Thailand's Tarnished Golden Triangle

There exists, in the minds of many, the Golden Triangle of popular mythology: a wild and untamed land where Thailand, Laos and Burma collide, full of wizened tribesmen reclining with opium pipes in the shadow of hills painted purple with poppies. It's a place you might still find should you have the time, funds and gumption to cross the muddy sweep of the Mekong into Burma or Laos. But if, like most tourists, you opt to view this famous confluence of three nations from Thailand's northernmost province of Chiang Rai, you might wish to check some of your preconceptions at the door. The unfettered, grasping, quick-buck kind of development that has turned so many of the kingdom's places of beauty into seething eyesores is fast taking hold along this stretch of the mighty river's banks.

Granted, there remains an undeniable thrill in gazing out over the looping red ribbons of the Mekong and its tributary, the Ruak, and being able to see not one but two other countries, where vast stands of golden teak shimmer and hint at mysteries within. But it's a thrill tempered by the riot of ugliness erupting all around, and the creeping fear that another decade or so is all that separates this once lovely spot from becoming Pattaya-on-the-Mekong. "This was still mostly farmland 10 years ago," says Junfong Suphan, 48, a farmer who now sells counterfeit Nike clothing shipped down from China. Her stall in the town of Chiang Rai is one of dozens clustered near a towering sign that welcomes visitors to the Golden Triangle. Across the main road, the strip of guesthouses, bars, restaurants, souvenir shops and accompanying lurid signage expands daily. "I used to grow tomatoes and tobacco, but I can make a lot more money selling shirts," she says. Does she miss the old days? "Well, it used to be quieter. It's not beautiful here like before. But the buses come every day now and they bring lots of business."

In the dusty street-side cafés, a smattering of dreadlocked types sport vaguely disappointed looks, as though they've missed the party; they make do with bottles of Beer Chang instead of the opium pipes they had perhaps hoped for. "This is a bit of a bummer, man," moans Robert, a goateed 25-year-old traveler from New Jersey, sporting a knitted cap in Jamaican colors, as he tucks into a plate of oily phad thai. "I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't this," he says, as a bus disgorges a load of German package tourists. "I mean, this is the Golden Triangle, man. I was hoping for a bit more ... something."

Around mid-morning, the buses begin to arrive en masse, and by lunchtime the main drag has become a noisy testament to European automotive engineering. Under the Golden Triangle sign, a dozen or so children clad in gaudy hill-tribe garb jump into everyone's photographs, invited or not, then proffer palms for payment. Refusal is not brooked kindly, and even the most tightfisted succumb under the onslaught of teary eyes, wailing and shirt tugging. "Everyone can smell the tourist dollars," says Miss Pim, owner of the Arabica coffee shop, as she bustles around fixing espressos and cappuccinos. "Once people start making money, everyone wants a piece of it."

But the very thing that is killing Chiang Rai can also be used to save indigenous traditions. While most tour guides based in town treat hill-tribe visits like trips to the zoo, the Akha village of Ban Lorcha, about an hour's drive away from Chiang Rai, is providing an interactive educational experience for visitors by becoming a living museum. "This project has been very valuable for our community," says Ban Lorcha Community Based Tourism Development Project director Songnam Ritwanna. "In the past, tourists just walked through the village, but no one could explain to them the culture, so they didn't learn anything. The villagers didn't get any money, so they saw no value in keeping their traditional ways." Today, entry fees of about a dollar per person have paid for explanatory signposts and language education for bilingual guides. Villagers can use the funds to create unique local handicrafts rather than import mass-produced items. "Now the villagers are proud of their culture, and are once again taking up traditional crafts," says Songnam.

But nostalgic visitors pining for the taste of opium, once the unofficial mainstay of hill-tribe trekking tours, will be disappointed by Ban Lorcha. Instead they are better off taking a turn through Chiang Rai shops for "authentic" hill-tribe opium pipes—made in China. It's the modern way to get the tourist hooked.