We live on the Mekong. Our lives are measured by her pulse: low in the dry season, she grows islands and vegetation; high in the rainy season, she is like a vein throbbing alongside the City carrying debris at high speed.
When you go north or south in Laos on the Mekong axe, it is the same river and it is not the same river. Up in Bokeo Province the river grows huge glowing granite rocks and at one point you are no longer facing Thailand. Thailand has become banal, a place to go shopping … but as I climbed north along the Great Arm I was no longer facing Thailand – I was facing Burma. As I rode, watching the mysterious other bank, great changes were happening there, but its massive silent hills bathed in mist let none of that appear.
My eyes faced West and I let my imagination run wild and dreamt of another land, a far off land, and a future cycling tour into the heart of yet another darkness.