Sometimes getting to a story can be just as interesting as the story itself.
That was the case one day last week when a ragtag bunch of newshounds found themselves tramping through a jungle adventure.
The idea was to get to a muddy, isolated Mon refugee camp at a Thai-Burma border checkpoint near Sangkha Buri in Kanchanaburi province. The refugees had fled from the Halockhani camp just across the border following an attack by Burmese troops.
With the Thai authorities pushing for the refugees to. go back, and the Mon claiming it wasn't safe to do so, we had to get in and see for ourselves what was going on.
We had received a tip that Thai troops may try to push the Mon back on a certain day. But the dirt road leading to the checkpoint had been closed to all traffic by the Border Patrol Police. So we decided to look for another way in.
After much searching around town and many elaborate negotiations we found a guide who agreed to take us along the jungle trails to Halockhani and the border checkpoint, which are only one kilometre apart.
At first, our guide - a doe-eyed young Mon man who could have been any age from 15 to Z5 - wanted to go by night@ But we vetoed that decision - and were later glad we did.
He was reluctant to go during the day was because he feared running into Thai security forces patrolling in the jungle though what we were doing wasn't necessarily illegal.
The week before journalists had expressly been given permission to. enter the area. And although we had heard the blockade was tighter,now, there had been no formal announcement to this effect.
Furthermore, just because the road was closed didn't mean Halockhani was closed.
Whether hardened % soldiers on forest patrol would appreciate such legalistic arguments was a matter of some debate. But trying to get official permission to enter the camp would have meant a tedious - and probably fruitless - trek through some extremely tangled bureaucratic jungle. So we figured we'd just go ahead and try the real thing instead.
By the time we set off there were nine of us altogether, the guide and eight journalists - half of us Thai, half of us farang representing The Nation, the Bangkok Post, Manager, a German press agency and various other publications.
We had all met accidentally in Songkhla, and at first it seemed unwise to go traipsing through a sensitive border region with so many people. But we were all heading to the same place and those of us who had organized the trek couldn't really bring ourselves to exclude the others.
Besides, we didn't know what kind of reception we would get at the camp, and figured there might be safety in numbers.
We were in high spirits upon hitting the trailhead. The incessant rains had actually ceased. We were surrounded by lush, green paddy overlaid by a heavy mist.
Best of all, our guide said it would take only two hours to our destination if the rain held (others had said it would take all day). We marched off with our heads held high. This would be a cake walk, we figured.
We found out otherwise soon after when our guide tried to cross a rain-swollen "stream" and got swept away by a deceptively swift current. It was not clear if he could swim, but he managed to stay afloat until he caught an overhanging tree branch and dragged himself ashore on the other side.
Now we were stymied. We could have swam across, but what about our camera gear?
After much experimentation with lording the river and cutting down bamboo poles, we finally realized that we could just link hands and help each other through the hard parts.
All the to-ing and fro-ing took about half an hour. From the subtle change in expression on our guide's face, he must have realized that Bangkokians may well, but that he would have to earn every baht.
Nevertheless, we felt pretty good about our river conquest - until we found out five minutes later that the trail crossed the same river again.
This time we managed to hack our way through the jungle to a log which crossed the waterway - another time-consuming exercise. But by now the difficulty of the task we had undertaken began to set in, punctuated by a soft drizzle which began to fall.
The trail then began to climb through spectacular scenery. But not all of us could appreciate the stunning vistas, in particular The Nation photographer Kod.
It would have been hard to come across a person more ill-suited to such an arduous trek. Kod's impressive height is complemented by his even more impressive girth. Weighing well over 100 kilos, he lugged along a camera bag that seemed just as heavy.
Kod sat down frequently on the mudcovered trail - sometimes intentionally, more often not. During one of the stops, he conceded to me - a bit late, I thought that he had never been trekking before.
There was little I could do to comfort him, however, apart from trying to appease the increasingly insistent rumbles emerging from his belly with the only offerings I had to give: dry "mama" noodles and dried mango.
We pushed on. The trail headed down toward another stream-tumed-toffent, which we again had; to cross several tiines. But by now we had got the hang of it and were working as a team helping each other across. By now, we were also grateful there were so many of us.
We would occasionally pass Mon villagers along the way. Presumably, they were on theit'way to Sangkhla or surrounding villages-to do a little trade. We could only stare in awe at the heavy loads the men carried, I and the sturdy women trundling along little children.
Then the most exhausting part of the journey: a hike up a long, winding, rock-strewn stream. We became quieter, and our heads began to hang.
Then, just after midday, about six hours into our trek, we beard a faint sound, familiar but much out of place amid the jungle noises. A Thai Army helicopter soon passed overhead and headed toward Halockhani.
