“Busloads of Chinese tourists, mostly men, would go [to Mong La] and drink tiger bone wine, gamble, and pick up prostitutes, basically. You can get animal products there. You can get ivory, you can get young girls, you can eat all kinds of things that you can't legally eat in China.”

In a recent podcast episode, Brian Klingborg discusses his thriller series, particularly the novel Wild Prey, which intertwines crime, culture, and geopolitics with a sharp focus on post-coup Myanmar. The story follows Deputy Chief Inspector Lu Fei, an archetypal honest detective navigating the murky waters of justice in an unjust society, stationed in Harbin, a northern Chinese city near the Russian border. In Wild Prey, Klingborg explores the illegal wildlife trade between China and Myanmar, deftly weaving in themes like the COVID-19 pandemic and the aftermath of Myanmar’s military coup. Inspired by real-life figures such as Olive Yang—a historical female warlord who defied societal norms—Klingborg crafts a narrative full of multidimensional characters that challenge stereotypes and deepen the story’s moral and political themes.

Klingborg also brings attention to underexplored facets of China-Myanmar relations, such as Mong La, an infamous border town described as a haven for gambling, prostitution, and exotic animal trafficking. Likened to a dystopian version of Las Vegas, Mong La is a stark example of how systemic corruption enables the exploitation of both people and wildlife.

Klingborg’s chilling quote about Mong La is a haunting reflection of the town’s grim reality. This vivid account captures it as a place where humanity and nature are exploited without restraint. Tourists seeking forbidden pleasures become active participants in a grotesque marketplace driven by greed and systemic indifference. Tiger bone wine, ivory, and young girls are not mere commodities but the tragic casualties of a world that prioritizes profit over morality.

What makes this depiction so unsettling is its stark juxtaposition of legality and impunity. Mong La isn’t just a hub of vice—it is a chilling reflection of global failures to protect the vulnerable. The town epitomizes the convergence of unchecked capitalism, corruption, and moral apathy, serving as a microcosm of broader systemic exploitation. Klingborg’s portrayal demands more than outrage; it demands accountability. His narrative challenges readers to confront the structures that enable such places to thrive and to recognize the cost of turning a blind eye.