If you ignored the Japanese man in the neon green hat, circa early 90s (oh man, think White Man Can't Jump w/ Wesley Snipes), and kept your eyes level up from the white stone patio to the sky, there was nothing between you and an 80ft wall of lush jungle but floor-length glass. If you refused to move from the museum seat outside to where the man on the balcony stood (that hat!), you would never know there was a convoy of pimped up tour buses holding children with short attention spans and every hue of tourist khaki; group t-shirts. If you didn't move, if you just sat, it felt like the vegetation was the largest natural art exhibit in the world, the wind made it speak, and you could have peace enough to think about how the history of opium had gotten so out of hand.If you look up in your handy guide book you bought on Amazon, the Golden Triangle is advertised like the Wild West of Asia [[bang]] where, after you've witnessed a behind the back drug-deal-trafficking-deal, you can conveniently go on a great tour, buy the t-shirt, which is true in a lot of ways but not with such vibrant advertising ink. The Golden Triangle does mark the opium growing regions of Thailand, Laos, and Burma but you wouldn't catch one of those deals. Driving up to Mae Sai for our field trip, four hours from "home", is like driving up to a palace with no palace at the end, the promenade lined with gilded posts in Thai style, not any place where folks smuggle opiates or people. For that matter, within a 35 mile radius outside of that, are only sleepy, quiet houses at the base of a green mountain. The humid environment becomes your every breath. The only business to see is the beggar Akha child trying to hustle 5 baht from you on the bridge between Thailand and Burma. You were going to use that 20 baht for an ice coffee anyway.
On the Burma side, The Burmese "prime minister" tries hard to look intimidating in a large frame in the creepy immigration office and the Thai/Burman men on the other side really really really want to sell you a carton of cigarettes for $4.00. Everything is meager on this side. Aung San Suu Kyi is in there somewhere.
The muddy river cuts between two shores and if you avoid reading any national news or UN reports or trendy social justice magazines, you would have no indication that Hilltribe girls of Burma are forced to swim over its water in the low season and are trafficked throughout Thailand, Vietnam, and Cambodia by the thousands. They show up in karaoke bars with lots of rouge and flat ironed hair, hand to chest of a French man. The way back is nearly impossible.
Our entry felt like a whirl-wind escapade as all 10 of us were swept up by anticipating tour guides and motorized buggies rushing us to wats! and temples! Akha villages where kids wore blue UNICEF backpacks! and back to Mae Sai gate! with the jerk of their brakes. At the temples we freed birds and I laughed as I bantered with the temple women about my souvenir prices and bought a phenomenal jade bracelet that seems to be permanently attached to my appendage. At the village, we pulled cameras from their holsters, pictures our only proof that we had veni vidi vici-ed, handing out all our snacks to those who weren't hiding one in their hand already. We didn't stop to play or have dinner with their parents. At last, we walk through the Burmese market to be pressed with cigarette cartons (Hell-o! Cigarettes! I sell you 150 baht! Smoking! It is beautiful! I like!).
We were moving, snapping, so fast, how could we feel deeply what was going on in a tumultuous Burma? The next day was the Hall of Opium museum and then a boat ride on the Mekong, murky as the Mi-ss-i-ss-i-pp-i. The bank of orchids and leaves were ravishing and the lunch was arroy mak delicious and the Golden Buddah was gorgeous sitting above the river. Awaiting us on the Laos side were enough souvenirs to amaze the best of our relatives (okay, some not so much) but the hill tribe children still came out from between the stalls, hands open. And as children, I couldn't delude myself to believe it was misfortune or their bad personal choices that put them there. White plates emblazoned THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE and our snapshots (cheeeese!) in the middle waited our purchase on the other Thai bank. We buy some of them because we think they're funny and epic and they are funny and epic.
I want to see these places (tourist) but the companies hoping to profit from my curiosity wreak havoc on our earth of which we are stewards (tourism). And after a great weekend at the Golden Triangle, on the way home, my mind floats back to the boys on the bridge, the 100 ft. no-mans-land that belongs neither to Burma or Thailand or any country. These citizens are Hill Tribe people and therefore have no recognized citizenship. From one perspective they rule themselves but from another they have no protection. The sly boys will continue to run back and forth, the children from nowhere, belonging to no one, demanding drinks that foreigners can't take back through customs; asking for five baht to give to their mothers. Their families will sit on that bridge as long as weather permits, biding their time until either the government or their circumstances claim them first. We take pictures and say we've been there.
On the Burma side, The Burmese "prime minister" tries hard to look intimidating in a large frame in the creepy immigration office and the Thai/Burman men on the other side really really really want to sell you a carton of cigarettes for $4.00. Everything is meager on this side. Aung San Suu Kyi is in there somewhere.
The muddy river cuts between two shores and if you avoid reading any national news or UN reports or trendy social justice magazines, you would have no indication that Hilltribe girls of Burma are forced to swim over its water in the low season and are trafficked throughout Thailand, Vietnam, and Cambodia by the thousands. They show up in karaoke bars with lots of rouge and flat ironed hair, hand to chest of a French man. The way back is nearly impossible.
Our entry felt like a whirl-wind escapade as all 10 of us were swept up by anticipating tour guides and motorized buggies rushing us to wats! and temples! Akha villages where kids wore blue UNICEF backpacks! and back to Mae Sai gate! with the jerk of their brakes. At the temples we freed birds and I laughed as I bantered with the temple women about my souvenir prices and bought a phenomenal jade bracelet that seems to be permanently attached to my appendage. At the village, we pulled cameras from their holsters, pictures our only proof that we had veni vidi vici-ed, handing out all our snacks to those who weren't hiding one in their hand already. We didn't stop to play or have dinner with their parents. At last, we walk through the Burmese market to be pressed with cigarette cartons (Hell-o! Cigarettes! I sell you 150 baht! Smoking! It is beautiful! I like!).We were moving, snapping, so fast, how could we feel deeply what was going on in a tumultuous Burma? The next day was the Hall of Opium museum and then a boat ride on the Mekong, murky as the Mi-ss-i-ss-i-pp-i. The bank of orchids and leaves were ravishing and the lunch was arroy mak delicious and the Golden Buddah was gorgeous sitting above the river. Awaiting us on the Laos side were enough souvenirs to amaze the best of our relatives (okay, some not so much) but the hill tribe children still came out from between the stalls, hands open. And as children, I couldn't delude myself to believe it was misfortune or their bad personal choices that put them there. White plates emblazoned THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE and our snapshots (cheeeese!) in the middle waited our purchase on the other Thai bank. We buy some of them because we think they're funny and epic and they are funny and epic.
I want to see these places (tourist) but the companies hoping to profit from my curiosity wreak havoc on our earth of which we are stewards (tourism). And after a great weekend at the Golden Triangle, on the way home, my mind floats back to the boys on the bridge, the 100 ft. no-mans-land that belongs neither to Burma or Thailand or any country. These citizens are Hill Tribe people and therefore have no recognized citizenship. From one perspective they rule themselves but from another they have no protection. The sly boys will continue to run back and forth, the children from nowhere, belonging to no one, demanding drinks that foreigners can't take back through customs; asking for five baht to give to their mothers. Their families will sit on that bridge as long as weather permits, biding their time until either the government or their circumstances claim them first. We take pictures and say we've been there.
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