A River Song
The way down was confusing. Flying here, taking a tuk-tuk there crossing rivers and waterways.
In the end, I really had no idea where I was and I didn’t even want to look at a map to try to understand: I was enjoying that feeling of disorientation.
Disorientation, a strange word to use in the Orient; I was, after all, as orientated as I could possibly be. But the never-ending parade of stilt wooden
The mark of a good trip is, after all, dépaysement.
Everywhere we went we were surrounded by the smell of water, that fresh water smell you get in
One day we rented a boat with Danielle, a friend we met in
Instead we went for a walk on Don Kong island and visited a waterfall, passing through the village and admiring the destitute French buildings and French bridge.
The ride down was splendid. Little fishing boats dot the river with children throwing nets out to catch the catfish. Families bathed in the shallow muddy waters at sunset, and everywhere we were greeting by the joy of recognition, by a Sabadee! and hands joined in reverent welcome.
On the river there is a filtering of the senses, as though the light and the air and the lazy water conspire one to complete rest.