A night of heavy rain and our dreams are a warm
water log, the steady tap tap, the pre-monsoon jingle on the water clears the
air and dissipates the heat. The morning sings to the drenching. The red earth
of Babylon East is soaked in it and all plants in the garden are morning somnolent,
as though drunk and barely able to stand.
The cloud cover over the city is low, some of the
clouds are tinged in blue by the nascent sky, others are a dark grey, promising
cooler days ahead. I go around the house turning off ceiling fans. The bullfrogs
in the lake and garden pond are having a field day. Their heavy hearted, deep
throated gnarling voices convulse through the dawn light.
I went downstairs to look in the pond and saw the
milky white frog egg nebulae floating there. Another night of mating in old
Vientiane town.
After days and days of torrid heat and sticky skin
comes this cooling relief, this drenched respite. Birds and insects fly low. I breathe
deeply, thankful to have been given life, this life, to taste the dark green
garden and light blue grey sky. As Bowie once sang, “Somebody up there likes me”,
although not seeing the full picture also means having zero inkling into the
real scheming of the Universe.
Using my
need to collect important official and work-related documents from a place that
should, logically, house no such documents, I took my motorcycle up to the area
of Hin Heup, then east to Ban Don where the majestic limestone mountains have been
carving their way into men’s minds for centuries. According a brilliant, though
very modest geologist I know and who will go unnamed, these bloody mountains
are full of DNA since limestone was formed through living genetic material
which means that I have been travelling through – buzzing through, really – a landscape
as alive as a petri-dish while sitting over a gas tank also filled with
material formed by the living.
It’s one big
alive floating fuck fest of a kaleidoscope out there and in here.
The mountains
are nothing less than delicious; some carry caves in them like pockmarks,
others simply sit there, planted like a beacon of sensitivity to give fair
warning to all who wish to cease dreaming altogether. At the end of a road I found
a riverside restaurant where a young man speaking excellent English set up
shop. The tables are submerged, giving diners the chance to easting with their
bare feet rustling in the cool waters of the Nam Lik.
Sadly,
however, they take this opportunity to toss their empty BeerLao cans into the
river and so even this spot of pristine beauty is relieved of the hope for
humanity that Covid-19 may have given us.
The road is
not always the road, however, and a three day escapade on a motorcycle cannot
compare with an endless and goalless trek on a bicycle during which one’s life is
meshed with that of the people.
After a few
days out, although dazzled by the physical beauty of the landscape, all I longed
for was to see my family again, sleep in my own bed and be welcomed by the
morning light genius of Ban Apinihan.
I never thought
I’d see the day when this would happen.
Years ago,
in my distant childhood, I remember going into the house of friends of my
parents, the kind of people you look at as a kid and wonder, “what on earth can
these people possibly have in common with us?”: plastic covers on the sofas and
little tinseled shelves tucked into useless corners loaded with knickknacks like
tiny porcelain poodles or Eiffel Towers, among them was a framed saying – in those
days everything was made of wood and not plastic made to look like something so
people could say, oh, yes, that’s what wood looked like – and so a real wooden
frame and in it were a compass (une rose de vents!) and the words: “North,
south, east, west. I travel far but home is best".
And I remember
thinking to myself that this was the most stupid thing I had ever seen. Not
even taking into consideration the fact that these people never travelled far
and that their home was a cacophonous insult to the eyes, the whole system of
thought reeked, in my young eyes, of a provincial and unquestioning slavery to
unthinking and mediocre happiness.
And here I am,
years later, thinking: North, south, east, west. I travel far but home is best.
For years I
have been getting up at the crack of dawn. No matter what time I have gone to
bed or the quantity of alcohol – sometimes industrial quantities – I have
consumed, the first light of day sees me up and vice versa.
I have
never liked the English expression ‘crack of dawn’. It implies a violent birthing,
an incessant pounding on a reticent door. A burglar will crack a safe and I wonder
how our language, so rich in metaphor, has failed us so miserably when
describing this one daily event. For dawn may mean doom or it might mean light.