I had to suppress a giggle as we all ducked under some bushes so as not to be seen. It seemed unnecessarily dramatic like we were acting out some Vietnam War flic - but anyway we needed the rest.
The worst thing about the helicopter passing was realizing that something was going on at the refugee camp and not knowing what it was. The second worst thing was not being sure if I wanted something to be happening: on the one hand it would have made a great news scoop for us; on the other, it may have turned violent, even deadly.
The helicopter flew away a couple of hours later, piquing our imagination even further. We were getting close now and had gone completely silent at the reques@ of our guide, who said we were close to a police checkpoint.
We hoped we hadn't strayed into Burma, which would have been awkward, not t at the border seemed to make much difference here.
About half an hour from our destination we ran into a Mon villager who offered us some fruit. We sat down for a rest along a riverbank, when suddenly we heard a shout from across the stream. We looked over and our hearts sank into our mud-covered boots.
There, coming out of the jungle, were four Thai soldiers in fatigues, carrying automatic weapons. They were obviously surprised to see us, and a couple were even smiling. But the two senior officers quickly began interrogating us one by one.
Given the circumstances, there was only thing we could do: pretend to be stupid tourists.
What are you doing here? "Ma thiaw," we grinned. (And it was true some of us had come along "adventure tourism", although this was more than we had bargained for).
Where did you come from? "Bangkok." (Okay, we were being cheeky, but we were tired).
Who's your guide? This was the truly 'dangerous question. If they had found the answer, they would have taken him away and done who knows what.
But everyone simply muttered we didn't have one, or else said nothing at all. That's when I knew for sure that we had a really good bunch of people.
Fortunately, one of the soldiers had seen the Mon villager we had just met at the refugee camp that morning, and they didn't think to ask what the other Mon guy was doing there.
I showed them my name card, but was rather miffed to discover they apparently hadn't heard of The Nation, much less me.
"Where are you going," asked a balaclava-clad soldier, who was turning out to be quite a hard case.
"Oh, we heard there was a village around here."
"You mean Halockhani? It's empty. The villagers have all fled to a Thai border checkpoint." And so we finally learned that the refugees had not - yet been pushed back.
They then started discussing whether to send us back. But at this point they met their match in Kod. He was tired. He was hungry. He was half soaking wet and half covered in mud. There was no way, he was going back the way we came.
"Can't you carry us," he asked plaintively, "Maybe send a helicopter in to pick us up?"
The soldiers looked at Kod's bulk in amazement and then at each other in distress. They then,, started complaining about how little equipment they were given, pointing to holes poking through their big, black boots. We knew we had won.
"It's very dangerous around here," the hard-case soldier said in a last bid to send us- away. "There are Mons, Karens and Burmese shooting at each other, even Indians and repatriated illegal immigrants." He spoke of them as if they were criminals.
If it's so dangerous, why are you demanding that the refugees return, we wanted to ask. Instead, we promised we would look after ourselves and slowly, quietly began walking away.
' We regrouped a bit ftuther on, and began babbling away in excitement over our encounter. We quickly paid off our guide (adding a generous tip), who departed sporting a wicked grin. Perhaps he was just relieved at being rid of us, but I like to think that he enjoyed the adventure, also, in hindsight at least.'
Finally, we got to Halockhani. To some it may look like a cramped and muddy little hellhole. But to the reftigees it was a home of sorts. And to us it looked like heaven.
If the Mon were surprised to see eight mud-covered, waterlogged, camera-clicking city-slickers, they hid it under delighted smiles.
There was no doubt about who among us was happiest to be there. Kod dashed, or rather shambled, straight to the nearest little food stall, plopped down in the mud and to the astonishment of the nearby refugees packs of - proceeded to gobble down 12 biscuits.
We all had a good laugh, but we were laughing with him, not at him. Kod actually 'nad more to be proud of than any of us. And it was nice to be able to laugh again.
. The Border Patrol Police stationed at the camp greeted us with equanimity. On the whole, they seemed pleasantly surprised to have new company, although they warned, us next time we would have to arrive with proper permission.
We wolfed down some kwitiaow and the latest news. A fact-finding group from the Parliamentary Committee on Human Rights had been forbidden to enter the camp. The district officer and a soldier from the 9th Infantry Division had arrived in the helicopter and warned the refugees they had one more week to go back voluntarily or things would get "a little difficult".
Then we heard the really bad news: a Reuters reporter had also been on the helicopter.
We jealously cursed our luck. Even with what little news there had been, we'd been scooped. Too bad we ha@'t really been in Vietnam: we could have shot down the damn helicopter.
But on second thought, we'realized we could now walk with a bit of swagger because we had gotten to the camp the hard way. And so we had our own story to tell, which no one else could scoop.