Burmese Daze
Imagine a city dreamed up by a druglord and subject to his every whim. Andrew Marshall visits Mongla-the town heroin built
The Time : JANUARY 28, 2002 VOL.159 NO.3
Travel in Burma for long enough and you will eventually hear the name, often whispered with something approaching awe: Mongla. It sounds a bit like Shangri-la, and for some Burmese-who have lived under military rule since 1962-it is. "There are no soldiers there," marveled one Burmese friend. "There it is like," he struggled to find a word to describe a place without Burmese soldiers. "There it is like democracy."
Well, not quite. Situated in Burma's Shan state, less than a mile from the Chinese border, Mongla is ruled by a brutal heroin trafficker and has an unsavory reputation as a freewheeling center for gambling and prostitution. Yet, curiously, the Burmese regime is promoting it as a model town. Why? To find out, I hired a car and driver and set out for Mongla-the town that drugs built.
Until very recently, it was just an insignificant village in a sparsely populated area of northeastern Burma. It owed its remarkable transformation-and its notoriety-to a Shan Chinese druglord called Lin Mingxian. Lin had been a field commander in the Communist Party of Burma, or CPB, a formidable insurgent group that once occupied a large swath of northeastern Shan state. When the CPB collapsed in 1989, Lin led a breakaway faction of over 3,500 soldiers, taking control of an opium-rich wilderness bordering China, Laos and Thailand.
What happened next was extraordinary. Rather than take on Lin and his well-equipped private army, Burma's generals cut a generous deal with him. In return for keeping the peace, Lin was granted immunity from prosecution and full autonomy in the Mongla region. The regime also gave him lucrative business concessions in gold, timber and gems, as well as-crucially-tacit permission to trade in opium.
This Faustian deal was one of several the junta made with the opium warlords within its borders. They have helped Burma become one of the world's largest opium producers, and the source of at least half the heroin sold in the U.S. Soon Lin was opening new heroin-smuggling routes in Southeast Asia to get his product to the U.S. and Australia. The U.S. State Department identified Lin and his Wa allies as key players in the heroin and methamphetamines trade. A single refinery belonging to the Lin syndicate could manufacture anything up to 2,000 tons of pure heroin every year.
Drugs made Lin a very rich man, but they were only one source of his enormous income. Mongla was a transshipment area for smuggling Chinese laborers through Thailand and into America. For this service the laborers paid up to $40,000 each; some paid again with their lives. Three hundred Chinese hailing from Lin's territory were aboard a ship that ran aground off New Jersey in 1993. Scores of them drowned trying to swim ashore through heavy seas.
Meanwhile, Mongla grew. Casinos and other tourist attractions were built, and soon thousands of Chinese day-trippers from neighboring Yunnan province were pouring over the border to visit them. Later I picked up an official tourism leaflet, written in Chinese, which described Mongla as "a beautiful and prosperous region (with) unique natural scenery and curious local customs." One of those curious customs was public executions. Lin governed his private fiefdom with medieval brutality. On one occasion three men suspected of plotting to assassinate him were dragged into the busy market and machine-gunned to death by his teenage bodyguards.
To reach Mongla you must negotiate a bewildering variety of checkpoints. An hour or so before the town, I stopped at a bridge to show my documents at a Burmese immigration post. On the other side I was waved through two fortified checkpoints manned by conspicuously armed soldiers. This was the first indication that I had entered Lin's territory: the soldiers were not Burmese, but belonged to the National Democratic Alliance Army-a fancy name for Lin's private militia. A few miles farther on, my entry was officially recorded at a small roadside booth by a grumpy, half-naked man playing Tetris.
Mongla sprawls across a spacious valley bound by dark hills. I drove along the high street, where many old buildings had been demolished and replaced by the standard-issue shophouses, some of which doubled as cheap brothels. Most residents had retreated inside to escape the sweltering heat, and the streets were empty apart from a grimy Akha woman sifting through the trash cans.
I didn't linger for long, since there was a chance I'd miss the first attraction on my whistle-stop tour of Mongla-the transvestite show. The venue was on a hill to the south of town, at the end of a road leading past the crocodile show and through landscaped hills. At the top of the hill was a large parking lot packed with Chinese minibuses. The show was taking place in a dark hall packed with people, its air moist and overbreathed and circulated by several ineffectual ceiling fans.
A low stage festooned with blinking lights ran the length of the room. One transvestite gyrated upon it in a translucent top and high heels. Another lay nearby, legs akimbo, doing something unspeakable with a cigarette. I couldn't quite see what: there were so many heads craning into my line of vision. A song was playing, scratchily amplified: "Ladyboy, ladyboy/ I wanna be a ladyboy."
And what was amazing about all this was the audience: they were all elderly Chinese couples on day trips from Yunnan province. About 10,000 Chinese tourists visit Mongla every day-among them, these grandmothers with blue-rinsed hair who sat unflinchingly as a trannie waltzed on in a see-through flamenco dress.