Whether it be with anxiety or hope, the dawn does not crack. It is not a whip.
It is something
that comes gracefully and even soldiers awaiting the sunrise assault or the
prisoner condemned to perish can see the bitter paradox of something so gradual
leading to such a terrifying finality.
The dark
sky turns just a little bit darker before a pastel eggshell coldness begins to
radiate elsewhere. The distance separating night from day never seems more unbridgeable,
and yet she comes.
When the
light is unbearably there, vibrant yet not blinding the sun sends an awesome
ray, a delicious portfolio of distant emanations of colours and heat.
The crack of
dawn. The horizon becoming a canvas; tree lines laid bare in a contre-jour
of blinding contrasts and then splendour! The universe seems to open its arms
in an embrace to fate.
Another daylight
time of cacophony and turbulence, another morning given over to chores and
tasks; simplified lives sectioned into bite size pieces: brush teeth, sprinkle face,
grind coffee, push ups, deal with the taste of last night: wine still fresh yet
abandoned in the upper throat.
In urban
Vientiane the roosters’ crows, the abundant cock-a-doodle-dos resounding from
backyard to garden, set the stage for other drama. After a night of sleeping
the cat stretches and lays down for a nap.
There’s
only so much I can take before going mad and, like Goethe, call out for “more
light”!
When we
finished building Ban Apinihan, the land was in a terrible state: clay covered
with building debris. Our gardener and friend, Zdenek Sedlacek (Z pour les
intimes) nourished that soil, planting trees and bushes and flowers…all in
a way that made it look as though the hand of man never touched it.
Over the years
the earth was rebuilt and a topsoil developed, to such an extent that I was
able to cordon off a metre and half strip at the southern end of the garden,
beyond which bulrushes grow wild in the lake water. And so I cordoned it off
and gave strict instructions to Z and his workers that no-one was allowed to
prune or cut or clear away any of the vegetation in that strip. Of course,
without Z’s work it would still be a wasteland, but now it is a small forest:
tropical, rare, perfumed and intimate. Birds frolic in the branches and some
animal has dug a burrow. In the small pond, fed by a septic tank, live tiny
fish and frogs; dragonflies fill the day.
Growing wild
now are Birds of Paradise, lotus leaves occasionally break free of green
destiny to sprout a long stemmed flower of dazzling white that lives for a day
or two before collapsing – petal by precious petal – onto itself, leaving
behind a solid wooden receptacle with holes in the top in which the lotus seeds
lay until it, too, drops into the water; there to mingle with the aquatic life
until its day will come and lotus it will be in its own light.
At sunset, the crepuscule. The light is perfect and foliage seems to be taking its one last
breath – an inhaling, long and steady – which has lasted all day and now, on
the cusp of exhaling, all breath stops and the plants seem poised on that crest
of understanding.
The silence.
The meditative silence as night fondles day and turns it into slow darkness,
like a pulled blanket.
In the garden
and beyond the insects roar. The mosquitos are out and the birds, dragonflies
and geckos are on the war path.
The sun. Over the lake. Again. This cycle, at least, has not
given up on us.
Up early I head to the kitchen for coffee, the sweet and
martyred Boloven; that rat’s nest of rivalry and exploitation still producing
one of the world’s finest Arabicas.
The dishes are piled high from last night’s dinner. One of
the advantages of not having a mae ban is that we are more intensely in
contact with our immediate needs.
I decide to listen to music. The house is still asleep. The wood
is not yet creaking from the morning warmth or the family’s footsteps.
Music, then. Doing the dishes music. I hesitate between
early Beatles and Eric Satie – that Yin/Yang of French culture – and finally
decide to go onto YouTube and listen to whales singing. Since I have been
living for weeks at the rhythm of the lake I felt that some underwater music
would be fitting.
The subtle yet forceful bass and vibrant trebles filled the
living room and all was water. The lake was full of fishermen, early birds
getting the worm, causing circles of waves to ripple out at all points of the
surface; they sprinkle light on the kitchen ceiling, little waves that live and
would die after their moment of instruction, the lesson being, “thou shalt shine
and reflect the sky”.
