A trip through the countryside.
Curving red lines of road through the flat Mekong Plain; sleeping eternal villages, a sign pointing to cock-fights. A bridge from here to there.
At one point we stop at a village known for its weaving. Pots of boiling indigo, people passing in the streets as the dust kicked up by trucks settles on the dusk filled lives. The land here is constantly at battle with the people: it is either a glaze of mud during the rainy season – a thing you pull your feet out of as it sucks you in, or it is a floor of dust ready to fly into your home, nose and mouth at the slightest whisper.
Earth for these people is not a green garden with roses and forget-me-nots, it is a struggle.
The hills are a majestic one-ness with the sky; the colours blend and contrast with divinity.