The notice posted over the bridge in the Burmese
border town of Meng La draws a large crowd, so I elbow in for
a look. Written in perfect Chinese, the poster declares the local
government’s intention to close several casinos. The word
on the street is that some Chinese government officials took public
funds to Meng La’s casinos and gambled them away. Someone
was having too much fun, on the people’s money, so Beijing
is pulling strings to put the squeeze on the fun pipe. A town
that has long fed at the trough of the vice trade might now have
to gear up for lean times. Would the Burmese government really
make good on its threat to shut down the casinos upon which Meng
La’s fortunes are built? Or will authorities to the north
take pity on their Meng La brethren and rescind their request
for the casinos to be shuttered.
It doesn’t take much to attract a crowd
in China, but this isn’t exactly China. This small enclave
is known as Burma’s Chinatown of Sin, Meng La Special District
4, a sliver of territory along the Chinese border in the eastern
reaches of Burma’s Shan state. It is one of a confusing
jumble of mini-states on the Burmese side of the Sino-Burmese
border. Everyone on its streets, from shopkeepers to the leaders
of local ethnic militias, has a Chinese name and speaks Mandarin.
Even its storefront signs and political propaganda are written
in Chinese.
At the Thai border crossing at Taicheck, I hear
tales of Myanmar government atrocities in the hills. Locals report
that “it is very different in Meng La—they have electricity
all the time. They even have the Internet.” Amenities include
accommodations with running water, air conditioning (and the power
to run it), and Chinese satellite television for ¥30 (US$4)
per night.
Meng La is far more Chinese than Burmese. Electric
power comes from China, and is stable. Internet access is also
via China, and at ¥2 (25 cents) an hour, is reasonably cheap.
The usual Chinese restrictions apply: Don’t plan on conducting
any extensive research on Falungong from a Meng La Internet terminal.
A postcard from the Meng La post office mailed to Beijing is charged
as Chinese domestic mail. The currency in Meng La, the Myanmar
khat, is more useful as comic relief than anything else. Everything
is paid for with Chinese people’s currency, the renminbi
(RMB).
But the true proof of Meng La’s integration
with its northern neighbor comes when I turn on my Beijing cell
phone, silent since I left China, and see a welcome message from
China Mobile’s Yunnan Province provider. This makes perfect
sense. A steady supply of money from Chinese tourists keeps the
big restaurants and hotels (and massage parlors and red light
districts) of Meng La humming, so this provides incentive for
a deal between the Burmese government and China Mobile to keep
all parties happy.
Meng La may be partly understood in contrast to
its more typically Burmese neighboring town to the south, Kengteng.
Known as the capital of the Golden Triangle, Kengteng is governed
by the government in Rangoon, though the status of its surrounding
countryside is debatable. Traveling around Kengteng is like walking
through Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. The town is built around
a serene lake and dominated by an enormous gilded Buddha. Colonial-era
buildings crumble beside the sprawling, government-owned Kengteng
Hotel, which boasts an air-conditioning unit in every room but
lacks the power to run them. At night, the town goes dark, except
for the lights of private residences wealthy enough to afford
private generators, which emit the distinctive whir that in this
town says money. Most of these homes, however, bear telltale Chinese
Door God placards revealing the origins of their owners.
Meng La is an oasis of prosperity, thanks to its
Chinese connection. But as with any town whose basis of economic
prosperity is sin, there are bound to be problems, and that is
what the notice on the arch is about.
Sex, Drugs, and Museums
In the center of town is the Farmer’s Market, a square-shaped
building surrounding a vast courtyard covered by a high, open-sided,
corrugated roof. During the day, it is a typical Southeast Asian
agricultural market. At night, it transforms into the center of
Meng La’s red light district as the vendors go home and
the exterior buildings blaze to life in a flurry of neon pink
and red. Even if the casinos close, Meng La has its sex industry
to fall back on. Though as an outgrowth of Chinese gambling-related
tourism, this is likely to suffer from any long-term casino closures.
The bars have no drinks and no music, but “girls”
are present in profusion. Most of the time they sit around and
watch TV and play cards. Most have an “agent” of some
sort who beckons passersby and calls the girls to line up on the
roadside each time a potential customer drives, saunters, or stumbles
by. “Laoban (“Big Boss” in Chinese), how about
a girl tonight? We have the prettiest.” Prostitution is
technically illegal, and bar girls are supposed to get a monthly
health-check certificate, without which they are not supposed
to be able to register as guests in the local hotels. In the only
bar that appears to have customers I convince the Laoban Niang
(“Mrs. Boss”) to get me a beer from the nearest store—her
“bar” offers no liquid refreshments.
Business has been bad due to some sort of clampdown
on the Chinese side of the border. The working girls might have
to lineup on the curbside 40 times in one night and then might
not even “get sold.” Some seem to think this is related
to SARS, but most feel this is a Chinese attempt to stop the hemorrhage
of public funds that is pouring into Meng La’s casinos and
other entertainments.
The town also has a museum dedicated to the struggle
against drug production and trafficking. When asked what might
happen in Meng La if the casino closure proves permanent, the
most common answer is that the town will return to drug production:
either heroin or methamphetamine, which is increasingly popular
here.
Meng La is a special place, a border town with
a degree of formal political autonomy. Its people have made the
best of their autonomy, and used it to learn a collective trade—even
if that trade is debauchery. Kengteng, with its shoddy electrical
power and lack of just about anything modern, is a fairly typical
Burmese town. While still part of Burma, Meng La looks and feels
like a Chinese city. The contrast between the two could not be
more stark. It is a contrast that points to the fact that the
Myanmar Junta (the State Development and Restoration Council—SDRC)
isn’t too concerned about development, at least not at the
level that might make a difference in the lives of ordinary people.
While one may grouse about the Chinese system, at least Chinese
people—and their brethren in the little enclave of Meng
La—have electricity, and aren’t shut off from the
outside world.
That the electricity is used to power the red
lights of a mini “sin city” is just part of the mixed
blessing of life on the border of two cultures in transition.
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