After the show, the scene outside was scarcely believable. Five or six topless ladyboys stood beneath the noonday sun and invited Chinese tourists to pose with them. One was a wizened old lady, who stood sandwiched between two sets of surgically perfect breasts, valiantly flashing a V sign.
Chinese minibuses were soon squealing out of the parking lot in convoys, and I told my driver to follow. The minibuses wound back down the hill and parked before a temple with a giant sculpture of a reclining Buddha. The temple didn't have much in the way of meditative calm. Before the Buddha stood two pretty girls in cotton-candy dresses who for $1.20 posed for photos with their pet python. It was curled up miserably in a basin with its mouth taped shut. Next to them were two more girls with a peacock. Downstairs at the entrance, shops offered a narrow but highly popular selection of souvenirs: jade bracelets, packets of ginseng and hard-core pornographic VCDs.
There were also sets of postcards featuring Mongla's ladyboys in nipple-revealing evening wear. They starred in the official Mongla calendar, too. January showed a dazzling ladyboy swinging in the crook of an elephant's trunk; December had two ladyboys badly superimposed against a New Hampshire autumn. It was by far the cheapest, shoddiest, tackiest souvenir I had ever seen. I bought two.
Our next stop was the National Races Museum-actually a kind of human zoo populated by members of the myriad ethnic groups living within Burma's borders. Chinese tourists streamed in boisterous high spirits through a decorative wooden gateway flanked by two lookout posts, each occupied by a man in faux-tribal dress blowing wearily on a conch shell. All the exhibits in this museum were alive, of course, although there was a lot of cheating. The young woman in Akha tribal costume standing at the gate-the one playing the Game Boy-was a local Shan. So was the Lahu girl sitting on the motorbike next to her.
We were swept up on a wave of Chinese tourists and carried along a winding path that led past wooden huts occupied by various tribespeople. There were two old Shan women flogging herbal medicines, as well as a large contingent of Padaung or Kayan women-known as "giraffe women" or "long-necks" for the brass coils stacked high around their throats. We crowded into a round hut to watch them perform a traditional dance, which involved the flicking of colorful hankies.
The next show was clearly anticipated by the Chinese tourists. While the wives dutifully hung back, the men crowded along a low wooden fence. Beyond it was an artificial grove of ferns and waterfalls. Five women wearing wet sarongs appeared and began to pour water slowly over themselves. Occasionally a woman would let a sarong slip to show a glistening brown breast. The Chinese men craned forward; two guards blew whistles and shooed them back. The women splashed about in desultory fashion for another five minutes and then, upon some hidden cue, picked up their buckets and tossed water over the leching spectators. The men scampered back to their wives. There was much hilarity.
Afterward one of the girls sat on the grass combing her wet hair. I asked her what aspect of tribal culture her display was meant to illustrate. "We are Burman ladies washing and playing with water," she explained sweetly. And was she Burman? "Oh no. I'm Shan. All of us are from Mongla."
My next stop was Mongla's opium museum. This was opened in 1997 by Lieut. General Khin Nyunt, Burma's despised spy chief and de facto leader, to commemorate the supposed eradication of drugs in the Mongla region. The museum resembled a temple, with a seven-tiered spire, gold-painted finials and lots of architectural twiddly bits. Inside were all the exhibits one would expect: photos of dead junkies; photos of generals wagging their chins over packets of heroin; photos of the same heroin (one assumed) going up in flames at various drug-burning ceremonies.
I was drawn to a display about rehabilitation, which consisted of four tableaux incorporating life-size mannequins. The first tableau showed two youngsters shooting up; they have long hair, faded jeans and T shirts bearing the legend "Bad to the Bone." The next showed one junkie in handcuffs and the second lying dead with a syringe sticking from his arm. Then we see the survivor in a hospital bed surrounded by caring medical staff. Finally we witness the junkie's glorious rebirth. He now has short hair and wears a crisp green longyi, or Burmese sarong, and a white waistcoat.
This display illustrated not just a junkie's noble path to rehabilitation, but also-and perhaps more importantly for the regime's propagandists-his glorious transformation from soap-dodging Westernized reprobate into a clean-cut Burman patriot. The Burmese military liked to characterize its war on drugs as part of a wider campaign against colonialism and all its nefarious agents. This was spelled out by Khin Nyunt in a speech at Mongla in 1999. He blamed Burma's drug scourge on the "pernicious legacy" of British colonialists, a legacy exacerbated by what he called "the unscrupulous actions of the politically motivated neocolonialist clandestine organizations."
This hardly explained or excused the regime's abysmal record in drug control. Since 1988-when Khin Nyunt and his clique rose to power-opium production in Burma had more than doubled. This startling increase was largely due to the generous concessions the regime had granted Mongla's ruler Lin and other ethnic druglords.