For they do not last. And still the whale’s song filled the
house, breathing into every space, inhabiting them: a tremolo of understanding.
Is this a wisdom beyond my fathoming? I cannot say. I know
neither what the whales are experiencing nor the limits of my own
understanding.
I only know that what they are living is so foreign to me
that it may just as well be taking place on a different planet. And yet this is
not the case since we are sharing, for better or for worse, the same planet.
On Facebook people are posting videos of empty cities. In places
like Cincinnati or Melbourne wild animals roam the streets. It has taken them
such little time to reclaim that which is ours. I heard on the BBC that Yosemite
Park has become itself again and that bears are sun-bathing in parking lots. Waddles
of ducks are walking down the streets of Paris, past the grey pierre de
taille buildings and closed charcuterie shops.
All of this because human movement, if not human activity,
has ceased. Humans have receded to their technological trickles, grasping at
their civilization with whatever tools we still have: Internet, books, Netflix…
In my generation the radio was our tribal drumbeat. I remember
when John Lennon was murdered and an entire swath of baby boomers turned off
their television sets and just listened to Beatles music on the radio. We didn’t
want the image pollution and reporters’ questions, we didn’t want to see the
blood on the sidewalk. We just wanted his music.
We have far more distractions today. I myself confess an
addiction to House of Cards.
Vientiane itself is so close to being invaded by nature
anyways, despite the native blindness to garbage, that not much has changed
here.
Near our house a huge tract of land is being levelled to
make way for a future impeccable suburban project. Fine. Come what may.
Have any of you noticed that when people only consume what
they need the economy tanks?
Singing the song from The Book of the Jungle, my children as
me to explain the English expression, ‘the bare necessities’.
Is it a
forgotten city? I have always thought of her as such. A mole of forgetfulness
in the Mekong plain going about her little business.
During the
days of the lockdown the city, never a strong force in our lives, receded into
a distant noiseless approach. Parties were at a muffled distance, traffic a
seldom rumour.
Last night
blended perfectly in from yesterday afternoon when I had some errands to run in
town and instead of coming home directly I rode along on the city’s ring roads,
past the Settatirat Hospital and into the courtyards of the open and
illuminated temples there to confide amongst the gold-tinted reclining Buddhas
and lone courtyard trees.
The streets
were growing. People were out, shops were open and men sat drinking beer
together. The lockdown is to be lifted on Monday next, in one week and already
the people of Vientiane are spreading their wings. The traffic is buoyant if
delicate, subdued yet flourishing. Everyone wore a mask as a concession to the
orders.
Like every
man with a family to care for at the edge of this brave new world, like every
blindfolded sucker waiting for the axe to drop and the future to come smashing
on our plans with its sharp and inevitable blade… like all men everywhere I
sometimes look into the precipice and ask myself, wondering out loud. Whether
there will be a world for my children.
In the
midst of dark and frightening thoughts, thoughts like a granite gargoyle, thoughts
as welcoming as a cob-crypt I found a meadow, a spot of forest and then, just
then, I got a telephone call from people I had not seen or spoken to in twenty
years; people who have always stayed in my heart, tucked like a reserve diamond
in a refugee’s coat; a little wooden box I would open now and then to preserve
their beauty.
And there
they were. On WhatsApp. Older, yes, and still the same grace and humility,
still the same love song to life and it came to me – the dry stone hills of the
Galilee, the little hippy community of goat-cheese makers, the lone
wood-burning stove in the living room of the old stone house. Rosh Pina.
The call
from my past, their accented Hebrew, the inevitable joy and resignation.
Sickness, old age, forever flourishing.
That is
when I went temple hopping. The gates were open and the lights were on and at
every corner the bright and accepting silent receiving of the Buddha statues.
The delicious placidity and sweet gecko calls, the flying ants smothering the
naked light bulbs carving halos through the night.
From temple
to temple, like sailing through Greek islands until I made it home.
