BORDERLINERS

Tonight she felt contempt for him. She had a way with trapping minds. Most of the time she wasn’t conscious of her antagonism.

‘You’re chicken. Go ahead, I double dare you.’ Occasionally, she reverted to childhood games as a means of coercion. With men she knew it would work. They didn’t like showing weakness. Unlike women who can use it to their advantage. ‘Just ask her how much for one hour.’

Prostitute at rest, Patpong, Bangkok, Thailand

The lightening was always a dead giveaway. Dim fuscha mixed with colored flashing Christmas lights. A karaoke tape with bad tracking and a distorted soundtrack would keep the girls awake.

A large frustated man was drinking a Beer Lao. A girl in a shiny black dress ending in platform sandals sat opposite him. Like most prostitutes she could sit for hours,years in boredom. That part of the job would be unbearable, she thought. The large frustrated man and the prostitute were a perfect match. He stared at the monitor for a place to rest his eyes. She would glance at his shirt collar with a forced grin. They didn’t exchange a word, regardless if she didn’t speak English nor he Thai.

Border towns have allure if you are attracted to transition points. The change in faces, habits, colors and shapes collide between an electric barrier. The subtleties of cultural exchange made the locals focus on their differences. Although the Burmese man could seldomly be mistaken for the Thai or Laotion. Their lanky erect bodies rapt in earth plaid longyis reminiscent of Southern India distinguished them from behind. Culture escaped through the eyes. They looked deeper at objects, spending more time in the gaze. But, that didn’t mean they observed more or less. Their prolonged stares could have been the side effects of the betelnut. The reality wasn’t always as romantic as you wanted to believe.

He liked Asian women or at least he had a preference for their physique. It wasn’t necessarily the subservient stereotype nor even the exotic impression that enticed him. Their asian face represented a philosophy. He had a bookcase filled with ‘What the Buddha Taught,’ ‘Eastern Medicine,’ ‘How to speak Mandarin,’ ‘Martial Arts,’ ‘The Middle Path.’ A Thanka painting hung near the refrigerator. It was the simplistic interpretation of life which counteracted his tendency toward destruction.

They finished their drinks. ‘Well?’ She would challenge him. His emotions would come to a standstill. She was in control, so she thought. She pretended not to notice him and glanced flirtatiously over to the three girls in cheap nightclub dress. Sorority bonding would exclude him. The prostitutes would rely on sisterly love to maintain their sanity. She would use her feminity to maintain power over the situation.

The girls looked back and giggled with exaggerated laughs. Out of boredom? Fear? They did that- perform with happiness masks. Occasionally, they wouldn’t know anyone was looking and you could feel their emptiness.

The Golden Triangle is one of those places where romance is born out of corruption. Drugs, prostitutes, gambling, stealing, cheating-everybody was in on it. On the street, they appeared to be respectable common people. They weren’t glamourous like the covered tattoed Yakuza, the CIA in black suits, the gangs of Italian or Russian mafia. Who would suspect the Thai granny in pink pajamas and flip flops selling fish sauce to be a theif? It was a beautiful type of hell; One that lured the innocent-convinced them that life was short. Nobody was looking, listening. Patience in suffering would be exchanged for a temporary escape.

His darkness is what attracted her to him. She listened curiously of to his stories. She felt more aware knowing extremes. He tempted her.

‘What you did!’ Why did you do it?’ He was disappointed.

How much does it hurt? She wondered.

The video played over and over. One girl painted her nails bright irridescent pink, another ate sunflower seeds and spat the shells onto the floor, and the third dreamed of another life. Although, the other life was blank. Everything –emotions, intellect, imagination turned into white noise, keeping her at an eternal resting point.

He thought the girls were beautiful. She couldn’t see beyond their spirit. In her eyes, it was, they were ugly. This is where they differed. He saw an illusion-the surface of their delicate features contrasting with their long black hair. It wasn’t just their masks, but moreover their imprisoned life style which intrigued him.

He liked crossing over. She liked observing border lines. They walked in the middle of the road side by side not touching. She waited for him to grab her hand. He could feel her wanting and decided not to offer himself.

