7 November 2017

In separate issues, the journal 100 Words (they publish nothing longer) featured two prose poems I’d written about the border muddles in Southeast Asia’s Golden Triangle. The situation is no more clear today than it was back when I first encountered it—for people like the Rohingya, fleeing from further west in Myanmar, it is undeniably worse.  Perhaps these pieces will spark some thought trails:

No Man’s Land: Bridging the Lines on the Map

The bridge over the river Sop Ruak, deep in the Golden Triangle, lies between the border posts of Thailand and Myanmar. At either end, sentries patrol: flags flying, guns at the ready. The border is closed, and has been for years. But out on the bridge, Chinese, Burmen, and Bengali merchants trade in ivory, gems, opium, and silk. Nothing is illegal, for the bridge belongs to neither country.

So the border has caused the bridge—or did the existence of the bridge determine the nature of the border? Does trade exist in spite of the border or because of it?

Bridge vendor contemplates the mystery of the border—or maybe he’s just really enjoying that opium pipe.

Originally published in 100 Words, Vol. 3, No. 2, 1995

Off the Map

The amorphous Golden Triangle region is known for smuggling; only at this spot is anywhere officially labelled “Golden Triangle.”

In far northern Thailand, the Mae Sai River flows into the great sweep of the Mekong. Mapmakers call the northwest bank Myanmar, the northeast, Laos. Out in the middle, wedged between the three countries, is a small triangular island of reed banks and empty fields. It appears on no map, but in the light of the falling sun its surface turns from green to gold.

After dark we hear the screams and giggles of children on the Laotian bank getting their nightly bath. The golden triangle in the middle of the river can no longer be seen.

Bath night on the Mekong River.

Originally published in 100 Words, Vol. 6, No. 1, 1998