Land of Jade

by Bertil Lintner

  But the SSA house made for friendly company and an escape from our isolation at the old broadcasting station, and we were frequent visitors. Hseng Noung also took up Chinese and found a teacher in the village. And, naturally, market days were major events. I was allowed to go there only once, and it turned out to be valuable as comic relief if nothing else.

  A section of CPB troops accompanied me as a security detail. But unlike KIA soldiers, who had fanned out around me and watched the crowds, the Wa boys trooped along behind me, rifles at the ready. Clearly crowd control was not included in the CPB training manual. As I strolled among the various stalls, Hseng Noung who was at a distance taking pictures, overheard a conversation between two women. One had seen me and said: “Who’s that man?” The other, feigning knowledge of the outside world, promptly replied: “Ah! That must be the Indian they captured at Pangyang. Look! They’re pointing their rifles at him!” I never found out if any Indian had been captured at Pangyang. But Hseng Noung and I enjoyed a good laugh over my new racial status.

  Opium for sale in Panghsang market.

  The market also provided an interesting reflection of commerce in the CPB area, as well as in Burma more generally. Usually, four currencies were accepted by the traders there: Burmese kyats, Chinese yuan, old Indian silver and copper coins—rupees and annas of colonial mint days—and the traditional hard currency, opium. But after the demonetisation of the 100 kyat banknote and the introduction of the odd 15, 35 and 75 ones, confidence in the kyat plummeted. Indeed, many traders refused to accept Burmese currency at all. The exchange rate for the yuan was very unfavourable and the Indian coins were in short supply.

  There were also other, less rational reasons for not accepting certain old coins. One market day, Hseng Noung tried to buy some ice cream, the price of which was one quarter anna copper coin per stick. Two of Hseng Noung’s coins had the portraits of the British Kings Edward VII and George V. But the third was even older and bore the imprint of Queen Victoria—a collector’s item anywhere else. The merchant examined the coin, shook his head and handed it back:

  “This coin is no good. It’s got a picture of a woman on it.”

  As a consequence of the drawbacks of the other currencies, opium had become more and more important as a medium of exchange, especially after the apparently lunatic monetary reforms in Rangoon. And the drug was readily available on the market.

  The Chinese-sponsored CPB thrust into Burma in 1968 secured the border area for Beijing, but the opium problem remained. In the early days of their administration, the CPB had tried to eradicate opium and, with Chinese aid, introduced varieties of wheat as substitute crops. But few of the Was, Lahus, or other poppy-growing tribes knew how to prepare the new crops. They ate the grain like rice with predictable results to the stomach.

  The CPB’s crop substitution problems ended in 1976, when the bamboo flowered in the Wa Hills. Such events, which usually occur every fifty years or so, are always followed by an invasion of rats—and these came by the millions and ate the wheat the CPB had introduced. The CPB assisted the famine victims by distributing 60,000 Indian silver rupee coins and 1,600 kilogrammes of opium. When the crisis was over, many families reverted to growing poppies, which are less vulnerable to pests than the substitute crops had been.

  When the Chinese cut back their aid to Burmese party in the late 1970s, the CPB had even less incentive to try to stop the poppy cultivation. Another blow came in 1980 when the Beijing’s new open-door policy began to affect the Sino-Burmese border areas. Until then, all Chinese-made consumer goods had to be funnelled through the CPB with Panghsai on the Burma Road as the main transfer point. But after 1980, trade also began to flourish along the KIA-held border, and between Muse in the government-controlled part of northern Shan State and Ruili across the border in China. As a consequence, tax on opium had become an increasingly important source of income for the CPB.

  That said, the argument put forward by many analysts that the CPB had ceased to be a communist party and had developed into a thinly-disguised drug syndicate simply did not accord with the facts. Nothing, in fact, could have been more wrong.