Peeking behind the bus station stood a ten meter standing white Buddha. Seductive spiritual eyes looked down upon Sokuthai with the protective Abhaya mudra. Palm facing forward yielded to the three evils: greed, hatred and illusion. Incense burned behind stems of lotus flowers. A middle-aged Thai woman placed a plate of green papayas on the steps and bowed on her knees three times in front of the golden sitting Buddha. She sat palms together praying for half an hour.

The people of Thailand were devout followers of the wisdom of the Buddha. They accepted the suffering of life. They believed life impermanent and even suffering wouldn’t last. They knew their spirit would have more than one chance on earth.

The Burmese were also Theravada Buddhists. Males entered the monastery at least twice in their lifetime. Some remained for life. Others would take a two week retreat. Nearly half the male population flocked to the monestary during the peak of Ne Win’s destruction.

A boy monk dressed in a saffron robe stood next to a CD/VDO stall. Another one standing beside him tried on sunglasses.

It would be hard to believe the serenity of Myanmar would balance the dominant oppression, violence and corruption. Billboards highlighted the top four SLORC slogans:

Oppose those relying on external elements, acting as stooges, holding negative views. Oppose those trying to jeopardize stability of the state and progress of the nation. Oppose foreign nations interfering in internal affairs of the State.
Crush all internal and external destructive elements as the common enemy.

Proof of oppression courtesy of SLORC, Mandalay, Myanmar

Their message contrasted with the thousands of golden stupas lining the hillside. The traditional Burmese would combine their ancient animist beliefs with the teachings of the Buddha. Wisdom and superstition made for a smoother day.

She prayed for a better life. She would go to the temple and light sandlewood incense, a beeswax candle, donate a lotus blossom. The night before she had a dream that she was entangled in a yellow rope attatched to a shelf. When she tugged on the rope something on the shelf would disappear. But what lay on the shelf were all the material things precious in her life. A photo of her grandmother, a bracelet from her first love, a doll from childhood and a little wooden Buddha she bought when she moved away from her parents in Lopburi. There wasn't something else on the shelf she couldn't make out. It was an odd shade of blue with round edges. When she awoke, she was lying next to the large frustrated man.

By the next morning the couple woke up estranged. They didn’t say anymore of the night before at the brothel. She went to the bank to change money. He went elsewhere to the market to pick up a Golden Triangle t-shirt. A lanky Burmese man high on betelnut approached her. ‘You want rubies? Gems? Sapphires?’ The whites of his eyes glistened like a Saddhu coming out of meditation after twenty years. She didn’t tell him to go away like she would with other touts. He was like a devil, she thought. She waited for evil to appear, but he continued to ask her to buy a ruby. He would be the one to give up and walk away after realizing the tourist was just staring down at his leather sandals wondering where she could get a pair that large.

She thought he was a ghost. Somebody’s ghost. He frightened her. She sensed he was dying. Nobody noticed the two standing almost invisible in the middle of the street.

Border crossers hustled to and fro exchanging plastic goods, designer watches made in China and ethnic textiles. It was a flea market extravaganza. The Thai side was treelined with traffic lights and sidewalks and Buddha paraphernalia. You could buy Buddha posters, pendants, statues, clocks, sandalwood malas, plastic lotuses, swatika lamps, laminated cards of high-ranked monks and saffron canvas bags. He bargained for souvenirs for ten baht and under. She didn't feel like crossing over the border that day.

She followed behind him, even though he didn't know where he was going. They were walking across the bridge to the other side. 'Right way, was it this way or that?', he stopped mid-path. She didn't mind not knowing what street she was on or which way she was headed. You can never get lost in a place you've never been before. 'Maybe straight ahead. Should we ask?' he said with slight anxiety. 'The other side.’ she thought to herself. Isn't that enough of a direction. Frustration built on both of their faces. They stood together disconnected. They held their breadth along the dusty wild market alley. When they turned the corner, they would run into the main street leading up to the border again.

She felt relief to be back on the familiar side of the foreign. It doesn't take long to get comfortable with the strange. They walked down the street with an imaginary barrier between them. It would always remain there until they went in different directions.