The Jewel in the Crown

 

...and many other things besides. on a trip to Laos this winter good friends delighted me with a full moon watch. they took friendly wagers on when the full moon was going to fall. we were staying at a resort not too far from the city, Ban Pako, on a bend in the river and the winter moon was rising behind us, waxing and as full of promise as an expectant mother. before us the Nam Num river spread its broad currents west toward the Mekong and all about us were the fervent fireflies and insect night life of the tropics. in the late afternoon, crickets posted in the tree barks like sentinels pushed out their strident calls, one calling to another and back, setting the air to vibrate with all the fury of a forest fire. it was turning into another perfect winter evening in the tropics with crystal clear skies and the liquid pinpoints of the stars now beseeching overhead. beers were served, the cylindrical hollow ice-cubes tinkling in our glasses as is the way here. Aulne and Swanny, Pierre and Isa and Pascale, as gentle as church-mice had all jumped on an airplane to come here and so, in this corner of the Far East we were able to recreate the charm and delight of our little French peninsula, our circle of friends, always open at one end. the old stone farmhouse with its massive hand-hewed oak beams, crackling fireplace, flagstones and terracotta tiled floors was far from us. Molières! and yet here we sat on the banks of the warm river listening to the rustling insect life.

talk soon turned to the question of the full moon and here I was able to fall in love all over again with this little handful of friends; they had brought with them the peasant concerns of the marvellous Southwest and with all the delicacy of wood elves had dedicated much thought, conjecture and speculation into guessing when the full moon would be. there she is, I thought looking over our now light-drenched patio, as she rose, the conquering seductress. there she is spreading her share of doubt and joy over our mixed company, spreading her shadow-like light in hues of dull polished orange over all of us, over the woods behind us and the flat expanse of river before us and the forest beyond. a boat flowed down the river almost silently, its stark attention marked by a frantic spot light searching something in the underbrush of the far bank. we laughed and talked and smoked, our talk going far back in time, searching also for indications and time anchors, remembering parties and dinners and crises, births, deaths, scandals and songs all out of our mutually shared past. and this is when the subject of the full moon came up and, as I said, all the magic and intimacy of the great French Southwest came to me as if I had been a refugee.

all the peasant folklore pertaining in those sun-kissed and winter-drenched hills, where generational vineyards meet vegetable gardens, corn fields and sunflowers, orchards of plum and where the air is heady with the late summer ripeness of falling fruit, falling on dried grass and fermenting there in the warm shade making whole gardens smell redolent with the scent of eau-de-vie ... the peasant folklore, donc, of that enchanted Tarn et Garonne is that the weather on the night and day of the full moon will persist until the following full moon, and so for our friends, tourists with one shot of the wild, the question is very important indeed. Pierre, with his soft eyes, soft sad whimsical eyes confirmed in accents as sturdy as pebbles entre-choqués in a stream bed, that this was so.

 

 

Quiet Days in Clichy

 

 

 

 

Pee-May has come and gone, and with it the scores of revellers have quit the streets and gone back to their shops and houses to seek out the shade.

Is it only my imagination, or my weariness, or do the New Year's celebrations become more manic with very passing year? The throwing of water, the drinking and dancing on the streets, the loud crash of the hypnotizing techno music seem to be driving everyone into their own collective tropical oblivion.

And so it has passed and the city settles back to normal, although the summer heat has yet to break. Miles and miles of ugly urban sprawl dot the torrid city-scape and temples, as graceful as felines, flower in intervals.

And the heat bears down. On the scooter, the rushing air burns our skins and the sun is a joyous wunderkind. The Mekong, low, waits to be delivered by the monsoon rains and the throbbing Chinese floods.

Full moon, quarter moon, new moon. Waxing and waning. New floral patterns are presented to gods and spirits; old ones are thrown away. The most interesting lives are those that have been lived, be they in continuum or in passing: spring comes but once, but autumn is forever.

 

 

 

Sabadei Pee-May.

 

 

Sloop John B

 

 

 

 

 

If I would have thought about it more clearly I guess I could have figured it out for myself. As it is, I had to learn the hard way: there are several different types of roads in Laos, some of which deserve to be avoided.

There are the tiny little red dirt roads leading in and out of picturesque villages full of happy people. Women sit under their stilt houses weaving ethnic scarves while men are engaged in manual labour. Children call out “falang! falang!”, running out of the protective shade to wave at you.