  Certainly, opium is grown in the CPB’s area and taxed by the party. Huang pi, a yellow-pink and sometimes brownish powder which can be further refined into the much more expensive, white No. 4 heroin, is also produced in CPB’s territory. But owners of such refineries belong to outside drug syndicates who pay protection fees to the CPB. Ironically, nearly all of these private entrepreneurs belong to the remnants of the old Kuomintang which the CPB once pushed out of the Sino-Burmese border areas.

  There were also some local CPB commanders making a substantial income from the drug trade. But shortly before our arrival at Panghsang, the party leadership had decided to take stern measures against private opium trading, the manufacture of huang pi and other extracurricular activities.

  And there were signs that these new directives were actually being enforced. During our stay, party agents were dispatched to check up on local cadres at district level and report back on any malfeasance.

  Nevertheless, I had my own reservations as to the effectiveness of the measures. If strictly enforced, the policy could create serious conflicts between the CPB’s ideologically motivated top leadership and the many local units which benefit from the trade. Kokang, for example would probably become a serious problem. My own conclusion was that the leaders in Panghsang sooner or later would have to abandon the anti-drug effort—or face a split within the party.

  At the same time, it was also reasonable to assume the scheme owed something to Chinese pressure. In Panghsang, we soon learnt that many local traders sold opium to China where use of the drug was once more spreading. As a result, there were numerous police checkpoints along the road from Meng A heading into China—adding another element of tension to the already strained relations between the CPB and the Chinese. Paradoxically, in fact, it appeared that cross-border trade and other contacts were far smoother in areas controlled by the Christian KIA—partly because the KIA were selling jade, not drugs.

  But traders and civilians from China nevertheless visited Panghsang regularly. Every market day, an ice cream vendor on a bicycle with an ice chest came across the bridge and rode through the headquarters area and the village. Other merchants came to sell consumer goods, medicines and Chinese liquor.

  Among the hill tribesmen and uniformed CPB soldiers and cadres, the visitors from across the border were easily distinguishable. Mao jackets and baggy trousers evidently belonged to the past even in remote villages such as Meng A; today’s Chinese wore blue jeans, wind cheaters, American-style baseball caps and sneakers. While Mao badges were still a fashionable accessory for CPB-men, they were conspicuously absent among the Chinese.

  The mixture of guns, drugs and orthodox Marxism-Leninism made for an incongruous and unsettled atmosphere at Panghsang. I had initially resented being confined to the walled compound of the old broadcasting station. But gradually it became a welcome retreat from the tension prevailing outside.

  Hseng Tai appeared to enjoy life there too. She spent most of her time in the kitchen, a bamboo hut outside the brick building in which we lived. There she invariably found San Yi, cheerful and homely, and good food on the fire.

  As the weeks went by, she also learnt to say her first words—Burmese she had picked up listening to Hseng Noung and San Yi. Once she produced a whole sentence—be thwa mele, or where are you going?—as San Yi left for the kitchen.

  As at Pa Jau, so too at Panghsang, Hseng Tai became everybody’s favourite. She was noticeably more talkative than the local children, who always seemed shy when strangers were around. She had, of course, been meeting a constant stream of new faces since birth. Making new friends had in fact become almost an everyday experience.

  But by the end of January, my interviews with the CPB leaders were complete and we began preparing to leave. The leadership at first suggested we should make the long journey down to the Thai border. Not h
aving much confidence in the communist leaders’ ability to ensure our security beyond their own, heavily defended area, this was an offer I politely declined. My counterproposal was that we should cross into China, report ourselves to the police in Meng A and request them to contact the Swedish Embassy in Beijing. After some argument, they finally agreed.

  At Panghsang market, I had a tailor make some corduroy trousers for me and a couple of shirts were ordered from China. By now, my old clothes were beyond repair and I usually went about dressed in green fatigues. But these were clearly unsuitable for any attempt to gain admittance across the border. Hseng Noung, who had bought new clothes in China on her way from Panghsai down to Panghsang, was already prepared.