Nor could colonialists (or even neocolonialists) be blamed for the staggering quantities of methamphetamines produced in Burma's lawless border areas. In 1999 an estimated half a billion pills poured into Thailand, where the highly addictive drug was called yaba, or "insanity medicine." Yaba was much easier to make and distribute than heroin. Using a relatively simple chemical procedure, two men in a jungle hut could manufacture about 10,000 pills every day. There were reportedly dozens of such labs along the Thai-Burma border, which, unlike fields of swaying opium poppies, could not be detected by spy satellites. Each pill cost less than 10 to produce. By the time it reached Bangkok, it was worth anything up to $3. Cheap, readily available and highly addictive, yaba ripped through Thailand's slums, factories, universities and nightclubs, leaving over a quarter of a million addicts in its wake.
Narcotics are Burma's only growth industry, and the military regime relies heavily on drug money to keep the nation's economy afloat. By one estimate, 60% of all private investment in Rangoon was drug-related; Mandalay's economic boom has been fueled by narcotics. Drug money also provides most of Burma's hard-currency reserves. Burma's economy depends utterly on drugs. The biggest junkies of all were the generals themselves.
A Chinese tour group arrived at the museum with a flag-waving guide and embarked upon a high-speed tour. I pursued them upstairs. They paused before a glass cabinet containing toilet-roll covers (these had been crocheted by heroin rehab patients), then did a record-breaking lap of a room dedicated to the brief but glorious history of Mongla.
This was a room worth dallying in. Among the photos on display was one of Khin Nyunt cutting the museum's ribbon. Standing beside him was a tall, chinless man with piggy eyes dressed in Shan national costume. According to the caption, his name was Sai LeUn. He appeared in many photos, although none of the captions explained who he was. I had Burmese press reports that described Sai LeUn as "the leader of national races in the Mongla region." Another photo showed Khin Nyunt presenting him with a medal of honor for his "outstanding performance" in eradicating drugs in Mongla.
Which was all hilariously ironic. What the museum's captions didn't explain was that Sai LeUn was the Shan alias for Lin, the heroin kingpin who runs Mongla. There was also a photo of Lin, a.k.a. Sai LeUn, presenting a brightly wrapped gift to a man identified as J. Dennis Hastert. Could this be Dennis Hastert, Illinois Congressman and Speaker of the U.S. House of Representatives? Yes, it could: Hastert visited Burma with a delegation of Republican Congressmen in 1996, ostensibly to inspect drug-eradication methods. The delegation was wined and dined by the generals before visiting Lin in Mongla. It was unclear what Hastert achieved by meeting Lin, beyond unwittingly providing a priceless photo opportunity for a known heroin trafficker anxious to whitewash his recent past and recast himself as an antidrugs czar. Later I looked up Hastert's Web page and found a photograph of him holding a T shirt that read "Drugs Kill." I wonder if he gave one to Lin.
Lin was the chairman of something called the Mongla Action Committee on Narcotics, a committee reduced in number when another of its less-than-distinguished members was arrested in a sting operation by Thai police and the U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration and extradited to New York on narcotics charges. This was three months after Hastert's visit.
Did Hastert know he was pressing palms with a man whose refineries produced heroin sold on U.S. streets? Then again, why pick on Hastert? He was not the first American politician to pay his respects to Mongla's druglord, and probably won't be the last. In 1993, New York Congressman Charles Rangel-former chairman of the House Committee on Narcotics-took a delegation to meet Lin. Three months after Rangel's visit, the bullet-strewn corpses of Lin's three would-be assassins lay bleeding in the market. It seemed to me that Lin understood something his distinguished visitors did not, and it was this: if you shake the hands of enough prominent Americans, the blood on yours will eventually rub off.
There was so much more to see in Mongla: the gaudy casinos, packed with Yunnanese gamblers, where (it was rumored) millions of dollars of drug money was laundered; another zoo, the kind with lions and tigers; and not one but two exotic shows performed by Russian dancing girls. I wondered how far the Chinese visitors, whose money helped sustain Mongla, were fooled by its tacky glamour. A friend in Yunnan who knew of Mongla by reputation said the border town had been unflatteringly nicknamed "the anus of China." Yet the Burmese regime, touting Mongla as a tourist paradise risen from the ashes of all those drug-burning ceremonies, regarded it as a model of prudent development.
How did a place as bizarre as Mongla ever get built? As a veteran Burma watcher living in Thailand later explained, Lin and his allies had a novel approach to town planning. "You have to understand how these guys' minds work," he told me. "They're druglords. They can't travel the world. They're on every wanted list there is-DEA, FBI, CIA, Interpol, you name it. So instead they stay put and buy a satellite TV with hundreds of channels, and this is how they see the world. But, of course, this gives them an incredibly warped view of it."
In this warped view, he continued, you first build the bars, casinos and whorehouses; then the ladyboy cabaret, Russian girlie shows and a circus arena to pester rare and magnificent animals in. You toy with plans for a school and a hospital, but forget about the court and the jailhouse since justice is summary and executions are carried out in the market place. Then you throw up a temple and a museum to dignify it all.
Maybe this was how all towns like Mongla got built. I wouldn't know, because I've never been anywhere remotely like Mongla.
This article is adapted from The Trouser People: The Quest for the Victorian Footballer Who Made Burma Play the Empire's Game, to be published by Viking/Penguin this month