Mae Sam Laep, October 31, 2019

At the end of a road that keeps company with the jungle, on the calm banks of the Salween river, there is what is still called a trading post. Mae Sam Laep its little huts, its thatched roofs, its walls of woven bamboo, its worn teak floors. Mae Sam Laep its street of trades above the river: clothes, gasoline, foodstuffs, toys, things of plastic. A few dives, a coffee kiosk. Meats grilling on the coals. Dogs sleeping, children playing. A guest house that doesn’t look like much (port inn, transit room). A small official post, an official in uniform.

On the other side of the river Myanmar begins. A few huts above the cliff. I ask the official, in Thai:

– Is there a road on the other side?

– No. It’s the forest. The Burmese have the right to cross the river and come buy things here.

Border post, place of passage, hinge of road and river, transshipment plate between the boats and the vans. Below, slender old tubs stay parked. People unload sacks from them, bags, heavy jerricans. Pickups come down to the landing stage, load up or unload, climb back and take to the road again. I ask the official again:

– What do they carry, in the boats?

– Everything. Oil, food. People. Even buffalo!

The boats go up the Salween, follow its meanders, put in in the middle of the jungle: they throw a few bags onto the sand, load cages full of chickens, and set off again. Hidden behind the palm trees, a few huts, a handful of families, a place that bears a name.

Could one go further today, in this drawn-close world, than by going up the Salween in a diesel boat along the border between Thailand and Myanmar?