  On January 22, 1987, exactly fifteen months since we had crossed the Indo-Burmese border at Longva, everything was set—bags packed and the three of us dressed in our new clothes. We had decided not to cross into China at the main bridge near party headquarters since there was always the possibility that some Chinese border guards would turn us back there. Instead, we walked along the Nam Hka until we reached a secluded spot and then were ferried across in a dug-out canoe. Then, clutching our bags we hurried along a bicycle path, past paddy fields and small farmhouses, towards Meng A.

  The town turned out to be little more than a single road lined with concrete houses, a bus stop and a market. The police station was marked by a spreading Chinese flag flying from the rooftop. Feeling slightly apprehensive, I led the way inside.

  A young policeman in a green uniform was sitting by a desk, half asleep. On seeing us, he woke up fast, leapt to his feet and harangued us in Chinese. Hseng Noung replied in Shan. This evidently bewildered him and an interpreter was summoned from the village. Before long a Shan girl, clutching a fashion magazine appeared.

  “We want to go to Kunming,” I tried. “But we have no permit. So we want to get one here.” I handed over our passports.

  The office had by now filled with other policemen, summoned to deal with the emergency. They gathered around a table, scrutinising each page in our passports with evident suspicion. A protracted and voluble discussion ensued. Hseng Noung and I sat quietly to one side. Hseng Tai tottered back and forth beaming widely.

  Eventually, the policemen straightened up simultaneously with authoritative looks on their faces. The oldest, obviously an officer, handed our passports back and snapped an order in Chinese to our interpreter. The Shan girl turned to us.

  “He says you have no permission to enter China. You have to return to Panghsang.”

  “But that’s in Burma,” I protested. “We have no permission to enter Burma either. We want to be arrested for illegal entry and would you please contact our embassy in Beijing.”

  I had the address and phone number of the embassy written down in Chinese on a piece of paper, which I handed over. Confusion broke out again. One man left the office, apparently to find a telephone, a facility which did not extend to the police station.

  “Why did you enter China without permission?” one of the policemen asked while we were waiting for the other to return.

  “I came here to your police station to get a permit. I want to do things the legal way.”

  “You must have a visa before you enter China. You just can’t wander in like this. You’ll have to go back and get a visa.”

  “Unfortunately, there’s no Chinese consulate in Panghsang,” I countered.

  “There’s an embassy in Rangoon.”

  “Do you seriously expect me to go down to Rangoon and get a visa there? Don’t you know there’s a civil war in Burma?”

  He turned away angrily.

  We waited all day, and nothing further happened. Then, at last, two officers entered the police station. They wanted to search our luggage.

  “That’s it,” I said to Hseng Noung. “They must have got through to Kunming. After this, they’ll let us go.”

  The officer took our belongings out, one by one, and identified them in Chinese. Everything we had in our bags was meticulously recorded in a big notebook carried by another policeman. The entire procedure took more than an hour and, before they had finished, dusk was falling. We were exhausted but pleased since we were sure a car would come and pick us up soon. Then, at 5 pm, a more senior officer came in. He put on a stern face and gave instructions through our interpreter.

  “You have to return to Panghsang. You’ve got no permit to enter China.”

  We were stunned.

  “But why did they search our luggage then? What’s the point? We are not Burmese citizens. We refuse.”

  She translated back to the senior officer. His face darkened.

  “He says you have to go back. You’ve got no permit to enter China.”

  “It’s my right to get in touch with my embassy in Beijing.”

  “There’s no telephone here.”

  “How could you phone Kunming if there’s no telephone here?”

  “You have to go back to Burma. You have no permit.”

  “We refuse.”

  The argument continued in similar vein for more than an hour. Eventually, the policemen grabbed our bags and put them outside. It was clear they would not let us go on. Downcast and reluctant, we began walking, as slowly as we possibly could, towards the bridge across the Panghsang. Five policemen followed, herding us along down the dusty road.