The views are sloping terraced rice paddies and field salas. You don't mind the dust because life is flourishing so beautifully all around you.

Doesn`t that sound nice?

To get to roads like that you often have to take major roads, largish paved things with bits of macadam chunked out of them. You have to negotiate the bike between the roaring diesel dams and the gravel. The sides of the road are littered with filth.

There are also paved roads that are surprisingly pleasant, like the road between Hinheup and Ban Tha.

But the road I took after Ban Tha, the one leading down to the Mekong was really a shithole's shithole. Paved in parts, hot dry and dusty in others, it was a major artery with major road dust inconvenience.

In fact, I had planned to leave that road and climb West over a cordillera to another very minor road, but Charlene's dérailleur began to malfunction and I felt I couldn't take a chance with it. So I just kept heading toward the Mekong.

The area was filled with unfriendly people, some of whom were thieves since they tore the speedometer off Charlene when I was enjoying a lovely meal of 'steak Lao', morning glory and sticky rice at a local eatery. The meal was pretty nice, actually.

When I complained to the 'guest house' (closed concrete boxes, malfunctioning fans, spit marks on the walls...) owner she called the police who came post haste. The next morning I was invited to the police station to make a formal complaint and admire the cobwebs and dirty dishes. To give the guest house owner credit, she proposed giving me 1,000 Bhat to compensate my loss, although this I refused.

This was indeed a strange part of the country. For the first time since being in Laos I was also physically threatened, as kids in the bamboo houses behind the guest house threw rocks on the roof of my room. I showed the police the guilty houses and explained to them that the people therein were in a perfect position to see when the falang was going out and coming back. They looked at me and smiled.

To paraphrase Joni Mitchell, 400,000 Kip went up in smoke.

And the road went on. Dust and trucks, roadside bordellos and restaurants. Imagine visiting France and being stuck in Châteauroux or Vierzon or visiting the United States and only seeing Buffalo and you will get an idea of my state of mind.

The natural beauty of the landscape was made all the crueler by its destruction. Large machines were eating into mountainsides, garbage was either strewn on the side of the road or being burnt. You could close your eyes and know you were near a village by the smell of burning plastic...

All this time I was able to consider map reading, trying to learn my lesson: Small roads through ethnic minority areas – yes. Larger roads providing the only single arteries through an otherwise unserved area – no. Roads with ratty guest houses and roadside bordellos – no. Areas with no tourist accommodation other than the kindness of strangers – yes. Bolaven Plateau type places with comfortable resorts, clean sheets and bacon and eggs for breakfast – yes.

This trip left me with the impression of being in a country that was slowly raping herself and I felt the urgency of seeing her while she still existed.

 

Re: The photos on this update. I have decided to spare you the roadside attractions...

 

 

 

 

Jet Lagged in Indochina

 

 

 

 

The slightly psycho-rigid on flight staff on the Royal Thai flight from Paris to Bangkok were just fine, really. The real challenge is travelling with a nineteen-month old.

Running up the aisles, down the aisles, up the aisles and – wait, this should be fun! – down the aisles as you are flying over Europe and Asia would be anyone’s idea of a good time and this Sayo understood perfectly.

 

Coming home; and the taxi ride with the excitement of seeing our Vientiane again. Our streets, our traffic, our shops and secret corners. Home.

But all of this happens in a fog, as though the body were disconnected from the spirit and all one’s being has been soaked in a sponge.

Sleep comes blessedly. On again. Off again. Midnight awakenings. Three o’clock in the morning. The house sleeps yet murmurs. We are vibrating together. A slow easy mumble.

I spend the first 48 hours at home, marvelling at everything. The Internet works, there’s water in the cistern, the toilets flush. I can take a shower. Light plays off the floor, art hangs on the walls.

And then on morning three the sun rises after a tropical rain has washed the garden clean. Leaves as big as television screens shine like mirrors; the morning sun whisking off the moisture with a whisper.

On that morning three, the first miracle happens in this fresh world as mind and body find each other again and you step out of bed into a new dawn, back home, and walk downstairs to the kitchen and make a cup of coffee. Hot coffee, add cold milk and the hazel brownness warms hands and soul on the veranda.

Look! The garden!