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statuettes and elders with water into their own game; they dowsed anything that moved. We were big western targets as we neared our base, the village of Ban Muang Paem. Our water bottles provided little ammunition against the buckets that drenched us comfortably and greeted our arrival. The vil lage was a lS-minute walk from the Burmese border, a mix of the Karen tribe and Burmese refugees. Few vil lagers spoke Thai, but many spoke Engl ish, having learned it in col lege before their self exile to the mountainside. The Thai government has turned a blind eye to these refugees, provided they don't head south to the industrial ized sector. Those who do are sent back to Burma. When we fi rst arrived, most of the villagers watched us set up camp. The older men stood back and smoked their pipes while the children crawled into our sleeping bags. A few women inspected the stitching and color of our tents. A spirited Thai game played like hacky-sack on a volleyball court broke out. Jim and Jamie quickly lost. In the morning we set off across dormant poppy fields. The same young boys who played with us the night before would guard these fields with rifles and machine guns during the autumn harvest. This was drug country, and despite the government's efforts, this region still produces one of the largest crops of opium in the world. In an effort to curb this production, the government has offered subsidies for those who forego the rich crop and return to "people feeding" farming. The economic reality is that subsistence farming does not seem as appealing; cherry red 4x4 trucks and satell ite dishes often occupy yards where chickens once roamed. During the 27 days we spent in and out of new caves, I began to develop an affection for the underworld. It was like Hades on a good day. You got used to your senses being distorted. Albino fish with no eyes swam in cave pools. Bats flew by, uninterested in 55