishing into cool, dark, recesses of the gambling halls, in order to throw money away. The casinos did however provide welcoming rushes of cool air as I passed their entrances. A gratifying yet temporal abatement from the heat, dust, and odor of sick that wafted freely through the air.
A few yards further I crossed over what could, but really shouldn’t be described as a stream. The water was barely distinguishable from the solid earth in which it serpentined through. On its trash-strewn banks, parentless children played undaunted by the sheer disgustingness of it all. When I say parentless, it’s not that these kids are orphans…well they could be, but, basically these grimy kids, with dirt caked faces, feet and hands, often as young as two years old, run the streets supervised only by who appears to be an older sibling, seldom over a year or two their senior. These children, clad in ratty soiled clothes, have already accepted begging as their way of life. Unabashed they approach, with palms outstretched towards any passing farang, not so much begging but demanding you give them something. “Mai Mi” (I don’t have) if not a Thai phrase mastered by now, certainly is after faced with this kind of onslaught.
At this point the urge to take a leak welled up inside like nobody’s business, so I quickly ducked into a hole of a restroom at one of the first checkpoints. Now, I should have figured this would happen- upon my exit the “attendee” stopped me, pointing at the sawed-off bottom half of a plastic sprite bottle serving as his tip jar. What it exactly it was that warranted a tip, was far beyond me, and the man’s apparent services here. I’m quite certain this bathroom had not been attended to in well…ever. In addition, the only money I had was the 1000 bht I needed for the visa, and the secret stash in my shoe, neither of which were in small enough in increments to leave in his tip jar. I attempted to tell him I’d gladly pay him his gratuity on my way back out, though positive he understood little of what I said. Somehow it worked. Or maybe it was that I was already walking out of the restroom by the time I finished my plead, and he probably figured it wiser to let a couple baht go, than risk chasing me out into the open with a cup full of change in his hands. Then I might have actually seen “marauding hordes.” I did truly intend to give him a little something on my way back out, but by that time I was in possession of what I had come for- the coveted visa, I was zeroed-in on getting back to the “land of smiles,” and completely forgot about my bathroom attendant and his top notch service.
Another notable exchange was between me and the guy who’s “job” it was to write my name on a visa form, have me sign it and then pass it on to another guy who promptly disappeared with it. This is the worst part. When you’ve no longer got possession of your passport, and don’t know how to ask where it went. You’re at the mercy of the system…praying that there actually is one. But while I was sitting there with the officer, he turned and offered me a bit of unexpected comfort, or discomfort depending on how you look at it. Staring at me with an impassive expression, he stated, “You are attractive.”
Apparently this guy was unfazed when Angelina Jolie came through town. But this was good, I thought. If the man thinks I’m attractive then perhaps he is diligently seeing to it that the utmost of care is exhibited in the handling of my passport. That, or he wanted to take a razor to my face- “I’ll show you attractive white boy!” The latter turned out not to be true…which was nice. And after I thanked him for the compliment he pretty much lost interest in me, leaving me at his station alone for the next fifteen minutes only to show up again with the other guy and my passport. They handed it over, now with a Cambodian visa sticker on its pages. “A tip for us?” They said, almost in unison. This was not a huge surprise, and I was ready with a 50 bht bill, which was nabbed by the officer and quickly followed with a more emphatic, “Tip for both of us.” I had to go diggin’ into the shoe for this one. I pulled out a sweaty 100 bht bill and flashed a smile almost as good as the one on my mug shot. “Can you guys split this?” I asked. It was deemed appropriate and they gave me back my 50 in exchange for it.
On the journey back out, I had to turn my passport over once more, this time to the Thai officials, who after a couple of questions about my reasons for coming into Thailand passed it back with the official stamp. During this time however, the grubby kids from earlier realize that this is their last shot at shaking you down, so they pull out all the stops. Pieces of cardboard and plastic are vigorously waved, fanning you as you await the return of your passport. Umbrellas are wielded over your head as you walk the remaining distance across the border. They are relentless. No matter what you tell them they will not leave your side. I could’ve been Michael Jackson, walking up the steps of a courtroom and they’d still be clinging to my side. They stalked me all the way back across the border to the awaiting van. Only then did I relinquish some change, only after being confident that I could close the door and be outta there in a moment if necessary.
The excitement of midday soon died down as Nat and I settled in for the long and lazy drive back to Sriracha. Our van passed through rice fields and small villages, scenes that have now become commonplace in our tired eyes. The rainy season still upon us, we passed through a couple rain showers, one of which brought the amusing site of a pick-up truck filled with cement lawn statues including (in pairs) giraffes, chickens, pigs and horses. I couldn’t help but think of the driver as a Thai version of Noah, truckin’ his animals two by two through the downpour.