  Suddenly, a ridiculous figure in a sunhat appeared with a Chinese Seagull box camera. He hurried up towards us. Irked and resentful, I turned my face away. He went in front of us. I turned back. He clicked and clicked but every time I turned my head around, pretending to talk to Hseng Noung and Hseng Tai.

  “Bloody idiots. If they wanted to our picture, I could have given it to them. What’s the secret? But this silly bastard, who does he think he is? James Bond or something?”

  We reached the bridge after what seemed the slowest walk of my life. We crossed the rickety, wooden structure and sat down, a metre or so into Burma. Apparently satisfied, the policemen turned and began walking back to Meng A. A black ‘Red Flag’ limousine swept past them down the dirt road, trailing a cloud of dust. The photographer—evidently not just any photographer—climbed in and the limousine drove off. We were alone.

  “We’ll just have to try again,” I sighed to Hseng Noung. “Through China’s the only way. Just not from here. Let’s go back and take a look at the maps.”

  We returned glumly to the broadcasting station, much to the surprise of our friends there. The party leadership, whom we contacted later that night, were noticeably shaken. Doubtless they feared that our rebuff at Meng A might affect their already strained relationship with the Chinese authorities. We went to bed thoroughly dispirited.

  On the following day, I went to Ba Thein Tin’s house to discuss the situation. An emergency meeting with some of the politburo members was held and they reached the conclusion that we should abandon our attempts to leave via China.

  “There are only two possibilities,” Ba Thein Tin announced solemnly. “Either we send you down to the Thai border, escorted by our troops. You can go along the Mekong River down to the border east of Tachilek. That’s safe. Alternatively, you can go with Brang Seng and his troops through central Shan State. That’s also safe.”

  I did not say much, for the simple reason that as far as I was concerned both routes were out of the question. I knew for a fact that the CPB had not managed to get anywhere near Tachilek since 1981. And if we travelled with Brang Seng’s party, I would inevitably attract both attention and the Burmese Army, thus jeopardising the safety of the entire party and Brang Seng’s secret mission.

  As diplomatically as possible, I outlined my reservations, adding I would like to see Brang Seng and ask his advice. I needed someone level-headed to talk to and hoped that perhaps the Kachin leader would come up with some suggestions. Having been held up on the western bank of the Salween by an army operation on the eastern side, his party was still in CPB-held territory.

  The CPB leaders were u
nenthusiastic over the proposal. But I insisted and eventually secured their agreement. On January 24, I set off for the 125 kilometre trek to the northwest and the Salween ferry near Man Hpan. Hseng Noung remained at Panghsang with Hseng Tai. During my absence, she undertook to talk to the Shan women there and try to establish an alternative route into China.

  I set off with a section of Wa troops for security and a mule to carry my provisions. Aye Tan, one of the Rangoon intellectuals who had joined the party in the mid-1970s, was to serve as guide-cum-interpreter. His English was good and a hatchet-faced, intellectual demeanour was further enhanced by his thick spectacles. Dressed in a light-brown corduroy jacket, army trousers and carrying a Chinese army pistol in a holster on his hip, he walked briskly ahead of me, constantly puffing on a cheroot.

  Two days’ march along winding jungle trails brought us to Ving Kao, headquarters of the Party’s southern Wa district. It was more civilised than the impoverished, poppy growing Wa villages in the area, and we halted there for a day. The district headquarters was a large complex of barracks, mudbrick houses, a small hospital and office buildings. The staff consisted of a curious mixture of local Was and Lahus along with Burman communists from Rangoon, including a former journalist from the state-run Working People’s Daily.

  As we sat talking at a wooden table outside his office, artillery was audible in the distance. The battle at Pangyang was not yet over and that afternoon, three captured government soldiers were brought in. Ostensibly “for security reasons” I was not allowed to meet them. The decision annoyed me intensely as I was eager to hear their side of the story of the Pangyang fighting.

  We continued our march on the following day through a spectacular landscape of steep mountain ranges, deep river gorges and the occasional patch of forest amidst deforested, grassy hills. At one point two government aeroplanes flew overhead.