700km through the Golden Triangle

I’m back on the banks of the Mekong just in time for sunrise. The local longboat club is paddling their hearts out. Just 10 kilometres to the north, I’m finally in the middle of the Golden Triangle. Thailand, Burma and Laos meet here. Advertising signs advertise opium museums. A few expensive resorts pay homage to the old days in the middle of nowhere.

Many Thais here drive conspicuously fat off-road vehicles. Life still seems to be more lucrative than elsewhere in Thailand. The local police stations look like small temples, all the policemen have new uniforms. Justice is also worthwhile here. I pass through a good two dozen checkpoints by the evening.

As soon as I stop at one, the police become active for the first time. Must be some kind of tourist show. Nothing happens all day, nowhere. Here they dismantle a jeep in front of me. Good boy. Pat. Look, where’s Guttl? Nothing found? Never mind, come here, I’ll take a heroic picture of you.

Traffic in the golden triangle is strictly regulated. Cars overtake on the right, motorbikes on the left. You drive on the left-hand side. However, this only applies to long-distance traffic. Local traffic drives on the right. This ensures maximum genetic diversity in the event of a bang. Incestuous accidents between residents of the same village are avoided.

I finally find mountains on the border with Burma, between Mae Sai and Tathong. And what mountains! My 125cc four-stroke Honda struggles up unbelievable inclines. It doesn’t say how high. The roads wind over narrow ridges. Nobody around. Waterfalls, lonely monasteries and bamboo forests.

On the way back, I make a detour into the national park near Fang. From the valley I think to myself: boah, these mountains are unclimbable. They go almost vertically for kilometres into the sky. After 30 kilometres of steep ascent, I know: but they are passable. Madness. The Corsican Castaniggia is a joke in comparison. The engine glows uphill, the brakes downhill. Lonely villages on the slopes. Shangri-La awaits around every bend. Now my triangle has turned golden. I can go back to Chiang Mai.

On the way back, I am finally frisked at a checkpoint. When the policeman finds old laundry from 400 kilometres of sweat and dust, he hurriedly waves me on.

I arrive in Chiang Mai in the late afternoon. After 700km through the Golden Triangle, my bum is pretty flat and my clothes are full of golden dirt. I will feel the engine vibrations in my fingers for days to come. Two people in two days spoke a few words of English. The bells ring in the temples of Chiang Mai, then the dogs howl.