In the face of a hangover all bravery, every indication of
salvation, runs busy body past the starting line; in the opposite direction,
cheered upon by the adversaries and to the dismayed exaltations of the losing
side.
Alcohol is the great flattener, the fermented or distilled
answer to longevity. Morning lungs are sore, the head pounds inexplicably,
members shatter their previous mastery and tremble precariously.
I remember sunrises full of grace, sunlight peering from
below a purple horizon and filling the sky like a breath. I remember dotted
stars fading before the majesty. I remember the sliver of the moon made
transparent by sun’s rising tide. I remember heartfelt thanks as morning dew
kissed grass blades and petals farewell. I remember the dank dark soil
murmuring its Song of Ascents while butterflies and dragonflies caressed the
air.
But today I awaken at noon to my darkened room, for I had
the foresight to close the impending light out before collapsing the night before.
Slivers of light at odd angles crash in through the wooden tiles and settle
there, blinding if small, a concentrated hit, on an ancient beam or
illuminating a fastidious spider web.
Outside voices from the lake tell me that the fishermen and
women are out, foraging amongst the sweet water weeds under the shade of shore
trees. Life, the thing I left behind with my half-finished glass of Cahors, has
somehow managed to go on without me, has somehow managed a kick start of
cockcrows and ruffled feathers and with that the villagers exchange gossip or
talk about food. I can hear their sturdy palms flatten the water to drive the
fish into their nets. In my mind’s eye I can see them peeling the tiny black
shellfish off the river grass and can hear them being dropped into floating
baskets.
I stumbled from bed this morning, made it to the balcony
door and opened it as an old man would a birthday present. The light of day
collapsed upon me, exclaiming Holy! Holy! Holy! From your vicious and head
wracking hangover, from this debilitating state of affairs we – the water and
the light, the ripples and the spider webs, the voices and the pounding, the
trembling and the weakness….
In the
meantime the ancient lake, home of battles and battalions, armoured Indochinese
knights wrestling cursing mythical snakes, is cloud-washed, drenched in its own
circle of rain and pause, a place where some things will never surface.
Blue-grey
clouds, their visible layers melting off into a light grey blanket; a line of
distant cocont trees with one standing naked and bereaved; the slow moving
fishermen and women casting their triangular bamboo nets into the murky waters;
the silence of the pre-monsoon plain as it veers toward smoothingness, distant
rooster calls and the fishermen walking stealthily through the waist-high
water, their bodies bent forward as though they could see their feet through
the primal muck.
A fisherwoman
lifts her net out the water to examine her catch but is only rewarded with
drops of water, rivulets streaming down the white net; nothing more. She is
dressed from head to foot, her hat covered with a plastic bag and floating
beside her is a tiny boat filled with drinking water and food and cigarettes
and a lighter.
The sun,
also rising, does so behind a canopy of cloud and the air, untainted by the
smell of burning garbage is as clear as Creation.
And to think
this will all happen and has always happened and is happening now: an insect
call, a flutter of wing, a bending blade of grass, wavering flowers crowning every
bough, the tight brotherly coconuts huddling against ripening time.
There are
no silent killers here. All of them can apply as much stealth as they wish;
there will always be a munching. There will always be a distant cow and
somewhere in the lost and tucked-in country side beyond a morning fire will
cackle and blaze for sticky rice and breakfast vegetables. Somewhere a father
will be collecting his tools and a mother washing out a black and dented pot,
somewhere the wood plank and bamboo kitchen veranda will be awash with splashed
water, bits of food scattered between the floor boards to feed the chickens,
geese and pigs below. Somewhere the eternal Asian morning will begin afresh as
though no one had ever turned off the lights, as though the sun had never set
the evening before and as though the stars had not dotted the shrill tropical
night with its drowsing bird calls and insect rushing cackles.
And yet the
morning freshness is there to tell all and to speak of the evaporating night
chills to speak to the dews upon the naked mountain flanks, to speak to the
heavy clouds calling out of the valleys.
