The Caves of Chiang Rai, by Reed Venrick
Posted on August 14, 2020
Rice fields turn golden, if you squint your eyes—
as the wind whistles through helmet visor
though you are running no more than 70 KPH,
golden fields of ripe pineapples-swishing by,
spread out and beside coconut plantations falling with a thud
into cassava plants planted under hanging fronds,
and a canvas wide with rice fields, blazing greens,
and there are water buffaloes lying in mud.
hills rising into the clouds, west of the highway
overlap the lush beauty, you an’t forget
the leeward side of Hawaii,
hill tops and clouds, clouds hanginging there,
you have to pull over at a pineapple seller’s stand
and photograph what they call Tham Lang Hon.
riding my motorbike on up
the border line, walking across a bridge
there beggars line the rails—push hands
you must brush aside to reach the other side,
someone grabs at your fanny pack
a new visa, another border run
for a country to sojourn
—Welcome to Burma, pay your 500. Thai Baht ok.
Walking up a dusty, unpaved street on the Burma side
Men hanging out on treet corners, looking
between a homeless night and a hangover—looking you up and down.
wandering on in the crowded street market,
all the goods come from China, except
military boots and fatigues from the USA
and protective vests.
—Ganja? a bald man whispers, he holds up a package of rolled cigars.
—No.
—Rolex? You’ve crossed a time zone, dude,
—No, no.
—Then cigarettes from China….
—Marlboro imitations?
—Yes.
—No.
—What you lookin’ for?
—An hour in Burma,
—Then back to Thailand?
—Yeah.
—Ah! Then a girl.
Up the steep hill stairs to the temple.
In Thailand, the Buddha sits as he meditates.
In Burma, the Buddha stands up as he looks down
the river, where bamboo cutters have piled poles on barges,
Both Buddhas usually are painted in gold.
Overlooking the triangle they call golden.
Not long ago, this place so dangerous,
you’d have to be a fool or outlaw to be here.
Here to view three countries along this river that
with just a turn of head—the great Mekong
just beyond that hill.
Never saw such fresh, green hills as these,
not so misty green since Hawaii.
At the pineapple stand,
the tanned farmer says.
—Going to the Laos border?
—Burma border, are they made of volcanic rock?
—What? Those hills, they be karst sandstone.
They contain deep caves,
caves are so vast and extending and winding
sometimes you must crawl to pass through passages.
Refugees are brought in from Burma at night
under the river, but must walk for hours through caves
in the dark to reach these pineapple fields.
Here at least 5 klicks from Mai Sai inside the border.
You can see the cave exit if you walk just a kilometer from here,
and he jerks a thumb back across a field.
But only a fool would attempt
such a passage hike in those caves, while the rainy
season was on.
How do you know all this? I ask
But all I got was a laugh and a crooked smile.
Another slice of pineapple?
Not bad, the pineapples are not as big
as in Hawaii, but sweeter.
At the cheaest guest house on the border,
kerosene lights rocking on the river’s flow,
and the reflections of a tv screen
on the porch of a bungalow—
the world cup plays another game,
You look at the dirty walls,
some words scratched in Passa Thai.
You close eyes and see the growing green of the hills,
but news interrupts the world cup play,
a soccer team was trapped inside.
No one knows if they will ever get out.
Depends on the will of the mountain god.
The beauty of Tham Luang Nang Non
carve father down than we imagine
into the deeps of imagination,
as I wander through the border dreams,
searching for my motorbike,
and a way back